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

“You’re the best,” I announced as I continued on through the kitchen. Caffeine had no effect on zombies, and I usually opted for hot chocolate these days. But good coffee had its place. I dumped the clothes into the washer and got it going, then returned to the kitchen and poured a cup. After the first sip I let out a sigh of pleasure. Whoever made this pot knew what they were doing.

“Where is everyone?” I asked as I emerged into the dining room.

“Pierce is asleep. Andrew is,” Dr. Nikas hesitated, “resting.” I had a feeling he couldn’t bring himself to say Chained to a bed and scared shitless. “Philip and Naomi are on the way back from the urgent care clinic. She has an air cast and crutches, but thankfully nothing was broken. Brian is off getting equipment for the Saberton raid. I think that’s everyone.”

Hopefully that meant Pierce and Brian had a plan. One that I slept right through, not that I’d’ve had anything useful to contribute. I took another sip of coffee. “Need any help?”

“Angel, you have no idea how glad I am that you asked,” he said then shoved the mortar across the table to me. “You may very well regret it.”

I set my cup on the table and plopped down into the chair opposite him. “I’m pretty much always up for helping you anyway, but right now a little work will keep me from rearranging the furniture or staring at Pietro . . . Pierce until he wakes up and is ready to go.” I peered dubiously at the green sludgy paste in the mortar. “What are we working on?”

He nodded toward a brown glass cough syrup-type bottle at the end of the table. “That’s my kitchen lab version of a super-mod for Brian to use during the Saberton raid,” he explained. “We’re now compounding the carrier for it.” He placed a big bowl full of different dried leaves, seeds, and other plant parts next to the mortar and pestle. “Grind all of that together. Add a little water as needed to keep the consistency of the paste.”

“Y’all don’t have a blender in the kitchen here?” I asked.

He gave a light chuckle. “A blender would process the materials in an entirely different way. I will also admit to being old school , and there are times I prefer the old methods I know so very well—especially when working outside of a proper lab.”

That made sense. “Is this the mod Brian tested the day everything went to shit?” I asked as I transferred some greyish leaves to the mortar.

“That’s right. It’s designed to amplify desired zombie abilities for a short period of time.” He pulled the cutting board to him and started to carefully mince what looked like some sort of root. “I had to modify the formula to accommodate the ingredients I have available here, but it should still be fairly effective.”

I picked up the pestle and began smushing the leaves into the paste. A pungent but pleasant smell wafted up. “Abilities like speed and strength?”

“Yes, that’s the idea,” he said. “Plus, enhancement of physical senses as well as reflexes. It’s no use having superspeed without the ability to react equally quickly.”

“Right. Like a car going super fast with horribly unresponsive steering.”

He smiled. “Precisely.”

I worked quietly for a while, grinding, adding water and more ingredients, grinding some more before I finally asked the question I was dying to know the answer to, but that scared the shit out of me as well. “How the hell did this happen?” I tilted my head toward Pierce’s room.

Dr. Nikas’s hands stilled. “He chose to transform,” he said, voice so soft I doubted it would carry beyond the table even for zombie hearing. “I have not heard his full story, but his situation must have been dire. He had intended to remain Pietro Ivanov for several more decades.”

I took a moment to let that sink in. “You’re saying that the same way there used to be an original Pierce Gentry, there was an original Pietro Ivanov?” I did my best to keep my tone cool and casual, but inside I boggled. “And Pietro—or whoever he was then—ate his brain and took over his life?”

“Yes, though it wasn’t like this,” Dr. Nikas said. “There was an agreement. The real Pietro Ivanov was a friend and associate whose mortuary business contributed to the Tribe’s brain supply.” He returned to mincing ginger. “He went into kidney failure secondary to diabetes, and our Pietro offered to turn him.” He exhaled. “The original Pietro didn’t want to live as a zombie. However, he came to an agreement to literally give his life over in exchange for care of his family.”

All kinds of questions bubbled up about that story, but they could wait until later. “You said only a mature zombie can do this eat-a-brain transformation thing, right? How old are we talking?” I added water to the mixture and continued to grind.

Dr. Nikas shifted in his seat and glanced around as if someone might overhear. “It isn’t really related to age.”

“Like how I could do a control bite on Philip? That was only supposed to be for mature parasites.”

“More specialized than that.”

“If it’s not an age thing, what is it? What do you mean when you say mature parasite ?”

Dr. Nikas picked up the cutting board and scraped the contents into the mortar. He added a pinch of stuff that looked like black salt, then made notes on his clipboard. I was about to give up on an answer when he spoke again.

“Mature zombie,” he said quietly, “not parasite.”

I resisted the urge to say, “Yeah, whatever,” only because it was Dr. Nikas. I wouldn’t disrespect him like that. Besides, if he bothered to make the distinction, it meant there was something to it. “Mature zombie,” I echoed. “What exactly does that mean?”

He weighed some milky yellow powder on the scale then added it to my mixture. “Sulfur. Grind it in to where the paste is an even color, then we’re nearly done.” He settled back in his chair then laid his hands flat on the table. “It means there is no longer anything distinguishable as human-versus-zombie organism. The DNA restructure is complete. A rare success.”

“Uh,” I said while I struggled to make sense of that. “Are you saying Pietro-Pierce-whoever isn’t really human anymore?”

“Physically, none of us are, Angel,” Dr. Nikas said with a certainty that sent a shiver through me. “Not once the organism establishes itself. The changes begin immediately. Pierce and I are perhaps even less human from a purely physical perspective.” His eyes met mine, gentle and troubled and ancient. “I don’t feel any less human than I ever have.”

It took me a minute to get past his claim that we weren’t simply humans infested with a parasite, and then another minute to push aside the useless worry that, if we were so changed, how could we be sure we remembered what it was like to feel human? “So it’s not a parasite?”

“Technically, no. When I first tried to understand the science of it, parasite was my initial impression, and the term stuck.” He flashed a smile. “Besides, it’s easier to say parasite than mutualistic symbiont with parasitic aspects .” His eyes crinkled with amusement. “In the end it’s merely semantics. A new word such as zombite would better acknowledge its unique function, but old habits die hard.”

Dr. Sofia Baldwin had convincingly explained to me that the parasite healed damage and kept zombies healthy only because it benefited the parasite to have a healthy host. If there weren’t enough brains for it to do that, it saved itself and let us rot. That sure sounded like a parasite to me, but Dr. Nikas knew a billion times more about it than either Sofia or I did.

“Who’s in control after maturity?” I asked. “The not-a-parasite or the human?”