Even White Trash Zombies Get the Blues (White Trash Zombie 2)

He smiled and gave me a rough pat on the shoulder before walking off. I dug into my pie and discovered that I didn’t really need comforting anymore at all.

My dad was asleep in the recliner when I got back home. Head tipped back and snoring softly, cigarette ash dotted the front of his shirt and a butt smoldered in the ashtray on the end table. I sighed and stubbed it out. I thought about getting a blanket and covering him up, but I knew that his back would be killing him if he slept all night in the chair.

“Dad.” I gave his shoulder a mild shake. “Hey, Dad, you should go on to bed.”

He blinked his eyes open, focused on me with an uncertain frown. “Angelkins…what you doin’ here?”

“I live here, last I checked.”

He snorted with a touch of derision, and I couldn’t blame him. Last week I’d spent four nights over at Marcus’s place, and the only reason it hadn’t been seven was because he worked the other three nights, and I didn’t feel right staying there by myself.

“C’mon,” I said. “You should go on to bed or your back will hurt you in the morning.” I took his hand and started to help him out, but he pulled it away.

“I’m not an old man,” he said with a scowl. “I don’t need help getting out of a damn chair.”

“Fine, whatever. I just don’t want you to hurt ’cause you’ll be a cranky asshole in the morning.”

He levered himself up out of the chair. “Bullshit. I’m a cranky asshole all the time. Don’t make no difference if I hurt.”

“You won’t hear me arguing,” I shot back.

He snorted, then gave a grimace as he stretched his back out. “Fuck this getting old shit. Don’t ever do it.”

An odd wave of sadness swept through me. There was a very good chance I wouldn’t grow old—at least not the way he was. As far as I knew, I would never have to deal with the usual shit like arthritis and wrinkles. Look at Kang. He’d been in his seventies and looked like he was in his early twenties. “You’re not old, Dad. You’re just beat up. You got a couple of decades to annoy me still.”

“Yeah, I gotta do what I’m good at, right?” He shuffled toward the kitchen. “Don’t suppose you brought home any food?”

I winced. I hadn’t even thought about stopping by the store. “No. But I can order a pizza if you want.”

He waved a hand. “Nah. Take too long. I think we got some mac and cheese.”

“Sit down. I’ll make it,” I told him.

“Jesus Christ, Angel,” he said with a scowl. “I’m not a fucking cripple. I just got a sore back. I can make my own goddamn mac and cheese.”

“Fine, then make your own goddamn mac and cheese,” I said as I plopped down on a stool at the kitchen counter. “Just try not to whine too much.”

“When the hell did you get so fucking ornery?” he asked with a glare, but I thought that maybe there was a tiny touch of pride in the look. Or maybe I was just seeing what I wanted to see.

“This new job. Y’know what’s cool about working with corpses? They don’t fucking talk back.”

He surprised me by giving a bark of laughter. “I still don’t see how you can do that shit. It would creep me the hell out, always thinking that a body would start moving and come after me.” He pulled the box out of the pantry and dumped the dry macaroni into a bowl. “You used to be so damn squeamish too. How’d you get over all that?”

I shrugged, keeping as straight a face as I could. “I guess I just got used to it. Y’do what ya gotta do, right?”

He poured water into the bowl then stuck the whole thing into the microwave. “Well, at least it’s safer than you working those damn convenience store jobs. Always worried about you getting held up and shot some night.”

That took me by surprise. It would’ve never occurred to me in a million years that he could be worried about my safety. Of course it had only been in the past couple of weeks or so that I’d realized he actually did care about me and did not, in fact, simply see me as the cause of all the troubles in his life. It would take both of us a while to get over the habits of reaction that we’d known for so long.

But his comment about being held up reminded me of what had happened to me the other night. I didn’t want to tell him, but I knew without a shadow of a doubt that he’d find out. This was a small town, and gossip flew fast. Hell, I was shocked that he didn’t already know, what with it being all over the front page of the paper. Good thing we didn’t subscribe.

“Well, um, it’s not always safe,” I said. I quickly gave him the bare bones description, though I adjusted the story a bit and made it sound as if the gun hadn’t actually been pointed at me. In my version the bad guy simply showed the gun and I’d cooperated.

My dad took the bowl of listless macaroni out of the microwave and listened in stony silence as he stirred in the orange cheese powder.

“Guess there’s no such thing as a safe job, huh?” he finally said. He didn’t look up, but I could see the lines of his face seem to deepen in sadness and worry. “I kinda want to tell you to quit, but…this job’s been real good for you.” He lifted his gaze to me. “This shit ain’t normal, right? You won’t have people trying to steal bodies from you on a regular basis?”

“No, Dad, I’m pretty sure this is a one time thing,” I said, ruthlessly pushing aside the memory of the time I’d been attacked by a zombie for the body in my van. That was a different situation entirely. Really.