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

“I’m with you there.” I began to pace in the parking lot to vent some of my anger and frustration. “But there’s something else. Sarah had lymphoma that went into remission after the filming, and when we autopsied her, it was like she never had it. The same shit that killed her, cured her.”

Dr. Nikas fell silent for a moment before answering. “That would be my conjecture. It apparently mimicked the zombie parasite’s healing ability, which is . . . remarkable.”

“It’d be cool if it didn’t come with the whole dying thing,” I kicked savagely at a pine cone in my way. “Saberton hasn’t stopped, have they? They’re still experimenting.”

“They have too much invested to stop,” he stated. “They aren’t operating in south Louisiana anymore, but I have no doubt they’re forging ahead with some form of zombie research. Without Philip undercover with them anymore, my information is sketchy.”

A number of curse words leapt to mind, but I held them back for Dr. Nikas’s sake. “So, what were you going to call me about?”

“I have a new protocol ready for Philip that I’d like to start as soon as possible, balancing his parasite with yours. Would you be able to come in at two this afternoon?”

I stopped pacing and tried to think if there was anything I needed to do after work. The drive to Dr. Nikas’s lab took about half an hour and burned up gas I could barely afford, but I was willing to do it if it would help out my zombie-baby, Philip. Dr. Charish’s stupid fake brains had badly screwed up Philip’s zombie parasite, and without Dr. Nikas’s work to repair the damage and stabilize him, Philip would’ve been dead ten times over. In fact, about once a week I volunteered blood and time so that Dr. Nikas could use the zombie mama-baby connection to develop treatments for him.

My left arm began to itch, as if in response to my thoughts about blood samples. The needles the lab used had a special coating on them to keep the parasite from closing the skin and clogging the needle, and ever since I’d started giving blood frequently, a few months back, I’d had this stupid itch. On the other hand, Philip had improved tremendously in that time, which made it worth putting up with a relatively minor annoyance.

“I can come at two,” I said. “But aren’t you going out with Pietro today?”

“It’s a late day,” he replied. “We’re doing dinner instead of lunch, so no worries.”

“That’s good,” I said, relieved to hear the “date” hadn’t been cancelled. Dr. Nikas didn’t get out much, and the occasional outings with Pietro always seemed to do him good. “I clock out of here at noon, so I’ll run home and change after that, and see you a bit before two.”

After we said our goodbyes I returned inside and settled in to work on organizing and labeling the shelves in the supply room. Although this sort of busy work usually distracted me pretty well from various troubles and worries, it sure as hell didn’t work this time. By the time Nick walked in a half hour later, I’d labeled every shelf, arranged protective gear by color, and lined up scalpel blades by size.

Nick the Prick. That’s what I’d secretly—and sometimes not so secretly—called him for the first several months of my time with the Coroner’s Office. At some point this past spring he’d become plain old Nick to me. He still had his pompous, know-it-all moments—lots of them—but he’d also patiently tutored me for my GED without asking for any sort of payment, and had been unexpectedly kick butt helpful and supportive after I lost everything in the flood.

He stood in the doorway now and surveyed my handiwork. “Everything okay?” he asked.

“Sure!” I chirped. “Couldn’t be better.”

“Right.” He nodded slowly, lips pursed. “Is that why you labeled that box of gloves ‘Hand Cover Things’?”

Shit. I gave a weak chuckle and ripped the offending label off the box. “I wonder how that happened.”

His mouth tightened into a worried frown. “Maybe your dyslexia has developed into preliminary dementia.”

For a second I thought he was serious, then I rolled my eyes and flicked the wadded-up label at him. “You are such an ass.”

“I think that’s been established,” he said with a trace of amusement in his green eyes. “And ass or not, I don’t believe you.”

“Yeah, sorry,” I said, sighing. “I have some things on my mind and can’t focus worth shit.”

“Think you can focus on walking and carrying?” I gave him a baffled look, and he continued, “Doc is swamped, and I thought he could use a cappuccino. Me too, for that matter. You want to go to Dear John’s Café with me to help carry?”

“You mean stop this whirlwind of inaccurate labeling?” I asked even as I dumped the label maker into a drawer. I doubted he really needed help carrying stuff, but rescuing me from my self-inflicted mental misery was the kind of gesture that had lost him his prickhood.

“I’m sure the morgue will survive,” he said, then turned and headed for the door in quick strides. Halfway there he hesitated, as if remembering he should have waited for me, and I smiled to myself and hurried after him. As if to make up for running off without me, he held the door and flashed a genuine smile. He wasn’t a big guy, only a few inches taller than my not-quite five foot three, but he carried enough attitude for a guy the size of Andre the Giant. I hadn’t seen much of Nick since the GED tutoring finished. He usually worked a different shift, but since my awesome partner Derrel was off on vacation to the Bahamas for the next ten days, Nick was filling in for him.

Even though we’d worked together for close to a year, I didn’t know all that much about Nick. Aside from making sure people knew he was a pre-med student, he didn’t volunteer much personal information. Every now and then I’d ask about his family or what his childhood was like, and each time he would either suddenly realize he had something else he needed to do, or he’d quickly change the subject.

Maybe the two of us weren’t all that different. Not that he’d been a loser addict dropout or anything, but maybe being a pompous prick was his way of putting something in his past behind him and saying, “Fuck y’all. I’m here, and I’m cool no matter what.”

Or maybe I was just making shit up to hear myself think.

Outside, a cool breeze made me wish I’d grabbed my jacket. It wasn’t cold enough to bother going back for it, but it left no doubt the Louisiana summer was over. We took a shortcut across the back lot then skirted the St. Edwards Parish Courthouse to put us on Dead End Way, a busy avenue that had long outgrown its name.

“Anything I can help with?” Nick asked after we crossed and started down the side street toward the shop.

It took me a second to realize he was referring to my lack of focus. “Nah,” I said. “Personal stuff. I’ll get over it, but thanks anyway.” I couldn’t exactly tell him I was worried about the long term effects of unethical zombie research on innocent people.

“You always shake bad shit off in no time, so I bet you’ll be doing better before the day’s out.” For an instant he looked embarrassed by his own words of encouragement, then he cleared his throat. “Maybe some hot chocolate will perk you up. My treat.”

I gave him a warm smile. For all his Nickitude, I appreciated the decent person and friend under it all. I kind of suspected he liked me, but he seemed to be totally respectful of my relationship with Marcus, and he’d never said or done anything to make me feel uncomfortable.

“Thanks,” I said. “Don’t mind me. I’m just moody.” I hesitated, then forged on into scary territory. “I sorta told Doc I was going to sign up for college classes next term.”