White Trash Zombie Gone Wild (3 page)

Normal food-hunger jabbed at me as I climbed back into my car, informing me that I needed to get my ass to Alma's Café before I starved to death. Brain-hunger chimed in as well, and I dug another chunk out of my lunch box to shut that one up for the moment. One of the few drawbacks of V12 was the way it tripled my brain hunger, but I figured that was a small price to pay for the benefits it offered. Besides, I only needed to use it until I finished the semester.

It also didn't suck that I felt more relieved than upset about the encounter with Pierce and Marcus. Though it irked me to be left out of the loop about the confidential business, I was more than happy for the others to deal with the big crap. New York had been a trial by fire of
enormous
crap, and I still felt singed by everything that happened. I'd killed people. A lot of them. And my nightmares didn't care that there'd been no choice, didn't care that those people would have done far worse to me and my friends.

So yeah, I'd done my time in the trenches. Being eyes and ears—and not much else—was fine with me.

The hideous traffic had eased, and I made it downtown with a minimum of stress. But once there, I slowed and gaped at the sight of an enormous putrid green banner strung over Main Street. Lurid red letters screamed “5th Annual Deep South Zombie Fest” with “-er” at the end, printed to look as if it had been spray painted on.

Fest-er.
Because zombies rot and . . . fester. Heh.

The Deep South Zombie Fest was held in a different place each year, but it was Mayor Turnbuckle who deserved props for bringing it to town. He'd worked political magic and southern charm to convince Infamous Vision Studios—the makers of
High School Zombie Apocalypse!!
—that a return to Tucker Point as sponsors of the Zombie Fest would be great promo for the movie's opening weekend. With the studio's money and prestige as incentive, the organizers of the Fest had been more than happy to bring it here.

For a small town whose interests usually ran toward hunting season, NASCAR, and
Cochon de Lait
, Tucker Point seized onto the zombie mania with fevered passion. Not only did all the hoopla pump tourist money into the community, it also gave the locals yet another reason to let loose and have a good time. Not that they needed one. Hell, this was Louisiana. We partied when the weather changed.

I turned down a side street and into the lot behind Cathy's Candle Creations. Parking there meant I had to walk an extra block, but considering the earlier traffic I doubted there'd be any open spaces closer to the café.

The giant banner over Main Street turned out to be merely the tip of the festering iceberg. It looked as if the zombie fairy had paid a visit and waved her magic wand to transform downtown Tucker Point into an undead circus. Moans and groans and hungry growls issued through a town PA system usually reserved for holiday music. All the local businesses had jumped onto the rotting bandwagon in an effort to cash in on the weekend of zombie craziness. Roaming vendors peddled makeup kits and latex gore. Sidewalk sale zombie stuff was everywhere. Posters, bumper stickers, T-shirts, you name it. A local youth group was even selling tickets to the Zombie Petting Zoo.

I didn't want to know.

To add to the total weirdness, Mardi Gras was coming up in four days, on the heels of the Fest weekend, which made for a strange hodgepodge of decorations. Carnival and corpses. Putrid colors of zombie rot mingled with the glitter of gaudy purple, green, and gold. And no one seemed to mind one little bit.

Least of all me. I absolutely loved it. The last lingering worries about Allen or Marcus or the FBI slipped away as I took it all in and headed down the street toward Alma's Café.

Moe's Hardware had been in business for over a hundred years and was as much a museum as a store—filled with all sorts of tools made obsolete by technology. Not many people had a need for a two-man saw anymore. Gimme a good chainsaw, any day. But I also knew that if we ever had ourselves a real apocalypse, Moe's would be my first stop to load up on useful shit that didn't need gas or electricity.

The current Mr. Moe was the son of the original owner. He was ninety if he was a day, but that hadn't stopped him from joining in the fun. With a denture-baring grin, he shambled up and down the sidewalk in front of his store, fake blood smeared on his face.

I evaded a leering zombie hug—which, knowing Mr. Moe, would include a zombie ass-grab—but stopped in awe when I reached the next shop, Le Bon Décor. Displayed in the window were a pair of exquisite carnival masks.
Zombie
carnival masks with sculpted rot and realistic paint. The grinning one had teeth exposed in maggoty flesh, and the mouth of the frowning face dripped blood from rotting lips. Bedraggled feathers and tarnished sequins completed the cool risen-from-the-grave effect.

A deep yearning lust for wearable art filled me.

I wanted those masks.

I
needed
those masks.

Squaring my shoulders, I stepped into the shop and brazenly asked the salesgirl the price.

She told me with a smile. I thanked her with a smile, and stepped right back out. Okay, maybe I didn't really
need
zombie carnival masks. Moving on.

A guy wearing cheesy zombie makeup and sandwich boards shuffled along the sidewalk in front of Alma's Café. The front placard advertised “Zombie-licious Étouffée” and the back, “Fried Brain Po-Boys”—all made from calf, pig, and lamb brains. I shuddered. As yummy as I found a human brain, the idea of eating any other sort left me queasy. Only the human kind had the components my zombie parasite needed to do its thing. I'd stick to Alma's turkey club sandwich, thank you very much.

Alma's brain supplier was no doubt Wyatt's Butcher Shop across the street. My clue was the “Get Your Braaains Here!” painted in shocking pink on his window along with “Great addition to your zombie costume!” in smaller lettering beneath.

Before I could think too hard about fake-zombies wandering around toting animal brains—and what that would smell like after a few hours—my gaze fell on the red 1968 Dodge Charger parked in front of the butcher shop. The only person around here who owned a car like that was my
other
ex-boyfriend, Randy.

Maybe he'd come into town for sausage or steaks? He sometimes had friends over for beer, pot, and barbecue on Friday evenings. I shaded my eyes and scanned the butcher's shop. No sign of him through the window, so I shifted my looksee to the business next door: The Bear's Den Gun Shop and Indoor Range. A huge Zombie Fest poster filled one corner of the window, but beyond the poster, I saw Randy lounging against a counter inside. I'd known him since I was fifteen, and he'd never shown any interest in camping, hunting, or owning a gun. But his buddy Judd worked there, and they were most likely cooking up plans for the weekend. Judd wasn't my favorite person ever since he asked me out during one of my many breakups with Randy and got all kinds of pissy when I turned him down. But, hell, lots of people weren't my favorites. For the most part, I put up with them anyway. Life was too short to hold more than a handful of grudges.

Randy and I had dated for about four years, breaking up and getting back together a couple dozen times. We finally broke up for good not long after I became a zombie but, when I got back from New York, we started hanging out again some. Randy knew me better than anyone else—except for the fact that I was a zombie—which meant I could relax and be myself and not worry about coming off as trashy or ignorant. And though I never
ever
wanted to date Randy again, it turned out we worked pretty nicely as friends.

And, as a friend, I was totally allowed to be a nosy bitch. Might as well go with my strengths.

I left Alma's brainy menu behind and jaywalked through the slow-moving traffic. A chime sounded as I pushed the Bear's Den door open, barely audible over the hubbub in the store. It was more crowded than I'd expected, and I took a couple of seconds to get my bearings. I wasn't exactly a gun shop kind of chick, especially since I became a convicted felon right about the time I was old enough to buy a gun. Fortunately, I wasn't a felon anymore. About a year ago, someone—most likely Pietro Ivanov—had pulled a few dozen strings to get me pardoned by the governor.

My adventures in New York had included shooting myself in the ass, an event that was sure to end up on the blooper reel of the life of one Angel Crawford. However, the upside of my little mishap was that Mr. Deadly Operative himself, Kyle Griffin, took me under his wing and taught me how to shoot a variety of firearms safely and precisely. I suspected his generosity was more a desire to reduce the chance that I might accidentally shoot him, but I didn't mind. Though my concealed carry application was still in process, Louisiana law allowed me to have a gun in my car, where I currently had a Tribe-loaned Kel-Tec PF9 in the glove box. As crazy as my life was, it made sense to keep a little heat close at hand.

Even though The Bear's Den took up a good chunk of the block, I hadn't realized how
big
the place was. To my left, half a dozen black-shirted salespeople prowled behind a glass-enclosed display case that ran the length of the shop. Handguns and knives and other deadly stuff filled the case, and the wall behind it was one long rack of rifles and shotguns. To my right, a mounted deer head with enormous antlers loomed over a broad archway that led to the hunting, camping, and archery supplies. Everywhere else, shelves and racks held all sorts of accessories, equipment, and clothing. Posters hung from the ceiling with warnings such as: “ALWAYS TREAT A GUN AS IF IT'S LOADED” and “FINGER OFF THE TRIGGER UNTIL YOU'RE READY TO FIRE.” But my favorite was “ASSHOLES AND IDIOTS WILL BE MAULED BY THE BEAR” complete with a picture of a scary, burly man—the owner of the shop himself, Bear. He stood behind the counter, wide shoulders hunched, hands huge but nimble as he demonstrated to a customer how to break down a handgun. His T-shirt read “Don't just survive.
Thrive!
”—a testimony to his standing as the local expert on survival and disaster preparedness.

A murmured “Excuse me” to my rear jarred me out of my gaping. I stepped aside to let a Hispanic man in black tactical pants and a form-fitting grey shirt go by, then shamelessly ogled him as he continued past me and down the counter toward Bear.
That
was the kind of male body those compression shirts were made for. V-shaped torso, trim waist, and biceps that popped from the sleeves in a way that said “I have these muscles as a result of being fit and strong in a lot of different ways” as opposed to “I have these muscles because I do bicep curls while I stare adoringly at myself in the gym mirror.” Sparkly fireflies danced between us. I took a step toward him. Holy crap, that ass was like two firm apples that—

Jesus, Angel, get a grip on yourself!
The V12 was still kicking in hard. The sparkly fireflies side effect wasn't so bad, but the suppression of impulse control—a remnant of the original combat version of the mod—could be downright inconvenient. Useful in high danger situations to tweak reaction time, but not so helpful while lusting after a stranger. But I could handle it. I always got it under control before anything embarrassing happened.

I reined in my inner sexual harassment of Tactical Pants Man and looked around for Randy. The entire section by the front window was nothing but Deep South Zombie Fest paraphernalia—posters, T-shirts, caps, coffee mugs, key chains, and a buttload more novelty items. Randy stood by a pyramid of dark blue duffel bags emblazoned with the Bear's Den logo and
Zombie Hunter Survival Kit
in searing red letters. Long and lanky, Randy didn't have movie star good looks or a Tactical Pants Man body, but he had a nice face and a sweet, lazy smile. A bright blue Zombie Fest cap covered light brown hair nearly the same color as his eyes. He had a duffel slung over one shoulder and was talking to Coy Bates—a slim black man with tidy shoulder-length dreads. Randy and Coy had been friends since sixth grade, and Coy was one of a very small number of Randy's friends who I actually liked. He always seemed to have a smile for everyone, and though he smoked pot with Randy most weekends, he stayed focused on his growing taxidermy business.

I skirted a display of paintball supplies, edged past a gaggle of men who were enthusing over a catalog of reloading equipment, then sidled up to Coy and Randy and gave them matching light arm punches. “Hey, guys. Coy, is that deer head above the arch your work?”

Randy gave me a grin, and Coy's face lit up with pride. “It sure is,” Coy said in a gentle drawl. “Bear's son bagged it last fall. I got a lot of new business after Bear trusted me with it.”

“It's gorgeous. You did a great job.” I smiled up at it.

Sparkles glittered over the antlers. It turned its head toward me, eyes glowing like hot coals, and winked.

I sucked in a breath. “Holy shit!”

“Angel?”

I flinched at Randy's voice and yanked my gaze to him. He looked perfectly normal, to my relief. “I mean, uh, holy shit, those are big antlers,” I said with only the tiniest hitch in my voice, despite the thumping of my pulse. I'd never had a hallucination like
that
before. Could the V12 have caused it? The sparkles sure added weight to that suspicion. I shot a wary glance at the arch. The deer stared straight ahead with glassy brown eyes. Maybe it wasn't a hallucination. Maybe I'd just imagined it. Hallucinated having a hallucination. Right.

Randy eyed me, but Coy beamed. “It's a ten point that scores in the one-sixties!”

I managed to give Coy a winning smile. “I have
no
idea what that means, but I assume it's good.” I glanced at the perfectly normal deer head one more time. Okay, so now I knew seeing weird shit other than sparkles was a possibility. It wouldn't catch me off guard if it happened again. Worst case scenario, I'd have to decrease my dose a bit to stabilize. No biggie. I could handle it.