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

I made the appropriate entries, then printed out the receipt. Standing, I yanked it off the printer, then handed it to him with a dorky flourish. “Sign here, and he’s all yours,” I said.

“You’re new here, aren’t you?” A slight smile played on his face as he signed the paper.

“A little over a month,” I replied.

“Is there anyone else here new?”

I shook my head. “Just me.”

He straightened, eyes raking me in a strangely appraising way. “So you’re probably the one who can tell me where all the brains have gone.”

I felt as if he’d punched me in the gut, and I know I stood there with an utterly stricken look on my face.

“I . . . uh . . . what do you mean?” I said, but I couldn’t keep my voice steady. I knew I sounded guilty as hell. Shit. I didn’t think anyone would have noticed that they were missing. Nick had told me that the funeral homes never did anything with the bag of organs.

The skin around his eyes tightened in annoyance. “What, you thought no one would notice? That’s not how this works. Didn’t anyone tell you?”

“Tell me what?” I managed, voice cracking.

“The brains come to me at the funeral home,” he said with patronizing slowness. “Then I distribute them.”

My initial shock and terror faded to be replaced by a strange relief. But I didn’t dare reveal myself yet. There was always the chance that he was with some organ donation service, and if I came out and said, “Hey, you’re a zombie too?” I’d look like a complete whacko.

“Who the hell are you?” I said instead. “And why do you need the brains? Who do you distribute them to?”

He leaned against a filing cabinet and tucked his thumbs into the top of his pockets. “You’re new, aren’t you.”

“I told you,” I said, scowling, “I started here a month ago.”

He shook his head. “That’s not what I meant. You’re a new zombie, right?”

I swear my knees shook, and I had to grab at the table behind me.

“Oh, thank god!” I exclaimed before I could think. “Shit, I swear there was a part of me that thought I was fucking crazy. I mean, I’m wanting to eat . . . well, y’know.” I realized I was babbling and forced myself to stop and take a deep breath. “Is that—really? Is that what I am?” Instead of horror at the confirmation all I could feel was overwhelming relief. I’m not crazy. There’d been that teeny tiny sliver of doubt. Okay, so I’m a monster. And, yeah, that’s more acceptable than being insane.

He cocked his head. “You really don’t know? Why did you think you were craving brains?”

My attitude slowly began to reassert itself. “Well, how the fuck was I supposed to know? I thought I was nuts!” Then I narrowed my eyes at him. “You’re one too, right?”

“That’s right.” He stuck his hand out. “I’m John Kang. Everyone calls me Kang.”

I took his hand, shook it. “Angel Crawford. Nice to meet you.” He didn’t feel dead or undead, or whatever. His skin was warm, and he looked totally alive to me. Did that mean he’d fed recently?

I inhaled sharply. “You left that note!”

He gave me a puzzled look. “Note?”

“Yeah, there was a note at the ER and on my van. . . .” I trailed off as his expression remained blank. Disappointment curled through me. Yeah, that would have been way too easy. I shook my head. “Never mind.”

He was silent for several seconds, regarding me. “Who the hell changed you?”

“Changed me? What, you mean someone made me like this on purpose?”

“Well, yeah. It’s not something that happens by accident. You have to be close to death already, then get bitten all to hell by a zombie to get the virus into you, and then you have to eat brains almost immediately to feed the virus.”

“Well, I don’t know these things,” I nearly snarled as the frustration threatened to boil over. “I figured I’d been bit or whatever by accident. Hell, I had no idea what happened.” Did that mean that whoever left the notes for me was the one who changed me? But why? And if it was a virus, was there some sort of treatment for it? “Why don’t you tell me what the hell’s going on!”

“Sure,” Kang said. “But first, you need to ante up the brains.”