White Trash Zombie Unchained

by Diana Rowland

  Nick’s throat worked. “That’s how you knew to attack the medulla.”

  “It made the most sense.” I grimaced and rubbed the back of my neck. “Thing is, I left Judd’s body deep in the swamp. So if an alligator or three snacked on him . . . I dunno, maybe they turned zombie, too, and a couple of them chomped our guy here.”

  Allen stared at me. “That’s ludicrous.”

  I threw up my hands. “The whole thing is insane! But what if there are zombie gators out in the swamp? What if there are more shambly-zombies out there? Here I am, trying to work out how my zombies can safely come out of hiding and go public, but if a whole bunch of . . . of shamblers start showing up, that’s going to fuck over the real zombies!”

  Nick and Allen exchanged an oddly significant glance.

  My eyes narrowed in a glare. “What?”

  “Allen and my dad and I have been talking about this going public stuff,” Nick said. “We agreed that you can’t let the world know zombies are real. Even if there wasn’t a shambler complication.”

  I folded my arms over my chest. “We are not going to stay in hiding forever.”

  “Not forever. You just can’t reveal yourselves anytime soon. There are serious drawbacks to coming out.”

  “I know. We’ll have all sorts of people deciding to become zombie hunters, and—”

  “No,” Nick interrupted. “I mean, yes, you’ll have amateur zombie hunters. Maybe even military. But more importantly, your legitimate brain sources will dry up.”

  “I know,” I said then smiled. “And I was about to say that. Trust me, I had a lot of down time to think about it. It’s not like we need blood, where people can donate some and still live. To donate a brain to my dinner, that person pretty much has to be dead. And since no one wants to worry that Uncle Tommy might get eaten, the instant the news hits that brain-eaters are real, every morgue and funeral home will start keeping an eagle eye on each brain that comes through their door.”

  Nick’s forehead puckered. “Exactly. So how can you still be thinking of going public?”

  “Because of you guys. And Marcus.”

  Allen and Nick took on identical looks of confusion.

  “What did we do?” Allen asked cautiously.

  “You’re human,” I said, “and you don’t think all zombies are monsters that need to be destroyed. Human allies will make a huge difference. Like how Nick and his dad helped me keep zombies from being exposed, and how you skimmed brains for me and told Dr. Nikas about the goule gris salve.” Allen had stumbled upon the secret world of zombies during a medical aid rotation in the Central African Republic. His disclosure of the components for a zombie-only wound salve had triggered new developments in Dr. Nikas’s research. “We still need to figure out more ways to reduce our need for real brains, but it’s a humongous start.”

  “All right,” Allen said. “What did Marcus do?”

  “He inherited a chain of funeral homes,” I said. “Okay, so they were already zombie-owned, but my point is we can safeguard some of those brain sources. Maybe get more allies in the morgues.” I wrinkled my nose. “But it’ll take time, and we need to safeguard those sources before the general public gets freaked out by a shambling zombie horde.”

  “Let’s deal with the problems we know of,” Allen said. “What samples does Dr. Nikas need? Better get them now while we can.”

  “I’ll text you the—” I stopped as Allen’s phone buzzed.

  He heaved a sigh as he read the message. “Crappy timing. Body up in Bideau. Possible heart attack. Texting the address to you both now. Don’t worry, Angel. I’ll take care of getting the samples.”

  I thanked him fervently and forwarded the list to him. It would take a lot longer for Allen to do it on his own, but he didn’t seem at all put out.

  Because he knows how important this is, I realized as I followed Nick out to the parking lot. Allen was an ally. Maybe even a friend?

  Nick peeled off toward the Durango and I climbed into the van, snickering to myself. Never thought I’d see the day I was friendly with Allen Prejean, much less consider him a possible friend. What next? A rain of puppies? Dr. Angel Crawford?

  With a snort for the ridiculous mental images, I plugged the address into my GPS and left to get a corpse.

  Chapter 4

  Once upon a time, when I first started working at the Coroner’s Office, I’d thought it a waste of gas and money to have the death investigator and the “body snatcher”—me—in two separate vehicles. After all, why couldn’t we both ride in the van? It didn’t take me long to realize the death investigator did more than simply help babysit the body. They often had to stay at the scene to speak to next of kin and hunt down paperwork and medical records long after I headed back to the morgue. Not to mention, it was the investigator’s duty to give death notifications to the decedent’s loved ones—something I had absolutely zero desire to ever do. I knew damn well I’d break down crying right then and there.

  And I was never more grateful for separate vehicles than right now. Bideau was at the very north end of the parish—a twenty-five-minute drive with no traffic. If Nick and I had been trapped together in the van, it would’ve been twenty-five minutes of torturous silence broken by occasional stilted conversation. And then twenty-five minutes back—with a corpse who was unlikely to be talkative.

  I’d only been to Bideau a couple of times, and I murmured a prayer that the GPS would be up to the task of getting me there again. On a map it looked easy—highway, then another highway, then another highway, then yet one more highway. But in reality, each highway was smaller and less traveled than the last, with wickedly easy-to-miss turnoffs.

  Yet it wasn’t the GPS that helped me find the first turn. It was the brand-spanking-new billboard at the junction with Saberton splashed across the top in enormous letters.

  I pulled to the shoulder and glared up at the sign.

  Opening soon

  Saberton Agricultural Equipment Manufacturing

  Now hiring all positions

  Turn left here then head south on Old Haybarn Road

  Interesting. And odd. A couple of years ago, Saberton Corporation bought the tractor factory that had been up and running for near fifty years, and they’d immediately laid off all the employees. They’d promised to hire everyone back once they nailed a juicy defense contract and started production on some sort of new tank. But the defense contract had fallen through, and therefore so had the jobs.

  Now, it seemed they’d decided to return to making tractors. Though it wasn’t a complete surprise, I wasn’t quite sure how to feel about this turn of events. Saberton had a nasty bent for unethical research on zombies, and no good would come of them having a stronger toehold in the zombie Tribe area. Yet I couldn’t help but be relieved for all the people who’d get their jobs back.

  Naomi might know more about how this crap came about, especially since she was the daughter of Saberton’s CEO. I made a mental note to ask her when I next saw her, most likely later today since she worked for the Tribe, and I’d be taking the Douglas Horton samples to the lab as soon as my shift was over.

  I snapped a quick phone pic of the billboard then pulled back onto the highway.

  • • •

  At the scene, Nick’s Durango and a Sheriff’s Office vehicle were parked on the street in front of a snug house with missing shingles and a tidy yard. I joined Nick inside where a Mr. Carlton Prince lay in his bed. Sixty-seven years old, skinny as a rail, no muscle tone, a history of heart disease, and a pack-a-day smoking habit. Dr. Leblanc might not even autopsy him, especially considering the dead man’s skin was flushed red from mid-chest up—a strong indication of a heart attack. Most likely the doc would simply check for signs of suspicious wounds and run a tox screen to make sure Mr. Prince hadn’t been hurried off to the afterlife with a little physical or chemical help.

&nb
sp; I laid out the body bag while Nick interviewed a middle-aged woman with generous curves and kind eyes—the neighbor who’d found the body. She’d spoken with Mr. Prince the previous evening and agreed to give him a ride to his doctor’s office today. After he didn’t answer the doorbell, she let herself in and found him still in bed and clearly deceased.

  “Went to sleep and never woke up,” Nick murmured after she left. “Not a bad way to go, I’d say.”

  “Only if you know it might be coming,” I said. He gave me a quizzical look, and I added, “What scares me the most about dying is dying unexpectedly. I want to be able to say goodbye to people. Tie up all the loose ends. That sort of thing.”

  His eyes met mine briefly before his gaze darted away. “Yeah,” he said, voice oddly rough. He’d seen me come close to dying a few weeks ago. “Here, I’ll help you.”

  Together we got Carlton Prince into the body bag—though the guy was so light I could have managed it easily on my own, even without any sort of zombie-aided strength. A shiver of unease trailed up my spine as I wheeled the gurney out of the house. My dad had a similar scrawny and unexercised build. An image of a body bag zipper closing over my dad’s lifeless face burned itself into my brain.

  Blinking hard, I continued to the van, oddly grateful the uneven sidewalk meant I had to concentrate on keeping the gurney upright, with no mental space free to worry about my dad dying.

  Yet once I got the gurney loaded up and started toward the morgue, the unsettling image returned full force. I swiped at my eyes then turned the music way up and sang along, making up my own lyrics when I didn’t know the real ones. By the time I passed the Saberton billboard, I’d shaken the worst of the morbid thoughts, and my spirits had recovered somewhat. It was silly for me to compare the body in the back of the van to my dad. Carlton Prince was fifteen years older than Jimmy Crawford. And my dad didn’t have heart disease. Not that I knew of, at least.

  Ugh. I didn’t even know when he’d last seen a doctor. Somehow I needed to convince him to get a physical. And quit smoking for good.

  I sighed. Or maybe I could reverse climate change. That would be easier.

  • • •

  My half-shift was all but over by the time I made it to the morgue with Mr. Prince. Allen helped me get him entered into the system and tucked away in the cooler then let me know he’d collected the samples Dr. Nikas needed.

  “They’re in your lunch box,” he added. “I put another cold pack in there as well, to keep them fresh.”

  “My lunch box?” I shuddered. “Ew.”

  Allen looked at me askance. “You’re kidding, right? You keep human brains in that thing.”

  “Yes, brains. Not fecal samples.” I shuddered again.

  He rolled his eyes. “The container is sealed. I promise you won’t get any BM on your brains.”

  I gave him a challenging stare. “That’s the best alliteration you can come up with? Bowel movements and plain old brains?”

  Allen chuckled. “I’d like to see you do better with the material at hand.”

  “Let’s see, there’s ‘poop on your pons’ or ‘crap on your corpus callosum’ or ‘doo-doo on your dura’ or—”

  “Stop.” He lifted his hands in surrender. “You win.”

  “Damn straight,” I said, preening. “And I’m going to leave now so you can cry about how sad your wordplay game is.”

  “Sad indeed,” he said. “I think I liked it better when you hated me.”

  “Well, how’s this for old time’s sake then,” I said, grinning as I flipped him off.

  “You’ve never flipped me off before.”

  “Not to your face.”

  He groaned. “Go. Depart. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  I was smiling as I snagged my lunch box, but my mood had dimmed considerably by the time I reached my car. It was fun bantering with Allen about the grossness of the samples, but they were a reminder of the gigantic problem known as Douglas “Shamblin’ Man” Horton.

  • • •

  The Tribe’s zombie research lab was over twenty minutes away, giving me far too much time to fret about zombie gators on the loose in Mudsucker Swamp. Then again, Dr. Nikas already had several bits of Mr. Horton’s brain. It was possible he’d already examined them and instantly realized why the man had gone all Walking Dead on us. And perhaps he’d even come up with a way to make sure it never happened again.

  Totally possible. I grimly clung to that optimism for the rest of the drive.

  Eventually, I arrived at the Tribe’s zombie research lab: an utterly nondescript, faded blue, windowless, cinderblock building, squatting in a desolate field surrounded by thick pine forest in the middle of nowhere, Louisiana.

  I parked in the gravel lot and sauntered up to the single door that marked the front. There were other exterior doors, but they were carefully concealed and massively secured. So much so that the one time the lab had been infiltrated, the Saberton aggressors had no choice but to make entry via the front door—and that was no walk in the park unless you were welcome.

  Though everyone referred to this building as “the lab,” it was much more than a research facility. A medical area served both zombies and humans, permanent quarters housed the handful of personnel who lived at the lab, and nicely furnished dorm-like rooms accommodated temporary guests. There were even cells for unwilling guests. Plus an emergency bunker that could supposedly survive damn near anything but a direct nuclear strike. Moreover, Dr. Nikas was a key member of the Tribe and part of the inner circle, and since he rarely left the building, the lab also served as the de facto headquarters for Tribe operations.

  After clearing all three security doors, I passed through the central hub and into the research wing of the building. In the chemical assay room, a pale, thin, ponytailed man sat hunched on a stool as he calibrated a spectrophotometer. Jacques Leroux—Dr. Nikas’s right hand man. Though I was fairly sure he didn’t have any medical or science degrees, he knew Dr. Nikas’s methods and moods inside and out and was a skilled medic and research assistant. Of course, he probably didn’t need any degrees considering he’d worked side by side with Dr. Nikas since the Franco-Prussian war.

  Jacques glanced up, expressive hazel eyes startling, as always, given his otherwise wan appearance. Those eyes flicked to the box in my hand. “You have the rest of the samples?”

  “Yup. Everything Dr. Nikas asked for.”

  “That’s good news,” he said, returning his attention to the calibration. “Dr. Nikas is still working on the brain pieces Rachel delivered. If you could prepare slides for what you brought, it would be very helpful.”

  “Got it covered.” I tamped down my disappointment that Dr. Nikas hadn’t already solved the shambler-mystery, then tugged on gloves and worked on getting slides set up. Dr. Nikas knew everything there was to know about the zombie parasite and how zombies worked. If there was an answer to be had, he’d find it.

  Or would he? I despised the whisper of uncertainty that crept in. Only a couple of weeks ago, Dr. Nikas himself confessed his self-doubt and told me that despite his centuries of experience, there was still only so much one man could do to tackle the mass of needed research. For several months last year, Dr. Kristi Charish had been an “unwilling guest” of the Tribe. Though she was an evil psychopath, she was also an utterly brilliant neurobiologist. During the short time Dr. Nikas worked with her, he’d made more progress in all of his research and development than in the past decade. Two incredible minds working together had produced far greater results than either could have managed on their own, even with all the time in the world. The sad truth was that Dr. Nikas and Kristi were perfect research partners, each able to expand and extrapolate upon the other’s ideas.

  But Kristi had only helped because she had no choice—though she’d surely filed away juicy research results in her twisted brain the entire time. Considering
she now worked for Saberton Corporation, it was unlikely she and Dr. Nikas would ever be brainstorm buddies again. I fucking hated Kristi Charish with the fiery heat of a thousand suns, but not having her brainpower flat-out sucked for our current situation.

  I finished the slides and put the rest of the samples in the fridge. “Is there anything else that needs doing?”

  “Not at the moment, thanks to your recent industry,” Jacques said, eyes crinkling with a rare display of humor. My “recent industry” had been an effort to keep from dying of boredom during my recovery. I’d quickly grown sick of browsing the internet and watching TV, and so once I had the strength, I wheeled my little butt over to the lab and took on all the low priority tasks that tended to pile up.

  I skimmed a glance around the room. “Maybe I should see if Reg needs anything? Or inventory the reagents?”

  “Angel, you have inventoried, cleaned, organized, and labeled everything in this lab that can be seen without a microscope.” He paused. “And a few things that can’t.”

  Damn.

  A faint smile tugged at his mouth. “Don’t worry. You haven’t inventoried yourself out of a job. We’re simply in a holding pattern while Dr. Nikas works. You know how he can be.”

  I snorted. Utterly absorbed didn’t even begin to describe Dr. Nikas when he was working through a problem. He would ignore everyone and everything, muttering to himself in languages no one spoke anymore, filling whiteboards with formulas and symbols and whatnot, and forgetting to eat or drink until Jacques gently pushed one or the other into his free hand—and even then surfacing from his deep focus only enough to chew and swallow.