White Trash Zombie Apocalypse wtz-3

by Diana Rowland

  I took the card, nodded. Sometimes those strings-attached could be lifelines as well.

  Marcus barreled out of the house and rushed to me, crutches and all, as I climbed out of the SUV. “Angel!” He gave a quick nod of thanks to Brian but stopped before pulling me into a hug. Instead he simply took hold of my shoulders. “I’ve been so worried about you. Sarge was supposed to go by for you last night but got called to deal with looters.” Uncertainty warred with relief in his eyes. I abruptly remembered that our last conversation had been oh-so less than pleasant, and because I’d hung up on him, he didn’t know where we stood. All that seemed like a million years ago.

  I slipped my arms around him and pulled him close. I felt a shudder of relief pass through him as he dropped the crutches and returned the embrace. “It’s okay, hero,” I murmured. “It’s been a weird couple of days, for sure.” I drew back to look into his face. “My dad is here, right? Is he okay?”

  “He’s watching TV in the guest room,” Marcus told me. “He’s fine. How about you?” His brow creased. “What happened to you today?”

  Brian cleared his throat softly. “Angel, I’ll be going now.”

  I glanced over, smiled. “Thanks, Brian.”

  He gave us a nod as I closed the passenger door, his professional mask in place while he backed out. Was the official air for Marcus’s benefit? Brian had certainly been more relaxed with me alone. Or maybe it was simply habit. Who could tell with him?

  After retrieving the crutches, Marcus and I headed inside where he immediately tossed the crutches into the corner and stumped along on his half cast.

  “It must suck having to wear a cast,” I said.

  Marcus nodded. “Yeah. Everything went fine until the car shifted and caught my leg,” he said as we settled onto the couch. “Fortunately Uncle Pietro has a doctor lined up for us to take care of hospital red tape. Can’t get out of having an injury, but it keeps too many questions from being asked.”

  Now that was pretty damn useful. There was a lot I still didn’t know about the workings of the zombie subculture, but Pietro sure seemed to have his fingers in a lot of it. Then again, if he’d been around for centuries or so, it made sense that he’d have made plans for stuff like that.

  “Well, I’m glad you’re in one piece and saved that family,” I told him with a kiss.

  He returned it enthusiastically as we settled on the couch, but before we could get too distracted I paused the general naughtiness and proceeded to give him a rundown of the events of the past few days. The firefighter on Highway 1790, Philip undercover, Saberton and their shenanigans, the movie extras as test subjects, Philip freaking out and the resulting mayhem on the movie set, Dr. Charish and her fuckups. I didn’t hold anything back, though I was well aware how outlandish some of it seemed. I figured that if Pietro didn’t want Marcus to know all of it, that was his own damn problem, and he should have warned me.

  “Shiiiiiiit,” Marcus breathed when I finished. “Uncle Pietro had all of that going on?” To my relief he seemed to accept the whole thing without question, even the parts that sounded batshit crazy.

  “Yeah, it was a mess.” I rubbed at my eyes. The fatigue was starting to catch up with me. “I need to check on my dad.”

  Marcus nodded. “He’s in the guest bedroom at the end of the hall.”

  I left Marcus on the couch and headed that way. The door was open, and my dad sat in a comfy-looking recliner watching TV.

  “Hey, Dad, you doing okay?” I asked. I searched for any hint of anger or his usual orneriness, but apparently having a plush recliner and a flat screen went a long way toward pacifying him.

  He looked over, gave me a slight smile. “Hey, Angelkins. I’m doin’ fine.”

  “So, um, everything’s cool between you and Marcus?”

  His bony shoulders lifted in a shrug. “We had a few words.” He paused. “More than a few. But I’m sitting in his house, so that should tell you something.”

  “Yeah, I guess it does.” I didn’t even want to think of what words had been exchanged. “Look, I’m gonna ask Pietro Ivanov if he’ll cosign a loan for me.”

  He frowned. “Why the hell would someone like that help you out with a loan?” The frown shifted to a familiar scowl. “And, dammit, I don’t want to be sucking up to any Ivanovs.”

  I leaned against the doorframe, crossed my arms over my chest. “You think a bank will hand over enough to put our lives back together?” I asked.

  A grimace deepened the lines in his face. “No, you’re right. No chance with a bank.”

  “I’m hoping Pietro will help since he’s, uh, like me and Marcus.”

  “Shit!” His jaw actually dropped a little. “You mean he’s a—”

  “Yeah,” I said. “He’s the one who made Marcus…like him. A zombie.”

  My dad let out a low whistle. “Jesus Christ.” He narrowed his eyes at me. “How many of, er, you lot are there?”

  I had to stop and think about that. “I don’t really know, actually. I think there’s maybe a dozen or so in this area,” I hedged. I had a feeling there was a higher concentration around here because of Pietro’s operation and support. It surely couldn’t be as high everywhere. There simply wouldn’t be enough brains to feed everyone. Plus, if there were a whole lot of zombies spread out everywhere, it would be impossible to keep it hidden from the general public.

  “That’s too damn weird,” he muttered. “Y’all have meetings or anything?”

  I let out a bark of laughter at the thought. Zombies Anonymous? Hello, my name is Angel, and it’s been three weeks since I’ve shambled. “No,” I said, grinning. “At least none that I’ve been invited to.”

  He merely snorted. “Don’t let the bastards leave you out, Angel. You’re better than any of them.”

  A sudden jolt of worry went through me. “Uh, Dad, you know you can’t tell anyone about me being a zombie right? Or about Marcus or Pietro either.” Shit. I’d outed both of them without even thinking, and there wasn’t any good reason for doing it. I mean, I trusted my dad, but I needed to be more careful.

  He laughed. “Like anyone would believe me?” But then he saw my anxious expression and sobered. “Won’t tell a soul, Angel. Wouldn’t do anything that might come back to bite you in the ass. Promise you that.”

  “Thanks, Dad.” I moved to him, gave him a hug. He felt more solid than he had in a long time. He clung to me for a moment, then let me go. I quickly turned and left before either of us could get all weepy.

  Marcus was still on the couch. I sat, then regarded him, brow furrowed. “So, how is this gonna work with me and my dad staying here?” I asked. “I mean, don’t get me wrong, I’m really grateful, but…” I trailed off, not quite sure what else to say.

  “Your dad is settled in the guest room just fine,” Marcus told me. “I have plenty of space.” He pushed a strand of hair back from my face. “This isn’t us ‘moving in together.’ I know you aren’t ready for that. We aren’t ready for that.”

  Relief swept over me. I’d been dreading this conversation, totally uncertain how to lay out my misgivings without insulting him or screwing things up, and here he was being all understanding.

  “I don’t know how long it’ll be before I can find me and my dad another place to live,” I said.

  “It’s a three bedroom house.” He gave me a soft smile. “I promise I won’t pressure you.” Then he shook his head. “Or rather, I promise I’ll do my very best not to pressure you,” he amended. “I’m crazy about you, Angel. I can’t shut that down.”

  I kissed him, smiled. “I’m crazy about you too. And I think I know why you sometimes get too overprotective.”

  At his questioning look I proceeded to tell him about my theory of zombie-mama instinct with Philip. Marcus seemed a bit doubtful, and perhaps a teensy bit jealous when I spoke of Philip, but in the end he simply gave a serious nod.

  “As much as I’d love to let the parasite take full responsibility, I’m not sure I can,
” he said to my surprise. He gave me an uneasy smile. “It couldn’t have influenced my one-sided decision to turn you, since I wasn’t your zombie-daddy yet. And the heavy-handed shit of blackmailing you into taking the job at the morgue? Yeah, the instinct might have had a role, but it was probably more just me being a superior dick and giving you a great Teaching Moment.” Then he took a deep breath, met my eyes. “And even if all the stuff later was because of some kind of instinct…God, Angel, you’ve come so far in the past year. I know it’s stupid and wrong to treat you like you don’t know what the hell you’re doing. You deserve better than that, and I promise I’ll try my damndest to throttle it back, whether it’s instinct or simple dickishness on my part.”

  I believed him. “And I promise I’ll give you many chances to do so.” I smiled, gave his hand a squeeze. “I need to meet with your uncle to ask him about cosigning a loan for me,” I said, then extended a big horking olive branch by adding, “Would you call him for me?”

  Marcus kissed me, a lovely, lingering kiss. “No. You should call him,” he said, handing the entire olive tree back to me.

  And so I did. Pietro seemed unsurprised by my desire for a meeting, and I suspected that Brian had already given him a heads up. After a polite inquiry about how I was doing post zombie-mayhem, he told me he’d send a car for me at ten the next morning.

  With that taken care of, I snuggled up against Marcus. “I really like you a lot.”

  He slipped an arm around me. “Is there a ‘but’ coming?”

  “Nope. No buts,” I said. “I’m too exhausted to deal with buts.” I frowned. “That sounds weird.”

  “Yes, it does,” he said, laughing. “All you need to do right now is rest.”

  My eyes closed. Now that I’d stopped moving and knew my dad was all right, the fatigue swept in with crushing force. “Yeah,” I mumbled. “Rest would be cool.”

  I heard Marcus ask me something, but I was already well on my way to sleep, and apparently he didn’t need the answer badly enough to wake me up.

  * * *

  Sometime later, I woke in a bed that wasn’t my own and wasn’t Marcus’s either. A clock nearby told me it was 1:14 in the morning, and a few more seconds of semi-coherent thinking informed me that I was on a futon in Marcus’s office.

  I smiled into the darkness. He wasn’t pressuring me. I got up, headed down the hallway to Marcus’s room and crawled under the covers to snuggle with him.

  He woke, blinked at me. “Angel?” he asked in a voice thick with sleep. “You okay?”

  “More than okay,” I told him. “Now shut up and hold me.”

  And he did.

  Chapter 26

  I half expected some awkwardness in the morning, but Marcus was already cooking eggs when I woke up and shambled into the kitchen. He had on shorts, his cast, and nothing else, and he looked seriously hot.

  He gave me a smile. “I’m making zombelets. Want one?”

  “Uh, zombelets?” Then my brain kicked into gear. “Oh, zombie-omelet? Eggs and brains?”

  “That’s right!” he replied, chuckling. At my approving nod he pulled another plate out of the cabinet, then slid a portion of the contents of the pan onto it, and pushed the plate and a fork my way.

  “And don’t worry,” he said as he served himself. “I’ll wash the pan before your dad gets up.”

  Laughing, I dug into the “zombelet” with gusto. As I ate, Marcus pushed the newspaper toward me.

  “Y’all hit the front page,” he told me.

  I peered at the headline over my plate. Riot Halts Filming on Movie Set. Tucking into my brains and eggs, I skimmed the article. No known reason for the fight that broke out between several of the zombie extras. Numerous injuries reported, several arrests. Filming to resume today.

  I read to the end. No mention of a death, so apparently Saberton had taken care of the body of the guy Philip killed. I wondered if they would take care of any footage that was shot as well.

  “Sucks for the extras who were arrested,” I said with a slight grimace. “None of it was their fault.”

  Marcus gave a nod of agreement. “Uncle Pietro will probably take care of that. It’s in everyone’s best interest for this to die down as quickly as possible.”

  I finished my breakfast, then jumped into the shower to clean up for my meeting with Pietro. When I got out, Marcus produced jeans, underwear and a couple of shirts that I’d left at his place ages ago, which saved me from meeting Pietro while wearing the same donated clothing I’d worn the day before.

  I made sure there was non-brain food available for my dad and, at ten a.m., a black Mercedes pulled into the driveway. The driver wasn’t Brian, so I obediently sat in the back when he held that door open for me and, apart from a few polite pleasantries, rode in silence to Pietro’s house.

  To my surprise it wasn’t the same house Marcus and I had gone to months ago for the barbecue but instead a very nice lakefront house only about ten minutes from Tucker Point. Even though it wasn’t secluded in the sense of being far from other properties, it was surrounded on the non-lake sides by a couple of acres of woods, which added a strong feeling of privacy. Pietro was rolling in it, no doubt about that. No telling what he had for resources if he really was hundreds of years old.

  We pulled up in front of the house, and I managed to remember to wait for the driver to come around and open the door for me instead of barreling out on my own. I even followed politely as he went up to the house and rang the doorbell for me, though to my relief he stood back once he did so. Apparently I was allowed to speak and act for myself now that the hard part had been done.

  I listened to the frogs’ chorus from the lake as I tried to go over what I had to say to Pietro. Dread twisted my gut. I knew damn well Pietro held all the cards, but I needed to make sure I didn’t sell myself out completely.

  A tall brunette answered the door, slim and stylish, wearing dark maroon slacks and a conservative white silk blouse, with her hair in a soft updo. She gave me a warm smile. “Ms. Crawford, I’m Alicia Dane, Mr. Ivanov’s personal assistant. It’s so nice to meet you.”

  Personal assistant? Yeesh, definitely out of my depth here. I took a deep breath and plastered a smile on for Ms. Dane, reminding myself that I’d survived kidnapping, firefight, and zombie mayhem, so there was no need to be intimidated by the insistent reminders of Pietro’s wealth and power.

  Yeah, right.

  I managed to respond with a polite greeting and then allowed Ms. Dane to escort me to a room with a huge antique-looking desk, a couple of big wingback chairs, and one wall lined with shelves of old books. A huge window commanded a stunning view of the lake, and French doors led out onto a broad deck.

  Pietro sat in one of the wingbacks by the window and stood as I entered. “Angel, good morning.”

  “Hi,” I said. “Sorry to bother you.”

  “You’re not,” he assured me, then looked past me to Ms. Dane. “That will be all for now, thank you.”

  She nodded and withdrew, closing the door behind her. Pietro gestured to the other wingback chair.

  “Would you like something to drink?” he asked.

  “Oh, no thanks, I’m cool,” I said as I settled into the chair. I expected it to be uncomfortable, but it was far from it. “You probably know why I’m here, right?”

  He sat back down, picked up a cup of coffee from the table beside him and took a sip. “I suspect it concerns assistance in your current situation.”

  “Right.” I took a deep breath. “Well, I came here to ask if you’d be willing to cosign a loan for me.”

  To my shock he didn’t even pretend to consider it before he shook his head. “No, I won’t do a cosign.”

  Dismay tightened my chest. “You…won’t?” I fought to keep my voice even, even though it felt a bit as if I’d been kicked in the teeth. Guess all those worries about strings were pointless. What the hell was I supposed to do now? “Look, I know I don’t have anything resembling credit, but I
swear I’ll pay it back and won’t miss any payments. I could handle being homeless if it was only me, but I can’t put my dad through that—” I stopped as he held up his hand.

  “Angel, I don’t want to go through a bank,” Pietro told me calmly. “I’ll work out a loan for you myself. Cleaner to draft it directly to you.”

  I blinked, sat back. “You will?” The dismay receded, replaced by wariness.

  He took another placid sip of coffee. “Of course I will,” he said. “How much do you earn a month?”

  I had a feeling he knew exactly how much I earned, but I told him anyway. After that came some questions about my expenses and my dad’s disability income—and again, I couldn’t shake the sense he knew it already but was being polite enough to actually let me volunteer the information.

  Unfortunately, by the time we hashed out how much I needed to borrow and what I could afford to pay, even with more than reasonable financing terms, it came down to a loan that would take me over fifteen years to repay, and that was only if I got a shitty trailer, a very used car, and shopped at Goodwill for the next decade and a half. No eating out. Definitely no college classes.

  “You need additional income,” Pietro stated, echoing the thoughts that churned in my own head.

  I couldn’t hold back the sigh. With my education and skill-set, about all I could hope for would be to pick up some shifts at convenience stores.

  “There aren’t many part time jobs that will be worth the effort for the compensation,” he pointed out, then surprised me by adding, “I’d much rather you work for me on occasion, or for Dr. Nikas. I guarantee the pay would be much better.”

  Hello, Strings, I thought. I gave him as unwary a look as I could manage. “What kind of work?”

  “Dr. Nikas told me you found the lab interesting,” he said, “and also mentioned that he wouldn’t mind your help with some of his projects.”

  Okay, now that wouldn’t be a bad string at all. In fact, that would actually kinda rock.