Diana Rowland - My Life as a White Trash Zombie

“Just as long as she doesn’t turn into some sort of Goody Two-shoes,” Randy muttered. He must have seen the hurt expression on my face because he leaned over to kiss me on the forehead. “I’m kidding, Angel. I know you’re cool.”

Now I understood. Or at least I thought I did. He was afraid that if I stopped with the drugs and the booze, I’d be on him to stop, too. “Yeah, I’m cool. C’mon, now, put one of the movies in.” I handed him the one on top without even looking to see which one it was. I didn’t care. I simply wanted this weird conversation to end.

I thought he was going to say something else, but to my relief he simply turned away and stuck the DVD into the player. I plopped down onto the couch, leaving room for Randy in the middle, then did my best to tune the world out and learn about zombies.

Five hours later I knew a lot more about the movie versions of zombies, and not a damn thing that would help me in my own situation. All the zombies in the movies were the enemy—mindless creatures that wanted to kill and eat flesh and brains. There were still two more DVDs in the stack, but I couldn’t face the thought of watching them. Too depressing. This isn’t me , I told myself. That’s not what I am.

As long as I stayed well-fed, right?

Clive and Randy were still watching the end of the third movie—one of the George Romero flicks. Or at least that’s what I thought it was. I’d lost track. I glanced at the clock: One A.M.

“Y’all can keep watching. I’ve had enough.” I stood.

Randy looked at me with a frown. “You’re not staying the night?”

“Nah,” I said. “I need to be up early.” It sounded weak, and Randy sighed and rolled his eyes.

“C’mon, Angel, stay,” Clive said without taking his eyes from the screen. He was enjoying the movies way too much—cheering loudly every time a zombie got dispatched. I knew that was the point of these movies—humans overcoming the zombie menace—but, gee, for some reason it was beginning to get under my skin. “Besides,” he continued, “your man here needs some hot lovin’, and I ain’t about to give it up for him.”

Yeah, well, I wasn’t about to give Randy any hot lovin’ with Clive around. About a year ago Clive had made a joke about me doing both him and Randy at the same time—the kind of joke that wasn’t really a joke if I’d even hinted at being willing to go for it. Which I wasn’t. At all.

I tried to think of a nasty-funny comeback, but I was too worn out to come up with anything. “I need to go,” I told Randy, ignoring Clive’s bark of laughter. “I’ll call you later, okay?”

He gave me a nod and a shrug. “Yeah, no biggie.”

I kept the smile fixed on my face. No biggie. Yeah, that was us. I collected the movies we’d already watched and headed out. I didn’t ask Randy to walk me out to my car, and he didn’t offer. I left to the sound of Clive yelling encouragement as zombies died on the screen.

The third morgue tech, Jerry, was sitting at the computer in the morgue when I came in the next morning. He lifted his hand in a wave without taking his eyes from the monitor.

“Angel,” he muttered in greeting.

“Jerry,” I replied, mimicking his low, gruff tone. The parody was apparently lost on him though, because he simply kept on with whatever it was that had his attention on the computer.

I put my lunchbox in the bottom drawer of the desk, rolling my eyes when I saw the solitaire game on the computer.

“Anything exciting happening?” I asked.

He gave a heavy sigh. “Busy day yesterday. Dr. Leblanc cut the headless pizza guy yesterday afternoon, as well as a heart attack and an MVA that Nick brought in after you got off.” He closed the solitaire game and pulled up the page that showed which bodies were scheduled to go to which funeral homes. “Those last two will probably be picked up later today.”

I peered over his shoulder at the screen. “What about the Pizza Plaza guy? Anyone picking him up?”

“There’s some sort of hitch with the ID which means official notification hasn’t been made, which also means there’s no one who’s authorized to make the funeral arrangements.” He shrugged, clearly and deeply unconcerned.

“What happens if no one makes funeral arrangements?” I asked. “He stays in our morgue forever?”

He wagged his head in a no. “That would be disgusting,” he stated. “Bodies still rot in there. Just takes longer. Like meat in your fridge at home.”

Okay, that made sense. The morgue cooler was exactly that—a cooler, not a freezer. Early in my time at the coroner’s office, I’d stupidly wondered aloud why it wasn’t a freezer, until it was pointed out to me that performing an autopsy on a frozen slab of meat would be a wee bit difficult. Oh. Yeah.

“So what happens to them? State pays for them to be buried or something?”

His chin dipped in a nod. “Riverwood Funeral Home handles the pauper burials for this parish and they get reimbursed a set amount for each one. They have a plot set aside for the pauper burials—no headstones or anything, though.”

I frowned. “Why not? What, poor people don’t deserve a real grave?”

A whisper of amusement lit his eyes. “They get a real grave. And the exact location is recorded. But there are a lot of people who’d never pay for a funeral if they knew the state would do it for free.”

“Ah. I get it,” I said. “People who want to be able to visit the grave are gonna pay for it. Bet there are still people who don’t care, though.”

“Agreed, which seems fair enough, I suppose. Funerals can be expensive. And are for the survivors, not the decedents.”

I simply nodded in response. We’d had Mom cremated after she hung herself. There’d been no funeral. No one would have come to it anyway.

“That’s what happened with the other headless guy,” Jerry said.

I gave him a blank look. “What happened?”

“No next of kin was found, so Riverwood took him—gave him a pauper burial.”

I sat on the edge of the desk. This was the guy who’d been killed while I was stumbling down the road, high as a kite. Maybe I could milk Jerry for some info. “What was the deal with that?” I asked. “That happened right before I started here. Who was he?”

“He was identified as Adam Campbell—lived in a fishing camp down at the end of Sweet Bayou.” Then he shrugged. “Wrote for magazines—tech articles, that sort of thing. Neighbors said he was a nice guy. Some teenager got lost out there a couple of months ago, and Adam let the search teams use his yard and house as a base of operations. Cooked for them too—big pots of gumbo, crawfish, jambalaya. I think everyone was disappointed when the little teen bastard was found alive and well.” A smile flickered across his face.

“If he was so nice, why didn’t any of those people step up and pitch in for a real funeral?” I asked, frowning.

Jerry pushed away from the desk and stood, grimacing as he audibly popped his back. “Because people suck, and everyone’s always sure that someone else will take care of it.” He glanced at the clock. “Time for me to drag my sorry carcass out of here. Have fun with the stiffs.”

“Always,” I replied as I sat in his seat and pretended to pick up where he’d left off with the game of solitaire.

I waited until I heard his car leave the parking lot, then grabbed my lunchbox and scurried to the cooler. The MVA was scheduled to be picked up by Riverwood, which meant I suffered no guilt as I scooped the brains out of the bag and into my jars. The heart attack I left alone since it was going to Scott Funeral Home. Kang had been a dick, but I wasn’t going to back out of our deal.