Chapter 29
My good mood faded during the drive home, growing nearly as dark as the sky. It didn’t help when I passed a mosquito truck spraying its payload of malathion. Then another. And when I turned onto my road, a mosquito control plane zoomed low overhead, dousing everything below in a fine mist of chemicals.
Fatigue gripped me as I pulled into my driveway, and I sent up a silent thanks for Dr. Nikas’s stay-awake mod. At some point after midnight, I intended to break into the impound lot to search Reno Larson’s Camry, and it wouldn’t do to fall asleep in the process.
I still didn’t trust Kristi. Sure, she’d shown an unexpected human side in the limo, but so what? Didn’t excuse all the shit she’d done.
Except . . . except some of her arguments made sense, like the part about her trying to find more medical uses for the parasite. And her zombie-soldiers project had indeed gone bust, even before I escaped and she was forced to blow up the abandoned factory.
Kristi claimed she was working independently from Saberton. Maybe Andrew had information as to how true that was.
Either way, I still had threads to pull, and one big shiny one was currently sitting in the St. Edwards Sheriff’s office impound lot. Wherever the hell that was.
Bear’s pickup was parked in front of my house, and it took me several seconds to realize Kang must have driven here after dropping off the humans at the lab. Made sense, now that I thought about it. Where else would he go? Oooh, maybe he’d be up to helping me with my little mission? A second set of zombie hands sure would come in handy.
Kang was on the couch when I stepped in. He bolted upright, hand closing on a baseball bat beside him.
“Oh, it’s you,” he said, relaxing his grip.
“It is my house, y’know.” I dropped my bag on the coffee table. “You must have been deep in dreamland not to hear my car, or me clomping up the steps.”
He smiled wearily. More than weary, I realized. His eyes were dark pits in his face. “I figured I’d be more use after a little rest,” he said. “I was wiped.”
“You look like you still are,” I said. “Get some serious sleep. I’ll change the sheets on my dad’s bed.”
“That’s not necessary.”
I pinned him with a glare. “You might be ancient, but you just re-grew. One little nap isn’t enough. Push too hard too fast, and you’ll regret it. And if you mean changing the sheets isn’t necessary, you don’t know my dad.”
He lifted his hands in surrender. “I suppose I can use more sleep.”
It took me no time at all to remake the bed with fresh sheets, though probably not to Gina’s standards. With a grateful nod, Kang unabashedly stripped to his skin and crawled into bed.
I flicked off the light and closed the door to just a crack. Time to connect with Andrew. Pawing through my dresser drawers yielded a bright blue T-shirt with a giant extended middle finger emblazoned across the front—a holdover from my loser-and-kind-of-a-jerk phase.
After turning it inside out to hide the rude gesture, I hung it in the bathroom window. That’s what Andrew had told me to do if I needed to talk to him. Well, he’d said hang something blue, not specifically an inside-out obscene t-shirt. Not that it mattered. How would anyone be able to see it, considering it was full dark? And besides, the bathroom window faced a patch of woods and—
My phone rang. No way.
“Congratulations!” a robotic voice announced. “You’ve won an all-expense paid cruise to Argentina!”
Crap. The response to my signal had been a jillion times faster than I expected. And what the hell? Did he have a camera trained on my house? I hurried to call my dad.
“Hey, time to be Momzombique,” I told him. “I need you to ask Andrew something. Do you have a way to write it down?”
“No, I ain’t got no way to write it down,” he grumbled. “Hang on.” I heard a muffled, “Any of y’all got a pen and paper? Angel needs me to deliver a message!” More rustling then, “Okay, shoot.”
“Ask Andrew if Kristi really is working projects on her own, apart from Saberton, and if Saberton really is as focused on defense contracts and weaponization of the parasite as she says they are, and if she really is as fed up with it as she claims. She says she wasn’t involved in our swamp encounter with Saberton or Connor’s murder, but I’m not sure whether to believe her. Tell him to do a check on a guy named Harlon Murtaugh.”
“Dang, girl, slow down! I got ‘If Kristi is working’ . . .”
I repeated my questions much more slowly until he had it all. “Write down his response, too, please? Then call me back.”
“Got it.”
I hung up then trudged to the living room and booted up the computer. Dreading what I might discover, I went online and searched the local news. I was the source of the shambler epidemic, so it didn’t feel right to hide from the consequences.
Sure enough, the top story was about a band who was in the middle of their set at a local bar when they started turning shambler, one right after the other. Shaky video taken by a bar patron accompanied the story. I watched, nauseated, as bar-goers screamed and tried to flee, tripping over chairs and each other to evade the shambling bass player and lead singer.
I stopped the video and leaned close to the screen, peering at an out-of-focus blob behind the bass player. Making the video full-screen simply made it a larger out-of-focus blob, but going back a few seconds and slowing the playback to a crawl earned me a clear shot of a water bottle at the base of the singer’s mic stand, along with another on its side by the snare drum. Nice Springs Water.
Fingers trembling, I copied the link and texted it to Dr. Nikas.
A moment later:
My spirits plummeted through the floor and into the dirt below. So much for a breakthrough.
My phone rang, forcing me to stop moping.
“Hey, baby,” my dad said. “Me and Andy had a nice little chat. He said Kristi has a good many projects of her own and, um, aw-ton-uh-me.”
“Autonomy. Means she doesn’t have to answer to anyone.”
“He’ll see if he can get hold of payroll records and check if Harlon Murtaugh or anyone else is getting paid for projects they ain’t supposed to be working on. But it may take a while.”
“Anything is better than nothing.”
“Andy said he can’t vouch for what she might or might not be fed up with, but Saberton’s starting to come ’round to the point of letting go of the defense contract crap.”
Hmm. It didn’t support her claim that they were still focused on the defense stuff, but it didn’t contradict it, either. Not the definitive answer I was looking for, though still useful info. “Thanks a million, Dad.”
After an exchange of “love you”s, I hung up, feeling not quite as morose. Sure, the water bottle thing had been a bust, but we weren’t out of leads. Dr. Nikas—with the help of Kristi—would figure shit out, then the shamblers would be cured, and I would never have to exchange a civil word with Dr. Kristi Charish ever again.
But the subject of helping Dr. Nikas reminded me of my idea to find someone to help him who had the necessary medical credentials, experience, and knowledge, who was also willing to be turned into a zombie. How hard could it be?
Very, I soon realized, after a Google search for “dying neurobiologists” yielded a handful of articles about already dead neurobiologists. Fine. I’d let the Tribe accountant deal with that particular job opening. “Wanted: Neurobiologist. Ideal candidate is near death. Perks—not dying. Salary—negotiable. Sociopaths need not apply.”
I was still too restless to go to bed for the needed two hours of sleep, so I texted
Justine.
Her reply was swift.
Relieved, I pulled up the video chat program.
“You look like shit,” she said once it connected.
“So do you,” I said, eyes narrowed. “What happened?”
She shook her head, dark hair swinging about her face. “Nope. You first. I saw the news tonight about the LZ-1 encephalitis. Are you okay?”
“Yeah, I’m fine.” Physically at least. How could I tell her that I was the source? “It’s just been kind of crazy and exhausting. I’m assisting the people who are trying to find a cure, as well as working my usual morgue job. I sent my dad out of town.”
“What about you?” she demanded. “You’re actually handling the bodies, aren’t you? What if you get sick?”
“I won’t. We have plenty of protective gear.” I hesitated at the worry on her face. “And the lead researcher says that because I’m recovering from mono, my immune system is ramped up high, so I have a crazy low chance of getting infected.” It was a steaming pile of bullshit from one end to the other, but, hey, she was an English major, so with luck she wouldn’t know enough science or medicine to notice the giant gaping holes in my argument.
To my relief, her expression relaxed. “Okay, good,” she said gruffly. “Not sure I could find anyone else who’d get my sense of humor.”
“There is no one else.”
“Probably a good thing.”
“Damn straight. And now it’s your turn to spill. What’s wrong?”
Justine pulled a face. “My ex-girlfriend called, wanting to get back together. She’s gorgeous and funny, but also over-the-top jealous. The last straw was when I found a digital recorder behind a bookcase in my apartment. She’d planted it to find out if I was talking to other girls.” Justine snorted. “And the only women I talk to regularly are my mom, agent, and you.”
“That’s crazy.” I rolled my eyes. “I mean, you’re awesome and cute, but I just don’t swing that way.”
“It was pretty nuts.” She sighed. “Once upon a time, I was head over heels for her, but I can’t go back to that kind of insecurity and nonstop suspicion.”
“No kidding!” I said. “I guess I’m lucky I don’t have any psycho exes. One is a loser—well, was a loser. Can’t really call him that anymore since he’s starting to get his shit together.” Never thought Randy would ever settle down with a real job, but the aviation repair stuff sure seemed to suit him. “And with my other ex, we flat out didn’t work as a couple. But he’s a good guy, and I’ll always care about him.”
“Aww, that’s the sweetest.”
“Ain’t it though?” I said with a thick southern drawl, making her giggle.
“Has Nick asked you out yet?”
My smile vanished. “I . . . kinda broke it off with him.”
“What?! Why? What did he do?” She shifted forward, her face that of a woman ready to come right through the screen to my defense.
“No! Nothing. He’s the best. It’s me.”
She slowly sat back. “Do you not like him anymore?”
“No! I mean, yes I still like him. A lot. I’m just . . . it’s not healthy for him to be around me.”
“Uh huh.” She folded her arms over her chest. “Do you have leprosy?”
I scowled. “Suppose I did have leprosy. It would be best for him to stay away, right?”
“No, because leprosy is curable now, which I know all about because I had a bit part in a documentary a few years ago. See, it’s actually called Hansen’s disease—”
“You’re not helping!”
Justine smirked. “Oh, I think I am. Answer me this: does he still like you?”
I slumped. “Yes.”
“And would you give up if he told you he was ending things for your own good?”
“No. I’d fight for him. You’re right about everything.” I stuck my tongue out at her.
She did a victory fist pump. “Of course I am!”
I let her gloat a bit more, then we shifted the conversation to lighter stuff.
Eventually we said our usual “bye ’til later!” and signed off. I was tired enough to sleep now, but while I was at the computer, I looked up the address of the impound lot. Turned out the St. Edwards Parish Sherriff’s Office didn’t have the need or the space for an impound lot of their own, therefore they and every other police agency in the parish rented space from Big Bubba’s Towing.
The address told me I’d driven past the place about a zillion times on my way to and from the Tribe lab, though I couldn’t picture it for the life of me. Then again, tow yards weren’t usually all that scenic, and therefore unlikely to draw my attention.
I shut down the computer, set my alarm for midnight, and got my zombie ass to bed.
Chapter 30
My alarm went off at midnight. I immediately activated the stay-awake mod since I knew too damn well that if I waited, I’d fall right back to sleep.
Ten seconds later, a warm rush flowed through my body, washing away every trace of fatigue. I sprang out of bed, feeling as if I’d slept a solid nine hours.
I dressed quickly in black fatigue pants, long-sleeved black shirt, and sneakers, then I dug my balaclava out of my underwear drawer and stuffed it into a thigh pocket. It said something about my life that I even owned a balaclava. It wasn’t as if South Louisiana ever got cold enough to need one.
In the other thigh pocket went a brain packet along with a dozen more to keep in my car. A quick rummage through the kitchen junk drawer turned up a big flathead screwdriver, a box cutter, a pair of dollar store gardening gloves, and a multitool—all of which found homes in my various pockets. That should be everything I’d need for the search of Reno’s Camry.
After a quick breakfast of grits and brains, I checked on Kang—verifying he was still asleep and okay—then headed out.
It wasn’t until my GPS told me I’d arrived that I realized why I had zero clue what the place looked like. Big Bubba apparently wasn’t too keen on visitors. On the left, a tiny sign about the size of a piece of notebook paper, marked a gravel driveway, beyond which was a good-sized chunk of property surrounded by a six-foot chain-link fence. The gate was secured with a heavy chain and padlock, and within the perimeter fence, a lighted area glimmered beyond sparse trees. The impound lot, I hoped.
I made a quick check of the GPS map then continued past the Big Bubba’s entrance and turned left onto a rough gravel road that skirted the property. A quarter mile down, I took another left onto a narrow road that paralleled the back side. A deep ditch ran between road and fence, spanned by a second driveway that led to another locked gate. Best of all, about a hundred feet past the driveway was a stand of pines snugged up against the fence, thick enough to keep anyone from seeing my car.
Bubba’s property looked to be about five acres. The impound lot sat near the center, a fenced enclosure lit by a lone streetlight which left everything beyond its glow in shadowy darkness. Perfect for my needs. A dirt track meandered between the perimeter and impound fences, probably going all the way around to meet up with the front entrance drive. Dozens of junk cars filled both corners, and two rusted shipping containers huddled against the fence on the left.
I pulled off the road just past the first pine, killed the engine, then dug my trusty glass-punch tool out of the glove compartment. Yeah, I was a zombie, but I still had no desire to be trapped in my car if it ever ended up in one of the many waterways in the area. And for situations like these, a glass punch tool was quieter than a brick in case there was anyone within earshot. The punch tool went into the pocket that held the screwdrivers, then I pulled on the balaclava and climbed out of the car, locking it behind me.
With a running leap, I hurdled the ditch with ease, then crouched in knee-high grass outside the fence, watching and listening. Nothing in sight r
esembled a residence, but for all I knew, Big Bubba lived in the shipping containers. Not to mention, I’d watched enough TV to know that places like this always had a pack of vicious guard dogs—even though the only sign of life was a possum sniffing around the rusted shell of a minivan.
I scaled the six-foot fence and dropped to the other side then picked my way across the uneven ground toward the impound lot. Countless hunks of steel, old wheel rims, axles, and who knew what else lay covered in a treacherous tangle of grass and weeds. Watching my step, I crossed the dirt track and another twenty feet of tetanus booby traps to the impound lot fence—a formidable twelve feet of commercial grade chain link. At least there wasn’t any razor wire or spikes.
After reaching the top, I climbed down the other side instead of jumping—partly because of the height, but mostly because the inside of the fence was lined with cars.
I reached the ground between an LTD and a Kia then took stock. In addition to the cars around the perimeter, more were parked in a line down the middle of the lot. All told, there were twenty or so vehicles of a variety of makes and models, including an odd little three-wheeled car and, right smack in the middle, a shiny red Camaro with a dealer sticker still on the window. Two Camrys, but only one was silver, not to mention having four blown tires and a deflated airbag.
Pleased, I tugged on the gardening gloves. No point leaving fingerprints all over the car I planned to turn inside out.
I pressed the point of the punch tool against the bottom corner of the passenger window, and was rewarded with a shower of safety glass. Time to get serious. I wasn’t constrained by pesky shit like probable cause or the limits of a search warrant. There was no one to stop me from slicing carpet or removing door panels.
And I did. For nearly an hour I sliced and ripped and pried. Yet even though I uncovered every secret hidey hole a car interior could possibly have, I came up empty. The same with the wheel wells and undercarriage. Nothing.
Crossing mental fingers that the trunk would yield something useful, I hit the release latch. The trunk interior was clean and empty except for a plastic bin that held a fire extinguisher, road flares, and a first-aid kit. I gave Reno grudging props for his roadside emergency preparedness, but none of that told me why he’d been at the hospital admin building, and why Sorsha had been watching him. I changed the blade on my box cutter then slashed at the lining, dug through the spare tire well, and even sliced open the spare tire itself. Nada.
White Trash Zombie Unchained Page 28