White Trash Zombie Apocalypse (12 page)

She didn’t have a camera in her hands, however, and after a few seconds of frantic thought I decided she probably hadn’t followed me here. First off, I figured she’d be a little more sneaky about it if she had. Plus, the expression on her face was a far cry from the calm focus I saw earlier today. Even from this distance it was tough to mistake the expression of worry and anxiety.

She’d parked on the other side of the diner from my car, so there was a damn good chance she had no idea I was here.
Perfect time to find out what the hell’s going on
. I dropped a ten on the counter to more than cover my coffee and pie, slung my purse across my chest and headed out, grabbing my obnoxious raincoat on the way. Sure, without it I’d probably have an easier time getting close before she realized it was me, but I really didn’t want to get wet. Yeah, I was a weenie.

I strode toward the Jeep with my hood up and purpose in my step. With the way she was parked I came up on the driver’s side, which was fine with me. Hopefully that would make it easier to stop her if she tried to make a run for it.

She was still doing something in the back, but the sound of crunching gravel beneath my boots alerted her to my approach. She ducked her head around the side of the Jeep, eyes widening in surprise at the sight of me.

“Hey! You! I wanna talk to you!” I snarled.

Alarm flashed across her features, then in a smooth move she stepped from behind the Jeep, pulled a shotgun from the back and brought it up to hip level to point at me.

I jerked to a stop, still about a dozen feet from her.
Well shit
, I thought in surprise and a bit of annoyance.
This escalated quickly.
With the way her Jeep was angled, no one inside the diner could see the shotgun. They’d certainly hear the blast, though that wouldn’t do me much good.

“Just back off,” the blond woman said, tension roiling through her voice. Yet even though the barrel of the shotgun didn’t waver, she really didn’t look as if she wanted to shoot me. At all. On the other hand, she also looked scared and freaked and a little desperate, and I knew that sort of emotion-soup could easily overcome any reluctance to pull the trigger. Her left hand steadied the barrel, and my eyes narrowed. She had a splint on that hand that I was pretty damn sure hadn’t been there when I saw her earlier today.

I shook my head slowly. “I’m not gonna back off until you tell me what the hell’s going on, and why you’re following me and taking pictures.”

“Because it was my job,” she said, voice tight and full of desperate intensity. “But I’m not taking any more pics. I’m leaving.” Her grip on the shotgun tightened. “So…back off.”

I remained exactly where I was. “No. Not backing off.” I kept my own voice as calm as I could manage. “What job do you have that includes stalking me?”

She edged toward the driver’s side door. “One I quit,” she said. “And I have to get out of here.”

Watching her carefully, I took a slow step forward. “I’m not afraid of getting shot,” I told her. Which wasn’t entirely true. Getting shot
hurt
, and I had a feeling getting shot by a shotgun would hurt a
lot
. But I knew damn well something more was going on. “You haven’t answered my question.”

“Please. I don’t want to shoot you!” she said, desperation thickening her voice now. “I have to
go
.” Her eyes flicked toward the highway and back to me. Was someone after her?

“Look, are you into something fucked up?” I asked, easing forward another step. Probably a stupid question, now that I thought about it, since she was holding a shotgun on me. “Maybe I can help,” I added. Hell, I knew that
I’m so screwed
look on her face. I’d seen it on my own a time or two.

A brief spark of hope flickered in her eyes, but then she shook her head and it died. “Yeah, really a twisted mess,” she said. To my relief she lowered the shotgun. “I…won’t shoot you. But, please, I have to go.” Her voice quavered. “The people I worked for, they’ll be coming after me. And you don’t want to be around when that happens.”

Was she concerned for me? Or for what I might see or find out? “First, tell me who you work for,” I said.

“
Worked
for,” she replied, emphasizing the past tense. She edged closer to the driver’s door. I knew damn well she was about to make a break for it, and I tensed in expectation.

“Yeah, fine, who
did
you work for?” I shot back, allowing my annoyance to color my tone.

As expected, she made an absolutely desperate attempt to yank the door open and get into the Jeep. I poured on the speed and closed the distance between us, grabbed the door handle as she slid into the seat, and blocked the door with my own body.

“For fuck’s sake!” I snapped. “Would you chill? I want some answers, and I’m not letting you go until you give them!”

She breathed raggedly, seeming on the verge of tears and, with the fierce strength that burned behind her hazel eyes, it looked utterly unnatural on her. She tugged futilely on the door a few times as if it would somehow convince me to move, then gave up and let her hand drop. “Shit. Shit.”

I swept a quick glance around. No one inside the diner seemed to notice our little altercation—helped no doubt by the fact it was all happening on the side away from the broad windows. And the highway remained deserted.

“Can we please talk?” I asked, returning my attention to her.

She sagged. “Sure. Why the hell not.”

“Cool. Okay, cool.” I glanced around again, then hurried around the front of the Jeep to the passenger side. I fully expected her to start the vehicle and try and take off during those few seconds, but for whatever reason she seemed fairly resigned to my obnoxious desire for information. I slid into the passenger seat, shut the door, then gently pushed aside the barrel of the shotgun that lay across her lap so that it wasn’t pointed straight at me.

“All righty, that’s better,” I said. My gaze dropped to her hand. The pinky and ring finger were heavily splinted, and purplish bruising showed between strips of tape. “Who broke your hand?”

Exhaling, she leaned her head back against the seat. A curious expression of regret and admiration briefly passed over her face. “Brian Archer. Pietro Ivanov’s head of security. He caught me trying to get pictures of Ivanov and Jane Pennington.”

“Oh, wow,” I said, more than a little shocked. Though once I thought about it, I had zero doubt that the ice-calm
security guy could break fingers without batting an eyelash.

Her mouth pursed slightly in annoyance, and I got the sense it was at herself. For getting caught? Somehow I could totally believe that would irk this woman.
Irked
looked a lot more natural on her than the verge-of-tears thing. Whatever was going on had to be huge if it pushed her to that point.

“And your bosses are mad you got caught?” I asked, trying to put the pieces together. Yet I figured they’d have to be
really
mad for her to be this freaked. Surely there was more to it.

She gave a low snort. “They don’t even know about that. It’s…other stuff I recently discovered about them.” Sighing, she shook her head. “I can’t go back.” Her eyes went to mine. “Please, I really need to go. And you need to be far away from me.”

I stubbornly didn’t get out of the Jeep. “What’s your name?”

A flicker of exasperation lit her eyes. “Heather,” she said, pointedly not giving a last name.

I didn’t bother asking for it. “I’m Angel Crawford, but I guess you know that already.”

“Yeah. I do.” Her gaze dropped from mine.

“Tell me who you work for.” I didn’t make it a question or request.

She grimaced. “Saberton Corporation.”

I didn’t expect that answer. “I don’t understand. Why the hell would Saberton want pictures of me?” But then my thick-headed brain decided to wake up. “Wait, they do defense contract stuff, don’t they?” A chill swept through me. Did this have anything to do with Kristi Charish’s Zoldiers project? It had to. “Do you know
why
they wanted pics of me?”

Heather shook her head. “Not just you. Pietro Ivanov and pretty much anyone associated with him.”

“What do you know about Pietro…and me?” I asked warily.

She took a deep breath as if clinging to calm by her fingernails. “I know what you are,” she said, voice cracking slightly. “And I’m leaving because I don’t agree with Saberton’s
philosophy
, especially when it comes to using your kind.” Her eyes flicked toward me. “Zombies.”

Yikes. I knew Dr. Charish had been dealing with some government or corporate group when she had me as a test subject. Was that Saberton? Were they interested in her zombie-soldier idea? “You know a lot of zombies?” I asked, still watching her.

“Met my first a couple of years ago. John Kang,” she said to my surprise. Kang, the first zombie who I knew was a zombie. “He was my best friend, hands down,” she continued, surprising me even more, especially with the depth of sincerity in her voice. Her mouth tightened. “Saberton wanted him in their pocket because of all his contacts and connections. They wanted me to set him up to, ah, encourage his cooperation.”

“Connections like Dr. Sofia Baldwin?” I asked, cocking my eyebrow in her direction. Before her death, Dr. Baldwin had been working to develop fake brains that zombies could survive on instead of human brains.

Heather gave a little nod, confirming my suspicion. This was getting more and more interesting. If interesting meant
holy shit this is seriously messed up
.

“I knew Sofia,” I said. “She, uh, did a lot of zombie research.” I paused. “They’re both dead, you know—Kang and Sofia. Murdered.”

Heather’s good hand tightened on the barrel of the shotgun. “I know,” she said, grief slashing across her face. “God, the only possible good thing that came out of Kang’s death was that it happened before Saberton had the chance to get their hooks into him or find out anything he knew.”

I struggled to put it all together. From what I’d seen, Kang hadn’t held a Pietro-level of power, but he certainly had influence among local zombies, especially those who weren’t associated with Pietro. Ed had killed Kang, but I wasn’t sure if Charish had specifically ordered that hit or if he’d taken it upon himself. However, she’d openly admitted to killing Sofia. If Charish had been working with Saberton at the time, surely they’d been pissed at her about both losses.

“Were you working with Kristi Charish?” I asked.

Heather twitched, almost as if she was recoiling at the name. She obviously knew who Kristi Charish was. “Not…directly,” she answered.

I frowned. “What about Philip?” Crap, I didn’t even know his last name.

But again she apparently knew who I was talking about. The corners of her mouth turned down, and her brows drew together. “Yeah. Known him about a year. Gung ho company man.”

That meant he’d been working for Saberton for at least six months before Charish forced me to turn him into a zombie. That made it pretty evident that Saberton had already been involved with Charish at the time she’d kidnapped me.

“He’s a zombie now. An experiment gone bad,” she continued with a shake of her head. “Haven’t dealt with him much since.” Her gaze rested on me as though waiting for me to say something.

Well, I didn’t know how much she already knew, but I wasn’t about to confirm that I was the one who made Philip a zombie. “Why are you freaked out about leaving?” I asked instead. “Or is this one of those deals where you don’t simply walk away?”

Her mouth twisted. “It’s one of those things where you know too much, don’t like what you know, know they’ll kill you over it, so you run and hide and figure they’ll
find you sooner or later.” She shook her head. “And they’re on to me, so it’s going to be sooner if I don’t get out of here.”

Silent, I considered her plight. I didn’t know a damn thing about this woman except that supposedly she wanted to quit this evil company for somewhat vague reasons. But she knew Kang, and she definitely seemed upset about his death. “What if someone could help you?” I found myself asking.

Heather raised an eyebrow, mouth pursed in skepticism. “You mean like if my fairy godmother came in and waved a wand? It’s not going to happen.”

“How ’bout a trashy guardian angel?” I said, offering her a slight smile.

She gave me a sigh. “Thanks. But I don’t know what you could do.”

I forced myself to logically consider why I felt an urge to help her out. It didn’t totally make sense—after all, she was working for a company that was probably involved in Charish’s Zoldiers, a project which was fucked up on numerous levels. But so far all Heather had done to me was take pictures, as far as I knew. And she didn’t want to work for Saberton anymore. Plus the reason she wanted to leave was a damn good one in my eyes. I was cool with helping anyone who was against using zombies.

But mostly it was that expression of “I’m so screwed” that got to me.

“Look, I know what it’s like to be in a no-win situation, and Pietro owes me a couple of favors,” I said. It would take a lot more than a ticket to the Gourmet Gala to make up for the fact that Pietro allowed Charish to have me kidnapped. “Maybe he could help protect you.” I shrugged. “Hell, maybe you could go to work for him instead.” Because I totally had that influence, right? I held back the urge to roll my eyes at myself. But, hey, maybe she
could
be an asset to the zombie side of things.

Naked hope and a curious longing brightened her eyes for a brief instant before they shadowed again. “God.” Her brow furrowed, and she looked almost wistful. “I don’t know. Do you really think he’d help?”

“It’s worth a shot, right?” I dug into my purse and pulled out Brian’s card. “There you go,” I said, setting it on the console. “That’s Brian’s number.” She seemed cool, but I wasn’t about to give her Pietro’s. Jesus Christ, but I hoped this didn’t blow up in my face. What the hell would I do if Heather called Brian, and he told her to fuck off? I didn’t know if I could simply walk away from this now if that happened. Yet I also knew I’d put her in a really bad position—I’d slowed down her flight, and now was trying to convince her to turn herself over to the “enemy.”