White Trash Zombie Apocalypse (White Trash Zombie 3)

“Worked for,” she replied, emphasizing the past tense. She edged closer to the driver’s door. I knew damn well she was about to make a break for it, and I tensed in expectation.

“Yeah, fine, who did you work for?” I shot back, allowing my annoyance to color my tone.

As expected, she made an absolutely desperate attempt to yank the door open and get into the Jeep. I poured on the speed and closed the distance between us, grabbed the door handle as she slid into the seat, and blocked the door with my own body.

“For fuck’s sake!” I snapped. “Would you chill? I want some answers, and I’m not letting you go until you give them!”

She breathed raggedly, seeming on the verge of tears and, with the fierce strength that burned behind her hazel eyes, it looked utterly unnatural on her. She tugged futilely on the door a few times as if it would somehow convince me to move, then gave up and let her hand drop. “Shit. Shit.”

I swept a quick glance around. No one inside the diner seemed to notice our little altercation—helped no doubt by the fact it was all happening on the side away from the broad windows. And the highway remained deserted.

“Can we please talk?” I asked, returning my attention to her.

She sagged. “Sure. Why the hell not.”

“Cool. Okay, cool.” I glanced around again, then hurried around the front of the Jeep to the passenger side. I fully expected her to start the vehicle and try and take off during those few seconds, but for whatever reason she seemed fairly resigned to my obnoxious desire for information. I slid into the passenger seat, shut the door, then gently pushed aside the barrel of the shotgun that lay across her lap so that it wasn’t pointed straight at me.

“All righty, that’s better,” I said. My gaze dropped to her hand. The pinky and ring finger were heavily splinted, and purplish bruising showed between strips of tape. “Who broke your hand?”

Exhaling, she leaned her head back against the seat. A curious expression of regret and admiration briefly passed over her face. “Brian Archer. Pietro Ivanov’s head of security. He caught me trying to get pictures of Ivanov and Jane Pennington.”

“Oh, wow,” I said, more than a little shocked. Though once I thought about it, I had zero doubt that the ice-calm security guy could break fingers without batting an eyelash.

Her mouth pursed slightly in annoyance, and I got the sense it was at herself. For getting caught? Somehow I could totally believe that would irk this woman. Irked looked a lot more natural on her than the verge-of-tears thing. Whatever was going on had to be huge if it pushed her to that point.

“And your bosses are mad you got caught?” I asked, trying to put the pieces together. Yet I figured they’d have to be really mad for her to be this freaked. Surely there was more to it.

She gave a low snort. “They don’t even know about that. It’s…other stuff I recently discovered about them.” Sighing, she shook her head. “I can’t go back.” Her eyes went to mine. “Please, I really need to go. And you need to be far away from me.”

I stubbornly didn’t get out of the Jeep. “What’s your name?”

A flicker of exasperation lit her eyes. “Heather,” she said, pointedly not giving a last name.

I didn’t bother asking for it. “I’m Angel Crawford, but I guess you know that already.”

“Yeah. I do.” Her gaze dropped from mine.

“Tell me who you work for.” I didn’t make it a question or request.

She grimaced. “Saberton Corporation.”

I didn’t expect that answer. “I don’t understand. Why the hell would Saberton want pictures of me?” But then my thick-headed brain decided to wake up. “Wait, they do defense contract stuff, don’t they?” A chill swept through me. Did this have anything to do with Kristi Charish’s Zoldiers project? It had to. “Do you know why they wanted pics of me?”

Heather shook her head. “Not just you. Pietro Ivanov and pretty much anyone associated with him.”

“What do you know about Pietro…and me?” I asked warily.

She took a deep breath as if clinging to calm by her fingernails. “I know what you are,” she said, voice cracking slightly. “And I’m leaving because I don’t agree with Saberton’s philosophy, especially when it comes to using your kind.” Her eyes flicked toward me. “Zombies.”

Yikes. I knew Dr. Charish had been dealing with some government or corporate group when she had me as a test subject. Was that Saberton? Were they interested in her zombie-soldier idea? “You know a lot of zombies?” I asked, still watching her.

“Met my first a couple of years ago. John Kang,” she said to my surprise. Kang, the first zombie who I knew was a zombie. “He was my best friend, hands down,” she continued, surprising me even more, especially with the depth of sincerity in her voice. Her mouth tightened. “Saberton wanted him in their pocket because of all his contacts and connections. They wanted me to set him up to, ah, encourage his cooperation.”

“Connections like Dr. Sofia Baldwin?” I asked, cocking my eyebrow in her direction. Before her death, Dr. Baldwin had been working to develop fake brains that zombies could survive on instead of human brains.

Heather gave a little nod, confirming my suspicion. This was getting more and more interesting. If interesting meant holy shit this is seriously messed up.

“I knew Sofia,” I said. “She, uh, did a lot of zombie research.” I paused. “They’re both dead, you know—Kang and Sofia. Murdered.”