White Trash Zombie Gone Wild (18 page)

He flinched at the m-word. “Dunno anything. I didn't look at his wallet. All I wanted was to get the hell out of there.”

“Did the guy say anything before y'all got in the scuffle?” I narrowed my eyes at Coy. “Think hard.”

Coy raked a hand over his hair. “It's all fuzzy. Something about it not being too late. That the deal wasn't done, and he'd keep his mouth shut. That's when he tried to back off.” He shook his head, eyes hollow. “None of it made sense.”

A deal? It sounded as if Seeger thought Judd and Coy had been sent to make sure he kept his mouth shut about it. That part matched up with his paranoia at the movie premiere, but what kind of deal had he cooked up that could possibly warrant sending thugs after him? And who was it with? Saberton? Andrew said Seeger wanted to meet with him in reference to a deal, but Seeger had died before they had the chance to do so. The files marked with double asterisks had been for a deal with “SASA.” Was that an acronym for a Saberton branch, or was there another player in the game? And did the mysterious deal have anything to do with the video files and real zombies?

“Did you take anything off him?” I demanded.

“Judd went through his pockets. Took a couple hundred dollars from his wallet and his keys 'cause there was cocaine in a pill holder on the ring. That's it.”

And I bet the USB flash drive and its zombie files happened to be on that key ring.

“I'm done,” I said. “This has been a messed-up day, so I'm going to leave you two upstanding citizens now with this piece of Angel advice: Both of you, do the smart thing and turn yourselves in before it's too late.” I started toward my car then paused and met Randy's eyes. “Grayson Seeger is
dead
. Do the right thing. For everyone. You're better than this.”

I opened the door and slid behind the wheel. Coy stumbled toward me, hand outstretched. “Angel, wait! What are you gonna do?”

“Not a damn thing.
If
you grow a goddamn pair by morning. I'm sure you can figure out the rest.” I slammed the door and did my best to pepper them with gravel as I sped out. I didn't know yet exactly how I'd expose them. But, if they turned themselves in, I wouldn't have to worry about it.

Headlights washed over me as I pulled out of the driveway. I slammed on my brakes as a pickup swerved and screeched to a stop in a half-ass diagonal to block a good chunk of the road. Pulse thrumming, I jerked the gun from my waistband and held it in my lap.

Judd flung his door open and scrambled to stand in the beam of my headlights, red-faced and with his hands fisted by his sides. “Get out of the goddamn car!”

I shot him the finger. He took a step closer.

I bared my teeth and stomped on the gas. He yelled a curse as he dove out of the way, and I raced around his truck, wheels skimming the edge of the ditch.
Asshole
. I kept half an eye on my rear view mirror, waiting for the flash of headlights that signaled his pursuit. I finally slowed as I reached the highway with no sign of him chasing me, and I let my breathing slow as well. After a moment of hesitation, I returned the gun to the glove box. They had no reason to come after me. After all, I hadn't taken any of the evidence, and it was my word against theirs. At least that's how I figured they'd see it. Besides, they had no reason to doubt that I'd shared the murder info with someone else. And
that
could definitely fry their asses.

Before I could forget, I pulled over and sent an “all clear” to Brian and Dr. Nikas. By morning I'd know whether Randy, Coy, and Judd had decided to turn themselves in or hide all the evidence and hope for the best.

And if they chose the second option, I fully intended to be their
worst
nightmare
.

It was almost nine a.m. by the time I dragged my sorry ass out of bed after lousy nightmare-filled sleep. Bleary-eyed, I shuffled out to the kitchen. No sign of my dad, but the coffee in the pot was still warm enough to drink without being gross. Good enough for me. Why was coffee great hot or over ice, but disgusting at room temperature? “A mystery for the ages,” I murmured as I poured a mugful and added milk. That essential task taken care of, I settled at my desk and fired up my computer. It wasn't much better than Judd's, but it got me online and did the email, word processing, and web-stuff that I needed for my classes.

The cobwebs in my brain melted away beneath the onslaught of caffeine, and it only took me a few minutes to scan the local news sites and discover a complete lack of stories about murder suspects turning themselves in. Surely the sheriff's office would have released a statement if they had a big break like that? Or maybe the guys had decided to wait until morning before going to the cops, start the day off right.

Yeah. Sure. I wanted to be optimistic and have faith that all three would make the best available choice. But the reality was that Judd and Coy were going to end up in jail, and very possibly Randy as well. Didn't matter that they had a better chance of getting
less
jail time by turning themselves in. Judd was more prone to skip town, in my opinion, though Coy would do whatever Randy decided. Problem was, Randy always went for the road that seemed easiest but never looked ahead to see the mountains.

Hell, I'd been just like that before I became a zombie. Still was, in a few ways, as galling as it was to admit. That's how I got myself into the mess with the V12. The zombie parasite was a magic cure for all sorts of physical ailments, but it couldn't fix Stupid. Or Denial.

Or Addiction.

I was an addict. I would always have that mountain in my path. But, goddammit, I intended to keep my eyes on it from here on out.

Randy's cell phone went straight to voicemail when I called, as did Coy's. There were any number of reasons for that. Their phones might be off because they'd been arrested. Frowning, I pushed up from the desk and refilled my mug, then brought up Judd's number. I didn't want to talk to him, but chances were good he was with the other two, and any information was better than none.

Nope, voicemail.

Or they might have ditched the phones and skipped town.

It was an unpleasant thought, but I had to accept it might be true. I returned to my room and took a dose and a pill, then a boiling hot shower to chase the rest of the cobwebs from my head. Clean and dry, I dressed in jeans, light sweater and boots. Though I intended to make it to the Zombie Fest once more, I couldn't get into the spirit of costuming again. Besides, I wanted to look normal today. Well, as normal as I could manage. I ate a brain burrito, then started in on a second one. Though my brain-hunger clamored for me to eat all of it, my stomach couldn't hold another bite. With a sigh, I re-wrapped the half burrito and tossed it into the fridge. At least I had packets in the car console for later.

Heading out, I stopped at the first XpressMart with a working payphone and called the information number for the jail. No sense using my own phone and potentially drawing attention. The deputy who answered was terse and not very polite, but he informed me that none of the three men had been booked in the last twenty-four hours.

Not a good sign.

I went to Randy's place next, and my heart lifted at the sight of Coy's battered Chevy Blazer next to Randy's Charger. Good. They were just ducking my calls. I could handle that.

But the trailer was silent, even after I banged on the door and shouted for them. Okay, so either Randy and Coy were staying quiet and hoping I'd go away, or . . .

Or they left the cars here because they're on the run.

Only a tiny twinge of guilt poked at me as I retrieved Randy's spare key from under an old tire and let myself in. It was cold inside, which gave me pause. Randy was surprisingly frugal about some things and always turned down the thermostat before he left. But this had the feel of a place that hadn't been heated all night. And Randy didn't skimp on his climate comforts when he was home.

A quick check of the kitchen revealed a cold coffeemaker and dirty dishes in the sink. “Damn it, Randy,” I murmured then checked his bedroom. Not that it helped. I had no way to tell if he'd grabbed a few changes of clothes since most of his clothing lived in a pile in a corner.

I returned the key to its hiding place, then raced to Coy's house. Dread wound through me at the sight of the garage door standing wide open, and I felt nothing more than a resigned disappointment when I determined the head and bag of bloody clothes were gone—no doubt resting in their new home at the bottom of the swamp.

Sighing, I returned to my car.
Now
I could think the worst.

I sat in Coy's driveway for a solid five minutes while I ran through my options, and my disappointment shifted to
seriously pissed.
I'd put my own ass on the line to give those guys a chance—the only chance they were likely to get considering the horrific nature of the murder—and they'd shit on it. What the hell else could I have said to get through to them? I didn't want to throw them under the bus, but did they really think I was going to let this go and walk away? Grayson Seeger deserved better than that.

Frustrated, I grabbed my phone and found Detective Ben Roth's number, but hesitated before hitting the call button. How on earth was I supposed to convince him that the guys might be persons of interest? I had no evidence. Great, so I saw Judd use a yellow lighter. Big whoop. I'd cleverly destroyed his cigarette, so couldn't point to that. And “they were acting weird at the Fest” was hardly probable cause.

And, of course, I couldn't tell Ben I found the head and bloody clothes then waited all night before telling him. And then having to explain how I knew to look there in the first place. Here I was thinking I was so clever leaving the smear of blood in Coy's garage, but now I didn't have enough info to give Ben for him to get a warrant. But I had plenty to get myself into trouble.

“Shit!” I'd screwed up, waited too long. Judd and Coy might very well get away with murder, and I had no one to blame but myself. That wasn't okay. And there was always the chance that Judd was crazy enough to come after me, despite my insistence that I'd told other people what I knew.

So fix it.

I blew out my breath. That was all I could do. Fix it. I'd watch my back and find a way to point Ben in the right direction. Somehow. And, in the meantime, I could focus my worry on the rest of the shit on my plate.

Lucky me.

My VIP pass got me past the lines and through the gate of the Zombie Fest in nothing flat. I went straight to the Hunting Grounds on the slim chance that the guys were continuing to play their “everything is normal” game, but a check of all the prep areas turned up nothing. And though all three were registered for the hunt that was due to start in ten minutes, they hadn't signed in yet.

The last whisper of hope vanished that Randy might get out of this unscathed. Grief swam through me, and I let it linger for a few seconds before I ruthlessly pushed it down. Nothing I could do at the moment about the potential well-deserved arrest of the Three Dumbasses, and I'd already gone way
way
above and beyond the call of friendship to help Randy. I'd have to let the problem simmer of how to involve the cops without getting myself in trouble. Right now it was time to focus on my other big headache: the
Zombies Are Among Us!!
fiasco.

I returned to the VIP tent, slipped inside the Graveyard and paused to let my eyes adjust to the dimmer light from the fake moon. The crowd inside was thicker today, most likely because of the hype for the mockumentary premiere. After a quick detour to grab a snack, I wound my way through the crowd then staked out a spot with a decent view of the screen.

Andrew was near the stage, conducting a meet-and-greet thing with VIPs, while Thea Braddock and Tom Snyder did their bodyguard impressions from a discreet distance. Braddock spotted me in less than ten seconds and gave me a hard look before continuing her surveillance of the crowd. Yep, I heard her loud and clear:
I'm watching you, and I will take your ass down with zero prejudice if you step out of line.

Y'know, I was beginning to really like her.

The crowd near Braddock shifted, and I tensed as Dante Rosario stepped through with a German Shepherd—the Marquise de Saber—on a lead. Rosario strolled casually, but to my horror the dog zeroed in on Andrew.
Shit.
All zombies carried at least a micro-whiff of decay, no matter how tanked up they were on brains. And that dog was trained to smell rot.

Heart pounding, I wormed past people toward the impending disaster. Rosario moved to Andrew and offered his hand as if they knew each other—which they probably did considering Rosario was the face of Saberton's so-called commitment to public service. Andrew smiled and took Rosario's hand while, at their feet, the Marquise dropped her belly to the ground like a furry sphinx, her eyes riveted on my zombie baby.

Double shit, though so far it didn't seem as if Rosario had noticed his dog's behavior. Time for me to create a distraction and keep it that way.

“Andrew!” I called out, all bright and cheery, pairing it with a big wave. Both men looked my way, along with everyone else in earshot. Andrew stared at me with a
What the hell are you doing?
expression.

Distraction level one achieved.

“Oh my god,” I gushed as I closed the distance. “I'm so glad I caught you before the premiere!”

Braddock stepped forward, eyes hard with suspicion. In the same instant the dog snapped her head toward me, growl rumbling as her nose worked. Awesome. Let the bitch indicate on me. The dog, not Braddock.

Eyes on me, Rosario crouched and stroked the dog's head. “Quiet, Marla.”

Marla.
I stopped dead as the name punched through me. New York. I'd taken the subway to try and find Brian and boarded a car with what I thought was a blind man and his seeing-eye dog.

The man's hair had been reddish-brown, just like Rosario's, and the dog had growled at me.

It's because you're a pretty girl,
the man had said.
Marla gets jealous of pretty girls.

He'd been wearing sunglasses on the subway, which was why I hadn't made the connection before now. It might have been sheer coincidence that we'd been on the same subway car, but there was no mistake. Same voice. Same dog. Same man. But he wasn't blind. And now I knew he was with Saberton.

Focus, Angel. Bright smile.
“Hey, Andrew, can I talk to you? Like
right now
?”

Though taken off guard, Andrew kept his cool and turned to Rosario with a professional smile. “Would you excuse me a moment, please?” he said then moved away with me without waiting for a reply.

“That's a cadaver dog!” I growled as soon as we were out of earshot. “What were you thinking letting it get so close to you?”

Andrew scowled. “I
know
she's a cada—” Color drained from his face. “I wasn't a zombie the last time I saw him. Does that mean Rosario knows?”

“If he noticed his dog indicating on you and knows zombies are real, he does.” I gritted my teeth as stress woke my hunger.

Sweat beaded Andrew's upper lip. “Oh god.” He rubbed a trembling hand over his mouth. “Yes. He knows about zombies.”

“Can't catch a break,” I muttered. I needed a hit. Or brains.
No.
I needed to keep my goddamn head. I squared my shoulders. “Look, I saw Rosario on the subway in New York. The dog growled at me then, too, so he already knows I'm a zombie. That is, if he didn't already know about me from working with Saberton.” I had tons more questions concerning Rosario and his job description, but they would have to wait. “It doesn't matter if Marla pegs me as a zombie again today.”

Andrew's face lit with understanding. “So I'll make an exit, and you'll—”

“I'll do something brilliant to make Rosario think the dog indicated on me and not you so that you can maintain your I'm-still-human cover,” I said. “Now
go
. You getting outed won't help any of us.”

Without another word, he gestured sharply to his bodyguards and stalked away toward Justine Chu.

Rosario stood beside Marla, a damn nice smile on his face as he watched me. Asswipe. I rushed his way. “Andrew had business to take care of,” I said. “He'll be—” I stumbled to a stop as Marla stood, growling at my whirlwind approach and smell. Good doggie, doing exactly what I wanted.

“Will she bite?” I asked, wide-eyed. Marla's growl deepened, no doubt fueled by my apparent unease. I crossed mental fingers that she wouldn't actually bite me since that would pretty much suck—especially with me in perpetual brain deficit.

Rosario rested his hand on the dog's head. “Shhh. Easy, Marla,” he murmured. “She won't bite you, Angel.”

He knows my name.
Bastard. Had he used that dog to torment Saberton's captive zombies? Maybe the dog would tell me herself. I bit my lip oh-so prettily. “Will she let me pet her?”

“I promise she won't bite you,” he said. “It's okay, Marla.”

His words were like dog Valium. Marla's ears dropped and her tail thumped. I extended my hand—with caution—and scratched behind her ears. I didn't have to fake the residual nervousness, especially after her previous aggression. To my relief, she appeared to love the attention and gave no sign that she was used to ripping zombies apart.

“How'd you know my name?” I asked, glancing up in time to catch his slight start and the whisper of chagrin that ran across his face. Aha! He'd slipped up.

But he recovered smoothly and gestured toward my lanyard. “It's on your badge.”

“Oh, right!” I giggled. “Duh.”
Slick cover, dude.
I hadn't imagined his “I'm busted” look, though.

He stuck out his hand. “Dante Rosario.”

After an instant of hesitation, I took it. He had a confident grip, sure of himself but not too cocky. “I'm Angel Crawford. Nice to meet you.”
Not.
“Your dog sure is cool. I mean now that she's not acting as if she wants to eat me.”

Rosario gave me a long and guarded look. “She's like that with some people,” he said slowly, as if choosing each word with care. “But she's fine now that you've been introduced.” He flicked a glance around the tent. Looking for Andrew?

I snuck a peek behind me, relieved to see Andrew safe on the far side of the tent and surrounded by studio people. “I thought her name was the Marquise de Saber.”

Amusement lit his eyes. “That's her official name. It's a little too snooty for daily wear.”

“You're right about that,” I said, keeping everything nice and agreeable. “Are you sticking around for the screening?”

He shook his head. “I'm on my way out. We did two demos today, and Marla needs a break.”

That was fine by me. “Aw, puppy naptime.” I made a kissy face at the dog and gave her one more headscratch before lifting my eyes back to Rosario. “Well, I hope I run into you again soon,” I lied. Unless it was with my car.

“I'd like that,” he said and gave me a nice enough smile. “Come on, Marla.”

Eyes narrowed, I watched the Saberton dude and his zombie-sniffing cadaver dog depart. I'd be keeping close tabs on those two. If they were up to anything besides doing charity demos, I intended to find out.

The light dimmed, and I scooted back to the place I'd staked out earlier. A spotlight hit Justine Chu as she stepped onto the stage. Everyone applauded because it seemed like the right thing to do, but she held up a hand, expression grave, until the clapping died away.

“Ladies and Gentlemen,” Justine said in a campy Deathly Serious mode. “The documentary that you are about to see contains images you may find disturbing.” She paused, shook her head. “No. You
will
find them disturbing. Prepare yourselves. Because—zombies are among us!”

The lights went out, leaving the interior of the tent far darker than I would have expected considering the bright daylight outside. Excited and nervous laughter tittered through the crowd. After all, this was what they were paying for. They
wanted
to be scared and shocked and disturbed.

“Those of you with weak stomachs should turn away now,” Justine warned.

Ominous music swelled to a nerve-jangling discordance. Images of bodies and panicked mobs flashed in chaotic patterns, gradually resolving to longer shots of the melée at the Tucker Point High football field during the filming of the movie.

“Zombies—a source of primal terror,” a deep-voiced narrator intoned as soundless chaos reigned on the screen. “Implacable. Hungry. A threat to all we hold dear. The mythology is as old as time, from the slow and relentless to the fast and strong. From conscious creations to viral-infected monsters.” More images of shamblers. Rotting arms reaching through broken doors. I slowly relaxed. Okay, this was nothing more than a bunch of cheesy shit to get people fired up over the movie.

“Yet, the nightmare,” the voiceover continued, “the
truth
—is worse than we ever imagined.”

More long shots of the high school melée scene, then the image jerked as if the camera had been bumped. The video transitioned to a jerky handheld news camera style in the thick of the action. It swung to a broad-shouldered zombie just as he smashed a man's head against a cinderblock wall.

Every cell in my body went numb even as a gasp and delighted shudder swept through the crowd. Not a special effect. That was
Philip
killing a Saberton operative.

Philip dropped into a crouch as the body fell, tore the man's skull apart and began to shove chunks of brain into his mouth. His dead-grey face was plenty horrifying without a speck of movie makeup, and his entire body jerked every few seconds as though jolted by electricity. He screamed through a gory mouthful, spattering the pavement with blood and brain bits.

I watched in growing horror while the rest of the crowd laughed nervously and applauded the realistic “effects.”
That was real,
I thought in shock.
Someone filmed the whole thing. It doesn't look like studio footage, but surely they realized it wasn't their special effects when they put the documentary together?

“A new generation of zombies is here,” the narrator continued. “They aren't slow and stupid.” I held my breath, tense and sweating as a shambling zombie woman morphed into a smiling college professor. “They look like us, but don't be fooled. When they get hungry—” The scene changed to the campus at night, where the now-rotting professor stalked a lone football player. “—they must feed.” The crowd sucked in a collective breath as the professor took the football player down and cracked his skull like a walnut against the sidewalk.

And, in the next scene, the professor—smiling and whole again—gave a lecture as if nothing had happened. I breathed in shallow sips. Didn't matter that these were actors. This whole scenario hit too damn close to the truth.

“They're fast and strong.” A very realistic zombie ran down a sprinter, lifted him over his head then let out a terrifying scream.

“These zombies can't be stopped by the swing of a machete.” The shot zoomed to a dark-skinned arm strapped to a wall. I jerked as one swift stroke of a machete hacked off the hand with too-real-for-prime-time brutality. Even as the horrific image registered, time-lapse video showed a new hand regrowing from the stump—starting out as a bud then growing to full size. Just like Kang's body had been regrown from his head.

That shit was
real
. Saberton lab footage. It had to be. Dark skin. Oh god. Was that Kyle Griffin's arm? When I'd found him in Saberton's New York lab, he'd been mutilated and tortured, with his entire lower jaw removed. My gorge rose, but I forced myself to stay put, focused on the words and images. I needed to know exactly how fucked up it was.

“They're smart. They're strong. They're fast. They can heal.” The shocking scene shifted to a postal worker walking down a street. To a nurse in a hospital. A church choir. A dentist.

“They live among us. Right here. Right now.”

Scenes bled together showing everyday people going zombie, feeding on neighbors and customers and patients and students and coworkers. Actors and special effects. Mostly. But too real. Too goddamn real.