White Trash Zombie Gone Wild (10 page)

Ben waved a tech over to take pictures of the makeup. “Angel, I could kiss you.”

I smiled. “I don't want to make your boyfriend mad.”

“He'd understand, once I explained the reason,” Ben said. “Can you describe the vic's hair and face?”

“Dark brown hair, almost black. Blue eyes.” And he wasn't a zombie. I'd been close enough to know. At least I'd confirmed that real zombies weren't being targeted again. “He had a cleft in his chin, like a friggin' comic book superhero.”

Ben nodded. “That description matches the DL pic.”

“Still need to verify with the prints,” Nick muttered as he shone a penlight onto the neck stump. “He might've swapped clothes with someone else after Angel saw him. Not likely, but can't assume he didn't.”

“I'll take his prints as soon as I get him to the morgue,” I reassured Nick, but my own thoughts weren't as comforting. Grayson Seeger had been nice, but he'd also been fidgety and nervous. Concerned about security. It was possible that whoever he was freaked about had caught up with him. I drew breath to tell Ben about Seeger's paranoia then released it. Shit. That info might help Ben's investigation, but what if the “fed” thing Seeger was worried about tied into the FBI agent who was checking out funeral homes? And what if the funeral home thing tied into the Tribe and brains and real zombies? Ben was a damn good detective because he was a tenacious son of a bitch who never gave up on a case and pursued every possible lead to its very end. If there was even the slightest teeny tiny thread of a link between Seeger's murder and real zombies, Ben would dig it out. And the last thing we needed was the cops poking into our business. I felt as if I was betraying Ben by keeping the Seeger paranoia thing to myself, but I simply couldn't risk the Tribe. Best to keep my mouth shut until I knew more.

But, damn, it would have been a whole lot easier to find out what Seeger was up to if he hadn't gone and gotten himself murdered. As soon as I had what was left of him tucked away in the morgue cooler, I needed to call the Tribe. I'd keep
them
in the loop, even if they didn't do the same for me. 'Cause
I
was considerate.

As soon as Nick finished his examination, I paper-bagged the dead guy's hands to preserve potential evidence, then rolled him over to let crime scene take pics of his back and the ground beneath him.

A tiny wink of sunlight on chrome caught my eye. “Ben, there's something in the mud here.”

Ben squinted at where I pointed then signaled to the tech who deftly uncovered what turned out to be a battered yellow disposable lighter.

The tech bagged it. “No telling how long it's been here, but I'll see if I can bring up any prints.”

A yellow lighter.

Judd. Lighting his stupid hand-rolled cigarette in the alley behind the Bear's Den.

Which had nothing to do with a brutal murder. Crazy how the mind stuck random details together. Millions of those lighters were sold every year. I probably had a couple in a kitchen drawer at home.

Randy. With a zombie hunter duffel slung over his shoulder.

Along with a hundred and sixteen other buyers. Sure, one of those might've been Judd. But that still didn't mean anything. Judd was with Randy and Coy last night. No way in hell would those two do something like this.

“Angel?” Nick said. “You going to bag the guy or what?”

I realized with chagrin that everyone was waiting for me. “Oh. Sorry.” I got the guy into the body bag and zipped it up, then Ben and Nick were nice and helped me carry it up to the highway. Leaving them to babysit the corpse, I returned to the van to bring it closer, stomping my way there in a futile effort to get the mud off the boots. Not that I gave a crap about the condition of the boots, but I didn't want to spend the rest of the day cleaning out the van.

Both TV trucks had left, creating a big gap between the van and the next vehicle as if I'd parked far away on purpose. The news guy had left the towel by the front right wheel along with a neatly printed note, weighted down with a piece of gravel.

Thanks again for the towel! Call me if you ever want to cash in that favor, or even just to grab a coffee together. —Brennan Masters

I smiled in amusement. He'd included his phone number and email address as well. My cynical side told me he was simply hoping to get an inside contact and maybe pump me for info, but I allowed myself a bit of preening. There was no law that said a polished and spiffy TV guy in his late thirties couldn't be interested in a bedraggled twenty-two-year-old morgue tech—

Okay, yeah, he wanted the inside scoop.

Still, I stuffed the note into my pocket and grabbed the towel. The piece of gravel dropped off and bounced into the grass, and my blood went cold as it landed beside a piece of red, white, and blue paper.

A hand-rolled cigarette butt with little American flags printed on it.

Heart pounding, I stared at the cigarette butt as if the thing was a water moccasin about to bite me.
Another coincidence. That's all.
Judd drove this highway damn near as much as I did. This stretch probably had a few hundred of his stupid butts. Didn't matter that this made three coincidences. The number didn't make them any less coincidental. Circumstantial evidence. That's what it was called. What I needed to do was call Ben over, let him make his own determination as to whether a cigarette butt a quarter mile away from the body was the least bit important.

Randy was with Judd and Coy last night
. The thought ricocheted within my skull. But Randy wasn't a murderer. None of them were. Couldn't be. Coy had a good reputation that didn't need to get screwed up by dumb suspicions. And Randy didn't need to be hassled by the cops.

I snatched up the cigarette butt before sanity could return. It wasn't tampering with evidence if it wasn't actually evidence. Right? My hands shook as I unrolled the paper to dump the tobacco out, and I cursed under my breath as a greasy smudge of dark green smeared across my fingers. Bug shit, with my luck. I crumpled the paper and shoved it into my pocket, then scrubbed my hand on my pants to get the green crap off.

I got my ass into the van and drove to Nick and Ben, loaded the body up while anxiety and brain hunger stewed in my gut. Nick gave me a funny look, likely wondering why I was acting like a guilty spaz, but he backed off quick after I mumbled something about female trouble.

Once I was on my way, I grabbed a brain smoothie out of my lunchbox and chugged it down. Though the grumbling hunger settled, my tension and worry stuck tight. Randy lived just a few miles away. It would only take a couple of minutes to swing by and see what he was up to, ease my mind, and confirm that my imagination was running wild.

Shit. No, that wouldn't work. The Coroner's Office vehicles had GPS trackers on them. While van drivers on call were allowed to run personal errands in the van, protocol was no stops or detours between picking up a body and reaching the morgue except for absolute emergencies. I didn't need to give Allen any more ammunition to use against me. Not to mention, Randy might get a little suspicious if I showed up in the van with a body in the back.

I pulled the cigarette paper from my pocket. Too late to put the thing back where I'd found it, especially since now my fingerprints were all over those dumb American flags. But I didn't want to be caught with it, either.

Another two miles down the road, I rolled my window down, checked for witnesses, then flicked the crumpled paper into a water-filled ditch.

•   •   •

At the morgue, I transferred Mr. Seeger from the gurney onto a rolling table then unzipped his body bag. Even though Nick and I had performed a cursory search of the body on the scene, I still needed to do a full property inventory.

Hunger grabbed my belly in a sneak attack and squeezed a sharp gasp from me. Hissing, I grabbed the edge of the table as an itch began in my bones. Invisible ants walked up my arms. A mini-dose, a tiny hit was all I needed to—

No! C'mon, Angel, don't be a fucking wimp.

Jaw clenched, I sucked air through my teeth and focused on a spot on the wall. The clock behind me ticked out seconds, and I used the sound, imagined myself shoving the need a little farther back into its hole with each
tick
.

The hunger eased. The itch faded to mild buzz. The desire to climb out of my body went away.

Straightening, I wiped my mouth and let out a strangled laugh. I'd won. I'd fought that bitch down. It was all good. I could do this “no more V12” thing. A tendril of fear slid through a crack, and I slapped it down hard. No. Everything was going to be just fine. Beating this shit was all about willpower, and I had plenty of that. Time to get my head back in the game.

I went to the bathroom and washed my face and hands, then pulled on fresh gloves and began a meticulous search of Mr. Seeger. No jewelry, watch, keys, or phone. Jeans pockets were empty except for a damp Kleenex, and the front pocket of the flannel shirt held lint and nothing more. Shoes and socks contained feet and nothing else. I even tugged his jeans down to check his underwear and found only the expected boy parts and shaved pubic hair. Interesting, but not at all what I was looking for.

Sighing, I pulled his clothing back into place. Later, I'd remove them for good, after I photographed him on the table and before the autopsy. It was silly, but I hated leaving the bodies naked in the bag before autopsy. Why not let them have a few more hours with that tiny shred of dignity?

Something crinkled beneath my hand as I adjusted the flannel shirt. A quick investigation revealed an inner pocket that held a folded piece of paper. My pulse quickened as I slid the paper out.
Bingo.

It was a list of filenames, on battered Infamous Vision Studios letterhead, with several handwritten notes scribbled on it. The word “zombie” leaped out at me from several places, but that didn't surprise me considering Grayson Seeger was a producer for a
zombie
movie and was in town for a
zombie
fest.

The list header read
Contents of USB Flash Drive from D.R.
and was followed by more than a dozen filenames such as *
zombie_feeding
and **
zombie_turn_1
. One file named
*zombie_frenzy
had a hand-drawn arrow pointing to it with
Zombie Frenzy!
written beside it. I snorted. Gee, that was a tough code to crack.

Most of the filenames were marked with asterisks or double asterisks which matched up with a handwritten note at the side:

* approved by DR for ZAAU

** use for deal with SASA

Seeger sure liked his acronyms. DR was most likely someone's initials. The others could be studio names or—

ZAAU. Zombies Are Among Us? That was the short film title on the “coming soon” display I'd seen at the movie premiere. Could be the asterisk meant the file was used in the
“documentary THEY don't want you to see.”
But I had no clue at all what SASA could stand for. Sharks Are Sexy Also? Secret Aardvark Social Action?

My focus sharpened on a double-asterisk filename. **
Zombie_heal_2
. I frowned. Heal? The zombies in
High School Zombie Apocalypse!!
were typical mindless rotters. When they got blown to bits or chopped up they stayed that way—no healing involved at any point. An uneasy chill walked down my spine even though plenty of reasonable explanations came to mind. Maybe the zombies would get to be badass and heal up in the sequel,
College Zombie Apocalypse!!
Or, more likely, the filename had zilch to do with zombies healing. It probably stood for “zombie_healthy” and was a video of zombies who weren't all rotted yet.

Whatever the reason, it hit too close to home, especially since I was already on high alert for anything zombie-like and suspicious. I didn't care if the paper might be evidence. Hell, I didn't care if it could lead to the cure for the common cold. It damn sure wasn't staying here for anyone else to find and speculate about.

Mr. Seeger went into the cooler, and the paper went into my bra.

•   •   •

As soon as I left the morgue, I headed straight to Randy's place. Casual visit, nothing more. Dropping in to say Hi, that sort of thing. After all, I knew there was no way Randy could've been involved in the murder. Knew it. He could be a Grade-A Prime Loser, but murder? Nuh uh. I was
sure
.

Almost sure. Only a teensy bit of doubt lingered, but it was like a grain of sand in my eye. I'd swing by and see how he was doing, what he was up to. Laundering bloody clothes. Burying a machete. Innocent shit like that.

Randy lived at the very end of a long-as-hell rural road, on several acres of land that held a rusty corrugated metal garage and a halfway decent trailer. The garage was where he made his living as a mechanic and—when he needed some extra cash—it served as the occasional chop-shop. After I parked, I made my way around puddles to the trailer steps where I could hear a TV blaring the morning news from within. Worry twisted in my chest. Randy
never
watched the news.

I knocked, hard enough to be heard over the TV. The sound went off, and a few seconds later Randy yanked the door open, looking surprised, relieved, and disappointed to see me. He was fully dressed, with a half-smoked cigarette in one hand. His eyes flicked to the van and then farther down the driveway. Checking to see if I'd brought anyone with me?

“Dude!” I put on my excited-and-horrified act. “Did you see the news about the serial killer?”

“Uh.” He glanced at his TV then gave me a nod. “Yeah, I was listening to it.”

He made no move to invite me in, but that was a minor obstacle for a pushy bitch. “The body was found not far from here,” I said and slid past him before he could stop me. “Figured I'd make sure you were okay.”

Randy made a face as if I'd just pissed in his Cheerios but went ahead and closed the door. He picked up a plastic cup and knocked ash into it. “I'm good. Crazy shit, huh?”

“Totally crazy!” I flopped onto the sofa and made myself at home. “Did you hit Pillar's Bar after the Fest?”

He shrugged. “For maybe an hour.”

Was he acting guilty? Hungover? Hell, I couldn't tell a damn thing. “Oh man, you might've knocked back a beer with the sicko who chopped off that guy's head and never known it!”

Randy gave me a sharp look. “The cops think the guy was at Pillar's before he—?”

“Before he murdered the guy?” I spread my hands. “I don't think they've made any
public
statements about it.” I wasn't lying. It was Randy's fault if he took that to mean there were
private
statements floating around.

He sucked on the cigarette and sat on the arm of the sofa. “The news said the cops didn't have any leads.”

I scoffed. “You believe that? The dumbass left plenty of evidence at the scene. It won't take long.”

Surprise flashed across Randy's face, as if he suddenly remembered what I did for a living. “You were
there
?”

“Sure. I was on call. Picked up the body. Dude, that shit was gruesome. Y'know, it ain't like the movies where it's one clean slice.” I warmed to my topic as Randy paled. “Nah, it must've taken a dozen hacks with a dull ass machete to get this poor dude's head off.” Hunger shimmered through me. The brain would've been nice and warm and fresh and—

Saliva flooded my mouth, and I quickly swallowed before I started drooling. The smell of Randy's brain filled the room, overpowering the scent of bacon grease and cigarettes.

“Jesus, Angel. I don't need the gory details.” Randy crushed out the cigarette then shook a fresh one from a pack and lit it. In the next instant he jerked to his feet, eyes wide in rising horror. “Is that body out in the van?”

Randy's reactions would've been awfully funny if the stakes weren't so high. “Nah, I already took it to the morgue. What was left of him, at least.” I plastered on a grin. “Why'd you leave Pillar's so early? I thought you and the guys were gonna stay 'til closing.”

His expression turned sour. “Judd thought we were about to get ambushed during the zombie hunt, spun around and accidentally whacked me in the head with the butt of his paintball rifle.” He pulled his cap off to show me a small butterfly bandage atop a decent-sized goose egg. “I left Pillar's 'cause I couldn't deal with the shitty band pounding my skull.”

Frowning, I peered at the lump. That wasn't faked. And such a fine brain under it. I quickly stepped back. “You feeling okay? You don't want to mess with head injuries.”

“Hell, I got knocked a lot worse that time Chester Albertson dumped me off the back of his four-wheeler.” His shoulders twitched in a shrug. “The EMT at the Fest checked me out and told me I just needed to take it easy.”

Well, that was good. Hard to be up for cold-blooded murder with a splitting headache. If it was true. What if Seeger had walloped Randy in self-defense? I might have to track down the EMT and verify.

Randy's phone shrilled on the end table, startling us both. He grabbed it and stared at the caller ID as if the phone was poisonous, then glanced at me, hesitating.

“You get that. I need to use the can.” I popped up off the sofa and headed down the hallway, then snuck a quick peek into the open lid of the washer. Bone dry and empty. No late night laundering, at least not here. I stepped into the bathroom and closed the door, then eased it open a crack and listened.

“Okay okay, now hang on,” Randy said, low and urgent. I heard a scuff of shoes on carpet as he moved farther away. “Yeah, gotta show up for the zombie shit today and tonight, both hunts, as we planned.” Stress gave his words a sharp edge that made them easier to hear. “We're already registered.” Another pause. “I know, but we'll have to deal with it tomorrow.”

Deal with it? That could be anything from hiding evidence to scrounging lunch. I did a quick search of the bathroom and laundry hamper for any sign of blood—or murder weapons. Randy's zombie hunter equipment vest lay in a crumpled heap at the top of the hamper. My heart skipped a beat as I spied scattered dark spots of dried blood.

He got conked on the head
, I reminded myself. The blood was probably from that. Plus, I was no blood spatter expert, but I knew there'd be a lot more than a three or four drops if he'd been anywhere near a head being chopped off.

Hunger spiked again, this time joined by the bone itch as the need for a dose clamored. The scent of Randy's brain filled my nose, and a growl built in my chest.
No, not now!
Aghast, I fished the emergency brain packet from my pocket and slurped it down, then stared at the peeling wallpaper and focused my willpower to shove the beast away again. It grudgingly settled back, but I had a sinking feeling this was a temporary truce.