My Life as a White Trash Zombie (White Trash Zombie 1)

He didn’t even flick a glance my way, but I knew with an odd certainty that he’d been about to say “the people I’ve arrested” and then changed it because I was sitting there. Part of me wanted to be totally self-conscious but there was a bigger part of me that couldn’t help but be really grateful that this cop wasn’t saying anything about that time he arrested me, or even hinting at it. Or even saying anything that could make me feel uncomfortable. That was cool. And unexpected. Maybe he was just messing with me. Waiting to let loose with that info when it’d be really humiliating.

But even as I thought it, I had a hard time believing it was true.

A surly waitress came by and poured coffee for me, and I went ahead and ordered the stuffed pancakes. Marcus gave me a smile when I did so. I smiled back out of reflex then quickly busied myself with the cream and sugar, getting my coffee the way I liked it. Sheesh, I was starting to act like a high school kid with a crush. This was a cop. I was a convicted felon. He was simply being nice. That was all.

The waitress returned less than a minute later, slid plates of food in front of Marcus and Derrel, muttered something about refilling their coffee when she could get a damn free second and left. I told the two men to go ahead and eat, and they didn’t need any more urging. I sipped my coffee while they ate and absently listened to the short order cook yell for a waitress to come pick up her damn order. Her retort was equally harsh but no one in the diner paid any attention to it. It was all part of the “ambience” of this place.

“So,” Derrel said after a moment, eyeing the deputy, “have y’all come up with any leads in the headless hunter case?”

I’d just taken a sip of coffee and barely managed to keep from spraying it across the table in a scene that could have been right out of a sitcom. Of course, then I had to keep from breathing the coffee right back in, which would have resulted in the sort of coughing fit that would have looked even more suspicious. I grabbed my napkin and managed to pretend to sneeze which had the added effect of covering up most of my face which was surely completely beet red with embarrassment at this point. Yeah, I was classy and suave like that. Jesus Christ, Angel, get a grip!

Ivanov cast an uncertain look my way then, thankfully, returned his attention to Derrel. “Nothing so far. The victim’s been identified, as you know, but that’s about it.”

Derrel dipped his head in a nod. “Adam Campbell.”

“Right,” Ivanov said. “The guy lived in a fishing camp not too far from where his body was found. Kept to himself, worked as a technical writer or some such thing.” He shrugged. “The detectives questioned people in the area but haven’t come up with squat.”

Derrel huffed out a sigh. “Monica was working that night. I know she wasn’t thrilled to be working two scenes back to back, but it sounds like that one was pretty interesting.” He glanced my way, slight frown creasing his forehead. “Have you even met Monica yet?”

I nodded. “Met everyone in the staff meeting last week.” Although “met” was a strong word for what was more like: “Hey, everyone, this is Angel, our new body-snatcher. Angel, this is everyone!” There were three death investigators: Derrel, Monica Gaudreau, and Allen Prejean—the Chief Investigator. There were also three van driver/morgue techs: me, Nick, and a pasty-looking older guy named Jerry Powell. Supposedly the coroner, Dr. Duplessis, wanted to hire one more of each to make scheduling easier, but that was on hold for some sort of budget reasons. The only reason my position had been open was because the previous van driver had been caught stealing lab supplies. I almost never saw Monica or Jerry because of the way the shifts fell. If it wasn’t for the fact that the office had a staff meeting every other week I probably wouldn’t know anyone except Derrel. And Nick, but only because he’d trained me.

“I don’t know about interesting, but it’s definitely something different,” Ivanov said to Derrel. “So far about all they can be sure of is that it was someone reasonably strong—and they only have that much because of Dr. Leblanc’s findings in the autopsy.”

“How can he know that?” I asked before I even realized I’d opened my mouth.

Derrel answered. “I haven’t read the report, but often that sort of thing can be determined by the extent of the damage. Chopping off a head isn’t an easy thing to do, so someone with spindly little arms like you would have a hard time of it.” He chuckled and I joined in, more out of incredible relief than from the teasing.>I stopped dead, staring down at my left hand.

The fingers were straight again. I slowly flexed them. No pain, not even a hint of it. The bones were most certainly in the right number of pieces. There was no swelling or blood—not even the slightest hint of a scrape.

Oh my god.

I swallowed hard then forced my legs to carry me back to my car. I hadn’t imagined or hallucinated my hand getting slammed in the trunk. When I got back to my car I could definitely see flecks of blood on the edge of the trunk lid where my hand had been.

The brains . . . they healed me up. I couldn’t think of any other possible explanation. A hysterical giggle escaped me. Guess I didn’t need health insurance after all.

And maybe I wasn’t crazy either. I wanted to be relieved, but. . . .

A chill crawled through me. What kind of monster was I?

Making sure I had my hands safely out of the way this time, I shoved the trunk closed, scowling as it popped right back up again. I peered at the latch—or rather, what was left of the latch. It was in pieces, and when I looked around I could see that the hook part had somehow cracked off and was lying in the bottom of the trunk.

Okay, so my car was an old piece of shit. The latch was probably already cracked or something, and when I pulled on it I got lucky, that’s all.

Right?

I went back into the drugstore and bought some duct tape. I taped my trunk shut and got in the car, but paused before cranking the engine.

Something else was different.

It took me several seconds to figure it out, but finally I realized it was something that was missing. My stench.

I didn’t have to lift my arm and smell myself. I’d grown a bit used to it over the course of the day, but I knew that the aroma of rot that clung to me all day was now gone. I smelled as fresh as if I’d showered that morning—which I had, of course, but this was the first time all day I could believe it.

When I eat brains I don’t smell like rotten meat. I heard a low whimpering noise, then realized it was me.

Starting the car, I turned the radio up, then drove to the café to meet Derrel, while I did my best to pretend the last ten minutes had never happened.

Chapter 9