Diana Rowland - Even White Trash Zombies Get the Blues

“Good to know,” Marcus said. He gave a sigh of relief, then pulled me into a hug. I allowed myself to relax against him. “You need to eat more,” he murmured. “Weird shit is going on, and now’s not the time to be at less than full strength.” He pulled back and held my shoulders while he looked intently into my face. “I know you’re trying to ration your supply, but I can always help you out if you get into a bind.”

“I know. I was just about to. And you’re right.” He’d always been more than willing to share, but I’d decided shortly after we started seeing each other that I would only hit him up for brains if I had no other choice. I didn’t want to be dependent on him—or anyone. “Look,” I said, “there was something weird about that dead security guard.”

“Weird how?”

“Well, he had a fractured skull, and I was pretty hungry, but I couldn’t smell his brains.”

A frowned tugged at his mouth. “Are you sure? Maybe it wasn’t fractured enough for you to be able to tell.”

I shook my head. “It was fractured. Trust me. I could see pieces moving around under the scalp. And back at the lab I was hungry enough to smell brains in living people.” Hell, I still was. The little bit that I’d chugged in the van had been more than used up during this whole incident.

The troubled expression on his face deepened. “I don’t know, Angel. You shouldn’t let yourself get so hungry—it affects your thinking and judgment.”

I tamped down my growing irritation. “Yeah, I know that, but it wasn’t so bad before the holdup. I had some in the van on the way over. I think stress burned a bunch up.”

He shoved a hand through his hair. “The only reason I can think that you wouldn’t be able to smell the brains is if he was a zombie. But that’s not possible. He was definitely dead-for-real. The paramedics ran a strip on him and everything.”

“How do you know he wasn’t a zombie?” I asked. “I don’t think that the EKG strip showing he was dead is enough proof he wasn’t. When you were shot I’m pretty sure you didn’t have a heartbeat.” Or maybe he did, I thought, suddenly unsure. It wasn’t as if I stopped and checked. Ed shot Marcus right in the head, and as soon as I scared Ed off I grabbed Marcus up and hightailed it back to my car where I proceeded to stuff him full of brains. Thankfully it worked.

“I’m simply saying that I think it’s more likely your sense of smell was off.” He gave me a smile that was probably meant to be reassuring, but he was seriously misjudging my mood and the day I’d had.

I pulled back from him, narrowed my eyes. “Seriously? My sense of smell was off? Marcus, are you fucking kidding me? I was just held up at gunpoint. Some mercenary motherfucker stole the body, and now I’m telling you that there was something weird about it. Why the hell won’t you believe me?”

“I’m sorry.” He grimaced. “You’re right. I guess I was really wanting this to be something random—”

“You weren’t here when I was describing this guy and what he did,” I said, planting my hands on my hips. “Dude, it wasn’t just some random asshole grabbing a body for shits and giggles. This guy was some kind of fucking pro. He fucking zip-tied me!” I held up my bandaged wrists for emphasis.

He took a deep breath. “Okay. I’m sorry. Then there must be some explanation.” Yet there was still a flicker of uncertainty in his eyes. “I won’t say that I know everything about zombies but, the thing is, a fractured skull is pretty minor for one of us. And his body would have started rotting while it worked to fix up the fracture. Does that make sense? He was just…a corpse.”

Reluctantly, I nodded. “Okay, so maybe not a zombie. But there was still something wrong with his brain. I know that.” Maybe the guy had cancer? But, no, I’d seen—and smelled—cancer-ridden brains before.

“I believe you,” he said. “I swear. And my uncle is the person to ask why that might be.” He smiled and squeezed my shoulders. “So it’s a good thing we’re going to see him tomorrow, right?”

I heaved a sigh. “Right. I’m really looking forward to it. Can’t wait.”

He laughed, pulled me into a hug. “You’re a shitty liar.”

“Don’t know why. I’ve had tons of practice.”

Marcus insisted on walking me out to the parking lot, which was more than fine with me. I retrieved my lunchbox and purse from the van and slugged down the rest of the brain smoothie as I walked to my little Honda Civic. By the time I reached my car the cuts on my wrists had healed up, and my mood in general was much improved.

My dad’s truck wasn’t in the driveway when I got home. I sat there for a minute without getting out of the car while I looked at the house and considered my options. Dad and I had spent the last two weeks getting the house cleaned up a bit, though there was still a long way to go. The crushed beer cans “paving” the driveway had taken three full days to rake up and get into bags, and I’d borrowed a weed whacker from Marcus and managed to tear through about a quarter of the overgrown weeds in the side yard before running out of the string. It’s also possible there’d been plenty of string left and that I quit and ran shrieking when I uncovered a snake that was in the process of eating a mouse.

The first thing I saw was that the bags of crushed cans were gone from the porch. I had zero doubt that Dad had taken them down to the recycling center to see what cash he could get for them. Probably a decent amount, considering how many we’d had. However, I also knew that the recycling center closed at six, and it was almost midnight now.

Dad didn’t have a job. And I was pretty sure he wasn’t out buying groceries, not at this hour.

I silently measured my exhaustion level, then sighed, backed out, and headed down the highway. I didn’t really expect to see his truck at Pillar’s Bar, but I was a bit surprised that it wasn’t at Kaster’s, his usual hangout. Of course he knows I’ll be looking for him.

I finally spotted the beat up truck at Puzzles Bar. I almost didn’t see it, and if I hadn’t been looking hard I certainly wouldn’t have spied it parked all the way in the back and tucked behind the dumpster. I pulled into the lot, but once again, didn’t immediately get out. Should I even go in and confront him? Or, maybe not even confront him, but….

Shit . I squeezed my eyes shut and rested my forehead on the steering wheel. This was going to suck no matter what I did. I could ignore the fact that he was drinking—ignoring it was what I’d pretty much always done, ’cause, godalmighty, it was so much easier and less stressful and less painful.

But that’s what I’ve always done. Hey, Angel, how’d that work out for ya?

Sighing, I turned off the engine and got out of my car. Either way this was going to suck, but this way I was in control of the suck.

At least that’s what I told myself.

The interior was lit primarily with various neon beer signs and the two TVs positioned at either corner of the long bar. It wasn’t a big place. It didn’t need much more. The bar itself was about twenty feet long, but there was only room for four tables beyond that. This was the sort of place you went by yourself, when all you wanted to do was sit and drink and pretend to watch TV.

Dad saw me pretty much as soon as I saw him. I watched the emotions crawl across his face—shame, anger, defiance, resignation. Hell, it was like the stages of grief.

I plastered a smile onto my face and headed toward him. The smile caught him off guard; it was clear he was expecting me to be pissed or resentful. And I was, but I wasn’t about to show it.