White Trash Zombie Gone Wild (2 page)

My mood eased as I saw I had a text from Marcus. He'd saved my life in more ways than one when he turned me into a zombie. We'd then dated on-and-off again for about a year but finally broke up for good a few months ago after he—once again—made plans about our life together without consulting me. Big plans that involved me quitting my job and moving to New Orleans. Despite all that, I was glad we'd remained friends. He was a good guy and would always be dear to me, no matter what else happened.

I thumbed in my passcode and read the text.

Have to back out on the movie tonight. Leaving with Pierce, Brian, and Kyle on business. Back Wednesday. Sorry. Miss you.

I sighed. This was the third cancellation in a month.

What kind of business?
I typed.
Anything interesting?

A moment later.
On the way to the airport. Can't talk now.

Great, now I was anxious
and
pissy.

Stepping outside the Coroner's Office building was like passing into an alternate universe. Harsh fluorescent lighting and questionable odors gave way to brilliant sun and the cool air of early spring. Not that I was in the mood to enjoy the weather. I hurried to my car then drove a half dozen blocks before I pulled into an empty parking lot. The instant I came to a complete stop I had the baggie open and half the cerebellum stuffed into my mouth. Blood and cranial fluid dribbled down my chin, and my eyes rolled back in pure bliss. The texture and taste of that particular section of the brain was too good for words. Once I swallowed that mouthful down, I noshed on the left parietal lobe then reluctantly tucked the rest back into my lunch box.

A year and a half ago, I woke up in the ER after a supposed overdose and without a scratch on me, yet with the vivid memory of being horribly injured in a car crash. I soon discovered that an anonymous benefactor—Marcus—had arranged a job for me as a morgue tech with the Coroner's Office. I'd been harvesting brains out of body bags to feed my zombie needs ever since, but this was the first time I'd come so close to being caught.

But Allen
didn't
catch me
, I reminded myself as I wiped brain gook off my face and checked my teeth in the mirror. He wouldn't have let me leave on my lunch break if he had. So what if he wanted to see me in his office? Everything was okay. Most likely, he was going to pull an asswipe move and change my shifts and days off for the billionth time. No biggie.

Then why was my heart still thumping like a rabbit in a sack?

The lunch box remained open. My last vial of V12 modifier rested beside the baggie of brains. Unlike regular drugs, V12 was a kick butt pharmaceutical specifically formulated to work
with
the zombie parasite rather than be neutralized by it. I knew too damn much about regular drugs—especially the not-so-good kind. I'd been a pill-popping loser until I was turned into a zombie. All of a sudden those drugs had stopped working on me and, just like that, my addictions disappeared.

The V12 mod was different, of course. I'd discovered its benefits a few months back, after all the godawful shit I went through during the rescue mission in New York. V12 was the one thing that kept me from turning into a complete basket case and, as a mega-super bonus, it countered a good portion of my dyslexia. I was currently struggling through Biology 101 and Basic English Composition, and I needed all the help I could get.

I peered at the milliliter of colorless liquid left in the vial. One cc. One full dose, which I needed to save to help me study tonight, especially since midterms were in a couple of weeks.

But I was supposed to meet with Allen after my lunch break, and I didn't need to be looking guilty and freaked out for that. Calm. Chill. Like ice. That's how I needed to be.

I opened the glove box and dug out a 3cc syringe—a special one with a coating on the needle that kept my parasite from trying to heal the cells around it.

I grabbed the vial then paused. Last dose, but I could obtain more soon enough. My shift at the morgue today ended at two, and my second job at the zombie R&D lab had a flexible schedule. I could squeeze in a few hours at the lab today and load up on enough V12 to get me through another two weeks. I'd do only a half-dose right now, enough to take the edge off my nerves. The rest would be a reserve in case I didn't make it to the lab today. Yeah, that worked.

Satisfied, I drew half of the remaining mod into the syringe, pinched my side and jabbed the short needle under my skin. With a sigh of anticipation, I pressed the plunger then pulled the syringe free.

Fifteen seconds.

I dropped it into a plastic bottle to join three other used syringes and returned the vial with its half-dose to my lunch box.

Ten seconds
.

Later I'd dispose of the used syringes deep in the medical waste bin at the morgue, but for now I chucked them back into the glove box.

Five seconds
.

I closed my lunch box and leaned back.

Three . . . two . . . one.

Delicious warmth spread through me like a smile. The sun shone brighter. My lips tingled. Diamonds glittered on the dash and sparkles tickled my nose. Laughing, I put the car in gear and left the parking lot.

All was right in my world. Time for a sandwich.

The half-dose of V12 was enough to keep me from obsessing about the meeting with Allen. Knowing him, it was some teensy issue that gave him an excuse to give me grief. That seemed to be a favorite hobby of his. I sure wished he'd take up whittling or cake decorating instead.

Traffic was hellacious, and even the chill-out effects of the mod weren't enough to keep me from snarling as my lunch break ticked away. I only needed to go two miles, but at this rate I was never going to make it to Alma's Café. Ever. I'd starve to death behind the wheel of my car. Rigor mortis would forever preserve my hand with my middle finger extended, aimed at idiot drivers everywhere.

Screw this.
In a desperate move of navigational brilliance and law-breaking, I whipped through a gas station and onto a quieter back street. Distance-wise it was longer, but at least I'd be able to go faster than three miles an hour.

As I passed Scott Funeral Home, a black Escalade SUV in the parking lot caught my eye. Brian Archer, head of our zombie Tribe security drove one, but of course lots of other people probably did, too. Well, maybe not
lots
since they weren't exactly cheap. And how many people also had the same black roof rack rails and front and rear molded splash guards
and
22" five-spoke silver and black machined wheels?

Hey, I dated a car guy for four years. I noticed that kind of stuff.

But the kicker was the bright blue Ford F-150 pickup next to it. Marcus's truck, I was damned near positive. The Tribe owned a bunch of funeral homes—part of the supply network for brains—but Scott Funeral Home wasn't one of them. So why would Brian and Marcus be
here
when they were supposedly on their way to the airport?

I cruised on past. It was none of my business. Really.

Not my business, but curiosity wasn't a crime. Maybe those weren't their vehicles after all? I made the block and got another look.

Nope, that was most definitely Marcus's truck, right down to the small ding on the rear bumper. It was possible he'd lent it to someone while he was out of town, but that didn't explain Brian's Escalade. What the hell, I had time to spare. I pulled into a parking space where I had a good view of the two vehicles and the front door, but not so close that my surveillance was obvious.

I barely had time to come to a full stop before Marcus exited the funeral home and plopped onto the bench beside the door. He was a seriously good-looking guy, tall and fit with dark hair and eyes, and strong Russian features. As I watched, he dropped his head back against the wall and slumped, clearly tired in more ways than just physically. I winced. Looked like his sudden “promotion” wasn't all puppies and ice cream. Had to be especially tough considering he'd been deliberately excluded from the Tribe's inner circle right up until they actually needed him.

Damn. Now my curiosity felt more like stalking. I climbed out of my car and started his way. The funeral home door opened again, and security specialist Rachel Delancey prowled out like an elegant, athletic cat, dark-skinned and with braids to die for. I stopped, still on the far side of the truck from them, and watched as Marcus smiled up at her.

Rachel took his hand and gave it what I knew damn well was a squeeze. “Call me later if anything turns up.”

“You know I will,” Marcus said like a promise. Grr. I knew I had no good reason to get my hackles up over Marcus getting involved with another woman. Except that this was
Rachel,
who hated me for no good reason.

Rachel turned away from him and headed toward his truck—and me. I scrambled to get my game face on and managed to pull off
cool and natural
by the time she rounded the front.

Surprise flashed in her eyes for only an instant before she gave me a tight smile. “Angel. What are you doing here?”

I smiled right back. “Seeing what y'all are up to.”

“Tribe business,” she said with a haughty lift of her chin.

“What a coincidence! I'm Tribe, too.”

She glanced toward Marcus then leveled a cool gaze at me. “For now.”

I rolled my eyes. “Really? You're gonna talk Marcus into kicking me out? Your shit ain't that hot.”

Rachel's lips pressed thin before she shouldered past me and climbed into Marcus's truck. As my shock settled, she looked down on me with a triumphant smirk then cranked the engine and backed out.

Bitch. Did she
know
I'd never driven his truck?

Marcus stared at me in shock as the departure of the truck left me exposed, then scrambled up from the bench. I closed the distance and gave him a sour look. “On your way to the airport, huh?”

“In a manner of speaking,” he said a bit stiffly. “I was going to text you.”

I snorted. “Is that why the big neon sign over your head is flashing ‘guilty'?”

He frowned. Guiltily. “Nothing to feel guilty about.” He gestured toward the Escalade. “We're leaving soon.”

“Gimme a break, Marcus.” I rolled my eyes. “You bailed on the texting when I asked for details on the business trip.”

A scowl tugged at his mouth. “It's Tribe business.”

As in, none of mine? I could take a big sucky hint. “You could've just said it was confidential Tribe business instead of
lying
,” I said, grimly pleased when he flinched. “But hey, whatever. I obviously don't deserve to know shit. It's not like I proved myself in New York or saved your ass and Pierce's, too.”

His face could've been carved from stone. “It's not my call.”

“Your
call?
” Acid dripped from my voice. “You mean
Pierce
won't let you make the call.” Marcus's uncle, Tribe leader Pietro Ivanov, had died in a fiery private plane crash on the way back from New York a few months ago. Except, he hadn't, and only a handful of people knew the truth. In order to escape Saberton Corporation's zombie dungeon lab, Pietro had been forced to make a bold move. He'd eaten the brain of enemy security guard Pierce Gentry and used the DNA blueprint to change from Pietro-shaped to Pierce-shaped. Only mature zombies had that freaky ability.

Unfortunately, once he became Pierce, he couldn't return to Pietro-shaped. After we returned from New York minus Pietro Ivanov, Pierce Gentry had joined the Tribe with the cover story—supported by Brian and Dr. Nikas—that he'd been a long-term mole in Saberton. However, Pierce couldn't exactly waltz into Pietro's vacated shoes as if nothing had happened. In order to keep everything running, he had to work from behind the throne.

And it was Marcus who now wore the crown.

I poked the zombie king in the chest. “Don't you dare let Pierce treat you like a figurehead! You gave up your badge
and
law school to take over for him. You deserve better than his bullsh—”

The funeral home door banged open, and Pierce himself stalked out, black eyebrows drawn together in a fierce glower. “Bullshit is right. I don't have time for it.”

“A big ol' hello to you, too,” I said with a healthy dollop of sarcasm.

Ignoring me, Pierce pulled Marcus a short distance away while I folded my arms over my chest and scowled. The two put their heads together, speaking too low for me to get the slightest whiff. Pierce was tall like Marcus and looked hella formidable in no-nonsense charcoal-grey polo shirt and black pants. On his belt he had a big-ass knife that I'd seen him use with scary-deadly ease. I still had trouble thinking of him as the same person as the older, stocky Pietro Ivanov. But there was no mistaking the Pietro confidence and attitude. And, occasional assholeishness.

Brian exited the funeral home, face set in unreadable mode. He took in the Pierce and Marcus conversation then gave me a faint smile, angled his head in the opposite direction in a clear “come with?” gesture. Suppressing a sigh, I nodded and moved down the sidewalk with him. Brian was guarding Pierce's privacy, but at least he was being nice about it.

Brian stopped after about twenty feet. “Don't mind Pierce,” he said. “The FBI has him worked up.”

I sucked in a breath. “The FBI? What's going on?”

“An agent visited three of his funeral homes in other states in the past two days.”

“Did they show up here?”

“About an hour ago. Mrs. Scott says the agent asked a few simple questions about how they handle bodies. Showed her a photo of a man and asked if she'd seen him come through. That's it. The other funeral homes reported the same.”

I chewed my lower lip as I considered that. “If the FBI is also poking around non-Tribe funeral homes, then isn't it less likely they're tracking zombie-related stuff?”

“At this point, we're baffled, but we can't take any chances,” Brian said. “There've been some uncomfortable inquiries into Mr. Ivanov's
death
as well.” His gaze drifted to Pierce. “We're checking all leads.”

“Is that why y'all are here instead of on your way to the airport?”

Brian gave me a sharp look. I gave him a bland one in response. I knew he'd realize who spilled the beans, but no need to throw Marcus under the bus. Even if he was a Lying LiarMcLyingPants. Besides, if I didn't let on how much I knew, maybe I could wheedle a few more details out of Brian.

But my wheedling hopes shattered when the door opened yet again, and a lanky black man. Tribe weapons specialist—and my trainer—Kyle Griffin. Pierce and Marcus broke off their conversation and moved his way.

“Her description of the photo is useless,” Kyle told them. “I did find out that at least one agent will be in town over the weekend.”

“Goddamn shitty timing,” Pierce said through clenched teeth. He blew out an angry breath. “Let's roll.”

Brian gave me an apologetic look and fished car keys from his pocket. “Take care, Angel,” he said and headed to the Escalade with Kyle in his wake.

Marcus stepped close and gave me a quick kiss on the cheek. “Sorry, Angel.” He pressed a movie premiere ticket into my hand. His. “I'll tell you what I can when I get back.”

“Yeah. Sure,” I muttered as he moved past me toward the SUV. That was probably yet another lie-to-Angel-for-no-good-reason thing. Brian was head of security, and
he
hadn't been so tight-lipped. I was no doubt being a petty bitch, but it
sucked
that once again Marcus hadn't trusted me enough to believe I'd act like a grownup. This day was already lousy enough with Allen's surprise visit to the morgue cooler, thank you very much. And what the hell would I do if Allen found out the truth? My gut tightened. If I got fired—

Pierce's gaze snapped to me. His nostrils flared as he stepped close and
sniiiffffed
. “What are you afraid of, Angel?”

“Oh, for fuck's sake.” Damn mature zombie super-senses. Still, it was probably smart to tell him. “I'm not
afraid,
” I corrected primly. “I'm a little worried about a stupid thing at work, that's all.” I gave him a quick and dirty rundown of my encounter with Allen and the impending meeting. “I don't think anything will come of it,” I added. “He'd have fired me already if he knew the deal, but it still makes me nervous.”

Pierce shot Marcus a dark look. “See?”

Marcus pressed his lips together, jaw tight as if holding back a comment.

“What's going on?” I asked.

“Far too much scrutiny,” Pierce said. He took my shoulders in a firm grip. “Call Dr. Nikas ASAP if you have trouble at the morgue with Allen Prejean. Ari will get hold of me. Got it?”

“Sure. Okay.” I had the uncomfortable sensation Pierce could see right through me. “What about the FBI agent here in town? Anything to worry about?”

“Rachel will be keeping tabs on the funeral homes. Naomi is undercover at the Zombie Fest, watching for anything noteworthy.” He huffed out a breath of frustration. “Not that we know what we're looking for.”

I perked up. “I'm going to the Zombie Fest tomorrow. I can be another set of eyes and ears there as well as around town.”

Pierce regarded me for a long moment, giving me time to prep my I've-proven-myself-over-and-over speech. But he squeezed my shoulders and let out a weary sigh. “That would be great, Angel. We certainly need the help.”

He meant it, I realized, and a tendril of worry crept through me. He shouldn't
need
my help. Not with Tribe security on the ball. But this was a job I could do. I had no trouble—

Without warning, Pierce leaned in close and sniffed again. I twitched in surprise then grabbed his head and licked his damn cheek.

He jerked back and stared at me.

“See how creepy it is on the receiving end?” I snapped. “Maybe a little warning next time? Or, I dunno, privacy?”

Eyes on me, he wiped a hand over his cheek then brought it to his nose.
Sniffed
. He gave me a frown I couldn't read then strode to the Escalade without a word.

Weirdest day
ever
.