White Trash Zombie Apocalypse (White Trash Zombie 3)

“I didn’t do anything wrong!” I insisted, fighting back tears. “He wasn’t annoyed or mad or anything, and he wouldn’t have invited me to the lab if I was wasting his time, would he?” I took a deep breath as the old buried anger returned. “And, goddammit, even if I did annoy him it’s the least he could put up with after everything I went through.”>I gave a snort of amusement, smiled. “You really don’t know me very well, do you?”

“Oh, man.” She winced. “I’m afraid I do.”

“I won’t let them do bad shit to you,” I said with a shake of my head. “I can’t.”

The door opened, and Brian entered with one of the drawings in his hand, face in unreadable mode.

Heather’s gaze went to the drawing, and tears welled up in her eyes. “Yeah, no fruit basket.”

“What’s going on?” I demanded. “Brian?”

“She’s the one who turned us over to Saberton four years ago,” he said, voice even but carrying a dark undertone that sent a chill down my back. “It’s why they know about zombies. Why they know so much about zombies.”

My heart dropped into my stomach. “How?”

Brian opened his mouth to speak, but Heather beat him to it.

“Got into one of Mr. Ivanov’s safes,” she said. “I copied a bunch of research material. I didn’t realize what it was until later.” She grimaced. “After that I spent almost a year gathering more information on zombies. That’s how I ended up with John Kang.”

“Damn,” I breathed, but then I shook my head. Lifting my chin, I looked back to Brian. “You can’t lay all that at her feet. Charish was ready to sell us out to the highest bidder. It would’ve happened at some point.”

Brian seemed unmoved. “Angel, I need to speak with Heather alone now.”

“Yeah,” I said tightly. “That’s not gonna happen.”

“It has to happen,” he stated. “I give you my word that nothing will happen to Heather in that time.”

I hesitated, but the memory of the hole in the office wall rose. He wouldn’t have punched a wall in frustration if he was totally okay with treating her like the enemy.

“Okay,” I said. “I’m trusting you.” And with that I gave Heather’s hand a squeeze and stepped out.

* * *

I obediently went off with the taciturn Jacques and allowed him to draw vials and vials of blood, after which I downed a fresh, warm puff pastry stuffed with brains and a to-die-for smoothie that Jacques called Dr. Nikas’s Special Blend. It sure beat the hell out of juice and cookies. Yet then I had to wait—very impatiently—for what was close to half an hour before Brian returned. Didn’t help that all I had to read was a decade-old issue of Field & Stream. Seriously, what the hell? Didn’t zombies keep up their magazine subscriptions?

When Brian came to get me, his face was still utterly unreadable. I stood and set the magazine down, crossed my arms defiantly over my chest, and looked up at him with as much authority as a short and skinny high school dropout zombie could muster.

“I’m not much of a fighter, Brian,” I warned him in a low voice, “but I’m mean, and I don’t quit. So I sure as hell hope you have something good to tell me.”

His expression turned grim, and dread curled into a tight knot in my gut as he approached.

“Goddammit, Brian,” I said, unable to keep my voice from shaking in anger and stress. “Have you already done something awful to her?”

I caught a faint whiff of cherry, and then before I could react, the stoic Brian Archer took hold of my shoulders and planted a big brotherly Cherry ChapStick laden smooch right on my lips. He’d smeared it on extra thick too, the bastard.

“No.” He pulled back, faint smile playing about his mouth.

A laugh of delirious relief burst out of me, even as I wiped the thick smudge of lip balm off my mouth with the back of my hand. “Oh my god, you must’ve used half a stick. So everything’s okay? She’s gonna be okay?”

He gave my shoulders a squeeze before dropping his hands back to his sides. “We’re taking her in.”

“As in…not fucking her up? And not ransoming her back?” I asked, still a bit wary. “You’ll let her defect—or whatever it’s called in the corporate world?”

“More than that,” he said with a slight shake of his head. “Everything checked out. Andrew Saber was treated in private for a lacerated cheek on the night in question. She answered all—all—of my other questions correctly, even the personal and the hard ones.” He took a deep breath, smiled. “And, well, she smells right. The fear is gone. She can’t fake that. So, unless she does something incredibly stupid, she’s one of us.”

“Good,” I said with a grin of relief. “I really didn’t want to get ugly with y’all.”

Brian chuckled. “Trust me, Angel. None of us want that.”