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

“Oh, please. You can’t be much older than me.”

Kang let out a low chuckle. “Yes I can, and I am.”

I frowned at him in doubt. “Oh, really? How old are you?”

He lifted an eyebrow. “Isn’t that a rude question?”

“Give me a break. C’mon, fess up. How old are you?”

“I was seven years old when I lost my parents during the Korean War.”

“Oh. Sorry to hear that.” I struggled to remember the brief smattering of history I’d actually studied, but couldn’t think of when the Korean War was to save my life. There was still stuff about Korea in the news, so maybe it was only twenty years ago or so? I didn’t want to say anything, though, for fear of looking like a complete dumbass. “Okay, well, um, anyway, don’t worry about the brains. I won’t screw you. But can you please answer some questions for me?”

He crossed his arms over his chest. “I’ll do my best.”

“How often do I need to eat brains? I mean, I feel hungry all the time.”>Five hours later I knew a lot more about the movie versions of zombies, and not a damn thing that would help me in my own situation. All the zombies in the movies were the enemy—mindless creatures that wanted to kill and eat flesh and brains. There were still two more DVDs in the stack, but I couldn’t face the thought of watching them. Too depressing. This isn’t me, I told myself. That’s not what I am.

As long as I stayed well-fed, right?

Clive and Randy were still watching the end of the third movie—one of the George Romero flicks. Or at least that’s what I thought it was. I’d lost track. I glanced at the clock: One A.M.

“Y’all can keep watching. I’ve had enough.” I stood.

Randy looked at me with a frown. “You’re not staying the night?”

“Nah,” I said. “I need to be up early.” It sounded weak, and Randy sighed and rolled his eyes.

“C’mon, Angel, stay,” Clive said without taking his eyes from the screen. He was enjoying the movies way too much—cheering loudly every time a zombie got dispatched. I knew that was the point of these movies—humans overcoming the zombie menace—but, gee, for some reason it was beginning to get under my skin. “Besides,” he continued, “your man here needs some hot lovin’, and I ain’t about to give it up for him.”

Yeah, well, I wasn’t about to give Randy any hot lovin’ with Clive around. About a year ago Clive had made a joke about me doing both him and Randy at the same time—the kind of joke that wasn’t really a joke if I’d even hinted at being willing to go for it. Which I wasn’t. At all.

I tried to think of a nasty-funny comeback, but I was too worn out to come up with anything. “I need to go,” I told Randy, ignoring Clive’s bark of laughter. “I’ll call you later, okay?”

He gave me a nod and a shrug. “Yeah, no biggie.”

I kept the smile fixed on my face. No biggie. Yeah, that was us. I collected the movies we’d already watched and headed out. I didn’t ask Randy to walk me out to my car, and he didn’t offer. I left to the sound of Clive yelling encouragement as zombies died on the screen.

Chapter 16

The third morgue tech, Jerry, was sitting at the computer in the morgue when I came in the next morning. He lifted his hand in a wave without taking his eyes from the monitor.

“Angel,” he muttered in greeting.

“Jerry,” I replied, mimicking his low, gruff tone. The parody was apparently lost on him though, because he simply kept on with whatever it was that had his attention on the computer.

I put my lunchbox in the bottom drawer of the desk, rolling my eyes when I saw the solitaire game on the computer.

“Anything exciting happening?” I asked.

He gave a heavy sigh. “Busy day yesterday. Dr. Leblanc cut the headless pizza guy yesterday afternoon, as well as a heart attack and an MVA that Nick brought in after you got off.” He closed the solitaire game and pulled up the page that showed which bodies were scheduled to go to which funeral homes. “Those last two will probably be picked up later today.”

I peered over his shoulder at the screen. “What about the Pizza Plaza guy? Anyone picking him up?”

“There’s some sort of hitch with the ID which means official notification hasn’t been made, which also means there’s no one who’s authorized to make the funeral arrangements.” He shrugged, clearly and deeply unconcerned.

“What happens if no one makes funeral arrangements?” I asked. “He stays in our morgue forever?”

He wagged his head in a no. “That would be disgusting,” he stated. “Bodies still rot in there. Just takes longer. Like meat in your fridge at home.”