White Trash Zombie Apocalypse

Page 36

He stiffened. “You never told me. How come you never told me?”
“Well, because I…” I shifted uncomfortably. “Things were real bad between us then. And also because, well, I kinda did die. Kinda.”
His eyes widened in alarm. “What the hell does that mean? How do you kinda die?”
Shit. This was just as hard as I thought it would be. “Randy and me, we got into a fight.” Randy, my piece-of-shit ex-boyfriend. “I got drunk and took some pills and was sorta flirting with another guy.” I winced. “Turned out he put something in my drink. A date rape drug. Took me for a drive, but I was already so high I started having trouble breathing. The guy panicked and was gonna dump me out in the swamp, but he took a curve too fast and wrecked the car real bad…” I trailed off.
“God, Angel,” he breathed, guilt and pain carved into his face. Things had been horrible between us back then. The bickering we did these days was nothing compared to the ugly and sometimes violent fights of before.
“I woke up in the ER,” I continued after a moment. “Naked and not a scratch on me, even though I remembered being hurt bad.” I shook my head in an attempt to dispel those nightmarish memories. “And there was a bag of clothing and a six pack of, well, drinks like I have now, and an anonymous note saying I had to take a job at the morgue or I’d go back to jail.”
His eyebrows drew together in a frown. “That’s like something out of a movie. What’s in those drinks?”
My gut clenched. Of course he’d want to know. What “nutritional supplement” could give me super-healing ability and mega-strength? Throat tight, I shook my head. “I don’t want to tell you. You…you’ll never look at me the same.”
“You’re my Angelkins,” he said, voice suddenly firm, and I nearly melted at the nickname. “When we were in the attic, you said that, no matter what, you’re still my Angelkins. That’s all that matters.”
A shiver went through me, and when I spoke it was in a voice barely above a whisper. “Dad, I work in the morgue so that I can eat…” I couldn’t say it. “I…I got made into something that night, and it saved my life.” I gulped, blurted it out. “I’m a zombie.”
“A what?” He shook his head.
My fingers dug into the canvas of the cot, and I stared down at the floor. “If I don’t eat…brains,” I nearly choked on the word, “I start to rot and fall apart and get real hungry for…more brains.”
He stood, backed a step away, mouth working in what sure as hell looked like revulsion. I shouldn’t have told him, I realized with sick dismay. Telling him had been a horrible mistake. I should’ve lied, come up with some other explanation. Any other explanation.
He rubbed a hand over his face, expression a painful mix of shock, disgust and, strangely, belief. He’d seen it, after all. Seen me heal up before his eyes. “All this time?” he finally asked, voice hoarse. “Almost a year?”
Throat tight, I nodded.
He fell silent again, eyes on the floor. The sick despair coiled into a thick lump in my gut, but I fought back the urge to start crying again.
His gaze came back to me, and there was a hint of desperation in his voice when he spoke. “You don’t have to…kill people, do you?”
Shaking my head, I could only be grateful he’d phrased the question the way he had. Have to? No. Not to eat at least. The unwelcome memory of a baseball bat crushing a skull rose, and I shoved it away. “No. That’s why I work in the morgue,” I told him. “I get the…I get what I need from there. From people who’ve already died.”
Stark relief showed on his face. “Okay,” he said, exhaling, tension visibly leaving his body. “Okay, that’s good. We’ve had ups and downs.” He paused. “A lot of ups and downs. And right now, you and me, we’re on an up.” He hesitated, and his eyes sought mine. “Aren’t we?”
I took an unsteady breath. “You’re okay with a zombie daughter?”
“Don’t have much choice about it, right?” His head dipped in a nod. “You’re my Angel. So, yeah. Guess I’m okay with it.”
I managed a wan smile. “It really did save my life. I would’ve died in the car wreck for sure, even if the overdose didn’t kill me.”
He sighed and came back to sit beside me again, put an arm around me and pulled me close. “Then however it happened, I’m glad, ’cause you’re here now, and I didn’t have to bury my baby.” His voice broke on that last part, and I had to wipe a few tears of my own away. “But you’re not dead,” he said, “so why d’ya call yourself a zombie?”
Frowning, I considered the question, then shrugged. “What the hell else would you call someone who has to eat brains?”
“Huh,” he said, mouth pursing. “Okay, y’got me there.”
I leaned my head on his shoulder. “There’s, um, one more thing you should probably know,” I said after a moment. “The little matter of who turned me.”
“You mean the one who made you into a zombie?”
I shifted uncomfortably. “Yeah.”
“You don’t want to tell me.”
I screwed my face into a grimace. “You won’t like it,” I told him. “But he saved my life, Dad.”
He stiffened. “Not that no-account drug dealing Clive?”
“That asshole?” I gave a snort of humorless laughter. “Oh, hell no!” The last time I’d seen my former pill-provider was when the cops hauled him away for disturbing the peace and possession of drugs with intent to distribute. Truly a beautiful sight to behold. “No, it was Marcus.”
“The cop?” he said, too loudly.
My shoulders hunched. “Uh, yeah. Him.”
His mouth formed a dark scowl. “Well, shit, Angel. How am I supposed to hate him if he saved your life?”
I burst out laughing. “Oh my god. I guess you’re fucked, Dad.”
He gave a dry chuckle. “Story of my life, Angelkins.”
“Well, you’re stuck with me now.”
He hugged me, kissed the top of my head. “Wouldn’t have it any other way.”
Chapter 19
The Tucker Point High School gym was one creepy-as-hell place at night. I lay on my cot, wide awake, soaking in the ambiance. Light from sodium lamps outside streaked in through the high windows, casting alternating patches of shadow and weak amber. Pipes near the locker rooms groaned periodically, and more than a couple of roaches the size of my hand—well, almost—had skittered across the floor in the last half hour.
Didn’t seem to bother my dad. He lay on his back, snoring softly. A dozen or so other refugees either slept or did a good imitation of it, on cots grouped in family clusters around the gym. In the far corner, a few played a subdued game of cards, faces stricken and empty. A mix of men, women, and children, all homeless, all without anyone to take them in. Like my dad. Like me.
Like me. I didn’t want to think about it, but there it was, staring me right in the face. Not only hadn’t Marcus come to find me, he hadn’t sent a message or anything. Sure, he was probably busy all day with the sheriff’s office taking care of the shit end of flood stuff, but now it was after nine p.m. and nothing. I sighed. Who was I kidding? It was pretty obvious he’d decided Fuck you, Angel was his response to my hanging up on him.
I sat up on the stupid cot and pulled on the donated sneakers—after shaking them to be sure none of the members of Roach Explorer Troop 666 had made their way inside. Standing, I stretched out the kinks in my back left by the nonexistent cot padding, pulled the thin blanket a bit higher over my dad’s shoulders, then crept out of the room.
The elderly security guard in the hallway looked up from his book and gave me a gently inquisitive look. “Everything okay?” With the white beard, jovial expression, and slight bulge in the middle, if this guy didn’t already make extra money playing Santa every year, he sure as hell could.
“Yeah, just can’t sleep,” I told him, shrugging. “Figured I’d get some air.”
He gave an understanding nod. “At least the rain stopped,” he said. “It’s a nice night for a walk. But be careful, okay?”
“Yes, sir,” I said. “I’ll be good.” Wouldn’t want to get on the naughty list.
He smiled warmly, returned his attention to the book. I slipped out the door.
The air was a touch cooler than I expected, but not enough to go back inside to scrounge a warmer shirt or jacket. I hugged my arms around myself and took a deep breath, looked up at the star-filled sky. Now what? I silently asked.
The problem was that it was too easy to focus on everything that was gone. There was so much of it—a giant cloud of loss. House, cars, clothing, furniture…Marcus. I knew I needed to take stock of what I still had and resist the overwhelming desire to slip into depression and self-pity.
But, damn, this was surely one of those situations where a little self-pity was allowed, right?
The sidewalk led to a practice field on the back side of the gym, not particularly scenic, but with fresh air and without skittering roaches or generalized creepiness. Off to my right loomed the dark football stadium where, only a few days ago, Marcus and I had spent a very enjoyable hour. Seemed like a dream now, with a hazy couldn’t-possibly-be-real quality about it. I sat on a concrete bench in the shadow of the building and leaned back against the bricks. The darkness felt safe, a hidden vantage to watch over the minimally lit school grounds. Safe. What the hell did that mean anymore? After the attack and the flood, I didn’t know if there really was such a thing.
I forced myself to consider the positives. The biggest was that my dad and I were alive and okay, of course. And I still have a job. That’s pretty damn good. At least I sure as hell hoped I did. I had a hard time believing I’d get fired for not showing up to work on the day my house got washed away. Even Allen wasn’t that much of a dick.