White Trash Zombie Gone Wild (White Trash Zombie 5)

“Dr. Nikas isn’t available,” she replied coolly. “Perhaps you can try in a few hours—”

“Dante Rosario just tried to kidnap me behind the morgue,” I said in a rush. “Pretty sure Dr. Nikas would like to know that.”

“I see. I’ll relay the info to Dr. Nikas. But, as acting chief of Security, I’m ordering you to stay clear of the lab as long as there’s the slightest chance you’re being followed.”

My hackles went up at her patronizing tone. “Right. Because it’s not as if Saberton already knows exactly where the lab is. Oh, wait, you weren’t there when they infiltrated and almost got Jacques and Reg and the heads.”

Her calm demeanor shattered. “They got in because of you.” Pent up anger vibrated through her voice. “Chris Peterson’s death was your fault. You’re a security risk and a liability to the Tribe, and I’m not the only one who feels that way!”

I held back the words that leaped into my mouth. Instead I took a slow, deep breath then pulled onto the shoulder and came to a stop. Not so long ago, I’d have crumpled and accepted that I really was dead weight and a fuckup, whether it was true or not. But in this moment it was as if her venom threw everything into sharp focus, burned away the bullshit and allowed me to step back and clearly see my accomplishments and failures. Sure, I still fucked up here and there, but so did everyone else. I’d done lots of good stuff, too. I knew damn well she wanted me to believe that Marcus agreed with her assessment of me. Maybe he did. But I’d risked my ass to go back into Saberton to rescue him and Kyle. I knew without the slightest whiff of doubt that I’d proven myself to be an asset.

And, in a supernova-bright burst of clarity, I realized it didn’t matter who agreed with Rachel. Not Marcus, or Reg, or Jacques, or Pierce, or even the guy who cleaned the toilets. Whoever that was. I knew my own worth, and no one could take that away from me.

When I spoke, my voice remained steady and calm. “I was attacked, and a listening device was placed in my arm without my consent or knowledge. There’s considerable evidence to support this, including the testimony of Philip, Brian, Dr. Nikas, and Pierce. You chose to ignore every shred of evidence that clears me of fault and instead decided that, because you don’t like me, I’m obviously a murdering traitor.”

“Don’t you dare—”

“You’re also a judgmental bitch, so fuck you.” I disconnected, satisfied, then texted Dr. Nikas—since I didn’t trust Rachel to relay my message. I boiled the kidnapping attempt down to Rosario tried and failed to grab me at the morgue, and received an Oh dear. Do you need to come in for protection? in response. Fuck Rachel. Thanks. I’m good for now, I replied. Sure, I could go hide out and twiddle my thumbs, but then Rosario would be free to do whatever the hell he wanted. I then let Dr. Nikas know that the pre-rot had progressed but seemed stable now, and that I’d confirmed Rosario’s involvement in Kristi’s escape from Dallas and the leaked videos. After several seconds I received a Well done that warmed me to the tips of my toes, followed by I’ll pass it on.

Duty complete, I continued toward my next goal: the Tribe training ground and the emergency brain stash. As soon as I stocked up and topped off, I intended to turn the tables on Rosario.

• • •

Hunger came and went in relentless waves, as if it kept lifting its head to see if food had arrived. By the time I finally made the turn onto Salt Perch Road, the hunger breathed down my neck, prodding me with growing impatience. After two miles of steadily deteriorating road the asphalt finally gave way to a thirty-foot-wide stretch of packed dirt and gravel surrounded by waist-high grass and scattered pines. Farther out, firm land fought a losing battle with stagnant pools and brackish marsh until even that gave way to wide stretches of water between sparse patches of slightly higher ground.

This area had been a nature preserve at one time, with a long boardwalk that threaded through the marsh and nifty signs that identified the plants and wildlife. I had vague memories of coming out here with my parents when I was five or six, shrieking in delight as I ran down the boardwalk, sneakers pounding the wooden planks like a giant drum and sending every resident of the marsh scattering. After Hurricane Katrina destroyed the man-made additions, money for rebuilding was nonexistent, and the land was put up for sale. Pietro Ivanov bought it soon after to use as a training ground, cordoned it off, banned all hunting, and deliberately allowed the wetlands to remain wild, unimproved, and undamaged. Except for the occasional stampede of zombies, of course.

Small noises entwined into an earthy harmony—the shriek of birds and croak of frogs and buzz of insects. A damp and chilly breeze flowed over the grass and set it waving. Fifty yards to my right, a rusted flagpole speared drunkenly up from scraggly bushes on a small circle of dry land. There was no sign of the barbecue pit where the brains were stashed, but Dr. Nikas had said near the flagpole, not beside it. I tugged my jacket on, locked my car out of pure habit, then set off toward the flagpole. The footing ranged from firm and dry to knee-deep muck. I paused long enough to grab a sturdy tree branch for stability and forged onward. There was probably an easier path if I bothered to take the time, but at this point, I didn’t care if I got wet. I just wanted to get there as fast as possible.

Not that it made a difference. There wasn’t a damn thing at the base of the flagpole but dead grass and a nest of rats. I did a slow turn and scanned the area. No barbecue pit in sight.

Maybe I’d dreamed the part about the barbecue pit? Heart sinking, I clawed through the bushes even though they couldn’t possibly hide a shoebox, much less the one I wanted. No, this can’t be happening. How can it not be here? A sob of panic rose, and I choked it back with effort. This was a problem, but problems had solutions. I just had to work through it. A military-grade hard plastic case full of eight-ounce packets would be too heavy for a swamp animal to drag off, and the only footprints around the flagpole were mine. But now that I was looking more carefully, I also couldn’t find any box-shaped depressions in the grass.

Frustrated, I jabbed my stick into the soft dirt. Either someone took the box a while ago, or I’d misheard Dr. Nikas about the location. My phone was in my car, but it wouldn’t take long to trek back and send a text. If all else failed and the brains really were supposed to be at this flagpole, maybe Dr. Nikas could direct me to a different emergency stash.

God, I hoped so. At least mosquitos didn’t care for zombie blood, so I had that going for me.

The crack of a rifle smacked the air, and bone and blood flew as pain exploded in my right hand. I screamed and dropped the stick, fell back as I clutched my ruined hand. Rosario. Goddammit. There was no way he could have followed me here without me seeing him, which meant the asswipe had probably stuck a GPS tracker on my car during one of the break-ins. And now I’m a sitting duck.

“C’mon out, Angel. I got you in my sights, and I can drop you before you can get up to run.”

I froze. Not Rosario. Judd. How the hell had I underestimated the redneck gun nut so thoroughly? And how had he found me out here? No way was he in league with Rosario. Even a Saberton goon had standards. I shivered as I looked down at my mangled hand. To my unending relief the pain was starting to ebb It’s okay, you beautiful parasite. I know you’re trying.

And on the other end of that rifle was an oh-so-savory brain, perfect to give my parasite a boost.

“Get the fuck up, you goddamn zombie freak,” Judd shouted, “or I’ll put the next one through your head. And you know I’m good enough to do it.”

Yeah, I did know. He’d aimed for my hand to get my attention, and was skilled enough to tear me apart, piece by piece. “Why should I make it easy for you to kill me?”

“Makes no difference to me whether you’re alive or dead. Either way, you’re my ticket outta t

his whole goddamn mess. Bear’s gonna pull the strings I need to get me a new identity once I bring him a real honest-to-god zombie. Now get your ass up before I have to shoot you a few more times to motivate you.”

Bear. That fucking son of a bitch. He’d even given Nick a tranq gun for zombies. Fury sharpened my focus to a scalpel’s edge. “No, don’t shoot me anymore,” I said, adding a pained gasp for effect. Judd probably didn’t know the parasite dulled pain—when it was working, at least. He might think I was in too much agony to fight back. It was a flimsy advantage, but it was all I had.

Hugging my hand to my chest, I staggered out of the bushes. Judd stood a dozen yards away at a right angle from the watery path I’d slogged to the flagpole. To my annoyance, I saw that the ground between us was damn near bone dry. Great. If I’d taken a minute to look for a dry path, I’d have made it to the flagpole in a quarter of the time and wouldn’t be soaked.

Judd kept his rifle aimed at me as I moved toward him. “That’s far enough,” he said when I’d closed half the distance.