White Trash Zombie Unchained, Page 2

  He finally released me. “Whatcha got in the box?”

  “No clue. I thought maybe you’d ordered something for me.”

  “I ain’t ordered nothin’,” he said. “Open it up and see what it is.”

  Armed with a box cutter, I made short work of what had to be half a roll of packing tape and soon opened the package to reveal a brand-spanking-new PlayBox game console.

  My dad gave a low whistle. “That sure looks nice. Who’s it from?”

  “Hang on.” I dug out the packing slip. It didn’t show a price but had a gift note.

  Angel, hope you’re feeling better and get a chance to play soon. Your friend, Arnold Stein.

  Huh? Who the hell was Arnold Stein, and why would he send—

  A chill raced down my spine. What if someone was trying to plant a bug in my house? Lord knew I’d made plenty of enemies during the past year—Kristi Charish along with everyone involved in zombie research at Saberton Corporation.

  Easy enough to find out, though. Tomorrow, I’d borrow the lab’s listening-device scanner doohickey and do a thorough sweep of the house. Couldn’t hurt to be smart and suspicious.

  My dad peered over my shoulder. “Who’s Arnold Stein?”

  “No clue.” I didn’t want to get my dad worried in case it turned out to be nothing. “It has to be a zombie, though, considering this Arnold Stein knew I wasn’t well, and no way would work send me anything.” I kept my tone light as I lied through my teeth. “But I don’t know everyone in the Tribe. He could be the Tribe guy who takes care of shit like condolence letters and Christmas bonuses, y’know?” The Tribe was a tightly knit organization of zombies and a handful of humans whose objective and purpose was to ensure the welfare and well-being of zombies—by any means necessary, at times.

  That seemed to satisfy him. While he peered at components, I reread the note. What if “Arnold Stein”—A.S.—was actually Andrew Saber?

  Philip wasn’t my only zombie baby. Last fall, Andrew had been shot during a raid on Saberton in New York. I’d turned him—with his permission—to save his life, but becoming a zombie wasn’t all sunshine and roses for him. First off, he was a Saber. His mother, Nicole Saber, was the CEO of Saberton Corporation, as well as the driving force behind their heinous abuse of zombies. If she ever found out Andrew was a zombie, he’d end up as a guinea pig in one of Saberton’s special research labs. Zombie Hell.

  Unfortunately, he’d come awfully close to exposure right before Mardi Gras, when Marla the cadaver dog indicated on him. I suspected one of Andrew’s bodyguards had then tattled to Nicole about the dog’s behavior.

  Fortunately, Andrew had anticipated that kind of disaster, and with the help of his primary bodyguard, Thea Braddock, he’d executed his planned exit strategy. Now, as far as anyone could tell, Andrew was “visiting possible factory locations overseas.” Whether there was any truth to that or not, at least he was out of his mother’s clutches.

  But why the hell would he give me a PlayBox? Sure, I’d saved his life but, to be honest, we really didn’t like each other. Andrew was the last person who’d send me a get-well card, much less an expensive gift.

  With that, my brilliant theory went kablooey. I’d have to do more digging to find the real sender.

  My dad poked at the console. “Well, don’t that beat all. I always wanted to try one of them things.”

  “I’ll let you kick my ass in, uh”—I held up the included game cartridge—“Swords and Swagger later.”

  “Yep, later. Cuz I got another surprise for you. A cake!” He grabbed my hand and hauled me to the dining room. Set out on the table were two plates and a sheet cake, still in its plastic container with the grocery store sticker on top.

  Dad bustled around the table to pull the lid off. “I thought about having the lady decorate one with zombies and the like but then figgered she’d wonder why we was doin’ zombies in the spring ’stead of Halloween, and I sure didn’t want to draw attention to you. So I went with what they had in the store.” His nose wrinkled at the cake, where a plastic T-rex and palm tree were surrounded by raggedy green icing roses that were probably supposed to represent prehistoric plants. “They didn’t have much selection.”

  “It’s awesome, Dad.” I hugged him again. “You even got them to write Welcome Home . . .” I held back a snicker. “Angle?”

  “What? Jesus Flippin’ Christ!” He flushed and spluttered. “I’m real sorry, baby. I shoulda checked. But how the hell d’ya mess up a name like Angel?”

  “At least they spelled the rest of it right.”

  “Blind damn luck, I’m sure,” he said and plopped down at the table. “Alrighty, Angle, how ’bout you go ahead and cut us some pieces.”

  Laughing, I obliged, then took a big bite. My phone buzzed in my pocket as I was trying to get through a weirdly crunchy icing-rose.

  I grabbed a napkin and spat the mess out. “It’s Allen. Probably about my shift tomorrow.” Allen Prejean was the Chief Investigator at the St. Edwards Parish Coroner’s Office, and my boss. Though he knew the truth about my medical leave, the official-but-fake reason was mono. Funny how “mononucleosis” looked better on paperwork than “dismembered and rotted.”

  “Hey, Allen!”

  “Hi, Angel. Don’t sound so happy to hear from me. It’s unnatural.”

  “It’s the new me,” I said cheerfully.

  “Well, cut it out,” he grumbled. “Look, I know you weren’t due to be back at work until tomorrow, but can you come in today? Jerry broke a tooth and has to go to the dentist, and we’re a bit overwhelmed.”

  “What time do you need me?”

  “I hate to say it, but as soon as you can be here. I’m heading out to pick up a body even now. Sorry about the short notice, but—”

  “No, it’s okay. Hang on a sec.” I covered the phone with my hand and looked over at my dad, but he was already nodding and giving me a “go on” hand waggle. “I can be there in about forty-five minutes.” It was a twenty-minute drive to Tucker Point, plus I needed to find my work uniforms—and hope like hell they hadn’t been moldering in a pile of dirty laundry for the past three weeks.

  “Perfect. I owe you one. See you in forty-five.”

  I disconnected. “Sorry about that, Dad.”

  “It’s no biggie, baby,” he said with a fond smile. “I know I ain’t the only one happy to see you up and about again.”

  “You’re the best.” I kissed the top of his head. “I don’t suppose you did laundry while I was gone?”

  “Nah,” he said to my dismay, but then his eyes twinkled. “Gina did, though.”

  I stopped. Blinked. “Who the fuck is Gina?” Oh god, not another trashy girlfriend. And yes, I was fully aware of the irony of me thinking that. But my dad’s girlfriends took trashy to a whole new level.

  He snickered at the look on my face. “You’ll like her. Don’t you worry. Your uniforms are all hangin’ in your closet.”

  Hanging? Hell, that was more than I ever did. Still, I leveled a cool glare at him. “Are you dating her?”

  He stuffed a forkful of cake into his mouth and grinned around it. Rolling my eyes, I continued on to my bedroom, only now realizing that the house was clean. Like, spotless. A peek into the bathroom showed that the tub was sparkling, and the yucky ring in the toilet had vanished. And my bed was made—with fresh sheets.

  I could get to like Gina.

  Chapter 2

  Dressed in my ironed fatigue pants and uniform shirt, and with the scent of Springtime Fresh fabric softener wafting around me, I stepped through the back door of the Coroner’s Office building thirty-eight minutes after Allen’s call.

  I drew a slow breath—formalin and bleach along with a hint of death no cleaning could ever erase—then let it out in a happy sigh. An aroma as welcoming to me as fresh baked cookies.

  A deep and resona
nt baritone hum I easily recognized drifted from the cutting room. I stopped in the doorway and smiled in delight. Derrel Cusimano, protective gear stark white against his dark skin, deftly sewed up the Y-incision on a mottled corpse. A former linebacker for LSU, he was the first death investigator I’d ever been partnered with. And, one of the nicest people in the world.

  “Yo,” I said.

  Derrel lifted his head, and a huge smile spread across his face. He made a final stitch, then shucked gloves, apron, and smock, and stuffed them into a medical waste can.

  “One sec,” he said with a wink. Once he’d scrubbed and dried his hands, he swept me off my feet and into The Hug to Rule All Hugs. “I missed you!”

  “My . . . doze,” I managed. Laughing, he released me. I made a show of making sure my nose hadn’t been permanently flattened. “Missed you too, big guy. Are you my partner today?”

  “No such luck. I’m done in five minutes. You’ll be with Nick.” He snorted. “Maybe now that you’re working again, he’ll stop being Old Nick.”

  “You mean . . .”

  “Nick the Prick. Touchy as all hell.” He cocked a sly smile my way. “Guess he missed you, too.”

  I kept my face composed despite the doubt that pulled at my stomach. Did Nick miss me? I sure as hell missed him. Or was he still freaked out that the girl he liked had turned out to be a brain-eating monster? One who’d rotted away before his very eyes.

  He’d texted me only once, not long after I woke up.

  Allen said you’ll be off work for a week. Derrel and I are covering half your shifts. You owe me. I have your masks. Hope you’re feeling better.

  Painfully neutral, but less ominous than silence. I’d read that text at least fifty times, trying to find some nugget of reassurance that what I felt for him might still be reciprocated.

  “Speak of the devil,” Derrel murmured as Nick entered the morgue. Derrel placed a hand on my shoulder and gave it an encouraging squeeze.

  Nick stopped dead. “Angel,” he said, voice weirdly hoarse. His Adam’s apple bobbed. “I thought you weren’t scheduled until tomorrow.”

  Under any other circumstances, I’d have teased him with, “What, aren’t you glad to see me?” But there was too much chance it might be true, and I couldn’t handle knowing that right now. “Jerry broke a tooth,” I said instead. “Allen asked me to cover.”

  A strained smile tugged at his mouth but didn’t quite win over the uncertainty in his eyes. “That’s . . . cool. I mean, not for Jerry. But, um, yeah. It’s good to have you here.” He lurched forward as if prodded and gave me a stiff hug. A shudder passed through him, and he pulled away.

  Revulsion? Or relief?

  “You’re okay now?” He gestured awkwardly toward me then seemed to think better of it and dropped his hand to his side.

  Holy crap, this sucked.

  “I need to go,” Derrel said. “Y’all play nice.” To my surprise Derrel smashed me into a second hug and murmured into my ear, “Whatever’s going on between you two, it’ll all work out.”

  I nodded against his chest, but a hard knot filled my throat. No way would he be so encouraging if he knew about the whole incognito zombie thing.

  He released me, grabbed his satchel, and headed out the back door, leaving me and Nick to stare at each other.

  Three painful seconds later, the door reopened and Derrel poked his head in. “Allen’s back with a body. And Ben just pulled in.”

  “I’ll go help them,” Nick blurted and sprint-walked out.

  The instant the door closed, I let myself have a super-quick whisper-quiet third-grade-level flouncing why-me tantrum, complete with not-third-grade cursing. The tactic worked to improve my mood a teensy bit—enough that I was able to give Detective Ben Roth a genuine smile when he stepped in.

  It helped that he was my favorite detective. Over six feet tall and burly, he could be plenty intimidating when he needed to be. But he’d always been friendly and chill with me.

  “Hey, Angel.” He returned my smile. “Weird. You don’t look dead. Why’d you miss all that work if you weren’t dead? Slacker.”

  “Har har,” I said with a grin. If he only knew. “You know perfectly well I work harder than anyone else here. And damn, dude. You’re looking pretty good. Have you lost weight?” The spare tire around his waist had shrunk considerably.

  “Thirty pounds!” His smile widened. “I want to look good for the wedding.”

  I let out a squeal. “You’re engaged?!”

  Ben lifted his left hand to show a slim gold band on the third finger. “Sure am. Neil proposed to me this past weekend.” He wisely didn’t resist as I seized his hand and did a proper scrutiny and oooh pretty! over the inset of four dark red gems. “Total surprise,” he continued. “He told me we were going to a movie, but instead he took me to Romero’s Steak House. I was clueless, even though the place was about as romantic as you can get. He had a table reserved by the water with candlelight and everything. Didn’t click until he did the one knee thing.” He chuckled. “My detective skills must’ve taken a vacation.”

  “I’m so happy for you,” I gushed, relinquishing his hand. “Y’all are going to be the most gorgeous couple ever.”

  “Well, you can see for yourself June twentieth,” he said. “Invitations should be going out next week.”

  The back door opened before I could start happy-weeping. Allen held it while Nick pushed in a gurney bearing a black body bag.

  “Take him straight to the cutting room,” Allen told Nick. “I’ll get him logged in.”

  I snatched gloves and followed Nick. Together we hefted the body bag from the gurney onto the metal autopsy table.

  “Douglas Horton,” Ben said, flipping open his notebook. “A hunter whose boat overturned sometime early yesterday. Search and rescue found the body this morning and are still looking for his buddy.” His expression soured. “Lifejackets were in the boat. Fat lot of good they did there.”

  “You don’t think it was a murder?” I asked. “Maybe his buddy whacked him and took off.”

  Ben’s eyes crinkled. “I’m not ruling anything out yet. That said, the boat definitely hit a log and overturned. Plus, if his buddy did decide to murder him, he picked a lousy spot to do it. He wouldn’t get far in the swamp without a boat of his own.”

  “Maybe he had an accomplice,” I offered. “Someone who put the log in the way and waited nearby in a second boat, and the murderer whacked Douglas and then jumped out of the boat before it hit the log . . . Okay, yeah, it’s a stretch.”

  “Yes, it is,” Ben said. “But I like the way you think.”

  Allen stepped in, clipboard in hand. “Dr. Leblanc wants us to get our boy here opened up to save time. Nick, why don’t you take care of the pics.”

  “Gotcha.” Nick unzipped the bag then retreated as an eye-watering stench of shit and rot flowed out. Within the bag lay the corpse of a pasty white middle-aged man with skinny legs and an impressive beer gut. Part of a beer gut, at least. A sizable chunk was gone from the left side, exposing mangled bowels—the source of most of the stink. Ugly punctures covered his thighs, and the meat had been stripped from his right arm, shoulder to elbow, the bone marred by deep scrapes. “Jesus,” he muttered and moved off to retrieve the camera.

  Ben’s phone buzzed. He glanced at the screen and grimaced. “Hate to leave the shit-fest here, but an FBI agent I’ve been working with wants to meet up. Allen, if you could forward the report to me when it’s done, I’d appreciate it.”

  “Will do,” Allen replied.

  I stomped down the urge to ask if his meeting was with Special Agent Sorsha Aberdeen and if it had anything to do with the roadblock this morning. Now wasn’t the time or place.

  Ben departed, and I returned to my perusal of the corpse. “Propeller didn’t do that damage,” I said with a frown. “Those are bite mar
ks.”

  Allen leaned close. “Yep. Alligator. At least two of ’em.” He pointed to a distinct bite. “See, this one has a snaggle-tooth in the front. The one beside it doesn’t. My guess is Mr. Horton drowned after the boat flipped and was then feasted upon.”

  “How d’ya know a gator didn’t drown him?” I asked with a frown. “Isn’t that how they kill their prey?”

  He twitched a shoulder up in a shrug. “Gators aren’t usually aggressive enough to go after a full-grown man.”

  “Maybe the gator had a buddy who told him he was big and bad enough to take down a pot-bellied hunter too cocky to wear a life jacket.”

  Allen rolled his eyes. “Fine. There’s a dastardly duo of man-eating gators lurking in the swamps of St. Edwards Parish.” He waggled his fingers at me. “Go get your gear on. Some of us have shit to do.”

  I stuck my tongue out at him but headed to the prep room with a spring in my step, humming under my breath as I grabbed a gown and apron from the supply cabinet. I felt like I was back home. Made sense considering it was my home in a lot of ways. I’d held this job for over a year and a half, ever since Marcus Ivanov saved me from dying by turning me into a zombie. He’d arranged for this job and informed me—anonymously—that I had to take it, or I’d go to prison. Where I would die. Dramatic, but it worked. I’d hauled my head out of my ass, got my shit together enough to keep the job, and along the way discovered I was a zombie and liked—needed—to eat brains.

  But the job turned out to be more than a buffet. This was where I’d learned how to be a grownup. Responsible even. I made friends. Real friends who didn’t hang out with me only to score pills or pot.

  A shout of alarm from the cutting room jerked me out of my reverie. Nick.

  I dashed in then stumbled to a stop as my brain struggled to process the scene. The body of Douglas Horton was on the floor. He fell off the table, I thought then stared in horror as Douglas staggered to his feet, right arm dangling uselessly, and small intestines trailing. But . . . he’s dead!

  Douglas lurched toward Nick.