White Trash Zombie Apocalypse (White Trash Zombie 3)

For a brief moment I considered going right back to bed, but by this point I was pretty damn awake. Exerting a bit of maturity, I spread my books out on the kitchen table and settled down to work through a practice GED test. That killed a couple of hours, but I managed to pass it by the skin of my teeth and rewarded myself with a mental high-five.

Yet my euphoria faded as the memory of the previous night’s fun and games rose again. Hell, this whole week had been weird, with the attack at the boat launch being the shit-flavored ice cream on top of the crazy pie. Though it had been less than thirty-six hours, it seemed like forever since I was out on that rain-soaked highway with Heather and facing down the company men. Was she recovering all right? Was the Saberton Corporation still looking for her?

Jeez, it’s corporate espionage on steroids. And brains.

I sat back and considered the various connections, then abruptly remembered that I’d planned to call Pietro about Kang’s head. The clock over the stove read nine-oh-five. A more than reasonable hour to call.

Before I could lose my nerve, I pulled my phone from my purse and dialed Pietro’s number.

To my surprise he picked up on the first ring. “Hello, Angel. How are you doing this morning? I was just thinking about you.”

“Uh, hi, Pietro,” I said, trying to recover from the mild shock that he had my number in his contacts. “Better. All the weird weakness is gone, and I feel pretty much my normal self.”

“Good. Glad to hear it.” He said, sounding like he actually meant it. “How can I help you?”

Crap, I probably should’ve rehearsed what I was going to say before calling and sounding like a moron. “Um, I was calling to find out if there’s been any progress with the heads.” It had been six months since his people recovered the zombies’ heads from Dr. Charish’s lab at NuQuesCor—heads of zombies Ed had killed.>“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.

“Thanks, hon’,” I said as I nestled close. This was the protective side of Marcus I adored.

“We need to tell my uncle,” Marcus said.

“Yeah.” I sighed and leaned my head on his shoulder. “You do it. I’m too tired to deal with him.”

He kissed the top of my head. “Not a problem.”

I closed my eyes while he dialed, listened with half an ear while he told Pietro about the attack, the blood draw, the tranq, my weakness, slow healing and temporary distaste for brains. After that Marcus fell silent, broken only by the occasional “Right” and “Okay” and “I will.”

When he finally hung up and set the phone aside, I opened my eyes, gave him a smile. “I’m feeling a lot better,” I said. “Thanks.”

“You look a lot better,” he said, with less of the worry that had tightened his voice before.