“Nick.” I groped for words, a way to tell him I understood, that I knew how it felt to be called worthless and stupid and worse.
Nick’s hands shook and his breath wheezed as he groped in his messenger bag. Damn it. I also knew how shitty it was when an outsider saw—when the private pain became public shame.
I pulled his inhaler from his bag and pressed it into his hand. Waited for him to take a puff, then another. His breathing eased, but he continued to tremble and was as pale as death.
“Nick,” I said. “How do you know Bear?”
His distress increased to agonizing levels, as if he’d break into a million pieces if touched. He shoved his keys into the ignition and
started the car. “I gotta go,” he repeated, still refusing to meet my eyes. He reached for the door, but I didn’t budge.
“Please listen to me,” I said, trying my best to project calm understanding. “I know a little about—”
“YOU DON’T KNOW SHIT!” Nick screamed, face blotchy and eyes wild. “Get out of the fucking way!”
Goddammit, Angel. I’d pushed too far. Shit. I should have known better. I used to get pretty goddamn defensive when people tried to reach out to me. Throat tight, I stepped back and closed the door for him then walked away. Behind me, tires squealed on the asphalt as Nick peeled out in an eerie echo of Bear’s departure.
As soon as I was in my car, I pulled out my phone. “Okay, Bear,” I muttered. “Who the hell are you to Nick?” I had a gigantic suspicion, but I needed to be sure.
The owner of The Bear’s Den turned out to be Owen “Bear” Galatas. And a search on people associated with that name turned up Nicholas Galatas. Before tonight, I never would’ve guessed it in a million years.
Bear was Nick’s dad.
Chapter 16
I sat in my car for several minutes, nerves jangling as I struggled to process the entire incident. It didn’t help that it hit way too close to home. My mother had been mentally ill, and I’d been the easiest and closest target whenever she lashed out. She’d gone to prison for it and died there—committing suicide on my sixteenth birthday. But life hadn’t turned perfect when she went to jail, not when my dad was an alcoholic who had no idea how to keep a screwed up kid in line. He eventually resorted to slaps when he reached the end of his rope, though by that time I was old enough to get away from him until he could sober up and cool down. But the emotional abuse and outright neglect were a lot harder to escape.
Dad was better now, god almighty so much better. My zombification had helped him damn near as much as it had helped me, and we’d broken the horrific cycle of Angel-fucks-up followed by Dad-doesn’t-know-how-to-help which would inevitably lead to Dad-gets-pissed.
Bear didn’t appear to be mentally ill like my mother was and, if he was any sort of addict, he hid it damn well. Not that either was a requirement or excuse to be abusive. Bear was scary and intimidating under ordinary circumstances. I couldn’t imagine being on the receiving end of his anger.
Yet there was every chance that what I’d witnessed was an isolated incident. Parents and kids argued for all sorts of reasons. Even the most well-adjusted families had the occasional screaming match—which was one of the reasons why Pierce worried about family members of zombies being in the know. Nick never mentioned his family or personal life, but then again neither did most of my other coworkers, not in any sort of depth. How was I to know if there was a pattern of abuse—verbal or otherwise—from Bear? And, if I did know, what the hell could I do about it?
Thoughts stewing, I drove out to the park behind the municipal auditorium. Dusk turned the western sky purple and maroon as I sat on the hood of my car. And, while I consumed my monthly quota of fried food, I continued my internet search of Bear Galatas.
It was common knowledge around these parts that Bear was a survivalist who preached the virtue of preparedness. What I hadn’t known was how serious he was about it. A frequent contributor to Survive This! magazine, he wrote articles on everything from how to escape handcuffs, zip-ties, and duct tape to the increase of martial law in the U.S to how to grow a survival garden. He even had a popular blog called “Bear Talk” where he discussed how to prepare for and survive various catastrophes, from house fires to hurricanes, terrorist attack to alien invasion.
I added this info to my own observations of the man. Big, tough guy, smart and confident enough to run a very successful business, a planner with strong opinions, and openly dismissive of anyone he deemed a slacker. Worked out hard, and a big believer in mind-and-body strength.
Shit. And then there was Nick—not at all big and tough and strong who no doubt embodied everything that Bear considered wimpy and worthless. But damn it, Nick was smart. Surely that was an important survival trait?
Worry for Nick gnawed at me, but I had zero idea what to do to help him. Maybe I could talk to Derrel—without naming any names—and get his advice.
Nothing else I could do right now. Damn it.
Frustration simmered as I continued home, but by the time I arrived, I’d wrenched my thoughts back to murder-clue hunting. In the bathroom, I peeled the skull fragment off my forehead, then attacked the makeup and glue residue with makeup remover, baby wipes, and cold cream. It probably would have been quicker to claw my skin right off, eat brains, and grow my face back, but I figured mopping up the blood and flesh bits would burn more time than I saved.
It was full dark by the time I finished removing all of the makeup. I checked my watch, changed into dark jeans and a black t-shirt, killed another fifteen minutes with a skim-through of my Biology notes, then got my ass in gear.
Zombie Spy Powers, Activate!
• • •
Judd lived in Bob’s Trailer Park, a rundown shithole with a dozen lots and a driveway that had more potholes than level ground. The owner, Bob, was a real prince who dealt meth on the side and by some miracle had yet to be busted for it. The residents were the kind of people who either didn’t give a shit about the nasty conditions, or were desperate enough to tolerate them for the cheap rent. Judd wasn’t desperate. He simply preferred to spend his money on the finer things in life. Guns. Pot. Prostitutes. Antibiotics. Judd had lived there the longest of any of the residents, and was one of the few with anything resembling a steady—and legal—job.
The good thing, for me at least, was that I seriously doubted any of Judd’s neighbors would call the cops if they saw weird crap going on since everyone here had something to hide. The bad thing was that the neighbors would likely just shoot anyone they deemed suspicious.
In other words, I needed to be super-ultra-sneaky. I parked a street over, ate a packet of brains, jumped a ditch, and cut through a thin stretch of woods. At the edge of the trees I watched, listened, and scented. Neither of his neighbors on either side were home, and I thanked baby Jesus for that little advantage. Both the front and back doors of his trailer were locked with padlocks, but that didn’t bother me. I’d been here a few times before, back when I was dating Randy. Though, at the time, I’d hated hanging out with Judd, I was glad now that I’d listened to his dumb ramblings about escape routes and secret trap doors in case of terrorist attacks. Because, god knows, if I was a terrorist, a piece of shit trailer park in bumfuck Louisiana would totally be my first target. Totally.