White Trash Zombie Gone Wild (White Trash Zombie 5)

But I couldn’t risk Allen finding out that brains were missing. At this very moment, Mr. Noah Granger was tucked away in the morgue cooler along with a brain-free organ bag. He wasn’t getting carted off until Monday, which gave Allen way too much time to check things out.

A laugh bubbled up from the very center of my being. Fireflies wheeled around my head in a merry dance. Duh. I didn’t have to stop harvesting brains. All I needed was something to put in place of the brains I took—an imposter brain that would pass an Allen inspection. The only reason I’d never thought of this solution before was because, up until this week, there hadn’t been a big ol’ sign in the window of Wyatt’s Butcher Shop.

Get Your Braaains Here!

I smiled. Tomorrow morning, I’d do me a little brain shopping.

Chapter 5

The rest of my shift whizzed by without a hitch, and I happily clocked out at two p.m. on the nose. I hit the road and cranked up the radio, then proceeded to sing at the top of my lungs with the kind of teen-pop music I’d never in a million years admit I actually listened to. But hey, that shit was catchy.

Twenty minutes later, I pulled into the gravel parking lot of a faded blue cinderblock building—the front for Dr. Nikas’s super cool zombie research lab. Research for zombies, not on zombies. The only other vehicle in the lot was a dull bronze ’79 Chrysler Newport that belonged to Raul, one of the full-time lab security zombies.

The camera by the front door was a decoy, with a cracked cover and dangling wires to make it appear totally useless. Even though I knew that the real—and well-hidden—cameras had picked me up the minute I turned off the highway, I still gave the door a pert salute as I approached. A second later security buzzed me through and into the drab, threadbare waiting room with its decade-old magazines. A faint odor of mildew hung in the air, adding to the impression that the room and the rest of the building held nothing of interest. I continued through and down a hall with the same dull color scheme, punched my code into the keypad beside the door at the end then proceeded into the “kill zone” corridor that led to the main complex. Its kill-zone-ness had been beefed up in the last few months, after a team of Saberton operatives made entry during an ultimately fruitless attempt to steal hibernating zombie heads. I waved at the mirrored window on the wall and pressed my thumb against a sensor plate, then entered as the thick security door slid open.

No more boring beiges and stuffy odors. Recessed lighting revealed a blue and gold hallway that continued to my left and right. Cool air carried a fresh scent that didn’t come from any cleaning product. Across the hall and behind bulletproof glass doors was the central hub of the lab complex. The doors slid aside with an effortless whiss as I approached and whispered shut as soon as I passed through. A far cry from the creaky sliding doors at the local BigShopMart.

The central hub looked like a kickass science fiction movie set, with nifty computers and shiny equipment, but the open floor plan and high-domed ceiling made it feel comfortable and homey. And no wonder. Dr. Ariston Nikas and his two assistants made their homes here. Though the hub was unoccupied at the moment, instruments and computer screens flashed with work in progress, including a screen that showed a series of status updates along with progress charts and projected growth rates for Kang—the zombie who got his head chopped off by a serial killer and was now being regrown.

One of my jobs at the lab was tending to him, but he could wait. My bones were starting to itch. It wouldn’t take long to complete my most important task for today—replenishing my V12 supply.

I headed down the corridor that led to the medical wing. Through the open door of the second treatment room I spied my zombie baby, Philip Reinhardt, sitting on the exam table. Not a real baby, of course. I’d turned him into a zombie about a year ago—forced to do so by Dr. Kristi Charish during one of her unethical experiments. I’d never zombified anyone before then, but my zombie instinct kicked in before Philip could die of Saberton-inflicted gunshot wounds. I turned into a nightmare monster, mauled and bit until the parasite spores took root to save him. If I’d failed, Philip would have died, just like a second volunteer had died when I couldn’t turn him. But Charish didn?

??t care. To hell with human or zombie rights. All she wanted was documentation and data to impress Saberton Corporation and establish herself as the queen of zombie research.

After I zombified Philip, she’d used him as a guinea pig for her untested fake brain formula and royally screwed up his parasite. He’d suffered physical consequences ever since but, thankfully, Dr. Nikas’s treatments kept him relatively pain-free and functional. It was like having a debilitating disease successfully managed by meds. Currently, the V12 mod kept him physically stable—and me chilled and dyslexia free.

Except Philip didn’t have to use a needle. Dr. Nikas had recently implanted one of his special zombie mod ports into Philip’s chest—a clever bit of biotechnology that fused along a rib and allowed a syringe to screw straight onto a reservoir. The mod port worked in cooperation with the parasite to dose out combat, sense enhancement, or any other zombie pharmaceuticals. I planned to write a long letter to Santa this year explaining why I totally deserved a shiny mod port of my very own.

The empty vial beside Philip told me he’d just received a treatment. I’d last seen him a week ago, and he’d been his typical buff and handsome self. But his hands trembled now as he buttoned his shirt. His blue eyes were sunken, and his skin an ugly grey. A full-blown case of pre-rot.

“You okay, ZeeBee?” I stepped into the room and frowned at him. “I thought Dr. Nikas’s treatment was doing the trick for you.”

Philip gave me a smile. I winced as the corner of his mouth fissured.

“It was until a few days ago,” he said, voice rasping. “He doesn’t know why it stopped working.”

I shifted, unsettled by the idea that Philip’s pre-rot might be caused by V12. But then again, he took ten times what I did, and he had a screwy parasite. Plus, I was super careful. There certainly wasn’t enough risk to make me stop using the V12. I was sure. “That sucks,” I said with a wince. “Does Dr. Nikas have a plan?”

“He’s going to reformulate.”

Reformulate. My gut clenched. Dr. Nikas had cooked up the original version of the “super-mod” in a kitchen in New York as a combat enhancement. I’d used it during the high-stakes rescue of Marcus and Kyle in New York, which was when I discovered that, not only did the super-mod heighten senses and reaction times, it also delivered a serene calm and increased focus. After several attempts, Dr. Nikas had refined the overkill supercharge of the mod into a useful pharmaceutical for Philip’s treatment—Version 12. I’d experimented with it until I found just the right dose for everyday use as well as for an occasional pick-me-up. It was by sheer accident that I discovered it countered much of my dyslexia. I’d have to hope and pray that Version 13 would have the effects I needed.

“Will Dr. Nikas still use the super-mod as the base for your new treatment?” I asked oh-so-casually.

“I don’t think so.” Philip gestured toward his very zombie-looking face. “Fresh approach because of this.”

Crap. The super-mod base worked. That was what I needed, not a new concoction. When Dr. Nikas reformulated, I’d be cut off. No supply. What the hell was I going to do when I ran out? The chances that a completely new recipe would work the same were slim. I couldn’t live without—

“Angel?”

Philip’s worried voice cut through my flailing thoughts. I caught myself hyperventilating and took a slow, focused breath. “Sorry. I, uh, hate that you’re going through this again.” That much was true. I glanced beyond him to the glass-doored fridge and the tray inside that held three full vials. “Are you still using the old V12?”

“This was the last time. Dr. Nikas increased the dose, and it stopped the deterioration.” He stood and re-tucked his shirt. “It didn’t reverse it, but at least now I don’t feel as bad as I look. He’ll have the new formula ready to test in a couple of days, and I’ll be back to working security in no time.”

“Glad to hear it.” I smiled, genuinely relieved for him, if not for my own predicament. I moved to the counter by the fridge and straightened containers of supplies. “I saw Marcus, Pierce, Brian, and Kyle earlier today. The FBI is sniffing around funeral homes.”

“There’s shit stirred everywhere,” Philip said with a shake of his head. “Those four left here about twenty minutes ago.” He moved to a mirror on the wall and peered at the fissure by his mouth.