White Trash Zombie Apocalypse (White Trash Zombie 3)

“Marcus, I was attacked,” I said, trying to keep my voice nice and calm. Trying hard. Yeah, I’d been in a goddamn firefight just last night and handled myself like a boss, but that was a far cry from being dragged out of my car and held down. I wasn’t a zombie superwoman. Not yet at least.

“Where are you?” he asked, all trace of the drawl gone, and I could almost see him snapping upright, freaking out in a manly way. “Are you all right?”

“Yeah. I feel kinda weird and shaky, but I’m okay.” I said with as much steadiness as I could muster. “I’m in the Walmart parking lot right now.”

“Okay. Okay, good,” he said, relief evident in his voice. “What happened?”

“I had a bad day at work and went out to the boat launch to think,” I said. “I was only there a couple of minutes when Philip smashed my car window and dragged me out, then—”

“Wait, what? Philip?” he asked. In the background I heard the sharp jingle of keys and scuffling noises that were likely him shoving shoes on.

“Yes, Philip” I snapped, muscles tensing as the anger seeped in again. “The asshole zombie I made.” And he was hurting, bad. And I wanted to kiss his goddamn booboos and make him better. What the hell was that all about?

“Right. Sorry. Then what?”

I clenched my unbroken hand. “Oh, then the fun shit happened. He and another zombie held me down for a chick to take my blood. There was another guy there too, human. Motherfucker broke my hand. After they were done, Philip used a tranq dart to knock me out, and I woke up a little bit ago back in my car.”

“Jesus Christ,” he breathed. “Okay. I’m coming. Just stay put.”

“Not going anywhere,” I said with a scowl I could feel down to my core. “Whatever he did made me real weak and shaky. Not safe to drive.” I glanced down at my broken hand. “And I need brains. Sorry. I was on my way home and didn’t put any in the car.”

“No worries, babe,” he said, though there was no mistaking the worry in his voice. “Already have some for you.” His truck engine roared to life in the background. “I’ll be there in five minutes.”

“Thanks. See you then,” I said, managing a tired smile as I dropped the phone back into my purse. Damned good guy. Yet my smile faded as I remembered my reaction to Philip. Kiss his booboos and make them better? I remembered it, but didn’t feel it anymore. Weird. In the moment I’d sure felt it.

Then it hit me. Kiss his booboos and make them better. Like a mother and child. I’d turned him into a zombie, chewed brains and fed them to him like a mother bird, protected him from Charish in his first hours. What the shit? Was the bizarre compassion some sort of parasite-influenced zombie-mama instinct? It sure as hell made more sense than anything else.

An unnatural cold settled in my bones, accompanied by another wave of weakness, and I gave up pondering the weirdness surrounding my horrible zombie-baby. Probably an after effect of the damn tranq, I figured. However, when Marcus’s truck screeched to a stop beside my car, I managed to gather enough energy to fling the door open and stagger out. Marcus reached me in a brains-fueled instant, wrapped his arms around me and pulled me close.

“God, you’re soaking wet,” he murmured. “C’mon, let’s get you warmed up.” Supporting me, he steered me to his truck, got me in and then tucked a blanket around me. My lips twitched in mild amusement as I saw that it was the blanket we’d had sex on at the stadium. God, that seemed like an eternity ago.

He gave my thigh a comforting squeeze, reached to crank up the heat, then pressed a bottle into my hand. “Drink up,” he urged. “You need it.” Then he surprised me by pulling a towel, plastic sheeting, and duct tape from behind the seat. “I’ll get your window covered.”

“You’re the best,” I told him, totally meaning it.

“You bring it out in me, Angel,” he said with a smile and eyes full of a warmth that did more to chase away my chill than the blanket. His gaze dropped to the bottle. “Drink,” he repeated, then closed the door and turned away to attend to my car.

I wasn’t all that hungry, but I knew my unhealed injuries needed brains. I opened the bottle and lifted it to drink, but my stomach gave an odd lurch at a revolting smell. Frowning, I lowered it without taking a sip. Had to be something wrong with it.

A few minutes later Marcus climbed into the driver’s seat, placed my phone and purse on the seat between us. He glanced at the full bottle in my hand and worry darkened his eyes.

“Babe, you need to drink all of that,” he said gently with a light touch to the back of my injured hand.

“Can’t.” I made a face and shook my head. “They don’t smell right,” I said. “I think they’re spoiled.”

He frowned and took the bottle from me, sniffed and then sipped. “No, they’re good. Your taste must be a little off.” He handed the bottle back to me. “Angel, you need to make yourself drink.”

I held my breath and forced myself to take a few swallows, then shuddered. “Oh, god, that’s really awful.”

His gaze dropped to the abrasions on the back of my hand. “Well, you’re healing…but damn, a lot more slowly than normal.”

Frowning, I peered at my hand. “Maybe it’s because of whatever knocked me out.” My frown deepened as I looked over at him. “I mean, it really knocked me out—totally unconscious, even though it wasn’t for very long.” It was only now hitting me how very odd that was. “When I got tranqed before it didn’t do that.” McKinney, Dr. Charish’s muscle, had tranqed me from a distance when I’d exchanged myself for my dad. “McKinney’s tranq dropped me, and I couldn’t move,” I continued, “but I was awake the whole time.” Not necessarily coherent since I was crazed with brain-hunger, but certainly awake. “And it didn’t make me feel weak afterward like I do now.”

Marcus exhaled. “Let’s get you back to the house, then I’ll call Uncle Pietro.” He glanced my way. “Keep trying to finish that bottle, if you can. It’s doing some good, even if slowly.”

I took slow grimace-laden sips as we drove, but to my relief the yuck-level began to decrease, and by the time we reached his house I’d sucked down the last of the bottle and wanted more. My hand wasn’t completely healed up, but it was well on the way, and the overwhelming weakness had faded to a much more normal tiredness. What was up with that, along with the brains being near revolting at first and damn tasty now? It had to be something to do with the tranquilizer and its effects wearing off.

Marcus got me inside his house and found some vastly oversized sweats for me to change into since my own clothes were still wet. After that he shepherded me to the couch, wrapped a blanket around me, then snuggled up next to me.