White Trash Zombie Apocalypse (White Trash Zombie #3)

White Trash Zombie Apocalypse (White Trash Zombie #3) Page 2

A white van marked “Midnight Productions” pulled up to the curb, and a too-perky red-haired guy wearing an electric blue track suit climbed out of the passenger side carrying a clipboard and plastic grocery bag. He tooted a whistle then proceeded to call names and pass out white-wrappered snack bars to the extras who came out of the woodwork. Roll call and check marks on the clipboard. I figured some fine print contract clause said the movie people had to provide mid-morning protein or granola or some crap like that.

Hell, maybe I can go hungry a few days and get cast as an extra, I thought with amusement. It was beside the point that if I was falling apart enough to look like a zombie, I’d be so hungry I’d crack open the head of the first person who walked by in order to get my fill of braaaaiiiiins. Now that would be a realistic movie.

Only a few months ago I’d learned that it was a parasite that made a real zombie a zombie, and that parasite depended on brains to survive. Along with survival, it used brains to keep its host, like me, alive and in top physical condition in order to be a strong, ideal home. Without enough of the food it needed—human brains and the prions within them—the primary need took over, breaking down and using host tissue in a way that closely resembled corpse rot. A hungry zombie looked and behaved a helluva lot like the stereotype and would do anything to get brains.

Hungry Zombie: instant movie extra with a Really Bad Attitude.

“I missed breakfast and now I’ve lost my appetite for lunch.”

I looked over at the speaker to see Detective Ben Roth sweep a gaze over the faux-zombie action, a grimace of distaste twisting his features. He’d shaved off his scraggly mustache a couple of weeks ago, and I still wasn’t used to it, though I definitely thought it had been the right decision. Ben was a homicide detective with the St. Edwards Parish Sheriff’s office, and even though Mr. Brent Stewart’s death was most likely the accident it appeared to be, procedure stated that a detective still had to investigate.

I liked working with Ben on scenes—he was friendly, easy-going, and took his job seriously without being uptight. Working with his partner, Mike Abadie, wasn’t nearly as enjoyable. Abadie and I had pretty much agreed to disagree on, well, just about everything.

“What, rotting flesh doesn’t get your appetite going?” I teased.

Ben gave a mock shudder. “I can’t get into the zombie thing. Freaks me out.”

That surprised me. Tall and stocky, he didn’t look like someone who’d be easy to freak out. “But I’ve seen you on gory and disgusting crime scenes, and you never even bat an eyelash.”

“I never said it made sense,” he replied with a laugh. “It’s like those horrible lifelike dolls. I know they’re fake, but they still give me the heebie-jeebies.”

“Well, lifelike dolls are creepy as hell,” I agreed.

“My niece has one of those,” he said, shuddering again. “I’ll take a fake zombie over that plastic monstrosity.” Then he shook his head. “Hell, I’ll take a real zombie over that thing.”

I laughed, though I knew he had no idea why I found it so funny. He opened his mouth to speak then frowned as a breeze brought a scattering of rain drops.

“I think that was a warning shot from the coming weather,” he said. “Or maybe a sign I need to get started on my paperwork.” With a parting smile, he turned and headed back to his unmarked car.

The drizzle stopped as quickly as it had begun, but I knew Ben was right. The black clouds to the west rolled steadily closer. Heading back across the street, I pulled out my phone and started texting, Did you know a zombie movie was being filmed here? to my cop not-quite boyfriend and fellow zombie, Marcus.

At least that’s what I tried to do. I barely had “Did you know” thumbed in when I caught movement out of the corner of my eye—a helluva lot of very fast movement headed straight for me in the form of a dark silver pickup. The useless thought flashed through my head that nobody should be driving over five miles an hour beyond the barricade, and a glimpse of the driver’s pissed, distracted face told me he didn’t give a shit. I wasn’t tanked up enough with brains to have zombie super speed, and spent a precious split second coming to that conclusion.

This is really gonna hurt, I thought as my body finally shifted into get-the-hell-out-of-the-way mode far too late.

I reflexively braced for the impact of the truck, but something else slammed into me from the side, tackling me out of the path of the oncoming vehicle and to the pavement. My right shoulder popped with a sharp pain as I landed hard with about two hundred pounds of someone on top of me. Distantly, I heard a screech of tires and the crunch of metal as Mr. Scowly’s joyride abruptly ended.

For an instant, I assumed Derrel had been the one to save my butt from becoming a temporary speed bump, except that he was closer to three hundred pounds and would have squished little old me like a bug on a windshield.

I shifted to see who my savior was and froze. Blue eyes set in a rugged face framed with short blond hair. I’d never forget those eyes, that face. Ever.

It was Philip, the soldier I’d been forced to turn into a zombie six months ago when creepy Dr. Kristi Charish held me captive in her secret lab. Part of her super-zombie-soldier “Zoldiers” project. The last time I’d seen him was when I attempted to escape through duct work, the day after I turned him. He’d hauled me out and thrown me about a dozen feet. He’d been strong even for a zombie. And he had looked like a movie zombie then, one eye clouded over, his ear hanging off, and lips cracked away from his teeth, coupled with the unmistakable rotting zombie stench. That had been really Bad News since he’d eaten plenty of brains the day before and shouldn’t have rotted that quickly. I’d spent the last half year wondering what the hell had gone wrong with him. More of Dr. Charish’s messed up experiments, no doubt.

I took in the sight of him in a flash. He looked a lot better now, almost normal except for a faint grey cast to his skin.

“Philip,” I managed to gasp out, right before he scrambled up and off me. I clutched at him, but my fingers closed on air as he turned and sprinted away. Before I could do more than sit up, he ducked between two trailers and was gone.

What. The. Hell.

Chapter 2

“Angel!”

That was Derrel. I struggled to my feet, biting back the hiss of pain as I moved my shoulder. Something was seriously messed up with it, but the pain faded, replaced by a dull stab of hunger—and not for regular food. Yep, definitely broken or torn up somehow.

Derrel’s face was a mask of shock and concern as he helped steady me, thankfully on my good side. “Jesus Christ, are you okay?”

“Yeah,” I said, with a wince. I hated to do the cliché thing and ask what the hell happened, but…“What the hell happened?” My gaze swept the area, taking in the activity around the out-of-control-pickup-meets-parked-car mess down the street, but I was more interested in seeing if I could catch a glimpse of Philip anywhere. No sign of him, but I did see a tall blond woman on the other side of the street pointing a nice-looking camera at me and obviously taking pictures. I guess it had been a pretty spectacular moment.

I looked back to Derrel. “Did you see who knocked me out of the way?”

“I only saw the back of his head,” Derrel said with a frown. “Dunno why he took off like that. Dude saved your life.” His brows drew together in a dark glower. “I’d have been seriously pissed if that stupid driver had creamed you.”

“Aw, I almost think you like me,” I teased, managing a shaky smile.

Derrel snorted. “Paperwork. Oh my god, the paperwork,” he replied, but his eyes shone with relief that I was all right.

I looked around for my phone, saw it about a dozen feet away, apparently still in one piece. And still working, I found to my relief. The screen had a bit of fuzz to it, but a hard shake took care of that.

“You sure you’re okay?” Derrel asked, hovering over me like a mother hen. A very large and intimidating mother hen.

I nodded and did my best not to do anything that would require me to move my right arm. That shoulder was trashed. “I’m good. Promise.” I gave him a quick tight smile. “Lemme get something out of the van real quick.”

I managed to extricate myself from his hovering long enough to get back to the van and snag my cooler out of the front seat. Hunger gnawed at me. I needed brains and I needed them now. The parasite dulled the pain, but that meant resources were being depleted for healing. Fortunately, as long as brains were available, my zombie parasite did a speedy job of making repairs to physical damage. Without them, the damage would remain, and rot and brain-seeking desperation would soon follow.

I pulled a water bottle containing a thick sludgy drink from the cooler. Though I always told people it was a protein drink, in reality it was a delicious-to-me smoothie of chocolate milk and pureed brains. I chugged it like a frat boy at a kegger, then sighed in relief as my shoulder pulled itself back together with a familiar sensation of shifting and tingling. My senses remained muted and dull—another way the parasite conserved resources when I was low on brains—which told me I could have used another bottle. Fortunately, the one I had was enough to get me by until I could obtain more. I wasn’t starving and nowhere near losing it to the point of cracking open heads.

Of course, I then had to deal with the crazy driver aftermath. First I had to give a statement to the cop who’d been manning the barricade—who’d also narrowly avoided being run over. Then I had to reassure both Ben and Derrel that I was fine and no, I did not need to go to the hospital to get checked out. After that, a bit of shameless gawking on my part as I watched the belligerent driver get handcuffed and stuffed into the back of a police car.

Finally, with all the bullshit out of the way, and Ben and Derrel reassured for the billionth time that I didn’t need to go to the ER, I escaped to my van and headed toward the morgue.

First thing I did once I got on the road was call Marcus since, as my not-quite-boyfriend, I knew he’d want to know what had happened. “Hey,” I said as soon as he answered. “Did you know there’s a zombie movie being filmed in town?”