My Life as a White Trash Zombie Read online

  I could only stare at him. More people had been decapitated?

  Dr. Leblanc smiled, almost as if he could see the thoughts ticking through my head. “But that same year three other bodies were found in the swamp as well—one was a hunter who died of a heart attack, one was a drug dealer from New Orleans who’d been shot and dumped, and the last was the husband of a woman who figured poison would be less of a hassle than divorce. Yet no one remembers those.”

  “You did,” I pointed out.

  He chuckled. “I did the autopsies. I highly doubt anyone else remembers, though I would imagine there are quite a few who remember the two headless bodies. It made quite a splash in the news for a while.”

  “Okay,” I said with a nod. “I see your point.” I did, too. But, still, could those two have been somehow connected to these? Maybe it was a serial killer who decided to take a long break?

  I fell silent while I pondered this. Zombies could live a long time, so it wasn’t outrageous at all to think that whoever was doing the beheading stuff now might have also been doing it ten years ago.

  “Did you ever figure out who those two were?” I asked.

  He gave a slight shrug. “ID was made from items found in what clothing remained. It was a fairly young couple who’d recently moved to the area. The police had a great deal of trouble finding out much about them, and there was a healthy suspicion that they were part of some sort of witness relocation program.” He gave a slight grimace. “Which, of course, added weight to the theory that it was a mob hit or something of that ilk.”

  I frowned as a nasty certainty began to form in my gut. I’ve had tunnel vision. I’m looking at this all wrong. “Well that sucks the shit from a dead rat’s ass,” I muttered.

  Dr. Leblanc gave a dry chuckle as he sliced into the kidney. “Angel, you truly have a way with words.”

  I grinned sheepishly. I hadn’t meant for him to hear that. “Hey, go with your strengths, right?”

  “You have more strengths than that.”

  “Aww, Doc, you’re gonna make me blush.”

  After the autopsy I put the body back in the cooler, turned my attention to cleaning up, and allowed my mind to wander and sort through all this new information.

  First off was the biggie: I’d definitely been looking at this all wrong. I needed to stop trying to force a connection where there probably wasn’t one. What if Zeke did kill those two people? He had to have been getting brains from somewhere, and he’d been living in that area. Then what if someone else chopped off his head and the heads of the other two men? That made a lot more sense.

  Therefore, why were Zeke and Peter Plescia and Adam Campbell murdered? I knew Zeke was a zombie, I was pretty sure Peter was one, and I didn’t really know anything about Adam, but I sure did have a big ol’ hunch. But let’s assume for the moment that he was. Zombies couldn’t eat other zombie brains, which meant it was doubtful that this was a zombie doing the head-chopping. Or rather, it wasn’t a zombie driven by hunger.

  There was only one answer I could come up with.

  Someone was hunting zombies.

  Chapter 26

  I drove home in a cold sweat, arguing with myself the whole way. I was jumping to conclusions. I didn’t know for sure that Peter Plescia and Adam Campbell were zombies. Maybe it’s a serial killer who happens to be going after bums. And pizza delivery guys. And technical writers.

  Yeah, right. My hideous gut feeling was that my first theory was the right one.

  The churning of my thoughts came to a screeching halt the second I walked into the house.

  Horror sliced through me, but I was frozen in place, framed in the doorway as the distinct scent twined around me. I could see the broken glass in the hallway, the liquid and tapioca-like chunks in congealing puddles.

  No. Oh, god no. I should have given him money. I should have put a lock on the fridge.

  My pulse pounded loud behind my eyes and I could barely hear the rantings of my father. I heard my name. Heard some insults and cursing. They didn’t register. All I could focus on was the carefully hoarded stash now soaking into the already nasty carpet of the hallway.

  I felt myself moving forward, every footstep feeling surreal and deliberate. My dad appeared in the hallway, face twisted into anger, one of my jars in his hand.

  “You fuckin’ worthless bitch,” he yelled. “Where are you hiding it? I know you got booze! What the fuck is this shit? You tryin’ to poison me?” He flung the jar down to shatter and mingle with the rest.

  “Those weren’t yours,” I said, and I shocked myself at how calm and mild I sounded. Inside I was shrieking.

  For an instant he seemed shocked as well, but then he rallied. “Everythin’ in this house is mine!” he frothed, desperation and rage battling it out on his face. “If I wanna look for a drink in your room, I will! You took my beer out of the trash. You goddamn druggie.” Misery darkened his eyes for an instant. “Damn you. Gave her up for you. Then you go and turn out like this.” A shudder racked him, then his gaze snapped to me again and his mouth curved into a crooked sneer. “You always have booze, always have drugs. Well, I want a goddamn drink. So where the fuck are you hiding it now?”

  I continued walking forward, eyes on him. My chest was clenched so tightly I wasn’t sure how I could possibly breathe, but somehow I kept moving. He’d given up his wife to protect me and then I’d turned out like shit. And whose fucking fault is that? I wanted to scream.

  The fury in his face flickered for an instant, and he took a half step back. He flushed as soon as he did and sneered. “You’re on some new drugs, right? I was right to break it all.”

  “Those were mine,” I said, still not raising my voice, but I could feel the air vibrate. “Mine. Not drugs.”

  “You’re a goddamned liar! I know you’re always popping pills. I heard Clive talking!” he said, taking another step back. “I have every right to go through your shit. I’m your father and this is my house!”

  I was in front of him with my hand entwined in his shirt. I didn’t even remember closing the distance between us. “I’m clean. I have a job. And Mom was mentally ill,” I said through clenched teeth. Yeah, he was so worried about me now. Why hadn’t he stopped me from dropping out of school, or hanging out with the shitbags I’d gotten drugs from? No, he simply wanted a damn drink, and he’d used a sudden burst of fatherly concern as an excuse to go through my shit. “I’m not a loser. But you sure as fuck are!”

  He let out a gasping shriek, and I suddenly realized that I’d lifted him off the floor several inches and had him pinned against the wall. One-handed.

  I let him drop and stepped back, heartbeat slamming. His eyes were wide, the red-streaked whites enormous in his sallow face. The smell of the brains swirled around me like a taunting cloud as we faced each other.

  I spun and stormed into my bedroom. The fridge was on its side, door hanging open. There weren’t any jars left in the fridge. He’d done a thorough job of trashing everything in it. I should have found a way to lock it, I thought, then instantly dismissed it. He’d have found a way to get it open—taken a sledgehammer to it if necessary.

  I barely noticed that he’d trashed the rest of my room as well. The mattress was half-off the bed, and the drawers of my dresser had been pulled out and dumped onto the floor. I grabbed a plastic shopping bag from the floor and started throwing clothes into it. Jeans, underwear, bras. I made sure that all of my coroner’s office shirts and cargo pants were in there. It took about two minutes to stuff everything I thought I might need into three sacks. That was almost as depressing as the loss of my brains.

  I turned to leave and stopped dead at the sight of my dad in the doorway of my bedroom. We stood there looking at each other for what felt like forever, though it was probably only a few seconds.

  “Where you goin’?” he finally asked, voice low and cracked.

  “Anywhere but here,” I threw back at him. “You’re a worthless, drunk, mean piece of shit. I don�
��t need to be where you’re gonna slap on me, or tell me what a fuckup I am. You’ve always hated me because Mom went to jail, but that wasn’t my fucking fault! And y’know what? I don’t think I’m as much of a loser as you think. I got me a job, and I’m getting my shit together. I don’t need you.”

  He visibly flinched at the harsh words, then silently drew back. He looked suddenly old, wrinkles caving into canyons on his face. I stormed past him and headed out, slamming the door behind me like an eight-year-old. The house shook and a shingle slid off the roof and landed with a plop in the overgrown grass.

  I climbed into my car and gunned it out of there. I looked back in the rearview mirror, expecting to see my dad in the doorway, watching me go, like you’d see in one of those tearjerker Lifetime movies, but the door stayed closed.

  I was crying by the time I reached the end of the driveway. By the time I hit the highway I totally hated myself.

  Who was the loser here?

  Chapter 27

  Hunger prodded me, as if to taunt me about the loss of my brains. I let out a harsh laugh—yeah, I was brainless—then scrubbed at my face with the back of my hand and made myself take several deep breaths. Great, so I finally stood up to my dad. Told him all the things that I’d been wanting to tell him. Told him stuff I knew would hurt him. Now I felt like total shit, and I had no place to go.

  I slowed down to the speed limit. The last thing I needed was to get pulled over. Plus, it wasn’t like I was in a hurry to get anywhere. Where the hell was I going, anyway? I could probably afford a hotel for one night, but more than that would eat my savings up pretty quickly. I needed to be thinking like a damn grownup. Budgets and shit like that.

  I pulled into the parking lot of a SpeedE Mart and tugged my phone out of my purse. I started to punch in Randy’s number, but then I hesitated. I barely even thought about him anymore. I said he was my boyfriend, but when was the last time he called me? My finger hovered over the keypad as I chewed my lip. Okay, so we’d never had that sort of super-deep, madly in love kind of relationship where we called each other up and talked on the phone just to talk. Mostly we hung out together. It’s comfortable, I admitted to myself. But who else was I going to call? Marcus? I let out a bark of laughter. Yeah, right. Even if I had his number, there was no way I was going to ask him to get involved with my fucked up personal life. He’d already seen enough of that. Besides, he’d probably get on me again about getting away from my dad.

  Well I was finally away from him. Go me. Now what the fuck was I supposed to do?

  I sighed and finished punching in the number.

  “Hey, Randy,” I said when he answered. “I’m fighting with my dad. Can I come by?”

  He greeted me with his usual hug and kiss then went back to working on a Toyota Camry. I went on into the trailer, dropped my purse on the end of the couch, and stood there for a moment, looking around as if I was seeing it for the first time.

  Randy’s trailer was far from nice, but it was a shitload better than my house. Still, he had dishes piled up by the sink and laundry in a pile in the hallway. It had always been like that, I realized, but this was the first time I’d really seen it. Maybe it was because I’d spent the last couple of months where half my job was cleaning—and I didn’t mind it. Or maybe it was that I’d finally had the chance to see that most normal people didn’t live like complete pigs. In the past several weeks I’d been inside dozens of houses. I’d been in million dollar homes and barely standing shacks, and I’d seen the difference between the places where the people took pride in themselves and their homes, and the shit dumps—like where I lived with my dad. And the price of the house didn’t mean a damn thing.

  I was drying the last dish when Randy walked in. He gave me a funny look.

  “What are you doing?”

  I stacked the plate in the cabinet. “Doing your dishes. Duh.”

  He gave a dry laugh. “Okay. Just never seen you do that before.”

  “I figured I’d help out, y’know?”

  “Um, okay. If you say so. Doesn’t fucking matter to me.”

  I found myself scowling. Did anything matter to him? I used to love how laid-back he was. About the only times he ever seemed to get worked up was when another guy showed interest in me, and even that never lasted for long—only until he was sure I wasn’t going anywhere. Then he’d be back to being all calm and laid-back, comfortable, with everything the way he liked it.

  I was beginning to see that “laid-back” was simply a nice way of saying “doesn’t give a shit.”

  “I’m trying to get my fucking life back on track,” I said. Then I shook my head. “No, it’s never been on track. I’m sick of being a loser.”

  He plopped down onto the couch and shrugged. “I don’t think you’re a loser. You don’t rape old ladies or steal from welfare moms, right?”

  I wiped the water off the counter. “No, but that’s not being a loser. That’s being evil.”

  “I s’pose. Hey, grab me a beer since you’re up?”

  I pulled the fridge open, snagged a beer, and handed it to him. “See, I think losers are people who don’t want anything for themselves. Or who don’t do the shit that needs to be done to get anywhere in life.” I handed him the beer.

  He cracked it open, then glanced at me. “You’re not drinking?”

  “Nah. I’m wiped,” I lied. “If I drink I’ll fall asleep.” I paused. “So what do you think?”

  He took a swig and then gave me a sideways glance. “About what?”

  “About being a loser.”

  “Oh.” He took another swig. “Yeah, I guess that makes sense.” He shrugged again. “I dunno. I think if you’re not hurting anybody, it’s all good.”

  “But maybe being a loser is about hurting yourself,” I pressed, but I could see that I’d already lost him.

  “Jesus, Angel, you’re being awfully deep.” He laughed. “C’mon, look at us. We have fun. We fight, make up, fuck. We grab a beer, smoke a joint, knock back some pills. No one gets hurt. We’re not robbing convenience stores for money.”

  “But some of those pills are stolen from people who need them.”

  His mouth twisted. “Maybe some, but most are prescribed to people who go from doctor to doctor. The docs don’t care, ’cause they get their money.”

  I blew out my breath. “I dunno. Maybe so. You should see the drugs and pills I come across in my job now. Seems like everybody and their mom is on painkillers or anxiety drugs.”

  “Whaddya mean? How do you see them?”

  “Oh, when someone dies we collect any leftover prescription drugs, and then they get destroyed.”

  He hadn’t moved. “So they throw out all those pills?”

  “They get incinerated,” I told him. “But they get counted first,” I added, suddenly feeling strange telling Randy about the drugs. “Anyway, thanks for letting me come by,” I said, trying to change the subject. “My dad’s out of jail and being his usual dickish self.”

  “You know you can always come stay here.” He pushed off the couch and went into the kitchen, returning a half minute later with the bag of pot.

  He lit a joint and passed it to me. I sighed to myself and took the hit even though I knew it wouldn’t do anything. It tasted like shit, and I instantly regretted doing it as the taste faded and the color in the room dimmed. I’m fucking poisoning myself, using up my brains, I thought sourly. These are my brains on drugs.

  I passed the joint back to him. “I don’t want anymore,” I said. “Toldya, I’m tired. It’s been a shitty day.”

  He eyed me for a second, then leaned his head back and took a long hit. “You’re not turning into one of those squeaky-clean, moralistic fuckers, are you?”

  I scowled. “Gimme a fucking break, all right? Would I be here if I was?” And would it matter if I did?

  “Dunno. Would you? You’re only here right now’cause you need crash space.”

  I stood and grabbed my bag. “I don’t need this to
night. I’ll find a goddamned hotel.”

  He made a noise of frustration and snagged my arm. “Lighten up, willya? I don’t give a fuck why you stay.”

  I stared at him for several seconds. Why didn’t he give a fuck? Shouldn’t he? Wasn’t that how normal people acted around each other? They should want the other person to be there for them. Did he really want me, or did he simply not want me to be with anyone else?

  “Do you love me?” I blurted.

  An expression of pure bafflement crossed his face. “You know I do, baby.”

  The crazy thing was that I was fairly sure he did, in his own strange way. And I loved him, in a strange, dependent, who-the-fuck-else-would-want-me kinda way.

  He stood and ran his hands up my arms, then pulled my purse out of my hand and set it back on the couch. “Is that what’s been screwing your head up? You think I don’t love you enough?”

  I shook my head. “That’s not it.” He loved me enough. As much as he could ever love me, I realized. There’d never be anything more or deeper between us. It was better than nothing, though, right? But who’s to say that “nothing” is my only other option?

  He slipped his arms around me. “Look, I’ve told you before that you can stay here anytime you want. All the time if you need to. It’s cool.”

  I looked up at him. “So you’re asking me to move in with you?”

  He looked briefly puzzled. “Huh? Well, yeah. I guess. I mean, I’m here by myself, and we’re already fucking, so it’d make sense if you wanted to stay here too.”