Diana Rowland - My Life as a White Trash Zombie

With that attitude firmly in hand, I got out of my car and headed up to the leasing office.

By mid-afternoon my positive attitude had taken a hard beating. The rent on the first place was half a month’s salary. Plus the security deposit. And fees for getting the power turned on. And if I wanted cable there was a deposit for that. I knew I could live without the TV but not without power. On top of that there was a form to fill out for the background check….

I slunk out of there without filling out any applications or paperwork. I looked at three other apartment complexes, and the only one that I thought I might be able to afford had cars on blocks in the parking lot and groups of shifty-eyed young men who watched me in ominous silence as I walked up to the office. Simply visiting the place left me freaked out and scared. I couldn’t imagine living there.

Anything that isn’t total scuz is going to be too expensive , I realized with tired resignation. But I sure as hell wasn’t giving up yet. I still had options before settling for being homeless, right? I could go back and live with my dad, or I could take Randy up on his offer

Not Randy. The speed of the thought surprised me. My dad had a million issues, but if I stayed with Randy, I’d go nowhere. I’d be in that trailer, stagnating. And that was without factoring in the whole I’m-a-zombie thing.

And then there was my dad. If I rented a storage unit and bought a fridge, maybe I could store brains there. I wouldn’t have to worry about him messing with my stash again.

But I’d have to worry about him messing with me . I still wasn’t ready to face him. Not yet.

I could do what Zeke did and live out in the woods or sleep in my car. Get a gym membership so that I had a place to clean up. And be scared all the time that someone would screw with me while I was asleep. No, I needed some place with a door that locked.

Hunger coiled in my stomach, a constant background growl, reminding me of my more pressing need. Compared to needing brains, worrying about where to stay seemed almost pointless. One more day, I told myself. I can tough this out . A humorless laugh bubbled up. It wasn’t as if I really had a choice.

Or rather, I didn’t have a choice that I was willing to take.

Yet.

I ended up blowing about eighty bucks at a hotel in Tucker Point which got me a room with clean sheets and a toilet with no stains. I didn’t need anything fancy or exotic. I only needed a safe, quiet place where I could spend the next twelve hours or so doing as little as possible. No need to burn up any more brains than absolutely necessary. With that in mind I indulged in a long, hot bath, watched TV for a few hours, and then fell asleep.

When I woke up it took me nearly a minute to figure out where I was. It didn’t help that I could feel my movements becoming more sluggish and uncoordinated. The smell was starting to kick in too. Great, so I couldn’t smell anything else, but I sure as hell could smell myself.

I clenched my teeth against the coiling of hunger and headed down to the free continental breakfast that the hotel offered. Maybe if I could really fill up on regular food it would slow the rotting a bit.

There were a few other people in the lobby, but I did my best to keep my distance from them—not only to keep anyone from noticing my smell, but also because I was becoming more and more aware of the scent of brains in living people.

And it was beginning to seriously freak me the hell out.

Scarfing down a bagel managed to still one hunger, but did nothing for the one that snarled for something I didn’t have. How bad would it be if I had to go several more days like this? My gut tightened into a knot at the thought. I didn’t even want to consider that possibility. Already I craved sensation. I wanted to feel and taste properly again. I wanted music to have a tune. I wanted—desperately—to feel alive again.

I can see how someone could go rogue , the thought whispered to me, and the sudden understanding left me cold.

I headed in to the morgue early, hoping to god that another body had been brought in while I was off. I checked the log as soon as I got in and nearly wilted in relief at the sight of an autopsy scheduled for the day. Sixty-three-year-old white female. This would get me through the weekend. All I needed was one brain. Next week I could start building my stash up again, once I figured out where the hell I was going to live.

Turning away from the log, I paused at the sight of a small paper bag with a sticky note with my name on it. What the hell? Picking up the note, I quickly read the overly neat script.

Hey, Angel—found this watch when I was cleaning up. Figured it was yours. If it’s not, you might as well keep it since it probably belonged to a corpse, and they won’t need it anymore. Ha Ha. Nick.

I tipped the watch out into my hand and turned it over. Oh, Nick… you are so busted. This was a brand new watch. It wasn’t anything super fancy or expensive, but I figured he’d probably spent about thirty dollars on it. He’d taken it out of the package and removed the price tag, but forgotten to pull the little tab to start the battery.

Guilt flashed through me at the fact that I hadn’t really lost my watch at all… but. Wow. This completely floored me. Of course I couldn’t possibly tell him now that I’d “found” my watch or anything like that. He’d done this cool thing and gone out of his way to keep me from thinking he’d bought a watch for me. But why? Was the whole “prick” thing simply a front? Well, no matter the reason, I wasn’t going to ruin the moment for him.

I must have stood there looking down at the watch in my hand for a solid minute, with a goofy smile on my face and a warm fuzzy purring in my middle. How the hell was I supposed to think of him as Nick the Prick any more?

I quickly pulled the little tab and set it, then slipped my old watch off and the new one on.

Despite my ravenous hunger I hummed to myself as I readied the cutting room. Had all the instruments out and placed all nice and pretty, the floor and table cleaned as much as they could be cleaned. By the time Dr. Leblanc came into the morgue, I even had the body of a Miss Twyla Faciane laid out on the table, ready to go. Moreover, the scent of the morgue covered up my own less-than-fresh scent. Or so I hoped.

The doc gave me a bemused smile as he pulled on his smock and saw me at the ready. “I think I may start to worry about you, Angel,” he said with a dry chuckle. At my baffled expression he gave me a kind smile. “Not many are as eager to dig into a dead body.”

I flushed. Shit, what if he thought I was some kinda weirdo? I mean, I was , but not in the way he was probably thinking.

“Sorry,” I said. “I mean, I’m just trying to do a good job….” I trailed off into a mumble and winced. Now I sounded like a suckup.

“Relax, Angel,” he said with a wink. “I can see that you want to do well. It’s nice to see a strong work ethic.”

I could feel my face heating again and made myself busy with straightening the instruments while he made notes on his clipboard. Now I felt like a heel since my eagerness had more to do with the hunger clawing at me than any desire to be a super-employee. Not that I didn’t want to do a good job, ’cause actually I really did kinda like it when the doc gave me one of those approving smiles. Yeah, I was like an eager puppy. Give me a smile and a pat on the head, and I was good to go.

I went through the motions of the autopsy, moving as quickly as I could while concentrating hard on not dropping anything. The sooner this autopsy was over, the sooner the bag would be in the cooler, and the sooner I could stop feeling like my stomach was about to leap out of my body and go on a rampage through the town.