White Trash Zombie Unchained, Page 7

  “I promise I’m not.” I made a show of crossing my heart.

  She nodded sharply in approval. “Did you get anything good and gruesome today?”

  “Kind of. A hunter drowned and got chewed up by alligators.” That much was true. No way could I tell her the rest.

  “Ew!”

  “At least he hadn’t been in the water long,” I said. “I remember one time we picked up a body that’d been in the bayou for over a week. His skin kept slipping off as we pulled him in.”

  Justine listened in morbid fascination as I related the disgusting details. I’d come to enjoy her friendship way more than expected. Maybe because I’d never really had a female best friend before? I mean, I was friends with Naomi, and I could totally hang out with her, but somehow it wasn’t on the same level. Justine was fun yet able to be serious and understanding. Plus, she gave every indication of enjoying my friendship just as much. I had a feeling part of it was because I didn’t suck up to her, even though she was kind of famous. She could be straight-up honest with me and vent about Hollywood and the jerks she had to deal with. And while Justine didn’t know I was a zombie, I could still share my triumphs and woes on a purely human level.

  “How did your audition go?” I asked once I finished describing bloated corpses.

  “Oh, they totally hated me, and I’ll never work as an actor again.” She cracked up at my stricken expression. “I’m kidding. That’s what I always say. It feels like a jinx to say I thought it went well.”

  “You are so weird.”

  “Ha! I’m not the one who works with dead bodies.” She cocked her head. “So, are you going to be a pathologist?”

  “Me?!” I scoffed. “No way. I can barely handle my two measly community college classes. And I’m probably going to drop English anyway.”

  “What? Why?”

  I shifted, grimaced. I’d shared a lot with Justine, but had skimmed over a few things. She knew I was an addict, but didn’t know my mom went to jail for child abuse. She knew I’d dropped out of high school, but didn’t know I had a learning disability. I’d kept stuff to myself because a stupid little seed of uncertainty refused to leave. Justine was cool and hot and smart. What if she decided I wasn’t worth the trouble?

  That’s stupid, I told myself and stomped that little seed to dust. “Okay, well, you see, I’m dyslexic, so it takes me forever to read the assignments, and I just . . .” I stopped and gulped as her eyes went wide. “What’s wrong?”

  “This is crazy,” she breathed. “I just registered for the fall semester at UCLA to finish my degree.” She leaned close to the camera. “In English education!”

  “Wait. You’re going to college? But you’re an actor. You starred in a movie!”

  “The acting is how I’m paying for college,” Justine said. “Don’t get me wrong, I absolutely adore acting, but I can’t count on it lasting forever as a career. You never know what life will throw at you, so I want to get my degree under my belt.” She drew a deep breath. “Look, the only experience I have with dyslexia is a special needs course I took two years ago, but I could probably help with everything else. Give you a little leg up at least. I mean, if you want. I don’t want to pressure you.” Her mouth quirked. “Too much.”

  “That would be great,” I said then winced. “But it’s not just the dyslexia stuff. I’m supposed to write a narrative essay about a birthday party I had when I was a kid. But I’ve never had a birthday party. My mom . . . well, let’s just say my childhood sucked. I dunno. I guess I could make something up.”

  Her dark brows pulled together in a frown. “Why would you make something up?”

  “I don’t think the prof really wants to read about the time my mom busted my lip and burned all my toys in the back yard because I was singing ‘Happy Birthday’ too loud.”

  Instead of looking shocked or pitying, Justine gave her head a firm shake. “Your prof wants you to write about what happened to you. If you make it up, he’ll know it’s bullshit, because there won’t be any real emotion in it. Besides, he knows damn well he’s going to get a bunch of essays about bad shit. The only birthdays anyone remembers are the ones where stuff went wrong.”

  I let out a sigh. “Yeah, it’s always easier to remember the bad shit.”

  “That’s how our brains are wired. Damn stupid design, but I guess it was good for survival at one point.” She lifted her chin. “Anyway, I’ve written a godawful number of essays in my life. I know all the tricks. I’ll help you.”

  “Thanks,” I said fervently. And even if she couldn’t help me, I still had a couple of weeks to drop the class.

  The conversation shifted to lighter subjects, like celebrity butts and boob jobs. Yet after we finally disconnected, my thoughts returned to her question about being a pathologist. Jeez, after chatting damn near every day for the past two and a half weeks, I’d’ve thought she knew me better than that.

  I closed the laptop and checked the time. I’d lost out on half an hour of sleep, but it had been totally worth it. After finding my toothbrush and de-gunking my teeth, I changed into a night shirt, set my alarm for 4 a.m., and snuggled between sheets that smelled of lavender.

  I startled awake at a hard rap on the door. “What?”

  “You’re needed in the conference room.” That was Brian Archer—longtime head of Tribe security, but now second to Pierce. “We’re planning this alligator expedition.”

  I fumbled for my phone. Wow. I’d managed to sleep for a whole twenty minutes. “Okay. Be there in five.”

  “Make it three,” Brian said, then his footsteps retreated down the corridor.

  I shot the door my middle finger then scrambled out of bed.

  • • •

  I changed back into my work clothes and speed-walked to the conference room, only to find it empty. Weird. I was sure Brian had said conference room. Maybe I’d misheard him and I was supposed to go to the media room? I turned to leave and ran right into the broad chest of the man himself.

  “I didn’t expect you to be so fast,” Brian said as he steadied me. “I was joking about the three minutes.”

  “Jerk.” I aimed a light punch at his abs.

  He blocked it with a swift move. “You’ll have do better than that.”

  “You definitely deserve worse. I could’ve slept another five minutes!”

  Naomi pushed past us into the room. “Save your punches for Kyle. He deserves them.”

  “What happened?” I asked, registering her bedraggled appearance and red eyes and nose. “Oh no. Have you been crying?” My fists clenched. “What did Kyle do?!”

  “No, I haven’t been crying,” she snarled. “And by the way, you should never ask someone if they’ve been crying, because if they have been crying—which I wasn’t—it’ll only embarrass them and make them cry more.” She paused, held up a finger, then turned her head to deliver a mighty sneeze into her elbow.

  Now the red eyes made sense. “So noted. But my question stands: what did Kyle do to deserve punches?”

  “He forgot that some of us have human immune systems.” Naomi pulled a tissue from a pocket and wiped her nose. “All I can say is, we were working an op that required us to hide for nearly an hour in a water-filled ditch. Cold water.”

  I gave her a wince of sympathy. “Yeah, I gotta say, I don’t miss getting colds.”

  “Well, I haven’t gotten this one yet,” she declared then spoiled it by blowing her nose. “I’ll be fine by morning. Lots of vitamin C and fluids. Works every time.”

  Before I could question her confidence, Pierce strode in, with Marcus a second behind him carrying a tube of rolled paper.

  Pierce took up a position where he could see everyone. Playing the part of the security chief and definitely not the actual Tribe leader. No sirree.

  Marcus went to the table and unrolled a detailed map of Mudsucke
r Swamp and the surrounding area. He glanced up as Rosario entered. “Close the door, will you, Dante? We’re all here now.” He waited for the latch to click then addressed the room. “Everyone here has been briefed on the situation with the drowned hunter who reanimated in Angel’s morgue. At her suggestion, tomorrow morning we’re going to the swamp with three goals: to search for the other accident victim, to locate any possibly infected alligators, and to avoid drawing attention.” He lifted his chin toward Rosario. “Marla will hopefully give us an edge in finding the body. I’ve figured out some details that should help as well.”

  He gestured for everyone to gather around the table then angled the map so we could see it. “That’s Bayou Pauvre on the right side of the map. The blue dot marks the inlet where the overturned boat was found wedged between a couple of cypress knees.” He traced his finger up along the bayou until it reached a red dot several inches away. “Here’s where Mr. Horton’s body was found. Search and Rescue is operating under the assumption the boat hit a submerged log and overturned in this immediate area, then drifted nearly a mile with the current before getting stuck in this inlet.” He dragged his finger back downstream to the blue dot. “It makes a degree of sense because, when someone drowns, they tend to sink right where it happened. Plus, the direction of the current supports it. But, at the estimated time of the accident, the tide was coming in which would all but cancel out the current. Moreover, winds were from the south last night, so I don’t believe it’s possible for the boat to drift so far.”

  Naomi turned away to sneeze then peered at the map. “If all that is true, where do we find the second body?”

  “We’re going to search the area where the boat was found.” Marcus tapped the blue dot. “The real accident site. With the tide, the wind direction, and how this waterway curves, the only way for the boat to get stuck in the inlet is if the accident happened very close by. The boat didn’t move. The victim did.”

  “Because the gator dragged Douglas Horton to where he was found,” I said. “And Search and Rescue would never consider that a possibility.”

  “Especially because that’s not normal behavior for an alligator,” Marcus agreed. “But of course we’re not dealing with normal alligators.”

  Brian rubbed his jaw. “We already know from the bite marks there was more than one alligator. How do we know the second body didn’t get dragged off, too?”

  Marcus spread his hands. “We don’t. But the accident site is the most logical place to start. I expect when Search and Rescue continues to come up dry, they’ll look at the issue with the wind and tides and realize their error. However, my intel says that hasn’t been discussed yet. We should have a good chunk of the morning to search without interference. That said, I want to be there on scene and ready to search the instant there’s enough light.”

  “I’m making arrangements for boats and gear,” Pierce said. “We’ll put in at the Tribe training ground. It’s west of Mudsucker and quite a bit farther from the accident site than the public boat launch, but it avoids unwanted attention. Not to mention, Angel can show us where she killed Judd Siler.”

  “Um. I’ll try,” I said with a heaping load of uncertainty.

  He smiled winningly. “I have all the faith in the world in you.”

  “This is no time for jokes, Pierce.”

  Naomi sniffled again. “Do we have a cover story? Or are we just going to meander around the swamp and pretend to also be looking for the dead guy?”

  Pierce shook his head. “That could draw attention we don’t want. Easiest cover story is we’re hunters.”

  I frowned. “Turkey is the only thing in season right now.”

  “Then we’ll be turkey hunting,” he replied with a glare.

  Marcus grimaced. “But no one in their right mind would hunt turkeys from a boat.”

  Pierce glowered as I nodded agreement. “Well, if that’s the only thing in season right now, we don’t seem to have much of a choice.”

  “No, it’s all good,” I said. “Y’see, nuisance animals are legal to hunt year-round. And because of the floods last year, feral hogs are a huge problem. Coyotes, too. It’s totally plausible to be hunting those in the swamp, from a boat.”

  Pierce’s glower vanished. “Okay. Good. That works.” He paused. “Thanks.”

  I inclined my head in acknowledgement.

  Marcus made notes on a pad. “Everyone needs current hunting licenses, in case we get stopped by Wildlife and Fisheries. We can buy them online and print out the E-licenses.”

  “I have a lifetime license,” I said, hiding a smile at Marcus’s look of surprise. Back when Randy and I were dating, his dad had taken us deer hunting. I was eighteen and had never gone hunting for a darn thing in my life, but obediently froze my ass off in a deer stand and then insisted to Mr. Winger I’d had fun, because it was clear he’d really wanted me to enjoy it. Not long after that, he went ahead and spent the several hundred bucks on a lifetime permit for me, because he knew me and my dad couldn’t afford even the basic annual license. I went out several times more with him and Randy, and though I never developed a love for hunting, I found a respect for it. I even made sure to get a replacement license after I lost the original in the flood. Seemed wrong not to.

  “I have one, too,” Naomi said then grinned. “Never know when a hunting license will come in handy during an op.”

  Marcus laughed under his breath. “Well, the rest of us will have to settle for cheap and basic.” He jotted down the names of everyone who needed a license. “All right, that should do it. We’ll meet in the garage tomorrow at oh-four-thirty. And yes, Angel, that’s still in the morning.”

  “Damn.”

  Chapter 8

  My alarm went off at 4 a.m., and when I finished cursing, I flipped on the lights. That sparked another round of cursing, but it kept me from falling asleep again. When my eyes finally adjusted, I found a pair of boots and a pile of neatly folded clothing on the chair by the bed. Kinda freaky to realize someone had crept into my room while I was sleeping, but hey, new threads!

  Ten minutes later, I was clothed and booted in the camo hunting gear—xx-small that actually fit me. With teeth clean, bladder emptied, and hair shoved into a mostly neat ponytail, I took a detour to the kitchen for a ham and egg sandwich and still made it to the garage by quarter after.

  The enormous garage. Large enough to hold a dozen vehicles with room to spare, and secured by a double set of heavy security doors. Halfway across the garage, Marcus and Pierce conferred near the back of a dark blue Chevy Tahoe. Not far away were Brian, Rosario, and Marla. I hustled over to them. At least Naomi wasn’t here yet, which meant I wasn’t last.

  Rosario crouched to adjust Marla’s harness, black tactical pants stretching tight over his scrumptious ass. Yep, that right there was why I’d dubbed him “Tactical Pants Man” before I even knew his name. Sexist as hell, but damn. It was truly a work of art.

  The door from the lab opened behind me, and I spun, ready to gloat at Naomi for beating her here. But my salty comment died away at the sight of the tall black woman striding in. Rachel Delancey, wearing camo pants and a black t-shirt. A jacket was draped over one arm, and her long braids had been pulled back into a tight knot.

  Ugh. If Rachel was here, it meant Naomi was too sick to come. Which sucked. Naomi was fun and cool. Rachel hated my guts. And now it looked like I was going to be stuck in a boat with her for hours.

  I summoned a bright smile. “Hi, Rachel. Is Naomi coming, too?” If the universe really loved me, Naomi would be totally recovered, and Rachel would simply be a last-minute addition. A girl could dream, right?

  “Dr. Nikas scrubbed her from the op for medical reasons,” Rachel replied coolly then continued past without waiting for a reply.

  Through sheer force of will, I managed to resist the urge to flip her off. She walked up to Marcus, and I braced myself for a sho
w of affection between the two. About a month ago, I’d discovered they were an item. Sure, Marcus and I had broken up quite some time ago, but that didn’t mean I couldn’t get my back up if he decided to be with someone who disliked me so intensely.

  Yet, to my surprise, the expected kiss didn’t happen. No clasped hands or lingering touch. Hell, not even a sultry look. It didn’t seem as if they were simply being professional, either. Nope, that flame was gone. Interesting.

  “Is everyone ready?” Pierce asked.

  I raised my hand. “What about food and lifejackets and stuff?”

  “Food, weapons, brains, and other necessities have already been loaded up.” He gestured to the Tahoe. “Boats and lifejackets and special equipment will be waiting for us at the training ground. Any other questions? Good. Let’s roll out.”

  • • •

  The Tribe’s wetland property was only twenty minutes away as the crow flies, but when the crow instead had to navigate a series of remote highways and decrepit back roads, it took closer to forty minutes.

  At long last we turned onto the dirt road that, in another two miles, would end where we trained in paintball tactical exercises—and where Judd had come after me for the second time. But after only half a mile, Pierce hung a left onto a deeply rutted lane that bounced us around for several more minutes before ending in a gravel lot.

  A white pickup sat waiting, headlights casting stark shadows across scrub grass and slash pines and smooth water. Pierce didn’t seem surprised it was there, which told me it probably held the rest of the equipment we needed.

  I climbed out of the Tahoe with the others, stretching after the less-than-gentle ride. Stars glimmered in a moonless sky, and a low breeze brought the scent of stagnant water. A damp chill came as well, and I hurried to pull my jacket on. Fortunately for me, mosquitoes weren’t attracted to zombie blood. Rosario wasn’t as lucky though, and moved quickly away to douse himself and Marla in repellent.

  The driver of the pickup stepped out—a stocky, brown man of middle-eastern descent, smiling brightly despite the early hour.