How the White Trash Zombie Got Her Groove Back (29 page)

His eyes met mine, and for the first time I saw doubt and, yes, fear. Hunger coiled hot and tight in my gut, and I inhaled deeply, nostrils flaring at the scent of his brain beneath the fear. I wasn't hungry enough to be out of control, but that didn't mean I was unaware of the Food beneath my hand.

“I know all about monsters,” I purred, face close to his. Sweat broke out on his upper lip, and he made a quick attempt to throw me off, but I simply tightened my grip on his throat until he gasped and coughed. “Shh . . . We're talking here. You're being rude.” I relaxed my hand enough for him to suck in a breath. “You get off on being a monster. How many girls have you done this to?” His eyes darted around the room, and I shook my head. “Nevermind. Doesn't matter. You won't tell me the truth anyway.”

He saw it in my eyes, saw what a real monster looked like. The fear wafted off him like bad cologne. I could kill him, eat his brain. On the surface it sounded like a great idea. The guy was a piece of shit, and society would be better off without him.

But the reality was a lot stickier—literally, in some ways. Killing him would draw all sorts of attention, and—so far at least—I wasn't a cold-blooded killer. I'd killed two men in my life. One was William Rook a.k.a. Walter McKinney, whose skull I'd smashed after he shot me a bunch of times. I didn't feel any guilt about him whatsoever. He was a despicable and horrible person who'd killed plenty of people who hadn't deserved it one bit.

The other one . . . Every now and then, that one kept me up at night. He'd been a Saberton man sent to retrieve Naomi—back when she was still Heather—after she broke her brother's nose and ran. During a firefight out on a deserted highway he shot me as I came at him. In response, I took a baseball bat to his head. In the heat of that moment, he'd done what he had to do, and so had I. But I couldn't console myself with the idea that he was a terrible human being, so it was okay to kill him. None of this shit was black and white, and everything had consequences.

I released the dude's throat and balls, then stood. He rolled to one side and tried to cradle his nads and his nose at the same time. “You broke my nose,” he whined. “Jesus Christ. My nose.”

“I let you off easy,” I said sharply, then stepped past him, unlocked the office door, and peered cautiously out. No sign of any Saberton guys hanging around outside the shop. I eased to the front and peeked around the globes. Edwards and Trench Coat were nowhere in sight, and I didn't see anyone else who could remotely be a security type in disguise. I decided to be cautiously optimistic that no one had seen me.

Shop dude was still curled on the floor when I returned. “What are you going to do?” he asked, voice muffled by the hand he held to his bleeding nose.

I gave him a disgusted look. It pissed me off that I couldn't
do
anything to this guy except leave him with a broken nose, but all the other options would draw a bunch of unwanted attention to me. “I'm going to
leave
, you fucking prick.”

Anger and fear danced across his face. His eyes flicked from me to the door, as if unable to believe it could be that simple.

I wanted to make it as unsimple as possible, but I only had a few options at the moment. I prodded him in the lower ribs with the toe of my shoe. Hard. “Gimme your wallet,” I ordered.

His jaw tightened, but he pulled his wallet from his back pocket and slapped it onto the floor in front of him. I crouched and checked out the contents. Looked like over four hundred in cash, and an absolutely ridiculous number of credit cards. I yanked his ID out and peered at it. “You're a piece of shit, Jerome Womack.” I wanted to leave him with some sort of threat about how I'd deal with him later, but at this point I needed to get the fuck out of there even more. In a perfect world I'd be able to take care of all my other shit, then return here and exact glorious vengeance for every woman this shitstain had abused or taken advantage of. But this wasn't a perfect world. I knew that from hard experience.

Straightening, I jammed the wallet into the pocket of my jacket then grabbed a rubber band off the desk. “Have fun cancelling all your cards, asshole.”

With that I grabbed the black wool coat off the rack and tugged it on, slapped the fedora onto my head, and left.

As soon as I was a couple of blocks from Greene Street I removed the cash and chucked the wallet and its credit cards into a trash can. The fedora I stuffed under my shirt, then I raked my hair back with my fingers and tied it back with the rubberband. Finally, I buttoned the coat up—which reached to my ankles—stuck my fedora-padded tummy out, and pretended to be pregnant. A glance in a shop window had me fairly satisfied with the result. I sure as hell didn't look like a homeless waif anymore. Or like Angel Crawford, for that matter, which was also fine.

Yet my mind whirled with worry and confusion as I made my way to the subway station. How the hell did Saberton know about the meet with Brian? I knew it was possible to listen in on cell phone conversations, but supposedly the phones Naomi bought were the kind that couldn't be spied on. Plus, Saberton would have to know where either Brian or I was at to do so, and if they knew that, then they could've simply grabbed us instead of listening to a stupid call.

The train for the return uptown was crowded, and I gave a distracted no-thank-you shake of my head to an older gentleman who tried to give me his seat. By the time I remembered I was supposedly pregnant, he'd sat back down, and it was too late. Probably for the best since I'd have felt a bit guilty taking a seat from someone I'd normally give one to.

Instead I gripped the pole and continued to fret about Saberton showing up at the meet.
Someone tipped them off.
It was the only possible answer, and I hated it. A miserable dread clung to me as the train continued on its way.
I
sure as hell hadn't told anyone besides the Krewe about the meet, but that meant it
had
to have been one of the others. Had Kyle's impassioned story, explaining his hatred of Saberton, been an elaborate pile of bullshit? I tried to consider the possibility that his capture had been fake, but why would he have gone so far to make sure the rest of us escaped—and
with
Andrew Saber? If Saberton's plan was to allow us to escape so that we would then lead them to Dr. Nikas, why not simply, oh, I dunno, let us fucking escape instead of chasing us into the sewer?

Or maybe it was Naomi/Heather/Julia? My misery deepened at the thought, but the truth was that she had the deepest ties to Saberton. Maybe her whole defection had been a long con to get Pietro and Dr. Nikas. But why tip off Saberton about the meet if the goal was to get to Dr. Nikas? Naomi wasn't stupid. It would make more sense for her to wait until we all joined up with Dr. Nikas and Brian and
then
let Saberton know where we were. And the same argument applied to Philip. He was at the bottom of the suspect list, but I had to consider the possibility that he'd been subverted during the time he was undercover with Saberton.

Wrapped up in my thoughts and worries and stress, it wasn't until I saw signs for “168th Street” that I realized I'd totally missed my stop. I scrambled off the train with far more speed than a pregnant me should've had, then peered around in confusion until a woman took pity on me and showed me how to get on the train going the other direction.

By the time I emerged from the subway at Lincoln Center, I still hadn't come up with a brilliant explanation for how Saberton knew about the meet with Brian.
Nothing
made sense. I stopped at a little grocery and bought snacks, sandwiches, ibuprofen, bottled water, and vitamin C with Jerome Womack's money, then took the slightly rumpled fedora out from under my shirt and stuffed it into the bag before heading to the sewer hatch. Yet as I climbed down the ladder my stupid, neurotic, and paranoid brain tried to insist that the tunnel would be empty and the others gone, either because Naomi-or-Philip was the insider and had thrown Philip-or-Naomi to the Saberton wolves as soon as I left, OR because Naomi
and
Philip simultaneously decided that I had no clue what I was doing, was obviously dead weight and would get them all killed, and it would be best for them to cut and run while they had the chance.

Thankfully, my stupid, neurotic, and paranoid brain was quite wrong about all of this. Naomi was in the same spot, eyes closed and face drawn, apparently dozing. Philip sat against the wall a few feet away, and his unfocused expression told me the MegaPlague had attacked again. Andrew was the only perky one. Well, his eyes were, at least, as they glared at me above the gag shoved into his mouth. The rest of him was bound in a secure hogtie.

“Naomi? Philip? I have stuff to eat and drink.” I set the bag down between Naomi and Philip. Naomi muttered something and sighed without waking, but Philip opened his eyes.

“How'd it go?” he asked.

My throat tightened. “He wasn't there. I'll explain in a minute.”

His forehead creased in concern, but he gave me a slight nod. “When you can,” he said, with understanding in his voice even though he had no way of knowing all the shit that had happened.

How the hell can either of them be the insider?
They were my friends. If one of them had tipped off Saberton, it would mean that friendship was bullshit. I honestly wasn't sure if I'd be able to handle that. Both of them were too damn special to me.

Still unsettled, I let Philip take care of getting the stuff out of the bag while I shifted over to Andrew and pulled the gag from his mouth. “Sorry,” I said as I undid the hogtie. “Do you need something to drink?”

“Sorry? Really?” He struggled to a sitting position, mouth twisted in contempt. “Somehow I doubt that.”

All possible sympathy for him evaporated in a flash. After the monumentally shittastic day I'd had so far, that one pissy remark sliced right through the last remaining frayed thread of my self-control. “Listen to me, Andy-boy,” I hissed. “I'm not like you and your people. I don't do shit like this without provocation. So don't you get all high and mighty and morally superior with me, whining about how I'm not
sorry
enough.” I poked him in the chest with my index finger. “
Your
people kidnapped my dad and then me, and put me through all kinds of fucked up hell in Charish's lab.” My voice rose as the pent up anger and fear and frustration came spewing forth. “
Your
people ran a bunch of experiments on innocent civilians.
Your
people do horrible shit to zombies. And
your
people kidnapped Pietro Ivanov and three of his men, murdered Chris Peterson, tried to kill Brian Archer, and now have Kyle.” I was shouting now, right in his face. “So you can take your goddamn
doubt
and shove it up your fucking ass!”

“You're lucky we don't expose you,” he snarled. “There'd be bounties on you monsters in a heartbeat.”

“At least your shit would be out in the open then as well,” I shot back. “You're lucky we don't expose
you.
And you've got a lot of nerve calling us monsters.” Fury trembled through me. “Hey, I have an idea. Maybe I'll show you what it's like to be a monster. Maybe I'll turn
you
, make you one of us! Let's see how you feel when you're the one trying to scrape out survival when everyone is trying to fuck your world up!”

He went white as a sheet and recoiled as if I really was a slavering monster. “You wouldn't,” he gasped, eyes darting back and forth in a desperate search for escape.

“Wouldn't I?” The cloying scent of his fear wound around me. I let out a nasty laugh, caught up in the glorious thrill of being in control of this prick, this slimeball who was responsible for so much bad shit. Deep down I knew I couldn't lay it all on him, but I was cocked to the full pissed-off position, and he'd made the mistake of pulling my trigger. “You know damn well I'm capable of it,” I growled. “Call
me
a monster? You're the monster! Only fair to make you one for real!” I grabbed his shoulder, and he let out a panicked cry and fought to twist away. “Whaddya say?” I shouted, distantly aware that someone else was yelling my name. I tightened my grip and gave him a rough shake. “It'll only hurt a
lot!
”

Eyes wide in panic, Andrew struggled against the cuffs, feet scrabbling as he tried to get away from me.

“Angel! Stop it!” It was Naomi yelling at me. Out of the corner of my eye I saw her struggle upright.

“I'm not a monster!” I screamed at Andrew, shaking him. “I'm not! You're the monster. It's your fault. All of it!”

“Angel,
stop
!”

The knife-hard edge in Naomi's voice was like a slap in the face. I turned my head to see distress and pain twisting her features as she stood on her good foot, one hand on the wall for balance and the other holding a tranq gun leveled at me.

Philip let out an ominous growl and lurched toward Naomi, but his legs buckled before he reached her, and he had to grab at the wall to avoid falling in a heap.

The panic in Andrew's face retreated as he took in the situation, and he sniggered. “Oh, this is rich. The zombie-loving whore protecting the lowly human from the crazy hick zombie while the cripple tries to stop her. Worse than the Three Stooges.”

I jerked my hand away from him and stumbled back as the insults struck home. Naomi's hand shook as she held the tranq gun, but she didn't resist when Philip fought his way up to take it from her. Her hands dropped to her sides, and she slid down the wall, meeting my eyes with a look of
OMG what did I just do, this is all fucked up and damn this hurts
.

I took another unsteady step back from Andrew, from the others. My chest ached with tension and a mild nausea that I knew was only partly because of the MegaPlague. The whole situation was fucked. Andrew was right. We were bumbling around like idiots, and I didn't have the slightest idea how to fix any of it.

Swiping a hand across my face, I turned and hurried off down the tunnel, away from the others. I heard Philip's voice behind me, angry and intense as he spoke to Andrew.

“Say another word, and I'll take you around the corner to piss and give you some pain you won't believe—without leaving a mark on you.”

I stopped about fifty yards away in a shadowed section of the tunnel and sat, crying and attempting to be quiet about it.

Naomi's voice carried to me. “I may be a zombie lover,” she growled at Andrew, “but I'm
not
a whore, you dick.” Then she peered into the darkness toward me. “Angel?” she called, worry in her voice. “You okay?”

I didn't answer. I wasn't ready to talk to anyone right now, not while the utter humiliation of what I'd done still had me in its grip. Why the hell had I threatened him like that? He was a prick, yes, but the whole “ I'm being held hostage by creatures who might eat my brain” thing had to be pretty fucking stressful. No wonder he'd lashed out.

“Angel?” Naomi called again.

“Annngellll.”
A second voice from the gloom in the opposite direction, like an evil echo of Naomi's voice.

I scrambled to my feet, heart hammering. That second voice hadn't been an echo, but it sure as hell seemed familiar. “Who's there?” I demanded, voice thin as I backed toward Naomi and the light.

The only response was a low groan, followed by the sound of something hitting the floor. Something soft and heavy. Like a body.

I continued to back warily as Philip staggered up to me.

“What do you have?” he asked, peering past me.

“I heard something,” I told him, holding my freakout down with supreme effort. “There's someone down there. Someone said my name.” I had the weirdest sensation I'd heard that voice before, but I couldn't quite place it. Maybe the echoes in the tunnel were messing with my head?

Philip gave my shoulder a squeeze, then moved slowly forward, tranq gun in his hand, while I stayed bravely behind him. He was steadier now. Hopefully he'd stay that way until we dealt with whatever was down the tunnel, whether it was a Saberton guard or a giant talking rat.

“There's someone there,” Philip murmured.

“A person?” I peered cautiously around him and barely made out a form on the ground, but I couldn't see enough to rule out Giant Talking Rat just yet.

“Yes, a person.” He continued forward then let out a soft curse. “Saberton uniform.”

Every muscle in my body tensed. “They followed us. They found us.”

Philip paused, drew a deep breath through his nose. “I don't hear or smell any others.”

I sniffed as well, then frowned. “Wait. I don't smell this guy either.” That made no sense. I was definitely hungry enough to smell human brains.

Curiosity overrode my weenieness, and we closed the distance. The man lay crumpled on his side, either unconscious or faking it really well, and most definitely in a Saberton uniform.

Philip flipped open his phone and shone the feeble light on the man's face.

“It's Gentry,” Philip said, following it with a curse as he continued to scan around us.

Mr. Perfect Eyebrows?
I owed him a few dozen knees to the balls for mistreating Pietro. I moved closer, baffled. The voice had sounded a lot like his, and it sure as hell looked like him, though for some reason his eyebrows didn't look as precisely pruned as usual. I crouched and sniffed, then sniffed again. “This doesn't make sense,” I said. “There's no way this is Gentry. It can't be.” I looked up. “Philip, this is a
zombie
.”

Frowning, Philip used the toe of his boot to roll him onto his back. “Angel, that's Gentry,” he insisted. “I worked with him long enough to know him, and I'm pretty sure he doesn't have an identical twin. Certainly not one who works at Saberton.”

I shook my head, baffled. “Then he must've been turned? But that doesn't make sense either.”

Philip rested a hand on my shoulder briefly as he crouched beside me, this time more to steady himself than for comfort. Lowering his head, he copied my sniff-examination. “You're right, he's a zombie. He must have been turned.” He mirrored my own WTF expression. “By Mr. Ivanov? Kyle?” He sat back on his heels, face drawn in thought.