“Why the break up?” he asked, calm eyes resting on me with surprising gentleness.
I groped for the words to explain it. “He told me he got accepted to law school. I was so damn happy for him, y’know?” I rubbed at my eyes, not surprised to find them wet. “And then he said, ‘Hey, we’re moving to New Orleans, and I’ll find you a job there.’” I bit my lip to stop it from quivering, then moved forward and sat on the edge of the bed again. “He didn’t even ask. Didn’t discuss it.” I met his eyes. “It wasn’t a Fuck You breakup. I told him I couldn’t go with him, that I needed to—” I took a deep breath. “—needed to keep figuring myself out and that I still wanted to be friends.” I cringed at how lame that sounded now. Ugh.
Pierce remained quiet for a moment, while I tried not to squirm or make an excuse to leave the room. I couldn’t imagine he’d be happy with me for dumping his nephew over such a weak reason.
“A shame he didn’t learn.”
“Huh?” I gave him a baffled frown. “Didn’t learn what?”
“Didn’t learn from previous incidents of trying to rule your life,” he said with such compassion and understanding that my stupid eyes started leaking again.
“He’s never mean,” I started to explain, to defend him, then shook my head. “Doesn’t matter. He’s still my Marcus,” I said fiercely, “and I’ll do whatever it takes to get him back.”
“I know you will, Angel,” Pierce said. “As will I. At this time I believe it will be you, me, and Brian who return to Saberton to do so.”
Wait, what? My personal reality check gave me a quick, sharp poke. I could talk a great game, but now he wanted to include me on some sort of strike team? “I’m not exactly trained in this,” I said, trying to not to fidget. “I don’t want to slow y’all down or fuck things up.”
To my surprise, he reached out and took hold of my hand. “Angel, jiu jitsu isn’t what got you through everything that came your way in the last year.”
“Yeah, no kidding,” I said fervently. “That’s ’cause I suck at it.” I snorted then shrugged. “Look, I’ve been lucky.”
“Bullshit.” He snapped the word out with such force I twitched. “You’re a smart woman,” he continued. “Resourceful. Headstrong.”
“You forgot obnoxious, inappropriate, and stubborn.”
One side of his mouth twitched up. “Tenacious and persistent.”
I gave him a perplexed look. “Okay, sure, I finally managed to pass my GED. By one point.” Man, that shit still pissed me off. “I’m a world class bullshitter, but I honestly don’t know how I can be any help with y’all. Why not take Philip instead?”
“I’m not talking about booksmart,” he stated. “Booksmart people are a dime a dozen. And Philip isn’t stable enough yet.” He drew breath as if to continue to argue his point, then let it out and simply lifted a shoulder in a slight shrug. “We need you.”
He needed me? No, he needed another warm body, and I was pretty much the only option. It’s for Marcus and Kyle. I wasn’t much of an asskicker, but I could sure as hell fake it for those two. I plastered on a smile for Pierce. “Okay, sure. I’m your gal. What do I need to do to get ready?”
The door opened, and Dr. Nikas walked in with a small glass. “You will both rest,” he stated firmly and handed Pierce the glass. “Drink,” he ordered, then glanced to me as Pierce complied. “If you need help sleeping, I can prepare a dose for you as well. It is a zombie-compliant sedative.”
The mention of sleep reminded me how incredibly exhausted I was. “I may take you up on that,” I said with a weary smile.
Pierce passed the glass back to Dr. Nikas. “Angel, please send Brian in.”
Brian was leaning against the wall in the hallway when I exited the room. “You okay?” he asked.
“Yeah. It’s been a really long day, that’s all.” I rubbed my eyes “I kind of broke someone’s nose when I was out looking for you.”
“I’m sure he deserved it,” he said.
“Actually he deserved worse, but I wasn’t in a position to do anything about it.” I yawned. “Pietro wants to see you before he goes to sleep.” I turned away, then paused. “Oh, and someone needs to remember to feed and water Andrew.”
He muttered something dark under his breath. “I’ll take care of him.”
“Don’t hurt him. Much,” I said. “Naomi still gives a fuck about the asshole.”
He let out a snort but nodded. “Got it.”
It wasn’t a promise not to hurt him, but at that point I didn’t care. I made a quick detour to the kitchen to find Dr. Nikas, downed some of his magic sleepy juice, and then found a flat and fairly soft surface in the form of a sofa to fall face first on.
Chapter 30
I blinked awake to a streetlight glowing against a night sky beyond the window. A low rumble I felt more than heard told me we weren’t far from train tracks, and soft classical music drifted from the dining room, a piece I recognized as one of Dr. Nikas’s favorites for busywork when he used his hands more than his head. A glance at a clock on the wall told me I’d only slept a couple of hours or so, but to my relief I felt surprisingly refreshed. Dr. Nikas made some damn good zombie drugs. I didn’t even mind the metallic tang that still clung from his spicy fruity sedative concoction. That stuff would be useful to have back home after a long night on call for the morgue, I mused, then grimaced at the streetlight. If I ever got back home to work and my normal life. Normal for me, at least.
Someone had kindly spread a blanket over me, and I threw it aside and pushed up off the sofa. I didn’t have the luxury of normal yet. Not with Marcus and Kyle in the hands of the Saberton assholes. Though I doubted Pierce was up and ready, I could start getting my own shit together. On the arm of the sofa lay a neat pile of folded clothing which turned out to be a t-shirt and sweat pants. Both looked large enough to swallow me whole, but they were clean, which mattered to me a whole lot more.
Other than the soft music the house was quiet. Gathering up the clean clothing, I crept down the wood floor of the hallway to a bathroom with seventies-era green wallpaper and a toilet in a matching color. Taped to the wall above the toilet was a note, written in Dr. Nikas’s neat and lovely script, that read “Please jiggle handle after flushing.” I couldn’t help but chuckle at the little reminder that even the most amazing people still had to deal with the ordinary.
I set the clothing on the counter then indulged in a wonderfully vicious hot shower. It only took a few minutes to wash off the dried blood and tunnel grunge, but I remained under the spray for a while longer as the knots in my shoulders eased, and I imagined a few layers of stress being washed down the shower drain along with the dirt.
Sufficiently decontaminated, I finished my shower, pulled on the t-shirt and sweat pants and tugged the drawstring at the waistband tight, then gathered up my filthy clothes and went in search of a washing machine.
As I passed through the dining room I found Dr. Nikas sitting at the table and making notes on a clipboard. A large mortar and pestle rested in front of him, along with a variety of ingredients for whatever he was working on. He glanced up with a smile. “There’s coffee in the kitchen, and washer and dryer through the door by the pantry.”
“You’re the best,” I announced as I continued on through the kitchen. Caffeine had no effect on zombies, and I usually opted for hot chocolate these days. But good coffee had its place. I dumped the clothes into the washer and got it going, then returned to the kitchen and poured a cup. After the first sip I let out a sigh of pleasure. Whoever made this pot knew what they were doing.
“Where is everyone?” I asked as I emerged into the dining room.
“Pierce is asleep. Andrew is,” Dr. Nikas hesitated, “resting.” I had a feeling he couldn’t bring himself to say Chained to a bed and scared shitless. “Philip and Naomi are on the way back from the urgent care clinic. She has an air
cast and crutches, but thankfully nothing was broken. Brian is off getting equipment for the Saberton raid. I think that’s everyone.”
Hopefully that meant Pierce and Brian had a plan. One that I slept right through, not that I’d’ve had anything useful to contribute. I took another sip of coffee. “Need any help?”
“Angel, you have no idea how glad I am that you asked,” he said then shoved the mortar across the table to me. “You may very well regret it.”
I set my cup on the table and plopped down into the chair opposite him. “I’m pretty much always up for helping you anyway, but right now a little work will keep me from rearranging the furniture or staring at Pietro . . . Pierce until he wakes up and is ready to go.” I peered dubiously at the green sludgy paste in the mortar. “What are we working on?”
He nodded toward a brown glass cough syrup-type bottle at the end of the table. “That’s my kitchen lab version of a super-mod for Brian to use during the Saberton raid,” he explained. “We’re now compounding the carrier for it.” He placed a big bowl full of different dried leaves, seeds, and other plant parts next to the mortar and pestle. “Grind all of that together. Add a little water as needed to keep the consistency of the paste.”
“Y’all don’t have a blender in the kitchen here?” I asked.
He gave a light chuckle. “A blender would process the materials in an entirely different way. I will also admit to being old school, and there are times I prefer the old methods I know so very well—especially when working outside of a proper lab.”
That made sense. “Is this the mod Brian tested the day everything went to shit?” I asked as I transferred some greyish leaves to the mortar.
“That’s right. It’s designed to amplify desired zombie abilities for a short period of time.” He pulled the cutting board to him and started to carefully mince what looked like some sort of root. “I had to modify the formula to accommodate the ingredients I have available here, but it should still be fairly effective.”
I picked up the pestle and began smushing the leaves into the paste. A pungent but pleasant smell wafted up. “Abilities like speed and strength?”
“Yes, that’s the idea,” he said. “Plus, enhancement of physical senses as well as reflexes. It’s no use having superspeed without the ability to react equally quickly.”
“Right. Like a car going super fast with horribly unresponsive steering.”
He smiled. “Precisely.”
I worked quietly for a while, grinding, adding water and more ingredients, grinding some more before I finally asked the question I was dying to know the answer to, but that scared the shit out of me as well. “How the hell did this happen?” I tilted my head toward Pierce’s room.
Dr. Nikas’s hands stilled. “He chose to transform,” he said, voice so soft I doubted it would carry beyond the table even for zombie hearing. “I have not heard his full story, but his situation must have been dire. He had intended to remain Pietro Ivanov for several more decades.”
I took a moment to let that sink in. “You’re saying that the same way there used to be an original Pierce Gentry, there was an original Pietro Ivanov?” I did my best to keep my tone cool and casual, but inside I boggled. “And Pietro—or whoever he was then—ate his brain and took over his life?”
“Yes, though it wasn’t like this,” Dr. Nikas said. “There was an agreement. The real Pietro Ivanov was a friend and associate whose mortuary business contributed to the Tribe’s brain supply.” He returned to mincing ginger. “He went into kidney failure secondary to diabetes, and our Pietro offered to turn him.” He exhaled. “The original Pietro didn’t want to live as a zombie. However, he came to an agreement to literally give his life over in exchange for care of his family.”
All kinds of questions bubbled up about that story, but they could wait until later. “You said only a mature zombie can do this eat-a-brain transformation thing, right? How old are we talking?” I added water to the mixture and continued to grind.
Dr. Nikas shifted in his seat and glanced around as if someone might overhear. “It isn’t really related to age.”
“Like how I could do a control bite on Philip? That was only supposed to be for mature parasites.”
“More specialized than that.”
“If it’s not an age thing, what is it? What do you mean when you say mature parasite?”
Dr. Nikas picked up the cutting board and scraped the contents into the mortar. He added a pinch of stuff that looked like black salt, then made notes on his clipboard. I was about to give up on an answer when he spoke again.
“Mature zombie,” he said quietly, “not parasite.”
I resisted the urge to say, “Yeah, whatever,” only because it was Dr. Nikas. I wouldn’t disrespect him like that. Besides, if he bothered to make the distinction, it meant there was something to it. “Mature zombie,” I echoed. “What exactly does that mean?”
He weighed some milky yellow powder on the scale then added it to my mixture. “Sulfur. Grind it in to where the paste is an even color, then we’re nearly done.” He settled back in his chair then laid his hands flat on the table. “It means there is no longer anything distinguishable as human-versus-zombie organism. The DNA restructure is complete. A rare success.”
“Uh,” I said while I struggled to make sense of that. “Are you saying Pietro-Pierce-whoever isn’t really human anymore?”
“Physically, none of us are, Angel,” Dr. Nikas said with a certainty that sent a shiver through me. “Not once the organism establishes itself. The changes begin immediately. Pierce and I are perhaps even less human from a purely physical perspective.” His eyes met mine, gentle and troubled and ancient. “I don’t feel any less human than I ever have.”
It took me a minute to get past his claim that we weren’t simply humans infested with a parasite, and then another minute to push aside the useless worry that, if we were so changed, how could we be sure we remembered what it was like to feel human? “So it’s not a parasite?”
“Technically, no. When I first tried to understand the science of it, parasite was my initial impression, and the term stuck.” He flashed a smile. “Besides, it’s easier to say parasite than mutualistic symbiont with parasitic aspects.” His eyes crinkled with amusement. “In the end it’s merely semantics. A new word such as zombite would better acknowledge its unique function, but old habits die hard.”
Dr. Sofia Baldwin had convincingly explained to me that the parasite healed damage and kept zombies healthy only because it benefited the parasite to have a healthy host. If there weren’t enough brains for it to do that, it saved itself and let us rot. That sure sounded like a parasite to me, but Dr. Nikas knew a billion times more about it than either Sofia or I did.
“Who’s in control after maturity?” I asked. “The not-a-parasite or the human?”
“Neither,” he said. “There is no distinction—a new unified entity with no loss of who one was and is as a person. However, before experiencing it, one cannot even conceive the enhancements to the senses, perception, and overall awareness. Pheromones, taste, global species sensitivity. It’s exhilarating, even overwhelming at first, though totally natural.”
No, not natural at all! I silently protested. Yet in my little zombie heart it rang true, like an instinctual knowing and acceptance on top of eager curiosity. “That sounds more like a living steroid than a self-serving parasite.”
Dr. Nikas beamed. “A well considered analogy, Angel,” he said. “And that is the model I work with now, rather than symbiosis. To put it very simply, the organism is the ultimate mod. It gradually optimizes its target through bio-restructuring until it gets the job done—albeit with some heavy side effects.”
I peered at him. “You said you’re mature too, like Pierce?”
He nodded and extended his hand toward me, palm down, unbuttoned his sleeve and pushed it up to the elbow
. “Point to any spot on my forearm,” he instructed.
Baffled, I reached to touch a spot a couple of inches above his wrist. I started to ask what he was doing, then could only stare, mouth hanging open. Like a slow-motion movie special effect, the skin of his forearm rippled and shifted as a scar formed, thick and white, angling across his forearm where I’d touched.
“Whoa.” I stared at the two-inch long defect in the skin. “Have you ever had a scar in that spot?” I asked. Maybe it was a weird parasite-memory thing?
“Never there,” he murmured. A few seconds later the scar rippled and became smooth skin again even as a long and barely healed gash appeared across the back of his hand.
“Whoa,” I said again,
“I am mature, yes,” he said. “Conscious control within genetic parameters.”
I processed that. “In other words, you can control stuff that could change on a normal human, but you can’t sprout wings?” I gave a nervous chuckle.
“That’s correct,” he replied. “And I can’t change my basic blueprint. No higher cheekbones or blue eyes instead of brown.”
It started to make a weird sort of sense. “Unless you—a mature zombie—ate someone’s brain, got a new blueprint, and decided to redecorate.” I watched with continued fascination as he smoothed his hand back to normal—whatever “normal” meant in this freaky context.
“Correct again,” he said.
I dragged my gaze from his hand to his face. “Conscious control. Is that how Pietro made himself look like he was in his sixties? Instead of staying younger-looking like regular zombies?”
“Yes, and it has proven quite useful.” He shifted and looked away “I’ve never had the need to transform or mimic aging. I stay away from people, for the most part.”
With the way Dr. Nikas lived as a recluse in his lab, there was no one on the outside who saw him enough to realize he never aged. The thought of so few people ever knowing him sent a weird and sad pang through me.
How the White Trash Zombie Got Her Groove Back Page 32