White Trash Zombie Apocalypse

by Diana Rowland

“Hold still!” he ordered me through clenched teeth, then fired the gun. Except it wasn’t a normal gun, and it made a whuuuush instead of a normal bang.

  His voice abruptly registered. I craned my head around in shock. “Oh my god,” I breathed. Though I couldn’t see his face under the makeup, I knew his eyes. Philip.

  Bad Zombie staggered back with a sound between a growl and a sob. He pawed at a yellow tufted thing in his shoulder, and I realized Philip had shot him with a tranquilizer dart.

  Looming Zombie moved in close behind Bad Zombie, got a hand on his arm as he swayed. I didn’t have a clue what was going on, but I knew it would be a lot better if I wasn’t right in the middle of it. I ramped my crazy-chick struggles up another notch, but Philip easily kept a solid hold on my scrawny ass. Even through my thrashing, I could feel his whole body tremoring against my back, as if he was shivering from cold or fear. But neither of those reasons made sense. Sure, we were all soaking wet from the rain, but it was the middle of summer. Something else was up.

  “Roland, get him out of here. Now,” Philip ordered. He produced what looked like a candy bar with a white wrapper and tossed it to Looming Zombie, who ripped it open and scarfed it down. The whole thing reminded me of a dog getting a treat.

  Bad Zombie collapsed on his back in the pool of light from the streetlamp, thrashed for a moment before subsiding into twitches. Wrecked latex and makeup left what remained of his face exposed, and it only took me a second to recognize him. Square jaw. A nose that had been repeatedly broken. Horror backed by anger slammed through me. I’d carefully memorized the features of the men who’d been my jailers when I was Dr. Charish’s unwilling test subject. This guy was one of the assholes who had callously watched me get strip searched.

  Which means that he’s probably one of the two men who got turned into zombies by Philip right before I escaped Dr. Charish’s lab. My gaze snapped up to Looming Zombie—the one Philip called Roland—and met his eyes. Gorgeous blue. And that’s probably the other one. One of Charish’s guards had eyes like that. The makeup couldn’t hide those.

  Oh, this was all kinds of bad. Philip and his freakin’ zombie-spawn. He’d been in bad shape when he made them—mean, near berserk, and rotting too soon—damaged by some experimental shit Charish had done to him. Who the hell knew how screwed up the two he’d turned were.

  I landed a hard kick to Philip’s shin, but he seemed unfazed by my struggles. I got in a few more solid kicks and foot stomps, and then he tucked away the tranq gun and pulled a knife.

  I made a strangled sound pushed out by panic. “No…no! Let me go,” I managed. “Oh god.” It was hard as hell to kill a zombie, but I had no doubt he knew how to do it.

  “Shut up, Angel,” he said, voice deep and hoarse. He wrestled my bitten arm up and sliced the jacket sleeve. “Have to make sure the goods aren’t damaged.”

  A stupid pang of grief went through me, and I stared in horror at the long rent in the lovely fabric. “You cut my jacket!” Yeah, I was captured by a couple of Evil Zombies, but a girl has her priorities. “You fucking dick!” I slammed my boot heel down into the top of his foot. “Get off me!”

  Philip hissed and shifted. “God damn it, Angel.”

  “Let her go,” a clear, strong voice commanded from off to my right.

  Philip hauled me around with him as he turned to face the approaching man—who, unnervingly, had a very real gun drawn and pointed at us. Fortyish with close-cropped brown hair, the newcomer bore a serious-as-all-hell expression perfectly complemented by a dark suit. I had no clue who the hell he was, but I was pissed and scared and desperate. I thrashed and kicked back hard into Philip’s shin. “Yeah. Let me GO!”

  Philip tightened his arm around me and looked to the left where Looming Zombie moved away with the tranquilized Bad Zombie slung over his shoulder, then dragged me backward with him into the shadows. “No problem,” he snarled, and shoved me roughly forward.

  Totally off balance, I went sprawling to the sidewalk. The palm of my right hand grated against the concrete, and white hot agony shot through me as my already broken wrist impacted and shattered.

  “Asshole!” I shouted as I soon as I could get a full breath, though it came out as more of a pained wheeze. I shifted to sit heavily, cradling my arm to my chest, and caught a glimpse of Philip sprinting away before he was lost to the darkness.

  The man holstered his gun and moved toward me. “Ms. Crawford. Are you all right, ma’am?”

  The pain faded and my senses dulled as my parasite kicked in. “No, I’m not all right,” I growled as I struggled to my feet. “And, goddammit, that motherfucker cut my jacket!”

  “Yes, ma’am,” he said in a cool, professional tone. No accent to speak of. And no edible brain scent. Yet another zombie. “What are your injuries?”

  “I dunno. My wrist is broken.” I examined my jacket sleeve with dismay. I felt my lower lip quiver. “Goddammit,” I muttered. “He could have at least cut the seam. What a dick.” I snapped my eyes to the man, abruptly wary. I’d discovered from Bad Zombie that knowing my name didn’t instantly translate to “friend.”

  “And who the hell are you?” I asked. I took a step back, ready to bolt.

  “Brian Archer, ma’am. I work for Mr. Ivanov. He called to say you’d lured a zombie out the west exit.”

  The relief nearly dropped me to the ground again. “Oh. Good.” Of course Pietro had some security people around. I’d told Jane to call Pietro, and he must have sent this dude.

  Brian reached into his jacket pocket, pulled out a white plastic tube thing that looked like a yogurt packet for kids and held it out to me. “Here, you need this, Ms. Crawford.”

  I frowned at the packet without reaching for it. “Why do I need that?” I glanced back over my shoulder toward the distant tent. “Crap. Marcus is gonna come looking for me.” And ohmygod would he ever freak the hell out about the fact that I went off on my own and then got in way over my head. I would never hear the end of it. Ever. Ever.

  “You need it because your wrist is broken,” Brian stated, still holding the packet. “You need food.”

  I took the packet from him. “Oh, wait. This is brains?”

  “Yes, ma’am. And you may need a second one.”

  Jeez, the “ma’am” thing was weird. I sure as hell wasn’t used to it. I tore the top of the packet open with one hand and my teeth. One sniff confirmed that it was indeed brains, and I sucked it down quickly as I cast another glance back toward the Gala.

  Brian noticed. “I suspect he will be here very shortly, ma’am. Do you need another packet?”

  I shuddered as the wrist pulled back together in a familiar but still eerie-as-hell shift of tissue and bone. “Uh, yeah. If you don’t mind. And an alibi,” I added with a snort.

  He took the empty packet from me and tucked it away. “I don’t mind at all, ma’am,” he said and pressed a second one into my hand.

  I gave him a grateful smile, then sucked down the contents of the second one. Nifty way to package brains for sure. “That should do it. Thanks,” I said, then let out a sigh. “Damn it. This sure went to hell.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” he said as he took the empty. “I could see that.” In a smooth move he pulled a business card from an inner pocket of his suit jacket, pressed it into my hand. “You might want to hold onto this.”

  I glanced down at it. It simply said “Brian Archer” with a phone number below the name. Nothing else. “Um, thanks.” Cool that I had the number of Pietro’s security guy, though I wasn’t sure if he was giving this to me out of courtesy or because I had a tendency to get myself into trouble.

  “Angel!” I heard Marcus call from the direction of the tents. Quickly shoving the card into the front pocket of my pants, I glanced back to see him hurrying our way.

  He gave Brian the kind of nod you give to someone you know, then took me by the shoulders. “Are you all right?”

  “I am now, but—”

  “She’s fine, sir,” Br
ian interjected. “A little banged up for a moment. She slipped on some mud on the sidewalk after the extras left.”

  I closed my mouth and stared at Brian. He was covering for me? Well, I did say that I needed an alibi. I hadn’t been serious, but it certainly made things easier.

  Marcus exhaled, tension in his face easing. He gave a nod to Brian then looked back at me. “You sure you’re okay?”

  I tore my eyes away from Brian. “Um, yeah. It was no biggie,” I said, more than a little thrown off by the totally unexpected ally.

  Brian took a step back, his eyes lingering on me. “I’ll be going now and will let Mr. Ivanov know exactly what happened,” he said with a faint stress on exactly. “Have a good evening, sir, ma’am,” he added with a nod in our direction.

  “Thanks for all your help, Brian,” I said with an equally faint stress on the all.

  He gave me a slight smile. “Anytime, Ms. Crawford.” He turned and headed off toward the parking lot, pausing on the way to pick up and pocket the forgotten bag of brain chips.

  “What the hell were you thinking?” Marcus asked, dropping his hands from my shoulders. “Why didn’t you call me?”

  I bristled. Yep, here it was. “There wasn’t time to call,” I told him. “And Jane called Pietro, right?”

  Marcus blew out an exasperated breath. “Jesus Christ, Angel, you didn’t know what you were doing, or who you were going after. Some drunk extra? I know you’re strong, but someone else could have handled it.” He said it all in a patronizing tone that slid right under my skin. “And what if it had turned out to be something worse?”

  I’d planned to tell him about Philip—if not all the details about the broken wrist and such—but holy crap I was so not in the mood to get chewed out. Annoyed, I edged back from him. “Who else was gonna handle it? Someone who didn’t know it was a zombie and could’ve ended up a victim? I was the only one there who could do something.”

  Marcus stared at me for a second. “Wait. It was a zombie zombie?”

  I glared right back at him. “Yeah. It was a zombie made up like one of the zombie extras. I don’t know if he really was an extra or just pretending to be.” A zombie pretending to be a zombie pretending to be a zombie. Made me dizzy.

  “So you didn’t go after a drunk dude…you went after a crazy, hungry zombie.”

  “Yeah. And if I didn’t do something, someone was gonna get hurt,” I said. “And I was tanked.” I scowled at him. “C’mon, Marcus, I handled it, didn’t I?”

  “Sure, this time,” he said, eyes dark with worry. “But it could have turned out differently.”

  “So can walking out to get the damn mail,” I shot back. “Marcus, I handled it. Can’t you give me a little bit of credit for that?”

  “Okay, okay,” he sighed, then gave me a smile. “You’re right. Forget I said it.”

  Relief pushed back the annoyance. He was trying, and I had to give him props for that. And it was damn important. If we could ever get past this babying crap, we might actually have a chance to make it together. Okay, yeah, this time it had actually been a teensy weensy bit dangerous, but that wasn’t the point.

  I gave him a smile in return, then wrinkled my nose. “Anyway, I’m pretty soaked now, so I guess that’s my sign that I’ve eaten enough.”

  He slid an arm around me. “Ready to call it a day and head home? Pietro’s going to get Jane out of here as soon as he knows you’re okay, which I’m sure Brian has already told him by now.”

  “Probably best.” I gave him a squeeze. “Thanks. I had a really great time. Even with zombie chasing.” And lots and lots to think about. Lots.

  He chuckled. “I did too. Besides, I think I’d explode if I ate one more thing.”

  I laughed as we headed for the parking lot. “Body parts everywhere.”

  “Ewwwww. That would ruin some dinners,” he said, grinning.

  “Nah,” I said. “I’d tell everyone it was part of the movie promo.”

  “As long as I died for a noble cause.”

  I gave a solemn nod. “Overeating is the noblest of causes.”

  Chapter 6

  I’d actually planned ahead for once, and swapped part of my eight a.m. to four p.m. shift with Jerry, the other full-time van driver, so that I didn’t have to come in so early in the morning after the late night out with Marcus. Jerry was an early riser who hated working nights, which meant he was more than happy to take the first half of my regular shift, and in return I agreed to be on call for him until midnight.

  And so, of course, the call for the first body pickup of the day came in at two minutes past noon, and during a downpour like Niagara Falls.

  The van’s windshield wipers slapped hard at the pouring rain, and I squinted to read street signs through the slight fog on the windows. A silver pickup crossed the intersection ahead, same make and model as the one that almost hit me on the movie set. The one Philip saved me from. I frowned. What the hell was that about? Save me, then be a total asshole like he’d been last night? It made no sense…

  A piece clicked into place. It made no sense until I remembered what he said when he cut my jacket. Have to make sure the goods aren’t damaged. So he hadn’t saved me from the truck. He’d saved me for someone else. But who? Dr. Charish? Some new bad guy?

  Whatever. He’d earned a choice spot on my shitlist.

  I finally found the street I needed and made my way down a street lined on both sides by identical duplexes. It could have easily been horrifying in an institutional and Conform! sort of way, yet I saw that the residents here found all sorts of ways to add character to the cookie-cutter structures and make their own place unique. Even through the driving rain it was easy to note personal touches, from carefully tended flower beds to small additions like gazebos or rock gardens, to choice of paint colors. I had no doubt that everyone who lived along this street was a renter, and it impressed me that, with rare exceptions, they all seemed to take pride in where they lived. I’d never lived in a rental a day in my life, and right now the biggest “personal touch” I gave my house was to keep the weeds hacked down to something that could resemble a lawn.

  Derrel’s Dodge Durango and the St. Edwards Parish Sheriff’s Office crime scene van were already parked by the curb in front of my destination. I only saw one unmarked unit, which told me that this was the type of death that didn’t require a horde of detectives.

  I parked behind the unmarked car, then pulled on a raincoat I’d picked up at Goodwill during my Gala shopping. On a normal-sized human it would probably hit mid-calf, which meant it was ankle-length on me. And when I paired it with the white rubber shrimp boots I currently sported, I had every confidence it would keep me awesomely dry. The only drawback was the polka-dots. Lots and lots of polka dots in varying sizes and in eye-searing colors. Fine. I’d be dry and visible.

  Detective Abadie sat in the front seat of the unmarked car, typing on his laptop. I rapped hard on his window as I passed and gave him a big bright smile when he jerked in surprise. He raked a gaze over the raincoat, rolled his eyes, and gave me a sour look before returning his attention to his laptop in a pointed dismissal. I laughed and continued up to the house with the stretcher and body bag. Abadie didn’t like me—though he’d once clarified that he didn’t hate me, he simply didn’t like me, which somehow made all the difference in the world and made it particularly fun to harass him in any innocuous way I could.

  This duplex had a small but tidy front yard and a utilitarian, no frills look about it. A couple of pieces of white wicker outdoor furniture and nothing else on the porch. Derrel stood there, out of the rain, and looked up from his notepad as I approached. “Nice slicker,” he remarked. “Four more days, right?”

  I got the stretcher and myself under shelter, pushed my hood back and shook the worst of the water from my raincoat. “Is everyone counting down to my GED test date?” I asked in mock exasperation.

  “Sure thing. There’s a big calendar down at Double D’s Diner.” At my
shocked look he laughed. “I’m kidding, promise! Figured that might be a bit too much pressure on you.”

  “Ya think?” I said, then gave a weak laugh. “I’m barely holding it together as it is.”

  “You’ll do great,” he stated with such utter conviction that it was hard not to believe it.

  “Thanks, Derrel.” I slipped my raincoat off and draped it over the back of a chair. “So, whatcha got here?” I asked with a jerk of my head toward the house.

  His eyes dropped to his notes. “Brenda Barnes. White female, twenty-eight years old. Roommate found her dead on the bathroom floor about an hour ago. No obvious trauma.”

  “Y’think it might be drug overdose?” Sadly, the death of someone that young was far too often the result of such a thing. I should know. Hell, it had been an OD that got me turned into a zombie.

  But Derrel shrugged, shook his head. “Doubtful. No vomit or pulmonary edema. The roommate, Ginger Nelson, swears the victim wasn’t a user, and there were no pill bottles or other evidence of that.”

  “I guess that’s both good and bad,” I said with a slight wince. “I mean good in that it wasn’t a bullshit way to die.”

  “Agreed. So for now I’m not inclined to call it a suicide or an OD, though toxicology will show that for sure.” He closed his pad. “The roommate said she turned the victim over when she found her, so we don’t know what her original position was, but she stated that it looked like the victim simply fell to the floor.”

  I nodded. Perfectly natural reaction to move the person to see if they were okay or to try and help them. It was only a big deal when it was a murder or anything suspicious, since moving the body could alter or wipe out evidence.

  Derrel pulled out his phone and stepped away, no doubt to call Dr. Leblanc and give him the rundown. Pushing the stretcher before me, I headed inside. The décor within echoed the bare, no-nonsense feel of the exterior. Simple furniture: couch, loveseat, and coffee table, with scrapes and dings that spoke of their age. A modest-sized TV. A bookshelf made of cinder blocks and pine boards with an assortment of worn paperbacks, knick knacks, and framed pictures on it. Yet everything was clean and tidy, and I got the impression the “no-frills” look was due more to a careful hoarding of available funds than a lack of creative personality.