White Trash Zombie Apocalypse (White Trash Zombie 3)

He exhaled. “Maybe we can discuss this more later, when things settle down a bit,” he replied, tone gentle. “My people will be occupied for a few days with the aftermath of your encounters with Saberton, but after that we should talk.”

I hesitated. I still didn’t fully trust him, not by a long shot. And the quick and efficient response to the highway incident had shown me quite clearly that Pietro was, well…when I’d half-joked about him being the head of the zombie mafia, I’d probably been underestimating his power and reach.

But I had no doubt he had a lot more experience with dealing with the aftermath of killing someone. And it wasn’t as if I had a whole lot of other people I could spill my guts to. I couldn’t exactly go to a therapist and say, “The thing is, I’m having some guilt issues over the fact that I’m a brain-eating murderer.”

“That would be great,” I heard myself saying.

“Excellent. I’ll tell Dr. Nikas you’ll be coming by shortly after noon.”

“Thanks,” I said. “I’ll, uh, be ready.” I hung up, shaking my head at the awkwardness of my goodbye.

But then I laughed. A year ago I was a drugged-out felon shacking up with my loser boyfriend, Randy. In a couple of hours I was going to see zombie heads in a secret lab owned and operated by the head of the local zombie mafia.

Sometimes life was pretty damn funny.

Chapter 13

I told myself I’d study until eleven which would give me enough time to get ready so I wouldn’t be in a frantic rush before Brian picked me up. At least that was the plan. I ended up getting caught up in a practice test, and when I looked up it was eleven-thirty and then, of course, I had a frantic rush to get ready in time.

Fortunately, I was an expert on running late, so by ten ’til noon I was showered, had my hair dried with most of the frizz tamed, and even had a bit of makeup on. I put on the same pants I’d worn to the Gala, but this time paired it with a simple shirt that wasn’t at all skanky, and my regular low lace-up boots. I’d briefly considered wearing the same heeled boots that I’d worn the other night, then decided that comfort and sure footing was probably the better choice for a research lab. I wouldn’t want to trip and knock something crucial over, land in a bizarre cocktail of chemicals, and end up some sort of freak mutant, right?

I laughed at myself as I dabbed on a touch of lip gloss. I was already freaky enough, thank you very much. And I’ve also been watching way too many science fiction movies with Marcus!

My dad stumbled out of his bedroom wearing only a pair of ragged boxers while I prowled the kitchen in search of something to eat. He grunted something at me and continued right on past to the bathroom. I rolled my eyes, annoyance winding through me as I stuck a burrito into the microwave.

By the time the microwave dinged, and I had the burrito on a plate, he shuffled back into the kitchen.

“Afternoon, Dad,” I said. I figured it was close enough to noon that I could be snarky about the time of day.

He mumbled something that might have been an answer as he scrabbled through the pantry. “Dammit, Angel, we’re out of coffee.”

“I’ll pick some up later,” I said around a mouthful of too-chewy tortilla and cheese. “There’s some Cokes in there.” I shrugged. “At least it’s caffeine.”

His scowl deepened into familiar lines as he pulled a can of Coke out of the pantry and popped the tab. “You shoulda gotten coffee yesterday.” He took a swig of warm soda, gave me an accusing look as if it was my fault that warm Coke sucked compared to coffee.

I took the time to chew and swallow more burrito before answering. “I didn’t know we were out,” I finally said. “And I was working. Y’know, for the money that buys coffee.”

“I buy things around here too, dammit,” he growled, then let out a low belch.

I bit back a retort that I knew damn well would start a fight. “So, you going anywhere tonight?” I asked instead.

“Why the hell do I have to get the third degree in my own goddamn house?” He shot back. “I may go out. May not. None of your goddamn business.”

So much for not starting a fight. “Jesus, Dad, I’m just trying to have a fucking conversation,” I said. Why the hell did he have to be so goddamn ornery all the time? “You’ve hardly been home at all most evenings.”

He got a cold hotdog out of the fridge, wrapped it in a piece of white bread. “Maybe I have things to do. And you’re one to talk after staying out all night.” He took a bite, then looked me over as if focusing on me for the first time. His eyes narrowed. “Looks like you’re going out again. With that cop?”

“No, it’s not Marcus,” I said, then had to mentally fumble for what the hell to tell him. Zombie head tour at a secret lab probably wouldn’t go over too well. “I have a meeting, um, sorta job interview,” I lied. Badly.>“You mean with regrowth?” he asked, again surprising me by actually knowing what the hell I was talking about. I could be talking about heads of cauliflower for all he knew.

“Well, yeah,” I said. “Is anything happening? I haven’t heard any news, and, well, Kang was sort of a friend of mine, and I’d really like to be kept in the loop.”

“The regrowth itself hasn’t been attempted yet,” Pietro informed me. “It will be as soon as the right medium is developed.”

“Right medium?” I asked, puzzled. “You mean what to grow them back in? Why can’t you just put them in a big vat of brains?”

“According to one who knows far more about this than I do,” he said, “a big vat of brains wouldn’t be sufficient. Coming back from a head alone isn’t exactly natural. Kristi Charish was on the right track when using the pseudobrains mix to regrow Zeke Lyons, but she hadn’t tested it thoroughly and, as you know, the results were tragic. Finding the right formula is proving challenging, but we’re getting closer.”

“Oh. All right.” Disappointment curled through me, but I also understood. Zeke Lyons was one of Ed’s decapitation/murder victims, but when he was regrown he came back all screwed up—appearing at least twenty years older, and with a parasite that couldn’t heal the damage from the closed-head injury he sustained after a fall down a flight of stairs.