Diana Rowland: White Trash Zombie Apocalypse

“A zombie movie,” I muttered. “That’s too weird.”

Derrel nodded. “Shambling, braaains, the whole thing,” he replied, holding back a chuckle. Laughing and joking weren’t considered cool on a death scene. “Saw a segment on the news about it last night. High School Zombie Apocalypse!! ” he said, showing as much smile as he dared. “With two exclamations points!”

“Too weird,” I repeated with a roll of my eyes as I pulled on gloves. This certainly wasn’t the first time a movie had been filmed in the area, but as far as I knew it was the first one with zombies, and my first time anywhere near the action. In the past few years Louisiana had been dubbed “Hollywood South” because of the growing film industry in the state. Movies and TV shows filmed here benefited from generous tax credits and were great for the local economy. And it was always a kick to see local sights show up on the big screen. It somehow made the people here feel as if they were really part of something bigger.

I retrieved a sheet from the stretcher and wrapped up the poor guy’s sadly smushed head. Though I’d eaten brains only a few hours earlier, I still had to use a good dose of willpower to keep from giving in to the delicious scent and digging a glob of brain out of the cracks in the skull to stuff into my mouth. That would probably go over even worse than laughing.

Close to ten months as a morgue tech/van driver for the St. Edwards Parish Coroner’s Office, and I actually felt like I knew what I was doing. That was also the same length of time that I’d been a zombie, but I had a feeling it would take me a lot longer to really get a handle on that lifestyle.

I’d been an unemployed, pill head loser—with “felon” and “high school dropout” to pad out my resume—when I woke up in the ER after a night of drinking and drugs. Even though I had a fairly clear memory of being horribly injured in a car accident, I didn’t have a mark on me—or a stitch of clothing, for that matter. Waiting for me had been a six-pack of weird brown, sludgy drinks, and an anonymous note about a job waiting for me at the Coroner’s Office, along with the threat of jail time if I didn’t take the job. Took me a few weeks to figure out the truth: that not only would I rot and fall apart if I didn’t eat brains, but also that if I hadn’t been turned into a zombie the night of the accident, I would’ve died on the spot from the combination of drug overdose and injuries.

Though I’d only taken the job with the Coroner’s Office because it was better than going to jail, I quickly grew to enjoy it, and not simply because it gave me easy access to the brains I needed. It was interesting, challenging without being a pain in the ass, and paid better than any job I’d ever had. Ever. Plus, I had some pretty awesome coworkers.

With Derrel’s help I got the dead guy wrestled into the body bag and onto the stretcher. Once I had him in the van and the doors closed, I decided to take a few minutes to gawk some more at the movie stuff. What the hell. It wasn’t every day I had the chance to see something like this.

I locked the van, then crossed the street to get a better view as a stunt zombie practiced a fall from a third story window to the airbag cushion below. Further down the street several zombie extras mauled an actor in a cop uniform, then backed up and started over, repeatedly. Gotta get those shambling horde subtleties down for the camera . I smiled and shook my head. Though I’d watched several zombie movies and TV episodes after I was turned, I couldn’t manage much love for most of them since the majority were about escaping from or killing mindless zombies. Needless to say, I had a hard time getting into that sort of thing.

A white van marked “Midnight Productions” pulled up to the curb, and a too-perky red-haired guy wearing an electric blue track suit climbed out of the passenger side carrying a clipboard and plastic grocery bag. He tooted a whistle then proceeded to call names and pass out white-wrappered snack bars to the extras who came out of the woodwork. Roll call and check marks on the clipboard. I figured some fine print contract clause said the movie people had to provide mid-morning protein or granola or some crap like that.

Hell, maybe I can go hungry a few days and get cast as an extra , I thought with amusement. It was beside the point that if I was falling apart enough to look like a zombie, I’d be so hungry I’d crack open the head of the first person who walked by in order to get my fill of braaaaiiiiins. Now that would be a realistic movie.

Only a few months ago I’d learned that it was a parasite that made a real zombie a zombie, and that parasite depended on brains to survive. Along with survival, it used brains to keep its host, like me, alive and in top physical condition in order to be a strong, ideal home. Without enough of the food it needed—human brains and the prions within them—the primary need took over, breaking down and using host tissue in a way that closely resembled corpse rot. A hungry zombie looked and behaved a helluva lot like the stereotype and would do anything to get brains.

Hungry Zombie: instant movie extra with a Really Bad Attitude.

“I missed breakfast and now I’ve lost my appetite for lunch.”

I looked over at the speaker to see Detective Ben Roth sweep a gaze over the faux-zombie action, a grimace of distaste twisting his features. He’d shaved off his scraggly mustache a couple of weeks ago, and I still wasn’t used to it, though I definitely thought it had been the right decision. Ben was a homicide detective with the St. Edwards Parish Sheriff’s office, and even though Mr. Brent Stewart’s death was most likely the accident it appeared to be, procedure stated that a detective still had to investigate.

I liked working with Ben on scenes—he was friendly, easy-going, and took his job seriously without being uptight. Working with his partner, Mike Abadie, wasn’t nearly as enjoyable. Abadie and I had pretty much agreed to disagree on, well, just about everything.

“What, rotting flesh doesn’t get your appetite going?” I teased.

Ben gave a mock shudder. “I can’t get into the zombie thing. Freaks me out.”

That surprised me. Tall and stocky, he didn’t look like someone who’d be easy to freak out. “But I’ve seen you on gory and disgusting crime scenes, and you never even bat an eyelash.”

“I never said it made sense,” he replied with a laugh. “It’s like those horrible lifelike dolls. I know they’re fake, but they still give me the heebie-jeebies.”

“Well, lifelike dolls are creepy as hell,” I agreed.

“My niece has one of those,” he said, shuddering again. “I’ll take a fake zombie over that plastic monstrosity.” Then he shook his head. “Hell, I’ll take a real zombie over that thing.”

I laughed, though I knew he had no idea why I found it so funny. He opened his mouth to speak then frowned as a breeze brought a scattering of rain drops.

“I think that was a warning shot from the coming weather,” he said. “Or maybe a sign I need to get started on my paperwork.” With a parting smile, he turned and headed back to his unmarked car.

The drizzle stopped as quickly as it had begun, but I knew Ben was right. The black clouds to the west rolled steadily closer. Heading back across the street, I pulled out my phone and started texting, Did you know a zombie movie was being filmed here? to my cop not-quite boyfriend and fellow zombie, Marcus.

At least that’s what I tried to do. I barely had “Did you know” thumbed in when I caught movement out of the corner of my eye—a helluva lot of very fast movement headed straight for me in the form of a dark silver pickup. The useless thought flashed through my head that nobody should be driving over five miles an hour beyond the barricade, and a glimpse of the driver’s pissed, distracted face told me he didn’t give a shit. I wasn’t tanked up enough with brains to have zombie super speed, and spent a precious split second coming to that conclusion.