White Trash Zombie Gone Wild (White Trash Zombie 5)

“We’ll talk about it then.” He shoved the cooler door open and exited.

I stayed where I was, breathing shallowly and certain that if I moved I’d fall over. No way. No way could he have any clue what I was really up to. No way could this be the worst case scenario. No. Way. None of my coworkers knew I was a zombie, and that was mighty fine with me. Allen probably wanted to see me for some stupid work thing. Yeah. That’s all it was. That’s all it could possibly be. Not a thing to worry about. I pulled the baggie out of the crack of my ass, slipped it into the thigh pocket of my cargo pants then staggered out.

The air of the hallway felt smothering after the thirty-four degrees of the cooler. A glance at the clock told me the entire incident had only burned five minutes of my lunch break, which meant I had an hour and twenty-five minutes to get my shit together. Plenty of time, but best done the hell away from the morgue.

I jerked in shock as my phone vibrated in my pocket, and I fumbled it out only to drop it to the tile floor. Cursing, I snatched it up then breathed a sigh of relief that it wasn’t damaged. I’d earned a sweet bonus on my zombie R&D lab paycheck for helping rescue Marcus and Pietro Ivanov—who was now Pierce Gentry—from the Saberton lab in New York. After paying tuition, I had enough left to buy myself a fancy new smartphone and a MegaCase that would protect my phone from all sorts of awful things, including the perils of being owned by one Angel Crawford.

My mood eased as I saw I had a text from Marcus. He’d saved my life in more ways than one when he turned me into a zombie. We’d then dated on-and-off again for about a year but finally broke up for good a few months ago after he—once again—made plans about our life together without consulting me. Big plans that involved me quitting my job and moving to New Orleans. Despite all that, I was glad we’d remained friends. He was a good guy and would always be dear to me, no matter what else happened.

I thumbed in my passcode and read the text.

Have to back out on the movie tonight. Leaving with Pierce, Brian, and Kyle on business. Back Wednesday. Sorry. Miss you.

I sighed. This was the third cancellation in a month.

What kind of business? I typed. Anything interesting?

A moment later. On the way to the airport. Can’t talk now.

Great, now I was anxious and pissy.

Stepping outside the Coroner’s Office building was like passing into an alternate universe. Harsh fluorescent lighting and questionable odors gave way to brilliant sun and the cool air of early spring. Not that I was in the mood to enjoy the weather. I hurried to my car then drove a half dozen blocks before I pulled into an empty parking lot. The instant I came to a complete stop I had the baggie open and half the cerebellum stuffed into my mouth. Blood and cranial fluid dribbled down my chin, and my eyes rolled back in pure bliss. The texture and taste of that particular section of the brain was too good for words. Once I swallowed that mouthful down, I noshed on the left parietal lobe then reluctantly tucked the rest back into my lunch box.

A year and a half ago, I woke up in the ER after a supposed overdose and without a scratch on me, yet with the vivid memory of being horribly injured in a car crash. I soon discovered that an anonymous benefactor—Marcus—had arranged a job for me as a morgue tech with the Coroner’s Office. I’d been harvesting brains out of body bags to feed my zombie needs ever since, but this was the first time I’d come so close to being caught.

But Allen didn’t catch me, I reminded myself as I wiped brain gook off my face and checked my teeth in the mirror. He wouldn’t have let me leave on my lunch break if he had. So what if he wanted to see me in his office? Everything was okay. Most likely, he was going to pull an asswipe move and change my shifts and days off for the billionth time. No biggie.

Then why was my heart still thumping like a rabbit in a sack?

The lunch box remained open. My last vial of V12 modifier rested beside the baggie of brains. Unlike regular drugs, V12 was a kick butt pharmaceutical specifically formulated to work with the zombie parasite rather than be neutralized by it. I knew too damn much about regular drugs—especially the not-so-good kind. I’d been a pill-popping loser until I was turned into a zombie. All of a sudden those drugs had stopped working on me and, just like that, my addictions disappeared.

The V12 mod was different, of course. I’d discovered its benefits a few months back, after all the godawful shit I went through during the rescue mission in New York. V12 was the one thing that kept me from turning into a complete basket case and, as a mega-super bonus, it countered a good portion of my dyslexia. I was currently struggling through Biology 101 and Basic English Composition, and I needed all the help I could get.

I peered at the milliliter of colorless liquid left in the vial. One cc. One full dose, which I needed to save to help me study tonight, especially since midterms were in a couple of weeks.

But I was supposed to meet with Allen after my lunch break, and I didn’t need to be looking guilty and freaked out for that. Calm. Chill. Like ice. That’s how I needed to be.

I opened the glove box and dug out a 3cc syringe—a special one with a coating on the needle that kept my parasite from trying to heal the cells around it.

I grabbed the vial then paused. Last dose, but I could obtain more soon enough. My shift at the morgue today ended at two, and my second job at the zombie R&D lab had a flexible schedule. I could squeeze in a few hours at the lab today and load up on enough V12 to get me through another two weeks. I’d do only a half-dose right now, enough to take the edge off my nerves. The rest would be a reserve in case I didn’t make it to the lab today. Yeah, that worked.

Satisfied, I drew half of the remaining mod into the syringe, pinched my side and jabbed the short needle under my skin. With a sigh of anticipation, I pressed the plunger then pulled the syringe free.

Fifteen seconds.

I dropped it into a plastic bottle to join three other used syringes and returned the vial with its half-dose to my lunch box.

Ten seconds.

Later I’d dispose of the used syringes deep in the medical waste bin at the morgue, but for now I chucked them back into the glove box.

Five seconds.

I closed my lunch box and leaned back.

Three . . . two . . . one.

Delicious warmth spread through me like a smile. The sun shone brighter. My lips tingled. Diamonds glittered on the dash and sparkles tickled my nose. Laughing, I put the car in gear and left the parking lot.