White Trash Zombie Apocalypse (White Trash Zombie 3)

“You don’t need stitches,” the medic told my dad, and I yanked my attention back to him. “You probably have a mild concussion, though,” he added.

“I ain’t goin’ to no fucking hospital,” Dad snarled before the medic could even get the suggestion out.

The young man flicked his eyes up to me. I gave him a very slight shrug and shake of my head to let him know that arguing would get him nowhere.

“All right,” he said to my dad. “But be sure to get as much rest as possible. And if you have any dizziness, headache, or blurred vision, let one of the volunteers know as soon as possible.”

Dad grumbled something that sounded like an “Okay,” and with that the medic moved on to treat the tool-stealing teen, who looked like a scared rabbit as he cradled his left arm to his chest.

The sun broke through thinning clouds for the first time in a week as another volunteer took us gently in hand and guided us toward the gym entrance.

Looked like it was going to be a damn beautiful day for the end of the world.

Chapter 18

It didn’t seem right that it could only be ten a.m. Everything we owned was gone. Nothing left but the clothes on our backs, and in my case hardly that. My jacket had been shredded and my shirt had a tree-branch–sized hole in the back. Fortunately I still had my cargo pants with its two precious bottles of brain smoothie.

Surely it should take longer than a couple of hours to wipe out a lifetime of possessions and memories, right?

What the hell are we supposed to do now?

I wanted to fall apart and allow the magnitude of our loss to sink in, wallow and roll around in the grief and anger and unfairness of it. But I didn’t. I had my dad to think of. I had to call work and start figuring out what steps to take. Figure out a place to live until we could rebuild. Or whatever the hell we were going to do.

Maybe that’s what maturity was all about, I mused in a weird numb fog as I pawed through hastily donated clothing for something to wear instead of a blanket. Maybe being “mature” wasn’t just holding down a job and starting a family and buying a house and paying taxes. Maybe it was about putting a hold on your own reactions and needs until after you took care of the people who trusted you.

Maturity sucked.

I found clothing for me and my dad, went into the bathroom to change, then came back out and put a pile of folded sweats on the end of his cot. “Dad, here’s some dry clothes. You need to get out of those wet things.”

“Sure thing, Angel,” he replied, voice low and subdued. He didn’t move for several seconds while the worry that he was broken clenched tight in my chest, but then he finally stood, gathered up the clothing and shuffled to the bathroom. A few minutes later he came back, wearing the slightly too-large sweats and looking even more haggard and vulnerable because of it. In silence, he sank to the cot and laid down, back to me.

Troubled, I left him there and went in search of a phone I could borrow, since the flimsy Walmart bag hadn’t been enough to keep my own phone dry. I soon found a volunteer willing to let me use up her minutes.

Since I was actually scheduled to be at work, my first call was to Derrel. It went to voicemail which told me he was probably up to his eyeballs dealing with the people who hadn’t been as lucky as my dad and me.

“Hey, Derrel,” I said after the beep. “I…I’m not at work ’cause…” Because I was clinging to my dad while impaled on a tree when I was supposed to clock in. My dad and I are only alive because I’m not quite human anymore. “We got flooded. Bad. Lost my phone.” Everything we owned is gone. “I’m at the shelter at the high school. Me and my dad.”

I didn’t know what else to say, didn’t know how to put the magnitude of what-the-hell-do-I-do-now? into a voicemail. After a few seconds of my silence, the phone beeped again, and I disconnected. At least I hadn’t had the Coroner’s Office van parked at my house. Allen would have done his best to figure out a way to blame me for the collapse of the spillway so that he could legitimately fire me for losing the van.

I called Marcus, the ache of wanting him almost painful. So what if he tended to be overprotective? Right now that seemed pretty minor. But his cell phone, too, went to voicemail, and I left pretty much the same message for him as I had for Derrel.

After I returned the borrowed phone to its owner, I got a couple of slices of pizza that had been donated by a local restaurant and made my way back to where the cots were set up. Dad had shifted to lie on his back and stare at the metal beams and fluorescent lights of the gym ceiling.

“Hey, Dad. I got some pizza for us.” I sank to the cot beside his, set the two paper plates down. “You want something to drink? They have cokes and stuff.”

“Not hungry,” he muttered. “You eat mine.”

“You gotta eat,” I said, worry pulling my mouth into a scowl.

He glanced over at me. “Yeah. Later.” He muttered something I couldn’t catch, then sighed.

I wasn’t all that hungry either at the moment. “Maybe we can put a trailer on our lot,” I suggested. “That wouldn’t be so bad, right?”

Emotions flickered across his face. “Sure. A trailer.”

It all hit me then. I mean, really hit me. The house I’d grown up in, lived my entire life in, was gone. Every picture, every scrapbook, every school paper from when I’d actually cared about school—gone.

I turned away, struggling to hold it together. Now wasn’t the time to break down. I couldn’t do that until I’d solved our problems and figured out how to care for my dad. I sure as hell didn’t need to fall apart here and let my dad think he’d somehow let me down. That would be me letting him down.