White Trash Zombie Gone Wild (White Trash Zombie 5)

“For now.” He gave me a mild glare. “But I’ll fire you in a heartbeat if you do anything to jeopardize your coworkers or this department.”

Relief danced through me. “Got it.” I pushed to my feet. “Thanks, Allen. For being decent.”

“Don’t get used to it.”

Chapter 27

“And they use this for zombie wound care in the Central African Republic?”

I grinned at the naked awe and delight in Dr. Nikas’s voice. Allen had left to watch the parade with his wife, and I was on cell phone in the morgue tech office, kicked back with my feet on the desk. I’d already given him my update concerning Allen and Special Agent Aberdeen, and had saved the best news—the goule-gris salve—for last. “Apparently so,” I said. “Those ingredients were just the ones Allen could remember, so it’s possible there’s a secret ingredient missing.”

“We won’t know until I experiment,” he said. “But even so, the information offers avenues I haven’t explored.”

“Right. So, this got me thinking. Allen told Kang about this stuff, too. And we’ve been scratching our heads trying to figure out what was in Kang’s system that made him re-grow while the others stayed in stasis.” I took a deep breath. “What if Kang spent a couple of years experimenting with those ingredients? Maybe it changed his cells or his parasite, and that’s why he has an extra boost for re-growing. Like he’s been pickled in zombie steroids.”

Dr. Nikas let out a laugh. “Pickled zombie. Angel, not only are you a ray of light in an often dreary world, but you may well be correct.”

With a parting promise to keep me in the loop, he hung up. I had a feeling he was already filling a whiteboard with scribbled notes.

Still grinning, I exited the morgue with a light step and headed to my car. There was still plenty of time for me to make it to the Fest. I’d picked the loose skin off the rotten patch and taped a patch of gauze over it—one that I’d smeared with eyeliner to make it look like it was part of my “costume.” For good measure, I taped smudged gauze pads onto my collarbone and forearm to complete the look.

I stopped dead as a muffled scream of rage and frustration reached me from the only other car in the lot. Nick’s, parked at the far end of the first row. He sat in the driver’s seat, head thrown back and face contorted. I stood rooted to the spot in shock as his long scream trailed off to a guttural howl and finally shuddering silence.

Instinct and worry urged me to rush to him, but I found myself hesitating. Maybe he didn’t want help. Maybe he just wanted to be left alone. I had no desire to go through a repeat of the scene at the restaurant, but I also couldn’t go on my merry way without checking on him. I approached his car, only to see him violently ripping a sheet of paper into smaller and smaller pieces. At the sight of me, he froze, then quickly slipped on his I-don’t-give-a-shit expression and flung the door open.

“Hey, Nick. You cool?” I sauntered up to his door and snuck a casual peek inside the car. Paper bits littered the interior like confetti. On the seat was a torn envelope with LSU School of Medicine in the corner, and beneath it I spied the butt of a gun. What the shit? Sure, his dad owned a gun shop, but I’d never known Nick to carry a gun before.

“Everything’s great,” Nick said, “if you don’t count all the detours for the stupid parade.” He grabbed his messenger bag, got out and slammed the door. “I need to finish a report, and it took me twice as long as usual to get here.”

I suspected his temper had more to do with the confetti-fied contents of that envelope than traffic. My heart sank. It had to be a rejection of his med school application. Damn. I glanced at the gun. But why did he need that? Protection? Murder? Suicide?

No. Not Nick.

I hoped.

I cocked my head at him. “You sure nothing else is bugging you?”

“I’m fine, okay?” He stalked toward the building, but not before I got a good look at his right eye—red and puffy, and promising a nice shiner.

“Nick!” I dogged his steps. “I’m not going away this time. Did your dad do this?”

His shoulders jerked with tension, but he didn’t stop. “No! I clocked myself with the lat pulldown bar at the gym earlier.”

Right. And I only ate brains on holidays. “Talk to me. Five minutes. If you still want me to go away after that, I will.”

He key-swiped his ID and yanked the door open. “What do you want, Angel? I said I’m fine. I have work to do, and the last thing I need is you hanging around.”

I ducked in after him. He kept his face turned away so I couldn’t see his swollen eye. “Fuck it!” He threw his hands up. “Since your idea of a good time is to screw with me today, go for it. Just don’t expect me to help you.” He strode off through the morgue toward the front offices.

I followed like a lioness waiting for her prey to wear out so she could pounce. “Did I ever tell you about my mom?”

Nick headed up the stairs. “No. But I’m sure you’re about to bombard me with the story.”

I took the stairs two at a time right along with him. “She went to jail when I was eleven. For child abuse.”

He glanced at me, but didn’t give a smart ass remark this time.

“She was mentally ill, but that didn’t change or excuse what she did to me. My dad didn’t see it, or didn’t want to see it. Not until she broke my arm. That’s when he finally called the cops.”