I fumbled for the seat belt release. It sprang free, and I let out a strangled scream as I crumpled against the door and banged the broken arm hard. Curling my arm to my chest, I lay there and took several deep, gulping breaths. It hurt like a bitch, but I knew too damn well that it could have been a lot worse. I could already feel that bizarre fading of sensation creeping through me, and right now I was more than happy to have the edge taken off.
I winced as a sharp tug of hunger replaced the pain. First priority was to find my lunchbox. I peered uncertainly at the end of the bone again. Would the brains heal that up? Or did I need to set it or something first? I shivered despite the warmth of the night. I’d lost a lot of my squeamish fears, but I was pretty sure that setting my own broken arm was still one of those “Oh, hell no!” things.
One thing at a time. Find the lunchbox. Find my phone. Call for help. Whether I could heal myself up or not, I was still in a real mess.
The creak of the back doors cut through my flailing thoughts. Relief hit me like a wave as the door banged down against the pavement. Someone saw the wreck. They’ll help me. I struggled to my feet, but the van-on-its-side thing had me all disoriented, and it took me a couple of seconds to find my balance. The whack on my head and the blood running into my eyes didn’t help. But I was coherent enough to see the figure crouched on the open back door of the van.
“Hey, man. Can you call 911?” I said. “I need some. . . .”
I trailed off as the stench hit me.
Rot. Death.
I knew that smell.
Oh, god. It’s true.
The figure shifted forward, its breathing a low, rasping growl. I could only make out the silhouette, but it was enough.
Terror shot through me and my eyes fell to the stretcher and body bag, now lying cockeyed against the wall of the van. That’s what this . . . this thing wanted. I knew that. This creature had probably dragged the tree into the road to make me stop.
Panic jabbed through me. I could maybe explain away the accident, but there was no way I could explain losing the body.
“No!” I struggled to get up and around the damn seats. “Get away! You can’t have it!”
It ignored me and grabbed the black plastic and pulled, but the bag was still belted to the stretcher and the whole thing was pretty well jammed into the corner. That bought me a few more seconds. I could see it better now. Male, probably white, though the face was too decomposed to be completely sure. One eye was clouded over and dark teeth were visible through a bloodless gash in one cheek. Its hands had ribbons of skin trailing from them and several fingernails were missing.
That . . . is a zombie, I silently shrieked to myself. Holy fucking shit. That’s a motherfucking zombie, and this shit is real.
I didn’t dare think about what that meant. I wanted to curl up and moan in horror, but I didn’t have time for that shit. I couldn’t let this thing—this zombie—get my body. Pain twinged somewhere deep in my chest as I clambered over the seat, but I barely noticed it. I lost my balance but somehow managed to fall on top of the bag and the stretcher without crushing my broken arm any further, though my vision went dark for a couple of seconds from the flash of new pain. I wanted to lie there for a minute and wait for the nausea and dizziness to fade, but the zombie growled and tugged harder.
“Let go!” I said, gasping the words out. “Get out of here. You can’t have it!” I wrapped my good arm through the bars of the stretcher and did my best to pin the bag down with my skinny-ass weight. I didn’t know how much good it would do. The zombie was still damn strong, even as rotted as it was. It was probably hungry as all hell too, I realized—which meant it wasn’t about to give up.
Hungry.
I scanned frantically around the back of the van. Crap was everywhere—my purse, extra body bags, boxes of latex gloves, sheets and plastic for really messy bodies. . . . I finally saw my lunchbox, lying open and empty. Oh, shit.
The zombie gave the body bag another hard yank, and I let out a shriek as the stretcher and I slid forward. Then I saw what the movement had revealed—a plastic bottle wedged in the corner.
Releasing my death grip on the stretcher, I snatched it up. “Here! You can have this!”
The zombie merely snarled and tugged again, nearly dislodging me. My pulse slammed with barely controlled panic. One more tug and we’d all be out on the pavement and, as hurt as I was, I’d have no chance of fighting it off. I clamped my teeth around the cap of the bottle and twisted, performing the fastest one-handed bottle-opening I could manage.
I spat the cap out and I thrust the bottle forward again. “Take this!” I tried to wave it under the creature’s nose but only managed to spill some of it onto the body bag.
It worked anyway. The zombie froze, nose twitching. Then its good eye locked onto the bottle. It let out a low growl, rotting lips pulling back from even nastier teeth.
“Take it!” I pleaded, still holding the bottle out. “Just don’t take the body. Please. I’ll lose my job!” Not that the zombie cared, I knew. It looked like it was too far gone right now to listen to any sort of reason.
The zombie snatched the bottle from my hand and tipped it back, draining the contents in a matter of seconds. Shuddering, it dropped the empty bottle, then crouched again and wrapped its arms around its legs. I watched, hope and terror doing the tango in my gut.
After about half a minute he lifted his head. Most of the rot had receded, and already I could tell he didn’t smell anywhere near as bad. And now I knew who he was. Zeke Lyons, and he worked at Billings Funeral Home.
No. Used to work there. He’d been fired about two weeks ago when he was caught taking jewelry off the corpses—which explained why he was in his current state. I tasted bile on the back of my tongue. Two weeks without brains . . . and he was a rotted mess.
“More,” he rasped.
I shook my head, frantic. “No. I can’t give you any more.” My voice sounded shrill and thin to my ears, and I knew I looked and smelled terrified. I’d stopped him for the moment, but I’d also made him stronger. I could only hope he was coherent enough to listen to reason now. “I can give you more tomorrow, okay?” I said, nearly stammering. “Come by the morgue tomorrow.”