My Life as a White Trash Zombie

by Diana Rowland

  “Hey, it’s your fault I had to go through most of my supply,” I continued, pissed. “That wreck fucked me up. I could have lost my job!”

  A snarl twisted his mouth. “And then you’d know what I’m going through.”

  “Yeah, well, fuck you.” I’d balled my free hand into a fist without realizing it. “You stole jewelry off dead bodies. That’s fucking sick, man.”

  A scowl curved his mouth. “I didn’t steal anything. I was set up.”

  “Oh, right,” I scoffed. “By who, the zombie mafia?” But even as I said it, a sliver of doubt managed to work its way in. Kang had been awfully hostile until he’d been sure I wasn’t going to hurt his business.

  Zeke’s eyes narrowed. “You could call it that. Some people couldn’t handle competition. Besides, we eat brains! That’s sick.”

  “That’s for survival!” I retorted. “That’s life or death.” Or undeath.

  He took a step forward and fear flashed through me. He’s going to try to take my keycard so that he can get into the morgue, steal my brains.

  “I’m not going to let myself rot away,” he growled. “I’ll—”

  “Hey! What the hell’s going on?”

  I never thought I’d be so relieved to hear Nick’s voice. Zeke pulled back from me, scowling. I didn’t dare turn around, but I could hear the morgue door swing shut and Nick’s footsteps as he walked up.

  “You okay, Angel?” he asked, coming up beside me. I flicked a glance his way. His stance was totally aggressive, in a bantam rooster kinda way. His eyes were fixed on Zeke in what was probably meant to be a menacing glare.

  “Yeah,” I said, voice a tiny bit shaky. I thought about saying something else, like Oh, he’s just leaving, or He’s an old friend and was stopping by, but I didn’t. I felt no desire to give Zeke any excuse or out.

  Apparently, neither did Zeke. With a final glare, he turned and then headed off in a jerky run.

  As soon as he was out of sight I let out an unsteady breath, then almost jumped in surprise when Nick laid a hand on my arm.

  “You really okay?” he asked, and I was shocked once again to see real concern in his eyes. At my nod he dropped his hand. “That guy’s a complete weirdo. Always asking how many bodies we have in the cooler. Kooky stuff like that.”

  That was as good an excuse as any. “Yeah, that was weird.” I gave him a tentative smile. “Thanks. Dunno what would have happened if you hadn’t come out right then, but . . . thanks.”

  The smile he gave me was the most genuine one I’d ever seen from him, and he actually puffed up a bit with pride. It probably wasn’t often that he could be the knight in shining armor. “Yeah, well, no prob. I got your back.”

  Neither of us seemed to know what to do next and an awkward silence descended. “I, uh, should probably get back inside in case Riverwood calls,” I said with a jerk of my head.

  “Oh, yeah, sure,” he replied, seemingly as grateful as I was that the moment was over. “Don’t forget to clean the van out before you give me the keys. There were donut crumbs all over the seat last time.”

  I masked a grin and headed to the van, strangely relieved that this Nice Nick wasn’t going to be the new norm.

  Chapter 17

  My decent mood lasted until I pulled up to the house and saw my dad sitting on the porch. He had a beer in his hand, and a pile of empties scattered beside his chair. I silently counted the cans, then closed my eyes and breathed a curse. Well over a dozen.

  I was slow getting out of my car, as if I could infinitely delay having to deal with him.

  “You stink,” he muttered as I tried to walk past him.

  I gritted my teeth. I knew he was only saying it to be an asshole. I’d eaten this morning.

  “I know you been paid by now, Angel,” he said in a growl. “You need to give me some goddamn money.” He paused to spit onto the porch, then curled his lip at me. “You’re only gonna blow it on pills. It’s what you always do.”

  “I bought groceries and paid the bills, remember?” I said as I yanked open the front door and went into the house. I grimaced as I heard the scrape of his shoes as he rose.

  “Don’t you fuckin’ walk away from me when I’m talking to you!” he hollered after me.

  “I thought we were done,” I shot back over my shoulder. “I spent all the money. That’s why the damn cable works now and the lights are still on.”

  He grabbed my arm and yanked me around. “You’re holding out on me, you worthless little bitch!”

  “Get off me,” I yelled. “I’m clean, goddammit! You only want me to feel like shit so you can feel better about being a stupid fucking drunk!” I slapped at his hand. “You only want my money so you can buy more booze!” I tried to twist away, more than a little surprised when I actually broke his grip. For a skinny man he was still pretty damn strong.

  But all it did was piss him off more. I tried to duck away from the slap, but he got me hard across the side of the head and my ear.

  “You owe me!” he yelled as he landed several more solid blows to my face and shoulders. “You owe me everything! Worthless fuckin’ bitch!”

  I was no kind of fighter, and all I could think to do was hunch up and try to avoid the worst of it and scream at him to stop. “Dad! Stop it! You’re drunk!” I shrieked. “You’re hurting me! You’re being like mom!”

  For an instant I thought it would work, that it would make him stop. But in the next second a black rage suffused his face. “You . . . your mother’s better off dead.” His fist came down but I could barely feel it anymore. “She can’t see what a fuckup you are. I gave up everything for you, and for what? For you to be a goddamn loser!”

  “I’m not a loser,” I gasped. I could taste blood in my mouth. “I’m not on the drugs anymore. I swear!” I knew I couldn’t stay hunched down like this in the hope that he’d stop. I’d never seen him like this before. For the first time, I was afraid that he wouldn’t stop until I was a bloody pulp.

  I managed to get my legs under me and shoved him away hard, harder than I meant to, sending him sprawling back against the couch. There was murder in his eyes as he struggled back to his feet, but it gave me enough time to run to my room and slam the door and lock it. He pounded on it and yelled for a couple of minutes, then finally fell quiet while I hunched against the wall and shook.

  I should have driven away as soon as I saw how drunk he was, I thought miserably. Dad’s violence was predictable. I should have known better. Mom had been the one who’d dealt out slaps and hugs with chaotic unpredictability.

  I dropped my head to my knees and wrapped my arms around my legs. I hurt all over, but at the same time I could feel everything gradually going numb. Right now that was cool with me.

  I jerked at the knock on the door and froze, pulse thudding painfully even as I realized that my dad never knocked like that.

  “Angel?” I heard a deep and familiar voice say. “Can you come out please? This is the Sheriff’s Office.”

  I dropped my head back against the wall. Fuck. A neighbor must have heard us fighting and called the cops. My throat went tight. I was going to get arrested. I’d lose my job. I’m totally fucked.

  “Angel. Please. I need you to open the door or I’ll have to force it open to make sure you’re all right.”

  I struggled to my feet. “I’m okay,” I croaked. Yeah, I sure sounded okay. I fumbled at the lock and then pulled the door open. In front of me was a broad, uniformed chest. I didn’t want to look up, but I didn’t have to. Not with the nametag “M. Ivanov” at my eye level. I felt like I shrank a few inches. Yeah, let me remind him how much of a loser I am.

  He turned his head and called over his shoulder to a deputy I couldn’t see. “Gordon. Ten-fifteen.” I didn’t know what that meant, but I heard my dad make a low, whining protest. Ivanov looked back to me. “I’ll need to take pictures of your injuries,” he said, voice calm and even. “Do you want to go to the hospital?”

  “Hunh?” Then I s
hook my head. “I’m not hurt. It . . . it’s okay.” I just wanted this whole thing to be over with. A dull throb of hunger poked at me, but I pushed it aside. I couldn’t worry about that right now. I was only hungry because I was a little banged up.

  He gave a low snort. “Angel, you look like hell.”

  I glanced at my reflection in the mirror on my dresser, chest tightening at the sight of the split lip, puffiness around my left eye, and bruises already forming on my cheek and collarbone. It would probably hurt a lot more if I wasn’t a zombie. Great, my pain tolerance was high enough for me to take a beating. I swallowed. “You gonna arrest me?”

  “No. We’re arresting your dad though.”

  I jerked my head up to look into his face. “You don’t need to do that. He’s drunk. That’s all.” I didn’t want him to go to jail. I didn’t.

  So why did I feel a weird relief at the thought? God, I was a shit daughter.

  His expression tightened briefly and a wash of shame went through me. He’d probably heard this sort of thing a million times before. Wife or girlfriend gets the crap beat out of them, but they can’t stand to see their loved one go to jail. Yeah, I was being that victim. “I’m sorry,” I tried. “It’s just—”

  “Angel, I have to arrest him,” he said in low, firm voice. “And since this is a domestic violence case, he’ll most likely be held for at least twenty-four hours before he can post bail. I know this is hard, but I really need you to be strong for this. You don’t deserve to get smacked around.”

  “I know that.” I did, right?

  “I need to get a statement from you,” he continued. “Can you do that for me?”

  I made myself nod. Hunger nudged at me again, almost tentatively, and I tightened my hands into fists. If I’d eaten as soon as I’d locked myself in my room I wouldn’t have any bruises. There’d be no reason to arrest my dad.

  Or maybe I would have been the one arrested, I realized with a cold chill. Right now it was pretty obvious that I’d been the loser in this fight. I swallowed hard. Maybe it was a good thing that my fridge was empty. The one jar of brains I had was still out in my lunchbox in the car. “Yeah. I can do that.”

  Something that might have been relief lit his eyes briefly. “That’s good.” He paused. “Angel, you look like you’re getting your life under control. I’m really glad to see it.”

  I bit back a laugh. This was control? Yeah, I wasn’t doing drugs anymore, but that sure as hell wasn’t due to any personal strength of character or anything like that. And the only reason I still had the job was because my life depended on it.

  But I managed to give him a small nod. “Thanks.” Too bad I had that whole zombie thing going on as well.

  His gaze raked the living room, a look of distaste naked on his face. “You should think about moving out. You can do better than this.” He looked back to me. “You’re better than this. Don’t let your family hold you back.”

  I was so shocked by his statement I literally couldn’t form words for several seconds. “That’s bullshit,” I finally managed, anger flaring at his presumption. “You . . . you have no idea what it’s like. You think it’s that easy? You think that all I have to do is walk out and everything will be peachy fucking keen?” I knew I was treading on thin ice going off on a cop like this, but I was too upset and off-balance to censor myself.

  Chagrin swept over his face. “No, look, I know it won’t be easy, but—”

  “You think we’re just white trash scum, right? So, yeah, I’m already a loser, so why not be more of a loser and abandon my dad.”

  He frowned. “No, I’m saying that you need to think about yourself at some point.”

  “You think I don’t? Fucking shit, I’m trying, okay? Give me a fucking break! I can’t do it all at once! Yeah, the house and everything is shit, but do you think I like it this way? I—”

  He seized me by the shoulders and gave me a small shake, cutting me off. It hurt where his fingers were pressing onto one of the bruises, but the dismayed expression on his face kept me from trying to pull away. “I’m sorry,” he said, voice oddly rough. “I was out of line. I shouldn’t have said any of that about moving out, or your family. It was a shit thing to say. I’m sorry. I know you’re trying. I’m on your side and rooting for you, I swear.”

  Well, shit. How the fuck was I supposed to stay mad and upset after that? I sniffled, suddenly pissed for a different reason as I realized I’d been crying. I hurriedly swiped my hands across my eyes. “Okay. Yeah.”

  He sighed and for a weird instant I thought he was going to pull me into a hug. He didn’t, but I had the strangest wish that he would. “Now that we’ve established that I’m an insensitive dick,” he said, “are you still willing to give me a statement?”

  I forced out a wan smile. “Yes. But you’re not insensitive.”

  He gave me a grin. “Still a dick, though, right?”

  “You’re not insensitive,” I repeated.

  He chuckled, looking relieved. “You know me too well already. Come on out and sit down, and we’ll get all of this crap over with.”

  I allowed myself to be led out to the living room and obediently sat on the couch. I watched him walk out the door and to his car, I assumed to get paperwork and a camera. Yeah, right. I’m finally getting my life together. Too bad I had to die first.

  Chapter 18

  As soon as the cops left with my dad I retrieved my lunchbox from my car and scarfed down a jar of brain soup. It wasn’t until I was lowering the empty jar that I realized I was going to have a hard time explaining how my bruises disappeared overnight. Then again, Ivanov was the only one who’d seen them, right? I simply had to hope I didn’t run into him for a few days.

  The universe, of course, had different plans for me. The next morning I got a call to go pick up a body, and as soon as I pulled up to the trailer I saw Deputy Ivanov standing outside, talking to a crime scene tech.

  I scowled and dug for a pair of sunglasses in my purse. Usually people wore sunglasses to hide a black eye. I was wearing them to hide the absence of one.

  It didn’t help that I could tell that this scene was going to be a disgusting one. There were two crime scene techs—Sean, and a blonde woman whose name I could never remember. Both were wearing tyvek coveralls and masks, and everyone else on the scene was keeping their distance from the door of the trailer. Hopping out of the van, I yanked gloves on as I walked up to see what I was up against. Ivanov gave me a mild nod, then headed off toward his car. I didn’t know whether to be relieved or miffed.

  I gave Sean a grin. “Aren’t you sweating your ass off in that?”

  The red-haired man gave a tortured sigh. “I keep telling myself that sweating is better than stinking.”

  “It’s a bad one?”

  He shuddered. “Let’s just say, I don’t envy you your job one bit. All I have to do is take pictures!”

  “I’m pretty sure nobody wants my job,” I said. “I guess that’s job security, right?”

  I headed up the trailer stairs, pushing the sunglasses on top of my head. I peered in, and got a good look at the body sprawled on the floor beside an executive chair that looked totally out of place. The guy had probably been white, though with the amount of bloating it was tough to tell. He’d probably been a bit heavy before death, but now he was so swollen with decomposition I had to wonder if we’d be able to get him into the bag. He had on faded black jeans and a light blue T-shirt, though now it was heavily stained with purge fluid that had seeped from various orifices on his body. Maggots squirmed in his mouth and nose and eyes. Seriously nasty.

  And my sense of smell is at full-strength right now, I thought. How wonderful.

  Derrel was already inside and gave me a nod as he made notes on his pad. I didn’t want to interrupt his flow of concentration, so I busied myself with looking around and being nosy. Big black flies buzzed against the windows and tangled in the dingy lace curtains. A line of ants tracked up the side of the kitchen cou
nter, most likely headed to the stack of pizza boxes that hadn’t been thrown out. Other than the ants and the flies, the place really wasn’t crummy or scuzzy at all. He’d kept it pretty nice and neat overall. No piles of dirty laundry in the hallway or dishes in the sink. The carpet looked fairly new, the furniture all matched, and the entertainment system was even better than Randy’s.

  The computer on the desk was still on, screensaver running, and I gave the mouse a nudge to see if the guy had been in the middle of typing a suicide note or something.

  “Dude loved his games,” Derrel said without looking up.

  “Huh?”

  He gestured at the screen in a vague motion. “That’s Left For Dead 2. And if you look on the shelf he also has Halo, Grand Theft Auto, Call of Duty, and damn near every other popular game.”

  I let my gaze sweep the interior of the trailer. “Did he have any life other than this? Did he have a job? Didn’t anyone miss him?”

  “Oh, he had a job.” A grimace passed over Derrel’s face. “He has a record a mile long for dealing drugs. Pot, crack, heroin, you name it. This guy was a real prize. I guess I’m not surprised that he went so long without being found.” He gave a dry chuckle. “Though I bet his regular customers were jonesing. The neighbor in the next trailer over was the one to call the cops.”

  “Complaining about the smell?” I said.

  Derrel grinned. “Got it in one.”

  I crouched by the body. There was something odd, but I couldn’t quite put my finger on it. I took a deep breath, aware of the stench of the decomposition, but not bothered by it.

  Something’s missing.

  My mouth went dry as realization hit home. Okay, so it had been less than a day since I’d last had brains. I wasn’t hungry and probably wouldn’t start having cravings for another day and a half at least. Even so, one thing I’d discovered in the past couple of weeks was that I had a nose for brains. I could smell it in the people around me, and I could certainly smell it in dead bodies. It didn’t even matter if there was so much decomposition that it’d be inedible. Brains rotted fast—after a few days outside of a cooler there usually wasn’t much left but a nasty grey goo—but I should still be able to detect the scent.