White Trash Zombie Apocalypse (White Trash Zombie 3)

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.”

He gave an understanding nod. “At least the rain stopped,” he said. “It’s a nice night for a walk. But be careful, okay?”

“Yes, sir,” I said. “I’ll be good.” Wouldn’t want to get on the naughty list.

He smiled warmly, returned his attention to the book. I slipped out the door.

The air was a touch cooler than I expected, but not enough to go back inside to scrounge a warmer shirt or jacket. I hugged my arms around myself and took a deep breath, looked up at the star-filled sky. Now what? I silently asked.

The problem was that it was too easy to focus on everything that was gone. There was so much of it—a giant cloud of loss. House, cars, clothing, furniture…Marcus. I knew I needed to take stock of what I still had and resist the overwhelming desire to slip into depression and self-pity.

But, damn, this was surely one of those situations where a little self-pity was allowed, right?

The sidewalk led to a practice field on the back side of the gym, not particularly scenic, but with fresh air and without skittering roaches or generalized creepiness. Off to my right loomed the dark football stadium where, only a few days ago, Marcus and I had spent a very enjoyable hour. Seemed like a dream now, with a hazy couldn’t-possibly-be-real quality about it. I sat on a concrete bench in the shadow of the building and leaned back against the bricks. The darkness felt safe, a hidden vantage to watch over the minimally lit school grounds. Safe. What the hell did that mean anymore? After the attack and the flood, I didn’t know if there really was such a thing.