My Life as a White Trash Zombie (12 page)

He gave me a tight smile that didn’t come anywhere near his eyes. “Angel, I need you to tell me as much as you can remember about the accident.”

I let out a breath and forced myself to chill. I was the victim this time. So what if I felt like I was going into an interrogation? “Sure, though there’s not much to tell,” I said. “I was driving. I came around the curve and saw a tree in the road. I hit it.”

His eyes narrowed. “Did you see anyone?”

I hesitated. “I thought the tree was a person at first. Then I realized it was only a branch sticking up. Why?”

He pursed his lips briefly and looked back toward the tree that was still partially in the road. “It looked like someone deliberately dragged that tree onto the highway. There are footprints and scuff marks.” He paused and returned his gaze to me. “And dirt on the van door.”

My pulse thudded as my mind raced. I hadn’t said anything to anyone about the zombie trying to get the body bag, for obvious reasons. But if there was physical evidence that someone had caused the accident, would they get suspicious if I didn’t say anything?

“That’s fucked up,” I finally managed. “I’m pretty positive that tree wasn’t in the road when I was going the other way. I figured it fell or something.” I shook my head, and I didn’t have to fake the wince the motion caused. “Sorry. I was kinda rattled there right after it happened, y’know? Maybe the dirt was from someone checking to see if I was okay.” I gave a helpless shrug. “I dunno. It had to be random, right? I mean, why would anyone want me to crash?” I made myself laugh. “Unless they wanted to steal the body so they could make a monster.”

His expression grew tighter, if that was even possible. “It was probably some punks being stupid,” he said. Then he took a deep breath as if forcing himself calm. “I know you’re shaken now, but if you remember anything later on, that’ll help us find out who did this.”

“Fuckers,” Ed muttered as he jotted notes on his pad. “You could have been killed.”

“The whole situation is fucked,” Ivanov said. My stomach knotted at the vehemence in his voice. I
thought
he was angry at the idea that someone else had done this, but the paranoid side of me wasn’t sure if maybe part of it was directed at me. He knew me, knew my whole sordid history. Surely he thought I was somehow at fault. How could he not?

I looked away and blinked quickly at the flashing lights of the ambulance as stupid tears filled my eyes. Crap. Here I was getting all weepy because this deputy might think I was even more of an irresponsible piece of shit than I was. God, I was pathetic.

“Hey, dickhead, you’re upsetting my girlfriend,” Ed said with a not-so-gentle shove to Ivanov’s shoulder. “Cut it out.”

Ivanov leveled a scowl at Ed. “I’m sure Angel has higher standards than a jackass like you. Besides, the girlfriend you already have might have an issue with this.”

Ed merely gave a snort. “Yeah, well you’re doing your angry-scary-grouchy face. You keep doing that you’re going to get unsightly wrinkles.”

Ivanov blinked and gave me a sharp look, then his expression softened, much to my surprise. “I didn’t mean to upset you. You’re going to be fine. And we’ll find those asshole punks who did this.”

“I’m cool,” I said as I fought to get my emotions under control and maintain something vaguely resembling dignity. “Sorry.”

Ed smacked Ivanov on the back of the head. “Yeah,’cause I’ll kick his ass if he doesn’t.”

Ivanov lifted a fist with a threatening snarl, and I sucked in a breath. His gaze flicked briefly to me, registering my shock, and he grinned and lowered his fist. “Sorry,” he said, and now I could see the laughter in his eyes. “Ed and I have known each other since we were kids. He thinks he can get away with battery on a police officer, and one of these days I’m gonna slap cuffs on his skinny ass.”

Ed merely smiled serenely. “And the next time you get a boo-boo in the line of duty, I’ll be sure to tell the ER folks that you’re too much of a man to need painkillers.”

The deputy snorted. “Speaking of, you need to stop dicking around and get her to the ER.”

“Get the hell out of my way, and I’ll do that,” Ed said with a glare at the deputy. Ivanov gave a low laugh, then gave me a wink as he stood and walked off. I stared after him for several seconds as I struggled to make sense of this side of the gruff deputy.

“He can be Mr. Grouchy Pants,” Ed said quietly, “but I think this time it was more worry than anything. We’ll get you checked out, and then everyone will be happier.”

“I’m not hurt that bad,” I insisted, even as I wondered if the deputy had really been worried about me. “All I need is a Band-Aid for my head.”

“You could be an extra in a slasher movie with all the blood you have on you,” Ed said, “but I’ll be damned if I can find any other cuts besides that one. You must have hit one hell of a bleeder.”

I gave what I hoped was a neutral shrug. “I feel all right. I really can’t afford to miss a bunch of work.”

“I don’t know if you’ll be kept out of work, but since you were driving the Coroner van, I’m sure you’re going to have to do a urinalysis—a piss test.” He shrugged.

“Oh.” Shit. It had been weeks since I’d smoked that pot with Randy, and it’d been over a week since I’d taken any pills, so surely I was clean now, right? “Oh, yeah. Okay.” God, I hoped so. “But I really don’t need to ride on the stretcher, okay?”

Ed gave me a reassuring pat on the shoulder. “If you can walk, that’s fine.”

I made it into the ambulance without falling over, then proceeded to worry about the piss test the entire way to the hospital. Would the drugs show up? Or worse, would the fact that I was a . . . a zombie? I had a feeling I was being stupid, but at least it managed to distract me from all of the other stuff on my mind. Maybe someday I wouldn’t have anything to worry about. Wouldn’t that be a shock.

When we got to the ER, Ed hopped out then gave me a hand to help me down. I gave him my left without thinking, then had to bite back a yell of pain when he took hold of my arm to assist me. The crap on my arm had closed up all the way, but obviously it wasn’t totally healed.

“You gonna make it?” he asked, peering at my face with worry. “You just went pale. I can put you on the stretcher if you need it.”

I took a deep breath. “I’m cool. Sorry. Probably straightened too fast.” I pulled away from his grasp as gently as I could, trying to not be obnoxious about jerking my arm away or anything. I sure as shit didn’t want anyone to know about the arm thing. If they x-rayed it and saw that it was still kinda broken, I’d definitely be out of work for a while. I simply had to make it until I got home, and then I could down a Percocet or. . . .

I scowled to myself. No. No painkillers for me. None of that shit worked on me anymore. That sucked ass.

Brains instead.
I sighed.
Too fucking weird.

Ed somehow managed to cut through the usual procedures, and I was settled into an exam room within a few minutes. The nurse came in and I nearly flinched when I recognized her as the bitchy redhead from the last time I was here. I kept waiting for her to start in with the snide looks, but she merely took my vitals and left.

“Hate that fuckin’ bitch,” Ed muttered, and I had to stifle a bark of laughter. He gave me a sheepish grin. “Sorry. I got bit by a dog last year, and she was so nasty it was as if she thought I deserved to get bit.”

I wanted to respond, but the door opened and half the Coroner’s Office poured in. At least it seemed that way. In reality it was only Derrel and Allen Prejean, followed by—to my enormous shock—the coroner, Dr. Duplessis. But none of the men were small, and the already tiny room seemed suddenly overcrowded.

Ed gave my arm a squeeze—the unbroken one, thankfully. “Take care of yourself, Angel. And don’t take this the wrong way, but I’d rather not meet you like this again.”

I grinned. “I’m cool with that.”

He gave me a parting smile, then left me to fend off a barrage of questions from the three remaining men.

I gazed morosely at the contents of the little fridge in my room. Actually, gazing at the contents didn’t take long since the damn thing was empty, but I crouched there with the door open for several minutes anyway, as if my stash would magically regenerate if I wished hard enough. The cold air flowed out onto my bare feet but I might as well have been wearing socks for all I felt it. I absently rubbed my fingertips together, dully annoyed at the faint lack of sensation. My stomach gave an unpleasant twist—like I needed the reminder that I was a few hours past my usual, every-other-day feeding schedule. Great. Everything else faded, but I could still feel the damn hunger.

Used to be that I
wanted
the edge taken off the world. Hell, that’s why I’d turn to pills or pot or booze. But this was different. It was like the longer I went without brains, the more dead I became.

And that scared the living shit out of me.

After Ed had left me in the ER I’d been subjected to a barrage of questions that made Ivanov’s “interrogation” look like a poetry reading. Derrel was clearly worried and distressed, Allen was annoyed and suspicious—and kept muttering under his breath about the loss of the van—and Dr. Duplessis was somewhere in between. I told my story as best I could, keeping it as close to the truth as possible while leaving out the bit about the zombie. To my relief the faint shadow of suspicion in the coroner’s eyes faded as I finished up my version of what happened. And when my piss test came back clean—thank god—even Allen seemed to unbend enough to show actual concern.

Unfortunately, I still ended up with three days off from work. It wasn’t even punishment either, which was the totally bizarre thing about it. It was
with pay
, and the coroner most likely thought he was being super nice, giving me extra time to make sure I was all right. Normally I’d have been thrilled to get time off with pay. I mean, the coroner was being incredibly cool to do that for me, especially since I was so new. Usually you had to be there for three months before you could get any type of paid leave. And what was I supposed to say? “Gee, thanks for giving me paid time off, but that’s not why I need to come to work. I need to dig through dead bodies’cause I’m starving, yo.”

At least it was only three days. If I hadn’t tanked up on some brains out at the accident scene, I’d have probably been forced to stay out for a couple of weeks to hide how fast I could heal up when properly fed.
And then I’d have been like that other zombie.
A chill went through me that had nothing to do with the open fridge.

I closed the fridge, stood. I was back on call tomorrow. One more day. I could last until then, right? I wasn’t even smelly yet. Well, not too much
.
I counted the days: I’d slugged down my last brains day before yesterday, and I was supposed to go back to work tomorrow. Three days without brains. I’d never gone that long before.

Unfortunately, I’d burned through my stash faster than I’d expected getting healed up. I’d been able to bullshit the ER doc, but my stupid body had let me know that it felt like shit. I wasn’t tough enough to fight my appetite when it was clawing at me like I’d swallowed a wolverine.

But how long did I have? I needed a goddamn manual. And why the hell couldn’t Anonymous Letter Dude give me some clues and pointers?
Okay, I ate the damn brains. I’ve figured out that I need to keep this job. Great. You win. Now, could I please get a clue?

The “one month” mark was in a few days, and still no sign or word from whoever’d arranged the whole thing with the job. I’d really been hoping that at some point I’d get a “Way to go!” or “I knew you could do it!” or even a “Hi, my name is blank, and I’ve been your mentor.” I scowled. Not a mentor, though. A mentor would have given me some actual advice and instruction on how to handle this whole brain thing. Not just a stupid “If you crave it, eat it” note.

I really hoped I wasn’t expected to figure this crap out on my own.

I peered at myself in the mirror. What would I look like all rotted and gross like that guy had been? There were shadows under my eyes, and I looked as if I’d been awake for way too long, but I didn’t have parts falling off. Yet. I shivered, then stuck a Band-Aid onto my forehead where the cut on my head had been. I didn’t want people wondering how I could have healed up so fast. I still wasn’t sure what I was going to do about the fact that there wasn’t a scar. Maybe get my hair cut so I had bangs that covered my forehead? I made a face. Bangs. Ugh. I’d rather have parts falling off.

My dad wasn’t home so I checked my money situation and then headed out. I had an attack of responsibility and used a good portion of my last paycheck to do stupid things like paying bills—even paid the cable bill, which had been cut off. Hopefully this would get around having to give money to my dad, especially since I wasn’t so sure he’d actually pay bills with the money anyway.

My stomach grumbled at me after I dropped off a payment at the power company and I wavered badly on whether to try and sneak into the morgue to snag some brains. The big problem was the fact that I had to use a key card to get in—which meant that it would be logged in the system. Coming in once or twice off-shift wouldn’t be a huge deal, but it would definitely be noticed if I made a habit of it. Especially since the previous van driver had been caught stealing. The last thing I wanted was any more attention.

It’s only one more day,
I reminded myself.
It’s not worth the risk.

I caught a scent of fried chicken as I passed a diner on the corner, and my stomach gave another lurch. I almost laughed in relief. This was hunger . . . not Hunger. I still needed to eat regular food—something I’d almost forgotten to do when I was healing up from the wreck. Hell, I tended to forget it a lot when I was low on brains, and forgetting had the unfortunate effect of making me even
more
ravenous for brains since I was basically starving myself. It didn’t help that food tended to be kinda tasteless if I wasn’t tanked up on brains.