How the White Trash Zombie Got Her Groove Back (16 page)

“Riiiiight,” she said with a laugh. “What
ever
.”

I snorted. “C'mon. Waffles.” I hooked my arm through hers.

“I'm buying,” she stated as we headed back to the restaurant.

“What
ever
.”

Naomi took the wheel after breakfast. I joined her up front to let the boys take the backseat, and within less than a mile both were asleep. I tried to do the same, without much luck. The scenery was a bit more interesting during the daylight hours, but there was only so much staring out the window a body could do before crashing boredom set in.

“Are we there yet?” I whined. “How much faaarrrttthhher? I'm sooooo bored.”

Naomi glanced my way, smile twitching. “Don't make me stop this car.”

“Can I drive? You should let me drive. I'm a very good driver.”

“No.”

“I really am a good driver,” I insisted. “Never even got a speeding ticket.”

Naomi chuckled. “I'm sure you are, but . . .” She scrunched up her face. “You can't take this personally, okay? But if somehow the Tribe or Saberton found us on the road and tried to cause trouble, it's probably better if it's either Kyle or me driving.”

“I hate it when you make sense,” I grumbled.

“There are a couple of books in my bag down there by your feet,” she said. “You're welcome to 'em.”

I dug through what she had. “I can't believe you don't have
Passion of the Viking.
”

She laughed. “Oh my god, would you believe I've actually read that book?”

“No way!”

She grinned. “Yes, way. I'm a total romance novel fiend.” She nodded toward the bag. “Try
Kilted Pleasure.
It's even better.”

I dug it out, and contentedly lost myself in the perils of Lady Stonewall.

Fourteen pages into the hijinks of the rogue Rory MacTavish as he tried to win the heart of the bonny Lady Fiona Stonewall—while she apparently wanted only to find out what Rory wore under his kilt—a slightly brilliant idea hit me.

“Krewe,” I announced. “We can call ourselves the Krewe since we're not really the Tribe right now.”

Naomi gave me a doubtful look. “Crew? Seems a bit boring. Why not gang or herd or gaggle—”

“Murder,” Kyle murmured from the back seat, eyes closed. “Like a murder of crows.”

“Murder? Really?” I asked, surprised. “That's what a bunch of crows is called?” I shook my head. “That's really weird, but I don't mean crew like a road crew.
Krewe
—like the groups of people who put on Mardi Gras parades. So, y'know, a bunch of people who are wild and fun and might even cause some trouble.”

“A krewe of zombies,” Philip said with a smile. “That actually makes sense.”

Ridiculously pleased with myself, I once again submerged myself into the book.

At some point in the afternoon Naomi left the interstate in what seemed to be the absolute middle of nowhere. When I asked her where we were going she simply responded, “More supplies,” and then proceeded down a narrow country highway even deeper into Nowhere. About half an hour later she pulled into a gravel parking lot in front of a building that looked even more ramshackle and run down than Randy's garage.

I peered at the weather-beaten sign and the hay stacked in a big shelter off to the side. “Maybe this is too nosy, but what the hell do we need from Gatlin's Feed and Seed?”

Naomi grinned as she leapt from the car. “Wait and see. And don't touch anything.”

I clambered out at a much less enthusiastic pace, then followed Philip and Kyle inside. Gatlin's Feed and Seed was pretty much exactly like every other feed and seed store I'd ever been in, which was good since I
loved
feed and seed stores. There was something about the rich scent of mulch and soil and hay and grain that seemed to sing with life and growth.

Memories whispered to me as I trailed my fingers along the racks of seed packets. My mother had loved these stores as well. Every Friday afternoon, back when I was in kindergarten, she'd bring me to one not far from the house and let me pick out a packet of flower seeds, and then we'd go home and plant them somewhere around the yard. By the time I started first grade the yard was a crazy and glorious jumble of every type of flower that could grow in south Louisiana.

She didn't take me to the feed store as much during first grade, with weeks and then months between trips. Then one day in spring I must have asked to go once too often. That was the first time she hit me, as far as I could remember—a sharp smack across the face that left a red mark on my cheek for over an hour and a stain on my trust in her—a stain that never faded.

Yet the flowers remained, most of them perennials that stubbornly returned every year despite shocking neglect. And even though I never forgot that slap, I also could never forget how she would go and sit in the back yard, in the middle of those flowers, as if that was the only place she could find a moment of peace from the chaos in her head.

Kyle and Philip idly poked around racks of dusty farm tools while Naomi moved to a back counter and spoke in a low voice to a grizzled man with an impressive beer gut beneath threadworn overalls. About half a minute later she glanced back and beckoned to us.

I obediently followed the boys over and even gave the man behind the counter a nice smile. He returned a toothless one then gestured, with a hand missing its last two fingers, toward a door behind him. Naomi thanked him, and then we all went through the door and into a storeroom filled with what must have been every piece of broken crap from the last fifty years. Lamps, typewriters, three-legged chairs. Junk.

The hell? Mystified, I looked around, certain I was missing the point of this—especially since the other three simply stood in the middle of the storeroom as if waiting for something.

Apparently the
something
was the closing of the door. Seconds after it clicked shut, a section of the far wall swung out to reveal an entirely different variety of merchandise. I'd been to the police supply shop with Marcus a few times, but this place was that times a dozen—an absolute bonanza of tactical equipment and electronics and protective gear and clothing and all sorts of other stuff that I had a feeling was illegal to sell without all sorts of licenses and background checks, which pretty much explained the whole secret door thing.

I quietly browsed and touched things I wasn't supposed to touch, while the other three went on their secret agent shopping spree. When they finally finished, I did my best not to openly goggle at the amount of cash Naomi handed over, then I helped carry the bags—marked “horse feed”—out to the car and into the trunk. Philip quietly informed me that we'd transfer the purchases into our suitcase and duffels only after we'd been on the road at least an hour and were certain of privacy. I gave a sober nod of understanding, as if I did this only-in-the-movies shit all the time. Hell, zombies were real, so why not secret black market stores?

After we finished loading the car, the boys took the front again, and we continued on our way. Naomi reached into her purse and pulled out four new phones that were a lot nicer than my old one. “I've already loaded our numbers into each phone in the contacts,” she said as she handed them out. “No calls to anyone besides the four of us unless it's an emergency.” I expected a Significant Look from her, but she was nice and kept it to herself.

I waited until we were back on the interstate before asking the question that had been nagging me since we left the very odd store.

“Do we have a
plan
?” I asked. “Or are we going to go knock on Saberton's door and say, ‘Yo, dude, you got my homie?'”

“Saberton Tower would be a hard nut to crack,” Kyle remarked.

“We can check out some things when we get there,” Naomi said as she fiddled with the charger for the computer tablet she'd bought at the secret store. “It's Thursday, and the weekend would be best for getting in there if we decide that's the way to go. Would be tough on a weekday with so many people around.”

“What kind of things will we check out?” I asked.

“Kyle will see if he can pick up any info or chatter on their security channels,” she said. “No point in hitting the building if nothing we want is there. Philip will look for any chinks in their system that might allow us to slip in, and I'll make some calls and see if I can track down Andrew's and my mother's schedules.”

I waited a few seconds before speaking in case she had more to say. “What do you need me to do?”

“There's nothing you need to do initially,” she said with a light shrug. “Not until we have some information and a direction.”

In other words, I can make the coffee
, I thought with a mental sigh. “What's the deal with your mom's and brother's schedules? How will that help?”

“Don't know yet, but it sure can't hurt to know where they are, at least in general,” she replied, eyes on the screen in her lap. “Getting into one or both of their homes might be useful too.”

“Yeah, that makes sense.” I racked my brain for some way I could help and came up with nothing.
Hey, making coffee is important, dammit.
“Do you think Andrew's involved in all this?” I asked. “I guess if he's second in command, he must be.”

Naomi grimaced. “I know he was involved with the zombie research before,” she replied. “I saw him on those videos, right there with my mother. I wish I could say he wasn't, but . . . yeah, he probably is.” She swallowed and looked out the window. “He sure is stupid for being so smart.”

“I'll smack him and tell him so when I meet him,” I said, trying to get a chuckle or smile from her and failing.

“I'm not going to see him, am I?” she said quietly, still looking out the window.

“You'll see him,” I told her firmly. “He won't see you, but that was his own stupid choice.”

“I hate him,” she said, voice catching, and it was obvious she didn't mean it.

I gave her a light punch in the arm. “Yeah, I'll definitely smack him for being such a poopoohead.”

“We're never going to talk again,” she said, voice growing less steady. “Even after he gets smacked.”

The whole thing was really hitting her hard. Now that we were heading into his turf, her loss grew more and more real. Her ties to her family were cut and gone, and the grief was beginning to set in. She was almost certainly right—she would never again speak with her brother. And I had no idea what to say to make it better.

But sometimes nothing needed to be said. I hit the release button on my seat belt, scooched over, and wrapped her up in a big, obnoxious, smushy hug. A laugh hiccupped out of her, and then it turned into a total bawling sobfest. I knew
all
about crying and emotional release and shit like that, and I kept on holding her and generally being there for her.

I felt a gentle tap on my shoulder. Philip, silently handing a packet of tissues back to me. I took them with a grateful smile, then returned to the holding and soothing noises thing.

Naomi finally sniffled and lifted her head. I had a tissue ready for her, which she noisily blew her nose into.

“Thanks.” She took another tissue and wiped at her eyes. “Before, I could pretend I was off on a job, that's all. But now I'm going to where he is . . .” Her voice caught again, and she snatched at another tissue.

“I'm sorry,” I said. “But I know you'll get through this. We all have your back, and you're a total pro.”

She blew her nose again. “Sure, I'll get through it. Andrew got through it.”

“And you're a lot tougher,” I stated firmly.

Her lower lip quivered briefly, and for an instant I saw beyond the tough mask to the forlorn and grieving woman. “It might be a little hard sometimes,” she said a bit hesitantly, as if afraid to admit it.

I hugged her again. “If it wasn't, I'd be worried about you.”

“So instead you'll squish me?”

“I'm squishing you with my love.”

“I'll take it.”

To my delight New York was almost exactly like in the movies. The city had the tall buildings, yellow taxis, the strange mix of people walking along the sidewalk, and food carts on the corners, even this early in the morning. It was chilly outside, but I cracked the window so I could get a sense of what everything sounded like and smelled like. Naomi gave an amused snort, and I gave her my I'm-a-tourist-so-get-over-it glare, but no one told me to close the window.

And the traffic. Holy shit, cars everywhere. Philip explained that we were arriving at the beginning of rush hour, but
damn
. Kyle drove with a lot more calm finesse then I would've in that kind of traffic. No way in hell was I getting behind the wheel in this city, that was for sure. Naomi pointed out some of the landmarks along the route—Empire State Building, the theater district, Central Park—but even I was too tired and cramped from the long drive to want to do a bunch of sightseeing. A real bed. Yeah, that was the tourist attraction I wanted to see.

After what seemed like an endless drive in bumper to bumper traffic, we finally turned onto a quieter street and pulled up in front of a hotel that most certainly wasn't the flea bag rat trap that I'd half expected we'd be staying in. A fancy awning with brass trim overhung the sidewalk with
The Fairbourne
in elegant gold letters on the front. The building itself was grey stone with all sorts of carved columns and scrollwork and other cool stuff around the windows. And the entrance! I stared in utter delight at the brass and glass and marble. The broad entrance was flanked by two solid doors and in the center of it all stood an absolutely gorgeous revolving door. Brass everywhere, and all polished to a fierce gleam. I'd seen dozens of glass and chrome hotels on our way here, but this place oozed personality and charm and
Yes, you want to stay here because I am so very much cooler than the others.

Kyle stopped the car and killed the engine as a young man in a dark green uniform hurried up. Following the lead of the others, I got out and grabbed my stuff as well as one of the coolers, and tried not to look too out of my depth as Kyle handed the keys to the young man. Another man in a dark green jacket and white gloves approached and offered to take our things. Kyle politely declined even as he slipped what I suspected to be cash into the man's hand.

“The car will be okay here?” I murmured under my breath to Naomi.

She nodded. “I'll have them put it in long-term parking,” she told me. “We won't be using it again until we leave, most likely. There are disadvantages to driving in the city.”

“You mean that little bit about the drivers all being complete maniacs?” I asked as I followed her into the hotel—with only a slight delay. I
had
to make a second round in the big revolving door. When I caught up with the others, I tried really hard not to gape, or rather to gape without looking as if I was gaping, because holy shit this place was
nice
. Huge lobby with white marble floors bordered with gold-flecked black. A gigantic chandelier that sure looked like crystal and not plastic. Black leather sofas and chairs lined with burgundy velvet pillows. A fresh flower arrangement so big I didn't think I'd be able to get my arms halfway around it—though I was tempted to try. And uniformed staff all bright and cheery.

“We're staying
here
?” I whispered to her.

“That's the plan,” she murmured back.

“And were going to pay for this
how?
What is this—some kind of five-star place or something?”

“Only four stars,” she said, and it was obvious she was trying not to laugh. I started to bristle until I realized I was totally playing the role of country bumpkin to a tee. I'd laugh at me too.

“I have money stashed in a dozen different accounts that nobody knows about but me,” she reassured me in a low voice. Her expression grew more serious. “It'll be worth the expense to have a safe and comfortable place to stay while we plan our next steps.”

With that she went up to the front desk—a massive thing of polished dark wood—while I stayed back with Philip and Kyle and tried to look as nonchalant about the whole thing as the guys seemed to be. After a few minutes she returned with key cards that she handed out to each of us, and then we trooped off to the elevators.

“It'll be a little crowded,” Naomi explained after we got off on our floor and headed to the room, “but I figured as long as it had two bedrooms we'd be okay. Kyle and me in one and Philip and Angel in the other.”

Wait, what? Philip and me?
I started to gently prod for a clarification, but then Kyle opened the door to the room, effectively derailing my thoughts.

Following the others in, I could only stare like an idiot for several seconds before I recovered enough to put my things down and explore the suite. Swanky. Elegant. Two bedrooms—one with a king bed and one with a queen—a living room, dining area with table and chairs, a small kitchen, and two bathrooms, one with a tub big enough to swim in.
Plus
a terrace, complete with patio furniture. The place was half again as big as my whole damn house back home.

Philip transferred brains from the coolers to the fridge. Kyle hung the
Do Not Disturb
sign on the door, and Naomi flopped onto the sofa.

I picked up a big book off the coffee table.
New York: A Photographer's Memoirs.
“Aren't they afraid someone will walk off with their stuff?” I asked. My vast hotel experience consisted of one night with Randy at Tucker Point's Sleepytime Palace on our “anniversary.” Everything there was taped, nailed, or glued down.

Naomi answered with a laugh. She wasn't laughing
at
me, but only because she thought I was joking.

Allrighty then. I set the book down again as Philip and Kyle joined us in the living room.

“Now what?” I asked.

Naomi glanced at the clock. “Nine thirty a.m. now. The guys are heading out to take care of business. Kyle and Philip will check the security channels, and I'm going to make some calls. Possible targets for later are Saberton Tower, my mother's condo, or Andrew's apartment.”

I sat on the couch, then had to control my groan of pleasure at how soft and comfy it was. “It's Friday,” I said, “which means invading Saberton is out since it'll be full of pesky employees.”

Naomi nodded. “Right, and unless we turn up something juicy in the next couple of hours, I think the easiest first step is Andrew's apartment since my mother's condo has pretty tight security. It's not likely Andrew would be home in daytime hours, but I'll see if I can get anything on his schedule.” She glanced around as if looking for confirmation.

“The apartment is the best option,” Kyle agreed. “I assume you have keys or codes to get past security?”

“I have his building and security code,” she said, then bit her lip. “Unless he changed them.”

“He thinks you're dead,” I said with a shrug, then winced at the brief flash of pain that passed over her face at the reminder.
Shit, insensitive much, Angel?
“Sorry, I mean he has less reason to change his codes with you dead than if you'd simply defected.”

She straightened her shoulders and nodded. “No, you're right. And he's not really a super technical guy. Don't get me wrong, he's smart and savvy, but I don't think it would occur to him to change his apartment codes. After all, I was supposedly killed less than a week after I ran away from Saberton.”

“We'll keep our fingers crossed,” Philip said then rubbed the back of his neck. “We need rest before we tackle the apartment. I say we get cleaned up, do whatever preliminary work needs doing, then crash until one.”

No one argued. Philip headed to the shower while I quickly claimed the bigger bedroom and flopped face down on the king size bed. See, I was being nice by letting Naomi and Kyle have the slightly smaller bed so that they could cuddle more. Yeah, that was totally it.

I only meant to close my eyes for a few minutes while waiting for Philip to clear out of the shower, but when I opened them again, the clock on the nightstand said 12:07 p.m. Philip lay on his back on the other side of the bed, eyes closed and face relaxed in sleep. I'd never really seen him like this, with the deep lines of pain around his eyes and on his forehead softer, less prominent.

Low voices from the other room told me the others were awake and moving. I eased off the bed, quietly gathered my things, then crept to the bathroom to shower and dress.

“If we're leaving the car here, does that mean we're taking taxis everywhere?” I asked as we rode the elevator down to the lobby. We were all rested, clean, well fed on room service and brains, and ready to take on the world. Or at least one small part of the world. Either way, everyone looked a lot perkier now.

Naomi tugged the strap of her messenger bag over her shoulder. “We'll use some taxis, sure, but it's a lot faster in most cases to take the subway.”

My mind instantly went right back to my TV-informed knowledge of subways. “Is that
safe?
”

She turned an exasperated look on me. “Really?”

Oh. Yeah. Brain eating monsters. We were probably okay. Still, I stuck close after we exited the hotel. Naomi headed down the street in a long, confident stride that the others matched easily but had me practically jogging.

“Hey, I'm working with short legs over here,” I panted after half a block. “I'm going to need more brains at this rate.”

Naomi glanced back, amusement twinkling in her eyes, but she obligingly slowed her pace. “We're almost at the station anyway.” The amusement increased. “You're going to
love
this.”

I didn't love it. Not one bit. It didn't matter that I was in a group of mercenaries and zombies, including a couple of zombie mercenaries. The subway scared the shit out of me.

First off, it involved going underground. We didn't
do
“underground” in south Louisiana, not with the water table so high. And this shit was
way
underground. Down several flights of steps through tiled corridors lit with bad fluorescent lighting, finally emerging onto a loud and dirty platform between two sets of tracks where it looked as if a single misstep could send somebody falling onto the rails to be squished by a train—which I knew for a fact really did happen every now and then.

Plus, somewhere down there was a third rail which I'd always heard could kill you with a single touch, or maybe even if you got close enough to it or looked at it sideways. It boggled me that the tracks weren't absolutely littered with dead bodies and skeletons and other gruesome shit.

And even on the relatively safe platform, there were so many people waiting to cram onto the train! Holy fucking shit, but I didn't think there were this many people in all of Tucker Point.

On the other hand, I had a feeling no one would notice if I was rotting and bits were falling off. Or maybe they'd notice but wouldn't say anything. New Yorkers seemed to be really good about making a personal bubble of “I don't care and don't fuck with me” around themselves. I guess you had to when you lived in a city with so many people.

The train finally roared up with squealing and screeching and a blast of wind before it. I kept a death grip on the back of Phillip's jacket as we boarded—which surprised me that we were even doing so since the car already looked packed to the gills. No way could I reach one of the overhead bars above the seats, so I wedged myself between Philip and Naomi, clung to a pole and the jacket and honestly didn't give a fuck that I probably looked as freaked out as a kitten during his first bath.

I couldn't see many of the other passengers from my position, but nothing blocked my sharper-than-human sense of smell. Ugh. The odors of cheap perfume, aftershave, old pee, new pee, vomit, and a variety of unwashed body parts merged in a sickening cloud. There were plenty of clean smells as well, but the bad stuff kicked their asses and dominated. I tried breathing through my mouth but that simply allowed me to
taste
the stench, and I quickly gave that up.

After about three stops the train cleared out a bit, and I didn't feel quite as “crushed by humanity,” though the smell hung around like humanity's ghost. Still, I kept hold of Philip's jacket until we were back on a platform, all the while terrified that I'd lose my grip and miss getting off the train with the others and end up lost in the city forever. Y'know, completely normal and rational fears.

As soon as we emerged into open air again, I let out a deep sigh of relief and released my hold on the jacket. Naomi started off down the street as if she knew where the hell she was going, which I pretty much assumed was true. As we followed, Philip glanced at me and smiled.

“You okay, ZeeEm?”

“Peachy.” I gave him a weak grin. “There sure are a lot of people in this place.”

He nodded in agreement. “I prefer a little less population density.”

Naomi was kindly keeping a slower pace, which gave me a chance to look around a bit. This part of the city didn't feel quite as claustrophobic. In fact it reminded me of parts of New Orleans. More trees, less traffic, lots of little cafés and shops.

“Where are we?” I asked, “and if you say New York I will slug you.”

“This is the Village,” he said as if that explained everything. When I gave him an exasperated
Are you fucking kidding me?
look, he grinned a bit sheepishly. “Sorry. Greenwich Village. We're on the lower west side of Manhattan now. This area used to be an artist's haven and was considered a bohemian capital. Still is, really, though it's a lot more expensive to live here now.”

After a couple of blocks Naomi stopped on a corner and casually glanced around as if taking in the sights.

“See where that blond woman came out, down the street by the red car?” she said, not looking anywhere in particular. “That's the place.”