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

“Jesus, you’re pale,” I muttered, lifting his shirt to peer at the little bullet wound. Barely any blood surrounded the pea-sized hole, but when I put my hand on his abdomen it was hard.

“I’m dying,” Andrew gasped, fear and pain twisting his features. “Oh, god. Hurts.”

He is dying , I realized with sick dread. “P-Pierce!” I called out, barely catching myself from saying Pietro. “Andrew’s in really bad shape. I think he’s bleeding internally. We need to get him to a hospital!”

Pierce glanced quickly back, cursed. “I’ll call Dr. Nikas.”

“He needs surgery,” I insisted as he dialed. “Like, right now.”

To my dismay, he shook his head. “Even if we could get him to an ER in time, we wouldn’t take him. We can’t .”

“Why the hell not?” I demanded, dismayed. “Can’t we, well, dump him and take off?” I shot Andrew an apologetic look, but he wasn’t exactly paying attention to me.

Pierce’s eyes briefly met mine in the rear view mirror. “Gunshot wounds are investigated, Angel,” he said, regret mingling with firm decision. “We can’t risk any law enforcement involvement.” He lifted the phone to his ear. “You heard?” he said into it. “It’s Andrew Saber, on the verge. Here’s Angel.”

I seized the phone. “Dr. Nikas. Tell me what to do!”

“Angel, send me a picture of the wound and location. Quickly,” Dr. Nikas added. “He is still conscious?”

Hands trembling, I snapped two pics and sent them. “Yeah, he’s conscious, but not by much. Pale, cold, and clammy. He’s starting to lose it.”

“And his abdomen is hard?”

“Like a rock.” Damn it, I was getting a very bad feeling.

His soft sigh sent my bad feeling spiraling higher. “There’s nothing medically to be done except surgery,” he said gently, “and if you are still in the van it is probably too late for that. I’m so sorry, Angel.”

“Oh.” I swallowed past a thick knot in my throat. “Okay. Th-thanks, Dr. Nikas.” Numbly, I handed the phone back to Pierce.

Kyle dragged himself up and over the side of the bin and landed in a naked, crumpled pile beside it.

Andrew gasped in a breath, flailed a hand out to clutch weakly at my arm. “Help . . . Dying.” A sob turned into a cough, and panic filled his eyes. “No. Please . . .” His arm fell away, and his eyes rolled back.

Shit. I grabbed his shoulders. “Andrew! Listen to me. I can save you. You know I can.” Godalmighty, I sure hoped I could. It wasn’t always a sure thing, as I knew all too well. “But I won’t—I won’t do that if you don’t want me to.”

His eyes fluttered, but he managed to focus on me. “Oh, god.” In that moment I didn’t know if his fear of death could overcome the terror of becoming one of us, becoming a monster. “Y-yes.” His voice was weaker, words slurring.

“Yes?” I gave him another little shake. “Yes, what? I need to know, Andrew! I need to know for sure!”

“Yes . . . bite.” The last word died away, but it was enough. At least I hoped so. I looked over at Kyle. He understood what I needed from him, the confirmation and reassurance. His nod was slight, yet it was enough. Holy fuck, but I hoped this worked, for Naomi’s sake as well as Andrew’s. No time to gather my nerve any more.

Leaning down, I sunk my teeth hard into the muscle at the side of Andrew’s neck. He jerked, but only barely, and his cry of pain was little more than a wheeze. Please let this work. Please please , I silently begged as I bit harder. I’d know soon enough if it would. When I’d turned Philip, instinct took over within a minute, guiding my body to do the damage necessary to transfer the parasite. Yet when I tried to turn another “volunteer” the next day, no instinct rose to lead me, and the man died.

My fingers dug into Andrew’s shoulders as I bit and gnawed. He wasn’t struggling anymore—unconscious by now, and close to death. I thought I heard Dr. Nikas’s voice, distant and tinny on the phone, calling my name, but I didn’t dare let my focus shift from Andrew, from the blood in my mouth and the scent of him.

Hunger rose in a wave like a cresting orgasm, a driving, snarling need to rend and rip and tear at the flesh beneath me. An eerie growl leapt from my throat as my teeth ripped and my fingers tore. Beneath the violence I wept in relief. It’s working.

I gave myself up to the instinct, only dimly aware of the others in the van with me. Finally, I paused, lifted my head and bared my teeth. Blood dripped from my chin onto the ravaged body of Andrew beneath me.

The growl throbbed within me. “Braaains.”

Someone shoved a hunk of brains into my hand. Kyle, maybe. Didn’t matter. Instinct shifted me to the next stage, and I chewed the brains and spat them into the seeping wounds. Chew, bite, spit, repeat. He wasn’t dead yet. I sensed the flickering spark of life on a level I couldn’t explain. Yet he didn’t wake, and the wounds didn’t close. Chew, bite, spit, repeat.

More brains were pushed into my hand as soon as I needed them. The van stopped, and the back doors opened. Chew, bite, spit, repeat. I heard Philip’s voice but couldn’t focus on the words. Chew, bite, spit, repeat, wake up, Andrew, come on, goddammit, chew, bite, spit, repeat. Pierce spoke to the others, then he and Philip pulled the bin out, giving me more room. Wake up, Andrew, come on, goddammit, chew, bite, spit, repeat.

Someone, another zombie, sat near me and laid a hand on Andrew’s shoulder. I lifted my head, teeth bared and a growl in my throat. Pierce gave an answering growl, but I didn’t sense that he wanted to take my spawn from me. Spit-hissing, I returned to biting and braining. I thought that some of the wounds were starting to close, but so much more slowly than with Philip. Yet with only the one experience to draw on I had no idea if this was going wrong.

“Angel.” The voice cut through to me as Philip’s hadn’t.

Nostrils flaring, I looked up to see Pierce spit something into his hand and hold it out for me. Brains. Pre-chewed. My human side had no problem registering that this was beyond disgusting, but my parasite didn’t give a shit. My hand darted out and scooped the mush up, shoved it into my mouth, then I bit and spit some more. Maybe some spores or whatever from a mature zombie would get things kickstarted in ol’ Andy.

The cycle shifted to scoop, chew, bite, spit, repeat , while I did my damndest to avoid thinking about how this was the weirdest possible way to swap spit with another person. And it was Pietro , which made it even weirder, except that Pietro was Pierce now, and wasn’t some sixtyish older guy anymore. It didn’t help that Pierce Gentry had been an asshole. I still had a hard time getting that out of my head.

Andrew sucked in a breath then coughed. His eyes flew open, and he gasped in more air only to expel it in an unintelligible sound. I sagged in relief and fatigue. With Pierce’s help, I shifted to sit against the wall of the van and gathered Andrew close, cradled his head against my shoulder. He trembled in my arms, eyes not really focusing on anything yet.

Pierce set a chunk of brain in my hand—unchewed—and I held it to Andrew’s lips. “Time to eat.”

He recoiled, but even as one instinct pulled him away, a newer, stronger one had him leaning in to take the chunk from my fingers. He opened his mouth for more, and this time Pierce guided my hand to a container beside me that held chunks of brain, bite-sized and ready for feeding.

I fed Andrew another chunk and gave Pierce a weary smile of thanks. He gave my shoulder a light squeeze then exited out the back of the van and shut the doors behind him.