My Life as a White Trash Zombie (16 page)

I folded my arms across my chest. “So you’re telling me that you’re the only zombie who works in a funeral home?”

“I’m the only one in a position to take care of all the others,” he retorted. “If you think you’re going to come in here and cut into my business, you’re deluded.”

“Yeah, well, let’s get one thing straight, asshole. I have no intention of cutting into your business, okay? But I’m also not gonna let you screw me over.” I found myself smiling. I’d been in scenarios like this before, though they hadn’t been about brains. Maybe my less-than-pleasant history would come in handy after all. “See, I think what you want is for me to give you all the brains from bodies that don’t normally go to your funeral home. ’Cause right now you only get, what, maybe a fifth of the ones that come through the morgue?” His scowl told me I was on the right track. “But it’s not like you could be short of brains. I mean, you also get all the ones from the people who y’all pick up who don’t come through here. Nursing homes, hospitals, hospice deaths. . . .”

I watched a muscle in his jaw leap. “You have no idea how this works.”

I shrugged. “Yeah, maybe not. But I’ve dealt with your type before. I know you’re not the only zombie in this business.” I didn’t know for sure—there was always the chance that Zeke was the only other one, but the more I thought about it, the more it made sense that zombies would automatically gravitate toward jobs where they could get a hold of brains with a minimum of hassle. “And I think that right now you’re just being a dick, trying to pressure me into handing everything over to you and cutting everyone else out—including myself.” I threw my hands up. “Do I really look that stupid?”

Kang’s lip curled into a sneer. “You didn’t even know you were a zombie.”

“Yeah, so? I was ignorant, but I’m not a fucking moron. Why would I give the shit to you just so I could buy it back from you later?” I leaned back against the counter. “Hon, you’re fucking with the wrong chick. I’ve been around too many drug dealers to buy into a scheme like that.”

He shocked me by bursting out laughing. “Drug dealers? Well, that’s an interesting analogy.” He shook his head but a sardonic smile stayed on his face. “All right, clearly I underestimated you. You’re serious about not wanting a cut of the action?”

I hesitated. I was already risking enough by taking the brains for my own use. If I was somehow caught profiting from it. . . . It felt skeevy, even though I could logically see that it was no more skeevy than a restaurant charging for food. “Yeah. I don’t need to do that.”

“But you’re still cutting into my supply,” he pointed out.

“Okay, well, how ’bout I leave the brains in the bags that are going to Scott Funeral Home. So nothing changes for you. And, if I get into a bind or something, you help me out, and vice versa.”

“And you’re going to keep all the rest?” He raised an eyebrow.

“That’s right,” I replied, putting as much defiance as I could into my tone. “We don’t get that many bodies through here. Y’all get a buttload more through the funeral homes.”

He grimaced. “Sure, but most of them are old. Taste old too.”

I resisted the urge to say something obnoxious like, “Suck it up and deal with it.” It was clear he wasn’t thrilled, but he also seemed to realize that this was as good a deal as he was going to get. “So, are you gonna tell me about zombies and how all this works?” I asked instead.

He started pushing the stretcher toward the door. “You’re a zombie,” he said, tone flat and curt. “You eat brains. What more do you need to know?”

I stared at him in shock for a split second, then scrambled to get between him and the door. “
Seriously
?” The word practically exploded from me as I planted my hands on the other end of the stretcher and stopped him. “Could you please turn off the dick mode for a few seconds? I’ve already said that I’m not going to cut you out. Don’t make me regret that!”

He glowered at me. “Fine,” he finally said. “But make it quick. I need to get back.”

I bit back a smartass retort. “You said you distribute brains. Surely that means you know who the other zombies in the area are, right?”

“Only a few,” he said with a shrug. “And trust me, none of the ones I know would be likely to have turned you. Too secretive, too scared of discovery. Most zombies don’t want anyone to know about them.” His mouth twisted. “Hell, most are pretty damn lazy. You burn fewer brains if you sit on the couch all day watching TV.”

I blinked. I hadn’t thought about it like that. A vision of a fat, redneck zombie sitting on his couch watching football and eating brains instead of popcorn swam up in my head, and I had to resist the urge to burst out laughing.

“And the ones I provide to, who aren’t lazy fucks,” he continued, “are either people who work only to make enough money to buy the brains they need, or people who don’t want to get their hands dirty and can afford to pay for delivery.”

“I suppose animal brains don’t do the trick?” I asked.

Kang gave a dry laugh. “We’d probably have a lot more zombies if that was true. But no, human brains are the only kind that give us what we need. And, in case you were wondering, zombie brains are no good either.” He shrugged. “This is why it’s not good to have too many of us in one place. Brains aren’t exactly easy to come by, and the last thing any of us needs is attention drawn to ourselves.”

A chill walked down my back as I tried to process that last statement, but he gave the stretcher a jerk, pulling me out of my thoughts.

“Can we please do the twenty questions bullshit another time?” he said with a cocky sneer. “I need to get back to my job.”

Even though I knew I had a million more questions for him, I couldn’t put anything into words at that moment. I released the stretcher and stepped aside. He was out the door in the next instant, while my thoughts tumbled in an uncoordinated, frustrated loop.

As annoyed as I was at Kang and his no-more-info-for-you bullshit, the entire incident
had
clued me in to several hugely important facts. I was a zombie. I wasn’t crazy—or rather, not any more than I already was. There were other zombies around. And someone made me a zombie on purpose.

Which means I don’t need Kang
, I thought smugly as I finished cleaning up the morgue and getting everything set out for the next shift.
I can find me another zombie who’ll tell me what the hell is going on. Pompous jerk.
Screw Kang. I didn’t need his help.

But that brought up the big question: How the hell could I tell if someone was a zombie? I didn’t know Kang was one until he told me. I’d known that Zeke was, but only because it was pretty damn obvious. In other words, probably the only way I’d be able to tell would be if someone was low on brains and starting to smell.

Great, so I simply needed to go around and sniff people to find the ones who smelled like rot and death. Yeah, that wouldn’t be weird at all.

There had to be other ways I could find out more about what I was facing, now that I knew for sure what I was. Hell, there were a zillion movies about zombies. Maybe there were some seeds of truth in all of that.

As soon as I was finished at the morgue I called Randy.

“Hey, you busy?” I asked after he picked up.

“Nah. Gotta take apart a fuel system later on, but that’s about it. Why?”

“Well, I was wondering if you wanted to do a movie marathon. I’ll bring the movies.”

“Sure thing, babe. Sounds like fun. You’ll need to get some beer too. I’m almost out.”

“No problem,” I said, trying to keep the grimace out of my voice. Look at me, being all cheap because I didn’t want to buy beer that I wouldn’t drink. It was different with my dad. That was a survival tactic. But the DVD player at home had been busted for ages, and I couldn’t see spending the bucks on a new one since Randy had the latest technology. Besides, he had the big screen. “Be there in about half an hour.”

“Clive’s here too,” he said. “So’s you know.”

“Oh. Yeah, sure. Okay.” I found myself hesitating. Clive was who I usually got pills from. Or rather, who I used to get pills from. He and Randy went way back, and the three of us had hung out at Randy’s place before, though I’d never in a million years say that I was friends with Clive. It wasn’t that I disliked him or anything. It was just that . . . he was Clive. I bought drugs from him. I wasn’t gonna be best buds with him or anything.

 

I headed for the movie rental store and grabbed about half a dozen DVDs. There was probably no way we’d be able to watch them all in one night, but I wanted to have some variety to work with. A quick trip to the SpeedE Mart near Randy’s house for the beer and some too-greasy fried chicken, and I was ready to go.

Clive was on the couch with his feet on the coffee table and a rifle in his lap when I came in to the trailer. He wasn’t much taller than me, but he probably outweighed me by about a hundred pounds—and none of that was fat. He spent several hours a day in the gym, and it was pretty obvious to anyone with eyes that Clive was as serious about his steroids as he was about his workouts.

He looked over his shoulder and gave me a slight nod. “Yo. Angel. S’up?”

“Hey, Clive. How’s it goin’?” I said. I dropped the DVDs onto the table, then pushed aside some engine parts to make room for the beer. “What’s with the gun?”

“Deer season starts this weekend.” He accompanied this statement with a withering look as if to say I was less of a person for not knowing this. “Finishing cleaning up my baby here,” he said, giving the gun a caress.

I gave him my best eye roll in response. “Whatever.”

“These are all zombie movies,” Randy said, looking up from the pile of DVDs with a puzzled look on his face. “What’s up with that?”

I shrugged and passed him a beer. “Thought it would be fun, y’know?”

“Zombies are cool,” Clive announced from the couch. I looked at him, waiting for further commentary, but apparently that was the extent of Clive’s opinion on the matter.

Randy made a
hmmf
noise, then looked back at me. “Whadja do to your head?”

I reached up and felt the Band-Aid. “Oh. I was in a wreck the other night in the coroner van. I only had a cut. Didn’t even need stitches. It’s no big deal.”

He frowned, but Clive suddenly twisted to look at me. “That was you?” Clive asked. “I heard someone totaled the CO van.”

I threw up my hands. “Jesus, is there anyone who hasn’t heard about this?”

Clive shrugged. “Well, I heard about it at the gym from Emily—the receptionist, who heard about it from her sister, Edith, who’s dating Keith, who drove the wrecker that picked the van up. So, no, I think everyone’s heard about it by now.” Then he grinned and nodded toward Randy. “Except for him. He needs to get out more.”

“Wait,” Randy said. “How bad was this wreck? Why didn’t you call me?”

I shook my head. “It wasn’t bad at all. I mean, yeah, the van went on its side, but I was wearing my seat belt. It’s no big deal.” I didn’t answer his second question. I had no idea why I hadn’t called him. It hadn’t even occurred to me.
He’s my boyfriend, isn’t he?
“I didn’t want to worry you,” I finally said in an echo of my response to my dad. It was just as lame this time, too.

“Didja get fired?”

“Nope. It wasn’t my fault. Some dickwad pulled a tree out into the highway, and I hit it.”

“Hunh. That sucks.” He popped open his beer, then glanced at the Coke in my hand. “You’re not drinking?”

“Nah. I’m on call.” I wasn’t, but it was a damn good excuse.

He gave me a withering look. “Yeah, like one beer’s gonna make a difference.”

I resisted the urge to sigh. “C’mon, don’t hassle me. I had the wreck only a few days ago. I can’t get into any more trouble.”

“You’re really serious about this job, aren’t you?”

“Yeah,” I said, picking at the label on the Coke bottle. “It’s a good job. I’m trying not to fuck it up, y’know?”

“Leave her alone, Randy,” Clive said with a wink to me. “She’s being good. She has a sweet gig and doesn’t want to blow it.”

The way he said it was odd, as if he was trying to share some inside joke with me. If so, I didn’t get it, and I didn’t feel like getting it, so I let it slide.

“Just as long as she doesn’t turn into some sort of Goody Two-shoes,” Randy muttered. He must have seen the hurt expression on my face because he leaned over to kiss me on the forehead. “I’m kidding, Angel. I know you’re cool.”

Now I understood. Or at least I thought I did. He was afraid that if I stopped with the drugs and the booze, I’d be on him to stop, too. “Yeah, I’m cool. C’mon, now, put one of the movies in.” I handed him the one on top without even looking to see which one it was. I didn’t care. I simply wanted this weird conversation to end.

I thought he was going to say something else, but to my relief he simply turned away and stuck the DVD into the player. I plopped down onto the couch, leaving room for Randy in the middle, then did my best to tune the world out and learn about zombies.