Now the hard part: getting back. The current wasn’t as strong along the edges of the bayou, but swimming one-handed with my already pathetic stroke meant I’d most likely reach the others sometime next year. Switching tactics, I veered closer to the bank until my toes brushed the bottom then made my way toward the little beach with a combination of tiptoe-wading and spastic semi-freestyle. The mud squished through my toes in the most disgusting way, and I tried hard not to think of the many icky things that might be lurking in it. Broken bottles. Giant water moccasins. Man-eating squid.
The body of a diver.
I shuddered and forged onward. I’d progressed to where the water was only chest deep, with maybe twenty feet to go. Marcus had turned his head to watch me and offered a weak thumbs up with the hand that wasn’t pressed over his chest. Marla gave an encouraging bark and started toward the water, clearly ready to help play this fun game.
Rosario’s eyes widened. “No!” he gasped. “Marla, halt. Angel, watch out!”
The dog stopped then growled, hackles rising as her gaze fixed on the reason for Rosario’s sudden alarm.
A puce and snot-green log with a pair of milky yellow eyes slid soundlessly through the water toward me. A big log.
I froze, heart pounding as the alligator approached. The zombie-gator. Absolutely no doubt in my mind. Not with those blank eyes and odd coloring. In my periphery, I saw Rosario pull his gun, hand tremoring as he brought it to bear.
“Don’t,” I said, gulping. “You might piss it off.” Plus, the gator was only a few feet away from me at this point.
I remembered enough of my high school science to know its kind had been around for millions of years. Apex predator. But I’d been a southern chick all my life, and I knew this wasn’t normal behavior for an alligator. They were known to attack humans, but mostly when they felt threatened. Or when they think they have vulnerable prey? Here I was, bleeding into the water. I could almost certainly survive an attack, but it would really hurt. And, dammit, I did not want to be regrown all over again.
The zombie-gator stopped with the tip of its snout barely a foot from my chest. We stared at each other while its breath ruffled the water between us. One big sweep of its tail, and it could lunge forward and grab my face in those toothy jaws.
Noooo, I didn’t need to start thinking about horrible shit like that. “Nice gator,” I squeaked out. “N-now shoo. Go home.”
In reply it lifted its snout and let out a weird croaking growl, water vibrating around its midsection. What the hell was that? A challenge? A mating call?
Shhhthook.
I barely had time to register the dart in the gator’s hide before it reared up, thrashing. I scrambled back, fully expecting it to attack me in retaliation, but instead it dove to the side and swam away, powerful tail churning the water.
Trembling with relief, I looked over to see Brian pulling in a sampling dart while Pierce lowered his pistol. Between them, Rachel sucked on a brain packet and scowled down at the hole below her sternum.
“Sorry to chase off your new friend,” Pierce said. “Couldn’t shoot it without risking hitting you, though.” He angled his boat to run aground near Marcus and Rosario. Brian leaped onto the bank and pulled it further up then waded out and helped me in. And “helped me” meant he wrapped an arm around my weak-kneed body and hauled me and the cooler to the bank.
Pierce shoved an already-opened brain packet into my hand. I greedily wolfed the contents down and two more after that. Color and sensation seeped back into my world. The bullet popped from my thigh and fell to the ground. By the time my wounds closed and my hunger returned to manageable levels, Marcus was healed. While he, Brian, and Pierce discussed how to retrieve the sunken boat, Rachel worked on field-dressing Rosario’s hole-y ass.
“Lucky bitch,” I murmured without thinking. She jerked her head up and gave me a narrow-eyed glare. I gave a slight chin lift toward the bandage then turned my hands over and made the universal sign for squeezing a butt.
The glare vanished, to be replaced by a quick conspiratorial smile. She affixed the last piece of tape then pushed to her feet and angled her head toward mine. “I almost shoved Pierce into the water so I could get to Rosario first,” she said under her breath.
“I can hear you,” Rosario muttered good-naturedly.
I smothered a laugh then had to act all serious as Marcus glanced our way.
“We lost all the weapons and supplies in the flatboat,” he said, expression dark. “And even if we could raise it, there’s no way we’d get the motor working.” He turned to Pierce. “I take it Saberton got away with the body?”
“They did,” Pierce replied, much less grimly. “But all is not lost. Not only can we fit in the one boat, we have a tissue sample from the body, thanks to Rachel’s quick thinking.”
Brian lifted a baggie with a severed hand in it. “When Rachel went down, she finished pulling the hand off and stuffed it down her shirt.”
Rachel gave a mock-shudder. “Definitely not the way I want a hand on my boob.”
“Excellent work,” Marcus said with a relieved smile.
“That’s the good news,” Brian said. “The bad news—besides the fact Saberton was here at all—is that they also had a live, trussed up alligator on board. Looked a lot like the one we chased off.”
“Let’s discuss the Saberton angle after we get the hell out of here,” Pierce said. “That much shooting is sure to draw attention. We have samples, Angel had a heart to heart with a gator, and Rosario can’t catch a break.”
• • •
While Brian and Rosario rearranged gear in the remaining flatboat to make room for everyone, Marcus dove down to the sunken boat and recovered the shotgun, tagger, darts, samples we’d collected, and the—thankfully waterproof—GPS. “We’ll come back later with a metal detector,” he said then muttered something about fucking expensive rifles.
The flatboat rode a bit low in the water once we all piled in, but Pierce insisted it was rated for six passengers. “And Angel plus the dog equals the weight of one person,” he added with a smirk.
We headed downstream for about a quarter mile then, at Marcus’s direction, took a medium-squiggle-sized channel to the west.
Not even five minutes later, Pierce lifted his head. “Boat.” His mouth thinned. “Wildlife and Fisheries.”
“Are you sure?” I asked with a touch of skepticism. Even tanked up on brains, I couldn’t hear anything but the usual swamp noises.
Ignoring me, Pierce guided our boat around a cypress tree and stopped behind a stand of tall grass. “Everyone get down and stay perfectly still,” he ordered then hopped out of the boat and into the waist-deep water.
I didn’t see how the clump of grass could possibly keep us from being seen, but I hunkered down with everyone else.
Pierce moved quickly, grabbing seemingly random tree branches and plants. Some he draped around the boat, and the rest he arranged between us and the channel. Apparently satisfied, he crouched in the water and watched. After a couple of minutes of waiting in silence, I picked up the noise of a boat motor, and not long after that, Agent Carbo and his partner cruised on by without a glance in our direction.
Pierce remained motionless for several minutes after they passed. Finally, he stood and waded to the boat.
“We’re good now,” he said as he climbed in.
“Damn, Pierce, you win the Hide and Seek trophy,” I said. “Where’d you learn to do that?”
He met my eyes, expression utterly devoid of humor. “The Vietnam War.”
Note to self: Don’t ask Pierce anything that even remotely resembles a personal question. Sheesh.
We rode the rest of the way back in near silence, watching and listening until we crossed Bayou Cher and were safely in Tribe territory. Only then did Pierce relax.
“Can we discuss the Saberton-sized e
lephant in the room now?” I asked. “Why were they there? How the fuck could they have known anything about that body and the gators?”
“They had to have found out about the shambler at the morgue,” Rachel said, expression murderous.
“They were collecting alligator samples, too,” Brian said. “I saw a container of beef lungs, and several large hooks on cables.”
Ugh. And being assholes about it. Hook and release was far more damaging to the gator than our method.
A muscle worked in Pierce’s jaw. “There’s no possible way the lab is bugged. It’s been swept numerous times, by different personnel and with different equipment. Everyone who enters or leaves is scanned. And everyone who stays there permanently has been scanned, repeatedly.”
“Even the dog?” Rachel asked.
“Even the dog.”
“The morgue?” I gave a helpless shrug. “There must be a bug somewhere in it. It’s the only thing that makes sense. Saberton could have heard us fighting off that shambler, and maybe even heard me when I called Dr. Nikas to tell him about it.” I frowned. “Wait, what if my phone is tapped?”
“We’ll check it,” Pierce said. “We’ll check everything.” He tugged a hand through his hair in a rare show of frustration. “I’ll arrange with Allen Prejean to have the morgue swept for listening devices.”
“I’ll borrow the bug scanner thingy and go over my house again.” I planned on checking the PlayBox for bugs as well, but I didn’t want to tell Pierce about the game console—yet—in case he decided to do something crazy, like blow it up the way the bomb squad did with suspicious packages.
“Good plan, Angel,” he said. “Get it from Raul when we return.”
With the subject exhausted, we fell silent, lost in thought. A hawk wheeled overhead, graceful against the bright, clear sky. Water rippled as a snake swam past, and a great blue heron stalked through the grass in search of prey. The swamp was beautiful and dangerous in any number of ways. Environment. Weather. Wildlife.
People.
My thoughts veered back to the diver. I’d killed people before, but never a woman. It shouldn’t have made a difference, but . . . it did. At least I knew without a doubt she was no innocent bystander. She’d shot Pierce and Rachel, then tried her best to take me out of the game.
Now the swamp held a new threat: zombie-gators. It sucked that we couldn’t simply cordon off Mudsucker Swamp so no one else got infected.
However, I could warn people who might come out here, such as Bear Galatas and his survivalist group. I made a mental note to call him once we made it to the lab, then returned to mulling over how Saberton could have known about the shambler.
“Kristi Charish is involved,” I said after a moment. “She has to be.”
“Dr. Charish is in Chicago,” Pierce said flatly. “I’ve had eyes on her ever since she took Saberton’s offer. Her daily movements are monitored closely. If she’s doing more zombie-related R&D, she’s doing it while she’s taking a shit.”
Marcus scratched the back of his head. “Still, she could be calling the shots, even from Chicago. That Saberton operation today had her stink all over it.”
Pierce gave a grudging nod. “Maybe so, but it’s a stretch to assume she’s responsible for Angel’s shambler.”
I winced. “Yep, that one seems to be all on me.” I paused. “And on Judd. And the gators. And, well, those hunters who didn’t think they needed life jackets.”
“Could be worse,” Brian said, mouth crooked in a smile. “That gator could’ve bitten your face off.”
Pierce snorted. “Please. Gator face-biting is nothing. What’s abysmal is being the one who has to explain to Mo why we’re one boat short.”
“Maybe he won’t be as mad if you tell him there are some really nice rifles down there—ow!” Laughing, I ducked away from a second swat from Marcus.
“Stop helping, Angel,” he warned.
“But I’m just so good at it!”
Marcus rolled his eyes heavenward in mock-despair. “The world isn’t ready for Angel Crawford in charge.”
“What?! Say you’re sorry.” I launched into an acapella version of the Charles in Charge theme song, using my own name instead.
“For the love of god, he’s sorry!” Pierce exclaimed. “Aren’t you, Marcus?”
Marcus held up his hands in defeat. “More than you can possibly know.”
• • •
As predicted, Mo lost his shit when we arrived at the launch without the other boat. But after Pierce pulled him aside for a low conversation, he was all smiles again.
“Did you tell him about the rifles?” I asked Pierce as we climbed into the Tahoe for the return trip.
“Nah,” Pierce said, mouth curving in a wry smile. “Marcus will send some people out to retrieve the Tribe weapons and equipment. I simply told Mo where to find the boat and that I was doubling his payment. Money is the way to Mo’s heart.”
“Y’know, that works for my heart, too,” I pointed out, then settled in for the ride back to the lab. To my surprise, I fell asleep almost instantly and didn’t wake until we were in the lab garage.
After we unloaded, I started toward the door to the lab proper, but Rachel stopped me with a touch on my arm.
“When you’re taking pictures, composition makes all the difference,” she said after I gave her a questioning look. “I mean, it’s how you position the elements in your viewfinder and the angle of your shot.” She hesitated a moment then let out a breath. “Maybe when we get some free time I could show you a couple of tricks.”
“I’d like that,” I said, accepting the enormous olive branch. I doubted we’d ever sit over coffee and actually talk about photography, but that didn’t diminish the gesture one bit. “Thanks.”
She gave me a short little nod then strode over to Rosario and helped him and his injured butt onto a stretcher.
I watched her head off toward the infirmary with Rosario. “What a weird fucking day.”
Chapter 11
I had an hour before I needed to leave for my biology class, and I used more than half of it for a steaming hot shower to boil away the swamp funk. When I returned to my room, I found three syringes and a note penned in Dr. Nikas’s elegant handwriting.
Angel,
Here is your refill of V13. The second syringe is a stay-awake mod. With it, two hours of sleep will feel like ten. There are adverse effects if activated after less than two hours sleep. I only supplied one dose as it should be used infrequently, but in these challenging times, you may have need. The third syringe is four doses of a mild combat mod. You have been off V12 long enough for there to be no interference. After the events at the swamp, I am uncomfortable with your being without access to emergency augmentation.
Stay well,
Ari
Hot damn. My first legit combat mod. Standard human drugs didn’t work on zombies, but Dr. Nikas had developed his own line of parasite-modifying pharmaceuticals—mods for short—for a variety of purposes. A basic combat mod heightened senses and improved speed and reflexes.
During my regrowth, Dr. Nikas had installed a mod port in my chest—a syringe access point to an implanted receptacle for storing and dispensing up to four different mods, unnoticeable unless you knew where to look. In one compartment, I had V13 on auto-dose—the Angel-only formula Dr. Nikas had come up with to counter my addiction to V12, with the bonus effect of helping my dyslexia.
I stuck the first syringe in the port and refilled the V13 reservoir, then added the stay-awake mod to the second compartment. The combat mod went into the third. I sure could have used this kind of enhancement with the diver this morning.
Maybe I wouldn’t have had to kill her.
Sighing, I pushed down the guilt and grabbed my phone to call Bear Galatas.
Bear was Nick’s dad and, after one hell of a rough sta
rt, an unlikely ally to the Tribe. A savvy businessman, he’d built Bear’s Gun Shop and Indoor Range from the ground up into a hugely successful venture. He was also widely considered to be an expert on survival and disaster preparedness, and ran a well-organized group of like-minded survivalists.
Unfortunately, Bear’s determination to survive any apocalypse had long ago caused a deep rift between him and Nick. Bear had been forcefully insistent that, for the benefit of the survivalists, Nick would go to medical school and become a surgeon—which Nick hadn’t wanted at all. After I finally managed to make Bear see the error of his ways, their relationship improved. Slightly. But that was before my rotting-away “setback” and recovery. I had no idea if they were getting along any better, but at least Nick hadn’t flinched at the mention of Bear’s name.
No, he only flinched around me now.
I flopped onto the bed and gazed morosely at the ceiling. How could Nick—or anyone—get over watching me rot away? Maybe it would be better for everyone if I pulled back and gave him some space. Spare us both a whole lot of grief.
The idea sent a horrible pang through me. It would probably hurt less in the long run, though. Rip the bandage off.
I shook myself out of the black funk and called Bear’s store.
A deep male voice answered. “Bear’s Den.”
“Is this Bear?”
“Nope, he’s . . . with a customer. This is Clark.”
“Hey, Clark, this is Angel. I really need to talk to Bear. It’s important. Won’t take long.”
“I’ll buzz him. Hang on a sec.”
Hold music came on the line. Eighties pop. For a gun store in the middle of redneck country? Seriously, Bear?
White Trash Zombie Unchained Page 10