Diana Rowland - How the White Trash Zombie Got Her Groove Back

She laughed. “Oh my god, would you believe I’ve actually read that book?”

“No way!”

She grinned. “Yes, way. I’m a total romance novel fiend.” She nodded toward the bag. “Try Kilted Pleasure. It’s even better.”

I dug it out, and contentedly lost myself in the perils of Lady Stonewall.

Fourteen pages into the hijinks of the rogue Rory MacTavish as he tried to win the heart of the bonny Lady Fiona Stonewall—while she apparently wanted only to find out what Rory wore under his kilt—a slightly brilliant idea hit me.

“Krewe,” I announced. “We can call ourselves the Krewe since we’re not really the Tribe right now.”

Naomi gave me a doubtful look. “Crew? Seems a bit boring. Why not gang or herd or gaggle—”

“Murder,” Kyle murmured from the back seat, eyes closed. “Like a murder of crows.”

“Murder? Really?” I asked, surprised. “That’s what a bunch of crows is called?” I shook my head. “That’s really weird, but I don’t mean crew like a road crew. Krewe —like the groups of people who put on Mardi Gras parades. So, y’know, a bunch of people who are wild and fun and might even cause some trouble.”

“A krewe of zombies,” Philip said with a smile. “That actually makes sense.”

Ridiculously pleased with myself, I once again submerged myself into the book.

At some point in the afternoon Naomi left the interstate in what seemed to be the absolute middle of nowhere. When I asked her where we were going she simply responded, “More supplies,” and then proceeded down a narrow country highway even deeper into Nowhere. About half an hour later she pulled into a gravel parking lot in front of a building that looked even more ramshackle and run down than Randy’s garage.

I peered at the weather-beaten sign and the hay stacked in a big shelter off to the side. “Maybe this is too nosy, but what the hell do we need from Gatlin’s Feed and Seed?”

Naomi grinned as she leapt from the car. “Wait and see. And don’t touch anything.”

I clambered out at a much less enthusiastic pace, then followed Philip and Kyle inside. Gatlin’s Feed and Seed was pretty much exactly like every other feed and seed store I’d ever been in, which was good since I loved feed and seed stores. There was something about the rich scent of mulch and soil and hay and grain that seemed to sing with life and growth.

Memories whispered to me as I trailed my fingers along the racks of seed packets. My mother had loved these stores as well. Every Friday afternoon, back when I was in kindergarten, she’d bring me to one not far from the house and let me pick out a packet of flower seeds, and then we’d go home and plant them somewhere around the yard. By the time I started first grade the yard was a crazy and glorious jumble of every type of flower that could grow in south Louisiana.

She didn’t take me to the feed store as much during first grade, with weeks and then months between trips. Then one day in spring I must have asked to go once too often. That was the first time she hit me, as far as I could remember—a sharp smack across the face that left a red mark on my cheek for over an hour and a stain on my trust in her—a stain that never faded.

Yet the flowers remained, most of them perennials that stubbornly returned every year despite shocking neglect. And even though I never forgot that slap, I also could never forget how she would go and sit in the back yard, in the middle of those flowers, as if that was the only place she could find a moment of peace from the chaos in her head.

Kyle and Philip idly poked around racks of dusty farm tools while Naomi moved to a back counter and spoke in a low voice to a grizzled man with an impressive beer gut beneath threadworn overalls. About half a minute later she glanced back and beckoned to us.

I obediently followed the boys over and even gave the man behind the counter a nice smile. He returned a toothless one then gestured, with a hand missing its last two fingers, toward a door behind him. Naomi thanked him, and then we all went through the door and into a storeroom filled with what must have been every piece of broken crap from the last fifty years. Lamps, typewriters, three-legged chairs. Junk.

The hell? Mystified, I looked around, certain I was missing the point of this—especially since the other three simply stood in the middle of the storeroom as if waiting for something.

Apparently the something was the closing of the door. Seconds after it clicked shut, a section of the far wall swung out to reveal an entirely different variety of merchandise. I’d been to the police supply shop with Marcus a few times, but this place was that times a dozen—an absolute bonanza of tactical equipment and electronics and protective gear and clothing and all sorts of other stuff that I had a feeling was illegal to sell without all sorts of licenses and background checks, which pretty much explained the whole secret door thing.

I quietly browsed and touched things I wasn’t supposed to touch, while the other three went on their secret agent shopping spree. When they finally finished, I did my best not to openly goggle at the amount of cash Naomi handed over, then I helped carry the bags—marked “horse feed”—out to the car and into the trunk. Philip quietly informed me that we’d transfer the purchases into our suitcase and duffels only after we’d been on the road at least an hour and were certain of privacy. I gave a sober nod of understanding, as if I did this only-in-the-movies shit all the time. Hell, zombies were real, so why not secret black market stores?

After we finished loading the car, the boys took the front again, and we continued on our way. Naomi reached into her purse and pulled out four new phones that were a lot nicer than my old one. “I’ve already loaded our numbers into each phone in the contacts,” she said as she handed them out. “No calls to anyone besides the four of us unless it’s an emergency.” I expected a Significant Look from her, but she was nice and kept it to herself.

I waited until we were back on the interstate before asking the question that had been nagging me since we left the very odd store.

“Do we have a plan ?” I asked. “Or are we going to go knock on Saberton’s door and say, ‘Yo, dude, you got my homie?’”

“Saberton Tower would be a hard nut to crack,” Kyle remarked.

“We can check out some things when we get there,” Naomi said as she fiddled with the charger for the computer tablet she’d bought at the secret store. “It’s Thursday, and the weekend would be best for getting in there if we decide that’s the way to go. Would be tough on a weekday with so many people around.”

“What kind of things will we check out?” I asked.

“Kyle will see if he can pick up any info or chatter on their security channels,” she said. “No point in hitting the building if nothing we want is there. Philip will look for any chinks in their system that might allow us to slip in, and I’ll make some calls and see if I can track down Andrew’s and my mother’s schedules.”

I waited a few seconds before speaking in case she had more to say. “What do you need me to do?”

“There’s nothing you need to do initially,” she said with a light shrug. “Not until we have some information and a direction.”

In other words, I can make the coffee , I thought with a mental sigh. “What’s the deal with your mom’s and brother’s schedules? How will that help?”

“Don’t know yet, but it sure can’t hurt to know where they are, at least in general,” she replied, eyes on the screen in her lap. “Getting into one or both of their homes might be useful too.”