White Trash Zombie Apocalypse (28 page)

He spread his arms, hands open, palms toward me, the jerky shaking evident despite the gloom. “Come with me,” he said, hoarse roughness in place of the ugly rasp of before.

“Get away from my dad,” I repeated.

To my surprise he obliged by taking a step back toward the wall, keeping his hands in clear sight. “Please. Come with me.”

I clearly heard the blend of intensity and desperation in his voice. He was dangerous and
so
not fooling around, but the “please” drew me. Shit. If he was about to do some nasty crap to me, I didn’t want it to happen in here where someone else could get hurt or kids might see. “Outside.”

To my relief he gave a single nod. “This way,” he replied, barely audible, tilting his head toward the door at the far end of the gym, opposite the main entrance. My relief ratcheted up a smidge as he led me through the door and down a short flight of stairs to an exit. If he’d come in this way, hopefully it meant Santa was all right.

My pulse slammed as I followed him, and I breathed a silent prayer of thanks that I drank the bottle of brains only a few hours earlier. I was far from fully tanked, but at least I wasn’t
hungry
.

He exited the building, then moved behind the hedge along the back wall and crouched, fisting his hands on his knees.

I stayed far enough back that he couldn’t reach out and grab me. “What do you want?”

A shudder wracked him. “What did you see?”

“Yeah, right,” I said with a snort. “Why should I tell you anything? So you know whether or not to kill me?” I smiled sweetly and spread my hands. “I didn’t see anything at all. How’s that?”

Even in the low light I could see the grimace that twisted his features. “You…shouldn’t…tell me.” He shook his head as though trying to clear confusion, then pulled two small glass vials from his pocket—one half-full of a milky-yellow liquid, the other full of a milky-blue one. His hands trembled as he uncapped the half-full vial and downed the contents.

“What the hell
is
that?” I asked, scowling. “What’s going on?”

“Stabilizer.” He held up a heavily tremoring hand. “For this.”

I consciously resisted the urge to move to him, clasp his hand between mine to soothe him. Pursing my lips, I regarded him for a long, silent moment. “Dr. Charish did that to you?” I finally asked.

Giving a single nod, he leaned his head back against the wall and closed his eyes.

I took a very cautious step forward. “Do you need brains?” I asked quietly.

He didn’t open his eyes. “Yes,” he said in a cracked whisper, tinged with a desperation I didn’t think he intended to reveal.

“Stay here,” I told him. “I’ll be right back.” I didn’t wait for a response, simply hurried back inside and to the little fridge and my last bottle. Holy crap, but I really hoped I wasn’t making a godawful mistake. Every fiber of logic in me said to let him rot, literally. He’d been a complete ass to me since I’d turned him, and it was crazy to believe that as soon as I gave him the brains he wanted he wouldn’t do something ugly.

I grabbed the bottle, then headed out again. Philip
had shifted to sit with his back against the wall, his head lowered, in that moment looking like anything but a badass zombie soldier. I unscrewed the bottle top and crouched by him.

“Here, drink this,” I said.

He lifted his head, pain flickering over his face as if the simple movement cost him tremendous effort. “I shouldn’t…be here,” he croaked, making no move to take the bottle.

Scowling, I plopped my ass down beside him. “You’re here now.
Drink
.”

After another few seconds of hesitation, he finally took the bottle from me and slugged down half the contents. A wave of confusion passed over his face as he lowered the bottle.

I had plenty of my own confusion going. My zombie-baby had been a complete and utter asshole, but there was also no denying that something was seriously wrong with him. There was no damn way he could’ve faked the level of anxiety and despair I’d seen in him earlier when he begged Dr. Charish for assistance. The urge to help him kept hammering at me, no matter how hard I tried to focus on the bad things he’d done, and would likely still try to do to me.

“Drink the rest,” I muttered.

His gaze skittered to mine, lines of pain deep in his face. “Have…more?”

I hesitated. No damn way was I telling him about my stash. “Not with me,” I hedged. “But you can have the rest of this.”

He remained still for another few seconds, as if running through his options, then lifted the bottle with both hands and drank another few gulps. He recapped it with a couple of inches of brain smoothie still in it and set it beside me. “Thank you.”

Well, that was a whole lot nicer than the “Fuck you” he’d
given me down at the boat launch. “What’s going on?” I asked. “Why did you come here?” I didn’t think it was only to score some brains, even though he’d obviously needed them desperately.

“I shouldn’t be here,” he said again, then drew a breath that verged on a sob. “Angel, it hurts.” A shudder wracked him. “Oh, god.”

I put a hand on his arm. “Philip, I can get you help,” I said quietly, suppressing a shiver at the stark pain in his voice. “Please. Let me—”

“No!” He drew in a sharp, noisy breath. “No,” he said again, shaking his head. “I can’t. You…no.”

Annoyance at the stoic bullshit flared. “Great, so stay fucked up,” I retorted. “You’re a goddamn idiot.”

Philip dropped his chin to his chest, shoulders shaking and breath coming as if weeping silently, though there were no tears.

“Damn it,” I muttered. Sighing, I slipped an arm around him and pulled his head to my shoulder. Stooooooopid parasite. It felt right, but what the
hell
was I doing?

To my surprise he seemed to ease, breathing becoming a bit more regular. “Shouldn’t be…here,” he murmured.

“Yeah yeah yeah,” I said with a roll of my eyes. “You said that already. Now shut up about it.”

He closed his eyes, tremors easing more. I realized I was stroking his hair, though I didn’t remember lifting my hand to do so.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured after a moment.

For which part?
I wanted to ask. There’d certainly been a lot of bad shit. But he was calm now, and I didn’t want him upset and unstable again.

“Yeah, well, you owe me a new jacket,” I muttered.

He lifted his head and looked into my face, eyes nowhere near as confused and pain-clouded as a few minutes earlier. “I have to go.”

“Sure,” I said. “But drink the rest of the bottle first.”

Scrubbing a hand over his face, he shifted to sit fully back against the wall again. He picked up the bottle, looked at the remaining sludgy-brown liquid in it. “When can you get more?”

Was he asking because he wanted me to get him more? Or was he concerned that I’d have to go without?

I avoided a direct answer. “I’ll be okay. My people will take care of me,” I said, with the heavy implication that
his
people obviously didn’t. “Drink the rest.”

He gave a single tight nod, then nearly ripped the cap off before downing the remainder.

“Why were you dressed up as an extra for the movie?” I asked.

He rubbed at his eyes and set the bottle down. “Have to stay close to the subjects,” he muttered. “Easiest way.”

“Subjects? Of what?” I peered at him, eyes narrowed.

He blinked and looked over at me. “Shit,” he murmured, as if suddenly realizing he’d said too much. He gave his head a sharp shake. “Nothing. Forget I said it.” He paused. “I’m serious. You need to forget it.”

Yeah, like that was going to happen. His shoulder was warm against mine, and I didn’t want to lose the contact with him, but I also knew damn well he was super dangerous and working for people who didn’t have warm fuzzies for me. Reluctantly, I pulled away from him and stood.

“You’re better now,” I made myself say. “You need to leave.”

A barely audible moan escaped him as I moved away, but he pushed himself to his feet, gave a slight nod. “I’m going.”

I slapped down the urge to tell him I’d find a way to give him more help. “You owe me,” I told him instead. “I mean it. Don’t come back around here.”

A wave of what sure as hell looked like sadness
passed over his face before his expression hardened. He straightened, looked down his nose at me. “I got what I wanted,” he said, then turned and headed off along the wall behind the hedge.

Confused, I watched him go, unable to shake the feeling I was missing something obvious.

To my surprise, I managed to get back to sleep without any problem. Maybe my subconscious accepted that if Philip or any of his cronies were going to mess with me they’d had ample opportunity to do so when I followed him out. Or maybe I was simply tired as all hell. Either way, I slept like the dead until around eight in the morning, and only woke up then because another goddamn fire truck went by on the street outside.

A few more boxes of donated clothing had been brought by, and I managed to snag more stuff for my dad as well as a couple of t-shirts for myself. I even found cargo pants in my size, or rather in a teenage boy size that fit me well enough. After the clothing search I grabbed a quick shower in the girls’ locker room, silently grateful that my parasite would take care of any godawful foot fungus I caught from the grungy tile floors.

My dad was peering at a newspaper when I came back out. “Have you eaten this morning?” I asked him as I dragged a comb through my wet hair.

“Yeah. Some fancy cinnamon roll thing.”

“They have eggs and bacon too,” I told him. “You should try and eat some protein.” I tugged on shoes and socks. “I’m gonna see if I can get a ride in to work and then the phone store to get us new phones.”
And the DMV. And probably the bank too
, I thought. I needed a new debit card, and wanted to deposit the money he’d given me. Holy crap, but there was a lot to do. Good thing most of it was in semi-reasonable walking distance from downtown. Sure, I wanted to find out more about why Philip was pretending to be an extra and who the hell the “subjects” were he was talking about, but taking care of my dad and me had to take priority right now.

“You need anything while I’m gone?” I asked.

Dad shook his head, turned the page in his newspaper. “Don’t need shit.”

That’s when I saw it. A picture of Marcus at the bottom of the front page under all the stuff about the flood. And a headline that read,
Heroic Rescue Saves Family of Three
.

I snatched the paper away from my dad. “And when were you planning on telling me about this?” I asked, as I hurried to read the brief article.

“What? About that cop?”

“You should have said something,” I said with a scowl. He muttered something I decided to ignore while I focused on reading.

The article praised Marcus for diving into a flooded drainage canal to save a young family from certain death after their car went off the road shortly after dark. Unfortunately, it continued, the officer sustained a broken leg and had to be transported to the hospital for treatment.

I silently cursed the lack of details, but exhaled in relief. A broken leg was nothing but an inconvenience for a zombie. And most importantly, it explained why he hadn’t come by last night.

I hesitated, then thrust the paper back at my dad, gave him a hug. “It’s all gonna be okay,” I said. “We’re still alive and that’s what counts.”

His eyes lifted to mine. “That’s good, Angelkins. Everything’s gonna be just fine. You and me.”

“Damn straight,” I said. “We’re too mean to keep down for long.”

“When you coming back?”

“I’ll probably be a few hours, I figure,” I told him. “Hope to be back by noon or so, though.” My brow furrowed. “You gonna be okay? I heard someone say they’re getting a TV in here to show movies.”

“I know how to take care of myself,” he said with a scowl. “You go do whatever you gotta do.”

I scowled right back at him, but I couldn’t help but be perversely glad that his orneriness was returning.

It didn’t take long to find a volunteer who was more than happy to give me a ride to the Coroner’s Office. Once there, she even gave me her number so that I could call when I needed a ride back.

It took me a few seconds and several brain cells to figure out why the front door of the office was locked, then I remembered it was a Saturday.
Crap. Guess I won’t be going to the DMV today
. Since my keycard was at the bottom of the swamp by now, I used the number pad of the lock to gain entry.

My footsteps echoed through the quiet halls as I continued through the main building and into the morgue. I planned on finding a way to get to my storage unit, but if there were any available brains to be had here, I’d be stupid to pass them up. With all the weirdness going on with Philip and Saberton, I wanted to be
tanked
.

But when I pulled the cooler door open, I stopped in my tracks and stared in shock. Body bags—had to be over a dozen of them. All three stretchers were full, as were the shelves along the walls.

The flood.
Oh my god. These are people who died in the flood
.

My dad could have easily ended up in one of those. If I hadn’t been able to call Pietro for a rescue, or if I hadn’t been home, there was no way he’d have made it out. Goosebumps skimmed over me, and I quickly backed out of the cooler and shut the door. My gaze went to the whiteboard on the wall by the cutting room. Three had already been autopsied. Dr. Leblanc had probably worked late last night.

So far the only brains I’d refused to consume were children and friends—like when Marianne, Ed’s girlfriend, had been murdered. I’d long ago lost my respect for the dead, at least that’s what I tried to tell myself. But I still winced with a razor-sharp stab of regret as I went back into the cooler, found the body of Bern, Alfred B/M 78 YO, and feasted on his brain.

*   *   *

After I tanked up on both brains and guilt, I fired up the morgue computer and tried to decipher the instructions for applying for disaster aid. After a frustrating half hour, I decided that, for the sake of my own sanity, I needed to get someone to help me out. Since the flood had affected relatively few people, its victims didn’t qualify for federal aid, which left only state agencies with their bizarre requirements and confusing instructions.