Diana Rowland - My Life as a White Trash Zombie

And that certainly fit the bill here. We were in the front yard of what could almost be described as a mansion: a three-story white house with a broad curved driveway, on a piece of land that was at least five acres—the majority of which was mowed grass. The house itself was about a thousand feet from the road and, in bizarre contrast, was also less than half a mile from the trailer park where the drug dealer-gamer guy had been killed. Sometimes it cracked me up the way the super nice neighborhoods were smack up next to the total shit neighborhoods.

“Looks like he was trying to do some sort of repair on it,” the detective continued. “He must have had it propped up on that piece of four by four, and when it fell it smacked onto his head and pretty much crushed it.”

“Crushed the hell out of it,” I observed. Why the hell had he been underneath the damn thing? Didn’t people ever stop and think how dangerous stuff was? The guy’s head was damn near flattened, with two deep impressions that would probably match up perfectly to the underside of the tractor. He’d probably been dead before the tractor had fully settled on him.

“So this was the lawn guy for the place or something?” I asked.

The detective shook his head. “Nope. That’s Rob Harris himself.”

I let out a whistle of surprise. Rob Harris owned a local RV dealership and was also something of a local celebrity due to a series of commercials that had run for several years and featured his numerous grandchildren. He’d passed the business on to his son recently and was supposedly enjoying his retirement.

Not so much anymore, obviously.

Stupidly annoyed at the waste, I crouched by the head and by the chunks of brain that had been squished out. Maybe, if I’d been desperate, I’d have tried to recover the bits that were on the ground, but they were so mingled with dirt and grass that I wasn’t about to go there. I wanted badly to pull some of the skull pieces off and see how much was left inside, but I knew I couldn’t do that with so many people around. There was “tough” and “hardcore,” and then there was “sick bitch.”

“Want a bite?”

I jerked my head around to see Detective Abadie standing behind me, grinning. “Hunh?” I managed, trying to not look guilty. Or hungry. Of which I was both.

He nodded his head toward the scattered chunks of brain. “That’d be a buffet for a zombie, right?”

I couldn’t move, simply continued to stare at him. He knows? How? Is he one?

He rolled his eyes. “Oh, come on, Crawford. Don’t tell me you’ve never seen Dawn of the Dead , or Zombie-land . You know—” He rolled his eyes up into his head and assumed a slack-jawed expression. “Braaaaiinnnssss.”

I swallowed and struggled to control my stunned expression. “Oh. You’re talking about movies.” I managed to keep from saying “not real zombies.”

He gave me a faintly disgusted look. “No shit, Sherlock. Wow, you have no sense of humor at all. It’s not like I was asking you to really eat brains.” He shook his head and turned away. As he walked off, I heard him mutter “freak” under his breath.

I stood up, fighting the desire to laugh out loud, almost surprised to realize that I wasn’t bothered by the intended insult. Especially considering what the truth was.

Derrel came up beside me, casting a grimace down at Mr. Harris. “Damn. That tractor sure did a number on his skull.”

“Yeah.” I slid a glance to the underside of the tractor—easy to see since it was lying on its side—then cocked my head and frowned. “So, what part of the tractor do you think came down on his head to smush it like that?”

Derrel gave me a puzzled look, then followed my gaze. “That’s a damn good question, Angel,” he murmured.

“You got those two x-shaped impressions on his head,” I said. “And there’s that bit at the center of the blades that’s x-shaped, so that fits. For one of them, at least.”

“But how the hell would he get two right next to each other?” Derrel finished for me, eyes narrowed in thought. “Goddamn, Angel. Good eye.”

I smiled, but a sick nausea was beginning to twist in my belly. He was murdered. Someone dropped the tractor on his head, then dropped it down again to make sure he was dead and make sure the skull was crushed open. And it had to have been someone strong. Zombies were strong. I’d figured that much out. Not because of any sort of superpowers, but because we didn’t feel the same pain that normal people could. We could push harder, far beyond what the usual person could tolerate. Yeah, it burned us up faster. But a brain a day keeps the rotting away, I thought with a slight shudder.

I stood back while Derrel shared my observations with the detective. Abadie scowled and peered at the underside of the tractor, then muttered something vile. I almost felt sorry for him. Handling an accidental death was a walk in the park next to dealing with a possible homicide. The procedures didn’t change much, but the attention to detail went several notches up. And if he hadn’t been a dickwad I probably would’ve felt sorry for him. As it was, I allowed myself a perverse sense of satisfaction. Hey, I never claimed to be an angel.

I ended up cooling my heels for another half an hour while the area was processed in more depth by the crime scene tech, but eventually I got the signal from Derrel that I could start putting Mr. Harris into the bag.

Now was my chance to see how much brain was left in the skull, even though my zombie super senses were already telling me the answer. I carefully pulled aside a segment of skull while getting the body into the bag—completely unsurprised to see that there was no brain left inside. And there wasn’t that much on the ground. Certainly not enough to fill a skull.

Suddenly the short distance between Mr. Harris’s mansion and the trailer park didn’t seem so funny. And the place where I had my wreck was only about five miles from here.

There was a zombie on the hunt in this area. And I had a damn good idea who it was.

As soon as I had the body loaded up and in the van, I called Scott Funeral Home and asked for Kang, breathing a sigh of relief when he came on the line.

“It’s Angel, from the morgue,” I said. “I really need to talk to you.”

He was silent for several seconds. “Uh huh. Are you in a bind?”

“Yeah, but not the kind you’re thinking.” He probably thought I was low on brains and needed to bum some off him. “No, I need to talk to you about someone else in our, um, social club.”

I could hear him give a soft snort—whether of laughter or annoyance, I couldn’t tell. “All right. I get off at three today. Where would you like to meet?”

I thought fast. “Um, how about Double Ds?”

“I’ll see you there,” he said and hung up.

I scowled at my phone. “You’re an asshole, Kang,” I muttered. Unfortunately, he was an asshole I needed. Too bad I had way too many of those in my life already.

Double Ds was actually the Double Dime Diner, but no one bothered to call it that, even though the nickname made it sound like a strip club. Or maybe because of that. I arrived at about a quarter ’til three, which not only allowed me to pick a table that was well away from the few other people there, but also gave me plenty of time to agonize and worry until Kang arrived. Not that I hadn’t already been doing plenty of that.

The waitress came by, and I ordered hot chocolate. It wasn’t cold outside or anything, but hot chocolate was one of my comfort foods. When it arrived I wrapped my hands around the mug and sipped slowly, forcing myself to relax as the warmth and chocolate worked their magic. At least comfort food was still comforting.