White Trash Zombie Gone Wild (White Trash Zombie 5)

I wanted those masks.

I needed those masks.

Squaring my shoulders, I stepped into the shop and brazenly asked the salesgirl the price.

She told me with a smile. I thanked her with a smile, and stepped right back out. Okay, maybe I didn’t really need zombie carnival masks. Moving on.

A guy wearing cheesy zombie makeup and sandwich boards shuffled along the sidewalk in front of Alma’s Café. The front placard advertised “Zombie-licious Étouffée” and the back, “Fried Brain Po-Boys”—all made from calf, pig, and lamb brains. I shuddered. As yummy as I found a human brain, the idea of eating any other sort left me queasy. Only the human kind had the components my zombie parasite needed to do its thing. I’d stick to Alma’s turkey club sandwich, thank you very much.

Alma’s brain supplier was no doubt Wyatt’s Butcher Shop across the street. My clue was the “Get Your Braaains Here!” painted in shocking pink on his window along with “Great addition to your zombie costume!” in smaller lettering beneath.

Before I could think too hard about fake-zombies wandering around toting animal brains—and what that would smell like after a few hours—my gaze fell on the red 1968 Dodge Charger parked in front of the butcher shop. The only person around here who owned a car like that was my other ex-boyfriend, Randy.

Maybe he’d come into town for sausage or steaks? He sometimes had friends over for beer, pot, and barbecue on Friday evenings. I shaded my eyes and scanned the butcher’s shop. No sign of him through the window, so I shifted my looksee to the business next door: The Bear’s Den Gun Shop and Indoor Range. A huge Zombie Fest poster filled one corner of the window, but beyond the poster, I saw Randy lounging against a counter inside. I’d known him since I was fifteen, and h

e’d never shown any interest in camping, hunting, or owning a gun. But his buddy Judd worked there, and they were most likely cooking up plans for the weekend. Judd wasn’t my favorite person ever since he asked me out during one of my many breakups with Randy and got all kinds of pissy when I turned him down. But, hell, lots of people weren’t my favorites. For the most part, I put up with them anyway. Life was too short to hold more than a handful of grudges.

Randy and I had dated for about four years, breaking up and getting back together a couple dozen times. We finally broke up for good not long after I became a zombie but, when I got back from New York, we started hanging out again some. Randy knew me better than anyone else—except for the fact that I was a zombie—which meant I could relax and be myself and not worry about coming off as trashy or ignorant. And though I never ever wanted to date Randy again, it turned out we worked pretty nicely as friends.

And, as a friend, I was totally allowed to be a nosy bitch. Might as well go with my strengths.

I left Alma’s brainy menu behind and jaywalked through the slow-moving traffic. A chime sounded as I pushed the Bear’s Den door open, barely audible over the hubbub in the store. It was more crowded than I’d expected, and I took a couple of seconds to get my bearings. I wasn’t exactly a gun shop kind of chick, especially since I became a convicted felon right about the time I was old enough to buy a gun. Fortunately, I wasn’t a felon anymore. About a year ago, someone—most likely Pietro Ivanov—had pulled a few dozen strings to get me pardoned by the governor.

My adventures in New York had included shooting myself in the ass, an event that was sure to end up on the blooper reel of the life of one Angel Crawford. However, the upside of my little mishap was that Mr. Deadly Operative himself, Kyle Griffin, took me under his wing and taught me how to shoot a variety of firearms safely and precisely. I suspected his generosity was more a desire to reduce the chance that I might accidentally shoot him, but I didn’t mind. Though my concealed carry application was still in process, Louisiana law allowed me to have a gun in my car, where I currently had a Tribe-loaned Kel-Tec PF9 in the glove box. As crazy as my life was, it made sense to keep a little heat close at hand.

Even though The Bear’s Den took up a good chunk of the block, I hadn’t realized how big the place was. To my left, half a dozen black-shirted salespeople prowled behind a glass-enclosed display case that ran the length of the shop. Handguns and knives and other deadly stuff filled the case, and the wall behind it was one long rack of rifles and shotguns. To my right, a mounted deer head with enormous antlers loomed over a broad archway that led to the hunting, camping, and archery supplies. Everywhere else, shelves and racks held all sorts of accessories, equipment, and clothing. Posters hung from the ceiling with warnings such as: “ALWAYS TREAT A GUN AS IF IT’S LOADED” and “FINGER OFF THE TRIGGER UNTIL YOU’RE READY TO FIRE.” But my favorite was “ASSHOLES AND IDIOTS WILL BE MAULED BY THE BEAR” complete with a picture of a scary, burly man—the owner of the shop himself, Bear. He stood behind the counter, wide shoulders hunched, hands huge but nimble as he demonstrated to a customer how to break down a handgun. His T-shirt read “Don’t just survive. Thrive!”—a testimony to his standing as the local expert on survival and disaster preparedness.

A murmured “Excuse me” to my rear jarred me out of my gaping. I stepped aside to let a Hispanic man in black tactical pants and a form-fitting grey shirt go by, then shamelessly ogled him as he continued past me and down the counter toward Bear. That was the kind of male body those compression shirts were made for. V-shaped torso, trim waist, and biceps that popped from the sleeves in a way that said “I have these muscles as a result of being fit and strong in a lot of different ways” as opposed to “I have these muscles because I do bicep curls while I stare adoringly at myself in the gym mirror.” Sparkly fireflies danced between us. I took a step toward him. Holy crap, that ass was like two firm apples that—

Jesus, Angel, get a grip on yourself! The V12 was still kicking in hard. The sparkly fireflies side effect wasn’t so bad, but the suppression of impulse control—a remnant of the original combat version of the mod—could be downright inconvenient. Useful in high danger situations to tweak reaction time, but not so helpful while lusting after a stranger. But I could handle it. I always got it under control before anything embarrassing happened.

I reined in my inner sexual harassment of Tactical Pants Man and looked around for Randy. The entire section by the front window was nothing but Deep South Zombie Fest paraphernalia—posters, T-shirts, caps, coffee mugs, key chains, and a buttload more novelty items. Randy stood by a pyramid of dark blue duffel bags emblazoned with the Bear’s Den logo and Zombie Hunter Survival Kit in searing red letters. Long and lanky, Randy didn’t have movie star good looks or a Tactical Pants Man body, but he had a nice face and a sweet, lazy smile. A bright blue Zombie Fest cap covered light brown hair nearly the same color as his eyes. He had a duffel slung over one shoulder and was talking to Coy Bates—a slim black man with tidy shoulder-length dreads. Randy and Coy had been friends since sixth grade, and Coy was one of a very small number of Randy’s friends who I actually liked. He always seemed to have a smile for everyone, and though he smoked pot with Randy most weekends, he stayed focused on his growing taxidermy business.

I skirted a display of paintball supplies, edged past a gaggle of men who were enthusing over a catalog of reloading equipment, then sidled up to Coy and Randy and gave them matching light arm punches. “Hey, guys. Coy, is that deer head above the arch your work?”

Randy gave me a grin, and Coy’s face lit up with pride. “It sure is,” Coy said in a gentle drawl. “Bear’s son bagged it last fall. I got a lot of new business after Bear trusted me with it.”

“It’s gorgeous. You did a great job.” I smiled up at it.

Sparkles glittered over the antlers. It turned its head toward me, eyes glowing like hot coals, and winked.

I sucked in a breath. “Holy shit!”

“Angel?”

I flinched at Randy’s voice and yanked my gaze to him. He looked perfectly normal, to my relief. “I mean, uh, holy shit, those are big antlers,” I said with only the tiniest hitch in my voice, despite the thumping of my pulse. I’d never had a hallucination like that before. Could the V12 have caused it? The sparkles sure added weight to that suspicion. I shot a wary glance at the arch. The deer stared straight ahead with glassy brown eyes. Maybe it wasn’t a hallucination. Maybe I’d just imagined it. Hallucinated having a hallucination. Right.

Randy eyed me, but Coy beamed. “It’s a ten point that scores in the one-sixties!”

I managed to give Coy a winning smile. “I have no idea what that means, but I assume it’s good.” I glanced at the perfectly normal deer head one more time. Okay, so now I knew seeing weird shit other than sparkles was a possibility. It wouldn’t catch me off guard if it happened again. Worst case scenario, I’d have to decrease my dose a bit to stabilize. No biggie. I could handle it.

Randy gave my arm a soft punch. “I was gonna give you a call later. Didn’t expect to run into you.”

“I was heading to lunch and saw your car outside. Whatcha doing here?”

Randy swung a puzzled look around the store. “Dunno what you mean. I’m shopping.”

I snorted. “You hate shopping unless it involves car parts.”