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

“You told me to come here,” Zeke said, his voice already beginning to take on an unpleasant rasp. “You said you’d give me brains.” He straightened. He’d changed clothes—now he wore a New Orleans Saints shirt and paint-spattered jeans. They looked grubby and nasty, and I didn’t want to think about how long he’d been wearing them.

A flare of annoyance shot through me. “Yeah, but you didn’t need to scare the crap out of me. Do you get off on that shit?”

“I’m hungry,” he snarled, then he shook his head. “You don’t know what it’s like.”

“Whatever,” I said, scowling. “Y’know, you could’ve killed me that night.”

He bared his teeth. “You’re a zombie. That wouldn’t have killed you.”

Annoyance shifted to anger. “It fucking hurt anyway! And you didn’t know I was a zombie when you caused that accident. If I’d been a normal human that wreck would have really fucked me up.” A cold chill walked through me. “Or was that your plan? Did you want to kill someone?”

He took three long strides forward, but I managed to hold my ground. It helped that I was still totally sharp and focused from my recent meal.

“I saw your van go by,” he said. “I knew it was the coroner’s van, that you’d have to come back soon enough, and that you’d have a body in the back. Why else would you be out at that hour on that highway, except for a pickup?” He paused. His shoulders were hunched in a defensive pose. “I waited until I saw headlights. Saw that they weren’t a car’s.”

“What if you’d been wrong?” I demanded.

He tilted his head. “Then I would have been wrong,” he said in a tone so casual it sent goosebumps down my back.

I spun and started back toward the morgue. He seized me by the upper arm. “You promised me you’d share!” he said, desperation edging into his voice.

I slapped at his arm, almost surprised when I was able to break his grasp. “I know. I’m getting it, asshole!”

He scowled and stepped back into the shadow. I swiped my card and entered the morgue, then retrieved a jar from my lunchbox—the one I’d already taken a few gulps from. Cradling the jar with its stupid masking tape/shoe polish décor, I paused. I’d completely forgotten about this zombie and my promise to him. I probably could have set some more aside if I’d been thinking about it. But my own supply was running low. Besides, it was a promise made under duress, and those didn’t count, right? And surely he was getting brains from someplace else as well. It had been five days since the wreck. He’d be a lot more rotted if he’d been without brains that entire time, especially since I hadn’t given him anywhere near enough to get him fully “fresh.”

And he was willing to take the chance that I’d be killed in the wreck. Suddenly I didn’t want to think about where else he was getting brains.

I returned outside and handed him the jar. “It’s all I have right now,” I lied. “I was out of work for close to a week,” I added with a scowl.

He ignored the jibe and tugged the lid off the jar, eyes closing briefly in bliss as the scent of brains washed over him. Then he looked back at me with a puzzled look. “Tomato soup?”

“Trying to keep it from being so obvious, y’know?”

“I hate tomato soup,” he muttered, but he stepped back and held the jar with both hands as he drank the brain-soup down. I watched, morbidly fascinated as color returned to his skin. A few drops escaped the corner of his mouth, dribbling onto his shirt to form a Florida-shaped stain. Finally he lowered the jar and gave a sated sigh.

“Ah, god, that’s good,” he breathed as he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, then wiped his hand on his shirt “Even if it was tomato.” He held the empty jar out to me. His eyes were whole and clear again. “When can you get me some more?”

I stared at him, then snatched the jar out of his hand. “More? Are you serious? That’s all I have right now.”

A muscle in his jaw clenched. “That’s not going to hold me for long.”

“Hey, it’s your fault I had to go through most of my supply,” I continued, pissed. “That wreck fucked me up. I could have lost my job!”

A snarl twisted his mouth. “And then you’d know what I’m going through.”

“Yeah, well, fuck you.” I’d balled my free hand into a fist without realizing it. “You stole jewelry off dead bodies. That’s fucking sick, man.”

A scowl curved his mouth. “I didn’t steal anything. I was set up.”

“Oh, right,” I scoffed. “By who, the zombie mafia?” But even as I said it, a sliver of doubt managed to work its way in. Kang had been awfully hostile until he’d been sure I wasn’t going to hurt his business.

Zeke’s eyes narrowed. “You could call it that. Some people couldn’t handle competition. Besides, we eat brains! That’s sick.”

“That’s for survival!” I retorted. “That’s life or death.” Or undeath.

He took a step forward and fear flashed through me. He’s going to try to take my keycard so that he can get into the morgue, steal my brains.

“I’m not going to let myself rot away,” he growled. “I’ll—”