His gaze came back to me, and there was a hint of desperation in his voice when he spoke. “You don’t have to…kill people, do you?”
Shaking my head, I could only be grateful he’d phrased the question the way he had. Have to? No. Not to eat at least. The unwelcome memory of a baseball bat crushing a skull rose, and I shoved it away. “No. That’s why I work in the morgue,” I told him. “I get the…I get what I need from there. From people who’ve already died.”
Stark relief showed on his face. “Okay,” he said, exhaling, tension visibly leaving his body. “Okay, that’s good. We’ve had ups and downs.” He paused. “A lot of ups and downs. And right now, you and me, we’re on an up.” He hesitated, and his eyes sought mine. “Aren’t we?”
I took an unsteady breath. “You’re okay with a zombie daughter?”
“Don’t have much choice about it, right?” His head dipped in a nod. “You’re my Angel. So, yeah. Guess I’m okay with it.”
I managed a wan smile. “It really did save my life. I would’ve died in the car wreck for sure, even if the overdose didn’t kill me.”
He sighed and came back to sit beside me again, put an arm around me and pulled me close. “Then however it happened, I’m glad, ’cause you’re here now, and I didn’t have to bury my baby.” His voice broke on that last part, and I had to wipe a few tears of my own away. “But you’re not dead,” he said, “so why d’ya call yourself a zombie?”
Frowning, I considered the question, then shrugged. “What the hell else would you call someone who has to eat brains?”
“Huh,” he said, mouth pursing. “Okay, y’got me there.”
I leaned my head on his shoulder. “There’s, um, one more thing you should probably know,” I said after a moment. “The little matter of who turned me.”
“You mean the one who made you into a zombie?”
I shifted uncomfortably. “Yeah.”
“You don’t want to tell me.”
I screwed my face into a grimace. “You won’t like it,” I told him. “But he saved my life, Dad.”
He stiffened. “Not that no-account drug dealing Clive?”
“That asshole?” I gave a snort of humorless laughter. “Oh, hell no!” The last time I’d seen my former pill-provider was when the cops hauled him away for disturbing the peace and possession of drugs with intent to distribute. Truly a beautiful sight to behold. “No, it was Marcus.”
“The cop?” he said, too loudly.
My shoulders hunched. “Uh, yeah. Him.”
His mouth formed a dark scowl. “Well, shit, Angel. How am I supposed to hate him if he saved your life?”
I burst out laughing. “Oh my god. I guess you’re fucked, Dad.”
He gave a dry chuckle. “Story of my life, Angelkins.”
“Well, you’re stuck with me now.”
He hugged me, kissed the top of my head. “Wouldn’t have it any other way.”
Chapter 19
The Tucker Point High School gym was one creepy-as-hell place at night. I lay on my cot, wide awake, soaking in the ambiance. Light from sodium lamps outside streaked in through the high windows, casting alternating patches of shadow and weak amber. Pipes near the locker rooms groaned periodically, and more than a couple of roaches the size of my hand—well, almost—had skittered across the floor in the last half hour.
Didn’t seem to bother my dad. He lay on his back, snoring softly. A dozen or so other refugees either slept or did a good imitation of it, on cots grouped in family clusters around the gym. In the far corner, a few played a subdued game of cards, faces stricken and empty. A mix of men, women, and children, all homeless, all without anyone to take them in. Like my dad. Like me.
Like me. I didn’t want to think about it, but there it was, staring me right in the face. Not only hadn’t Marcus come to find me, he hadn’t sent a message or anything. Sure, he was probably busy all day with the sheriff’s office taking care of the shit end of flood stuff, but now it was after nine p.m. and nothing. I sighed. Who was I kidding? It was pretty obvious he’d decided Fuck you, Angel was his response to my hanging up on him.
I sat up on the stupid cot and pulled on the donated sneakers—after shaking them to be sure none of the members of Roach Explorer Troop 666 had made their way inside. Standing, I stretched out the kinks in my back left by the nonexistent cot padding, pulled the thin blanket a bit higher over my dad’s shoulders, then crept out of the room.
The elderly security guard in the hallway looked up from his book and gave me a gently inquisitive look. “Everything okay?” With the white beard, jovial expression, and slight bulge in the middle, if this guy didn’t already make extra money playing Santa every year, he sure as hell could.
“Yeah, just can’t sleep,” I told him, shrugging. “Figured I’d get some air.”