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

Andrew ate for several more minutes, eyes half-closed as he took the chunks from my hand and swallowed them. The wounds on his torso healed to smooth, unblemished skin beneath the blood and remnants of gore, and a hint of color returned to his face. He didn’t look a hundred percent healthy yet, by any stretch, but he no longer resembled a day-old corpse either.

When he didn’t open his mouth for another bite I knew his own parasite had enough fuel for the moment. “You need to sleep now,” I said. While he slept the parasite would do its thing to make a permanent home in Andrewville.

His eyes struggled open. “Wh-what am I going to . . . do?”

“Sleep,” I told him firmly. “We’ll figure out the rest later.”

He tried hard to form words, but at this point he didn’t stand a chance against what his body and his new tenants needed. He mumbled, then his eyes closed, and he relaxed against me. Fatigue rolled over me, and I shifted him to a somewhat more comfortable position for both of us while still holding him close.

The back door creaked open, and Philip peered in, concern on his face. His eyes met mine, questioning, and I knew he was there for me but would have no problem withdrawing if that’s what I needed. My hand felt as if it weighed a thousand pounds, but I managed to lift it enough to gesture him over. He climbed in and closed the door, then sat beside me and slipped an arm around my shoulders—not in a cuddly way, but more in a You’re a tired zombie way. I gratefully leaned against him while Andrew’s head lay tucked in the crook of my arm between us. I wanted to make a silly crack about how we were the weirdest zombie family ever, but instead I rested my head against Philip’s shoulder, closed my eyes, and went right to sleep.

A lavender teddy bear wrapped its arms around me. Shifted. Squeezed. Bled purple.

I jerked awake, and it took me a couple of seconds to figure out why a blood-covered Andrew Saber was sprawled across my lap.

His eyes darted around, confused and wild. “Hungry,” he rasped, swallowing noisily as he struggled to sit up.

“Hey, careful.” I tightened my arm around him and groped for the container of brains with the other. “Here,” I said, shoving a couple of pieces at his mouth. “Eat this.”

Distress chased away the confusion in his face, but he sucked down the brain chunks and took the others I fed him as well. Philip gently removed his arm from around my shoulders. “I’ll be nearby,” he murmured to me, then slipped out the back of the van.

I shot him a grateful smile as he left, then focused on Andrew. Someone had left a couple of baggies of pureed brains beside me, and as soon as Andrew finished the chunks I handed him an opened bag. He ate all of one, but then shook his head when I reached for the second.

He lifted his hands, brought them to his face. “What have I done?” he whispered.

“I gave you a medical condition that saved your life,” I told him.

He shifted off my lap and crouched a couple of feet from me, shock and uncertainty swimming in his eyes. “I have to go back. To the office.” His gaze dropped to the bloody ruin of his shirt. He touched one of the rips, slid his hand in to feel for the wounds that weren’t there. “How . . . how can I go back now?” Distress laced his voice, but then he lowered his hand and clenched it. “Or does this mean I’m going to stay your prisoner?”

“No, you’re not our prisoner,” I said firmly, then reached out and took hold of his fist. “Andrew, you need to chill. We won’t let you starve. We’ll help you. But you really need to sit and talk with me and Pierce.”

He yanked his hand away from mine. “Gentry.” His voice dripped with hatred, which I could understand since he thought Gentry was a traitor and spy. And it probably didn’t help that the real Gentry had been fucking his mom as well. “I can’t deal with him right now.” His lip curled. “Gentry cost us, cost Saberton everything .”

“ He cost you?” I sneered in derision. “Give me a fucking break, Andrew. That’s like the car thief getting all pissed at the undercover cop when his comfy life of crime gets fucked up. Except that instead of cars being chopped up, it’s people.” I glared at him. “Don’t forget, you’re one of those people now. But hey, if you want to change your mind, it’s not too late. It’s not impossible to kill a zombie. Ask Chris Peterson.”

Andrew scowled, but it was clear I’d made a solid point. “I’m not changing my mind. I don’t want to be dead. ” He narrowed his eyes at me in suspicion. “Why would you let me go back?”

“Why wouldn’t we? It’s not like we want a pet zombie hanging around.” I shrugged. “Besides, I really don’t see you telling your mother—or anyone else at Saberton—that you’re one of those filthy monsters now.”

He gave a scoffing snort. “No, I won’t be sending out a memo.” He made an utterly doomed attempt to brush some of the drying blood off his shirt, then glowered and headed to the back doors of the van.

“There’s a washer and dryer in the house,” I said being all helpful and shit ’cause that’s how I rolled. “And if you put some meat tenderizer on that blood and then scrub it in cold water, most of it’ll come right out.” The rips were another issue, but I figured I’d offered enough awesome advice for the moment.

A bleak expression passed over his face, and for an instant I had a glimpse of how very lost he felt. He exhaled, controlling it, then gave me a slight nod. That was probably as close to a thank you as I was going to get—and not only for the advice about blood stains.

He exited the van and closed the door. I dropped my head back against the metal wall, let myself have a couple of minutes of quiet, then headed in after him. I needed to take some of my own blood stain advice, since I was a horror show mess. Plenty of blood all over me from Andrew, but there was probably a fair amount from the guards I’d killed, as well as from my own wounds and dealing with Marcus and Kyle.

The burn of anger over how those two had been treated helped keep down the simmering guilt over the guards.

Andrew wasn’t in any of the main living areas, so I figured he’d gone to “his” room to clean up. Someone had collected our stuff from the hotel room, and I dug clothes out of my bag, surprised and pleased to find my dirty stuff laundered, which was damn nice.

A long, hot shower and clean clothes did a lot to restore my get-up-and-go and clear my head. As much as I wanted to check on Marcus, I had other business I needed to take care of first. I went in search of Pierce and found him sitting in the recliner in his bedroom, an iPad on his lap.

“Hey, you got a few minutes?” I asked. “I need to talk to you.”

He set the tablet aside. “Of course, Angel.”

I closed the door behind me and then sat on the bed, facing him. “I need to know who gets to know about,” I waved my hands at him, “the new you.”

Weariness filled his eyes. “Those who know it now, of course,” he said. “And I will also tell Kyle Griffin.”

“What about Marcus?”

The weariness seemed to deepen, and for a moment he looked far older than the mid-thirties he was supposed to be now. “I’m seeking a way to keep him out of this. Completely out of it.”

“I get that.” I shifted to sit cross-legged. “But I don’t get why, and I’m not keen on telling him his uncle’s dead when he’s not.” I leveled a frown at him. “It really eats at him that he’s not part of your inner circle. Did he fuck up somehow or do something to piss you off?”