White Trash Zombie Gone Wild (9 page)

My fingernails dug into my palms. But I needed to be sharp to follow up on Zombie Shoes Guy tomorrow.

I drew up a dose, set the syringe aside.

I gotta quit.

My dad deserved better than this.
I
deserved better. It wasn't worth risking my job or the Tribe or my life. Come hell or high water, I was going to do the right thing, get off this crap, for me and my dad. I'd figure the rest out. School. Stress.

A roll of duct tape sat on the floor by my dresser. I grabbed it, took the partly used vial, added it to the other two, and wrapped several layers around all three vials. That would help me remember to keep my hands off. I tucked the bundle in the fridge then downed a bottle of brain smoothie. The itch eased a little.

Only a little. The filled syringe still gleamed on my nightstand.

I gotta quit.

The liquid bliss of the dose wound through me, made all the bad go away. Self-loathing, worry, doubt, fear—gone. Pride swept in as I disposed of the empty syringe. I was already making progress. For the first time in forever, I hadn't drawn up a dose to be ready and waiting on the nightstand in the morning.

I turned off the lamp, relaxed back on the bed. Fireflies blinked in the darkness. Hungry lips found mine. Hands caressed. I shuddered and moaned in pleasure.

I was gonna quit. Cold turkey. No problem.

Tomorrow.

The shrilling of my phone jerked me out of a dream of being chased by zombies in Mardi Gras masks as they groaned
Throoww meee sooommethinggg misssterrr.
Letting out my own zombie groan, I pushed aside the weird images, groped for my phone and blearily read the text message from the dispatcher. I still wasn't used to the rudeness of people dying in the wee hours of the morning, but I'd been doing the on-call thing long enough that I knew to immediately flick on the nightstand light and get my sleepy ass moving. Now was
not
the time to risk falling asleep again. After screwing things up with the lab, I needed the morgue job more than ever.

Rain drummed on the roof, a hypnotic beat that made me want to dive back under the covers. Razor blades of brain-hunger sliced my belly, and my bones itched. I reached for the syringe of V12 on the nightstand.

Nothing.

I felt around then switched on the lamp.
Gone
. No syringe. Pulse racing, I scrambled out of bed, searched the floor—

Jesus, Angel
. I forced myself to breathe. Cold turkey. Right.

I fumbled open the lock on the mini-fridge then stared at the three vials duct-taped together. Reaching for them, I froze at the sight of the mottled grey skin on my arm.
No.
I touched my face and let out a whimper as skin sloughed.

Trembling, I grabbed a bottle of brain slush and chugged it down. The mottling faded, but the grey persisted. I only had one bottle left, so I snatched a brain burrito, peeled the foil back, and scarfed it. I scrambled up and peered in the mirror. My skin had pinked back up—for the most part—but still had a greyish cast. It wasn't
bad,
but it shouldn't be grey at all. Not after eating a double helping of brains
and
chugging a bottle before bed.

Cold turkey. No more V12. Ever.

Resolved, I hurried to dress, then shoved my feet into the obnoxious Tammy boots. Trashing them in the mud would make the day better. A packet of Tribe-issued brains—labeled as ProteinGel—went into a pocket as a quick-fix if I needed brains fast and easy. Raincoat and lunch box in hand, I crept down the hall so as to not wake up my dad. His door was a few inches ajar, and I peeked in. He slept in a sprawl, face down on the bed and with one leg sticking out from beneath the blanket. His breath whistled softly, and I drank in the sound for several seconds. Spring allergies always kicked his ass, though it wasn't as bad since he'd stopped drinking. Used to kick mine as well until I was turned.

The rain was coming down in buckets as I dashed to the van, but it slowed to a drizzle not long after I left my house. I murmured a relieved thank you to Mother Nature. Picking up bodies in pouring rain
sucked.
Plus, the address the dispatcher gave me was
Highway 180 between Rat Tail Road and Catfish Drive
, which meant this was an outdoor pickup. Good thing was that finding it would be a snap. That bit of highway wasn't far from Randy's place, which meant I'd driven it about a billion times and knew every cross street by heart.

By the time I passed Rat Tail Road, the rain had stopped. The rising sun merrily burned through the retreating clouds in bright and cheery slashes of color as if to say, “Isn't spring
awesome
?” Unfortunately, I had a feeling the glorious display would be wasted on a bunch of people this morning. Either there was one hell of a cop party going on, or this was a murder scene. Stretched along the side of the highway were five marked police cars, four unmarked detective units, three SUVs, and two TV trucks.
And a partridge in a pear tree.
A flash of yellow from beyond the line of cars drew my gaze to where several knots of people worked behind crime scene tape on the opposite side of the highway. Yup, it was a murder.

I pulled in behind a TV truck at the end of the long line of vehicles. A reporter I vaguely recognized leaned against the bumper as he struggled to wipe off mud caked halfway to his knees with a handful of tattered napkins.

Wincing in sympathy, I snagged one of the towels I kept in the van for emergencies and jogged up to him. “I think this will work better.”

He accepted the towel with a grateful TV-worthy white smile. “Thank you from the very bottom of my heart.” He got to work on the mud then glanced at my footwear and chuckled. “If I thought there was any chance your boots would fit me, I'd pay top dollar.”

I cocked a gaudy boot out. “Women's size six and a half?”

“Darn. Men's size twelve, extra wide.” He grimaced at the now mud-covered towel. “Do you have a plastic bag to put this in?”

“It's cool,” I said. “Just toss it by the van when you're done. I'm betting I'll need it once I finish up.”

“I'm sure you will. It's a bog out there.” He glanced toward the crime scene tape. “Both the sheriff and the captain of investigations are on scene, which tells me this is a big deal. They're being awfully tight-lipped, though.” He slanted a look at me. “Know anything?”

“Clueless as a newborn babe,” I replied with a sweet smile. “Not that I'd tell you if I did.” That would be a sure way to get fired.

He laughed. “Understood. I owe you one anyway.”

Hey, I needed all the favors I could get. With my good deed done for the day, I snagged a body bag from the van then tromped down the road. A “big deal” could be darn near anything in St. Edwards Parish. It was rare to have more than a handful of murders in a year, and most of them were of the alcohol-plus-redneck-plus-dumb-fight variety. The majority of the deaths I dealt with were from natural causes or accidents, but year before last had seen an unusual uptick in the murder rate, thanks to Ed Quinn's zombie hunting spree.

After what felt like a half-mile hike, I made it to the scene. Yellow tape started at the edge of the highway and marked off a half-acre square of low grass and scattered brush. Within the perimeter, rubber-booted crime scene techs and uniformed officers prowled in organized search patterns. At the center of the taped-off area, orange privacy screens shielded the body from curious eyes—and cameras—while knots of detectives and other officials conferred nearby.

Nick stood slightly apart from the others as he made notes on a pad. I signed the crime scene log, ducked under the tape and made my way through the mud toward him. He turned as I approached then glanced down. A faint smile danced across his mouth. “Wow. Those are obnoxious.”

“Sure are!” Even a thick layer of mud did little to hide the tacky glitz. “Makes it easy to find me, though.” I lifted my chin toward the orange screens. “What's the deal? Why all the attention?”

His smile vanished. “The sheriff thinks the serial killer may be back.”

My breath seized, but an instant later common sense swept in. No. There was absolutely no way he was back. First off, the killer—Ed Quinn—had been horrified to learn Dr. Charish had manipulated him into killing zombies, which meant he damn well wasn't going to start up again. Second, and more importantly, he was tucked away in Costa Rica with a new identity, thanks to Pierce—back when he was Pietro.

“Why does he think that?” I asked.

“Well, our guy is a lot shorter than he used to be.”

“Shiiiiiiit.” I knew what he meant. A head shorter. If this was a copycat murder, was the victim a zombie? Though that was pretty unlikely since pretty much no one but zombies knew the nature of Ed's victims. “Is the head here?”

“They're still searching the area. Got a dog out.” Nick waved a hand toward a far corner of the yellow tape where a German Shepherd sat patiently in one of the few non-muddy spots. A tall, dark-haired man with his back to me held the lead as he spoke with Detective Mike Abadie. Abadie was a solid detective and an asshole—at least to me. We'd settled into a mutual dislike of each other and traded insults and jabs whenever the opportunity arose. The dog handler talking to him had broad shoulders and a narrow waist. My gaze drifted further down to—

Holy shit
. I knew that ass. Tactical Pants Man. He worked with a cadaver dog? My lustful thoughts poofed into smoke. My habit was to keep my distance from cadaver dogs and their handlers. Even if the guy had no clue that zombies were real, it would get his attention if his dog indicated that I smelled like a corpse.

“I don't recognize the dog guy,” I said. “Is he new around here?”

“Nah, he's not a local,” Nick said absently as he jotted notes. “The sheriff knows him, asked if he could come help out. Word is the guy has a ton of search-and-rescue experience, and his dog is top notch.” He looked up as a burly detective with a scruffy mustache approached us. Ben Roth, who I liked as much as I
didn't
like Abadie.

“Sorry to make y'all wait,” Ben said. “Crime scene is still tagging and bagging crap by the body. Lucky for us, one of those things was his wallet. No cash, but credit cards and driver's license were in it.”

“Name on the DL?” Nick asked.

Ben consulted a pocket notebook. “Grayson Seeger, white male, thirty-four years old, from Venice Beach, California. 'Course, we don't have a face to verify that's actually our victim.”

“It's a start,” Nick said. “We'll try and verify with fingerprints.”

“Was he robbed?” I asked Ben while Nick jotted down the info.

“Looks like it. The pockets were turned out, but no way to know if that was the reason for the attack.”

I cocked my head. “Tell me the truth, Ben. Do
you
think Ed is killing people again?”

Ben gave a rueful smile. “Nope. I don't think the sheriff does either, but it's easier for him to get resources if he says it's a possibility.” He shrugged. “Ed's gone to ground, and he's not stupid enough to come back and start that crap again. My theory is that it's some asshole from the Zombie Fest pulling a copycat.”

“The Zombie Fest? Why?”

Ben snorted. “We found one of those stupid Bear's Den zombie hunter survival kit duffels.”

Nick jerked his head up, blinked, then curled his lip in derision. “Way to leave evidence.”

The presence of the zombie hunter kit pretty much ruled out that a real zombie hunter had killed a real zombie. Way too cheesy. But maybe a clueless copycat got lucky and bagged a real zombie? Or was this an ordinary everyday decapitation? I sure as hell preferred the last option. “Maybe the duffel belonged to your victim?”

“It's possible,” Ben said, “but my gut instinct doesn't agree with that.” He patted his belly for emphasis. “We found a car a mile or so up the road. Tags came back as a rental, and the company confirmed it was rented to the vic. Looks like Mr. Seeger ran out of gas.”

“Cell phone reception is lousy out here,” I commented. “He couldn't call for roadside assistance. He was probably hiking to the XpressMart.”

Ben nodded, grim. “That's how it looks, and is why I don't think the duffel belonged to the victim. It was found a hundred feet in the wrong direction if he was going to the XpressMart. Plus, the kits come with a bat and machete, and both are missing.”

I shuddered. “How many of those things did Bear sell?”

Ben blew out his breath. “A shitload. I just got off the phone with him. Between the website and the store, he's sold a hundred and seventeen so far. He's putting a list together of everyone who paid by credit card, but thirty-four were cash purchases.”

I boggled. “A hundred and seventeen? Are you serious?”

“Hell, fifty-five of those were through the website,” Ben said. “Several as far away as Oregon.”

Nick cleared his throat. “He'll sell out of them before it's over,” he said, eyes on his notes. “There are a lot of survivalist types who hang on his every word. If Bear suggested that artificial poultry would be useful in the event of a governmental collapse, there'd be a sudden run on rubber chickens.”

“I don't doubt it,” Ben said, mouth twisting, then looked around. “Unfortunately, the rain wiped out any footprints or tire tracks, so the duffel is the best lead I have. The lab's going to try and get prints off the survival crap that was in there, but the mesh bag it comes packed in didn't look like it'd been opened. As soon as I clear from here I'm gonna head into town and get the list of buyers and a copy of the surveillance video to try and track down people who paid cash.”

“Can you get fingerprints off the wallet?” I asked.

“It's one of those canvas deals. Crime scene bagged it, but I doubt they'll get a useful print. The FBI has a way to lift prints off fabric, so I'll submit the wallet and duffel to them and see what we get back.” Ben sighed. “It'll take weeks to hear anything, though.”

“Maybe you'll be lucky and the dude will have DNA under his fingernails.”

“That would make my day.” He glanced toward the privacy screens and got a nod from a tech. “Okay, y'all are up.”

Nick and I followed Ben around the screens. I thought I heard someone snicker at my gaudy rain boots, but screw 'em. My feet were obnoxious, but they were also dry and mud-free.

The victim was, indeed, missing a head. A messy, hacked stump of neck topped what looked like an otherwise healthy body. He wore a disturbingly familiar flannel shirt, unbuttoned to reveal a white t-shirt with several long rips in it, smeared in mud and blood. My gaze traveled down similarly ripped and stained jeans, to the hand-painted Zombie Pinup Girl high-tops on his feet.

“Oh my god!” I blurted in shock. “I know this guy!”

Ben wheeled toward me so fast he almost fell over. “How?”

“I don't
know
him, but I talked to him last night at the movie premiere. He was with the production company.” I waved a hand at his shoes. “He had those on. I told him they were cool.” A sharp pang went through me, and I couldn't speak for a few seconds. “He was really nice,” I finally managed. Damn it. I took a long breath and got the ache settled to where it wouldn't interfere. “He was in these clothes, dressed up like a zombie. The rips were in his shirt, and I bet some of that blood is paint.” I yanked gloves on and crouched, lifted one of his hands and peered at it. “See, there's a bit of makeup here.”