White Trash Zombie Apocalypse (White Trash Zombie 3)

What the hell was stabilizer? Did that have something to do with how messed up Philip seemed to be?

The woman stepped to the door, and I sucked in a breath as shock coursed through me. Slim and auburn-haired, and probably only a couple of inches taller than me. Of course the voice was familiar. Dr. Kristi Fucking Charish. I hadn’t recognized it immediately since this time she wasn’t using an intercom on the other side of a lab observation window while she forced me to do horrible things. Last time I saw her she was fleeing the about-to-blow-up factory with Philip and a handful of other guards. I’d figured she’d gone and set up shop somewhere else since she wasn’t the sort to let one failure stop her. Ever since Philip tackled me on the movie set, I’d had the nagging worry that she was around.

She had on simple jeans and a sleeveless blue top, and didn’t look much like a cold-as-ice crazy scientist, but I knew better than to let her lack of a lab coat this time fool me. The bitch had no heart.

The man at the door lifted his gun slightly, and Charish stepped back out of sight.

“Dr. Charish,” Philip said, the ugly rasp in his voice even harsher than before. “Please, ma’am. I need brains and stabilizer.”

Even though I couldn’t see her, I definitely heard the condescending sneer in her voice when she spoke. “You were left more than enough a couple of nights ago,” she snapped. “If you failed to ration them appropriately, it’s not up to us to waste more resources on you. Get them from your handlers. Now leave before you’re spotted.”

“Required extra,” Philip wheezed, desperation tingeing his rough voice. “God, please, ma’am. Please. I can’t do this.”

My hands curled into fists. Even as much as I hated Philip, I dearly wanted to slug Charish for being such an all-around heartless bitch. I already owed her quite a few hard punches. I knew what it was like to starve as a zombie, but this was something different, worse. Pieces started to fall into place. Philip. Tim Bell. Roland Westfeld. All three had been with her when she had me kidnapped. If she hadn’t been fully working for Saberton then, it sure as hell looked like she’d signed on since.

The bitch in question gave an aggravated huff. “This one time only, and then you leave and don’t come back here.” A moment later she returned to the door and handed a paper bag to the suited man, who in turn gave it to Philip. “Now go,” Charish ordered.

Philip clutched the bag to his chest and backed away. “Thank you, ma’am,” he rasped. “Thank you,” he repeated, then turned and staggered off.

Charish turned to suit-man, mouth tight and eyes narrowed. “Get the items from the drop now,” she ordered, before both returned inside and the door closed.

What the fuck? Could this be the place where Heather rescued the zombie Garrett from his vivisection hell? It was only a few blocks from the movie set where she’d followed Brent Stewart to kill him, so it was more than possible. After all, how many secret labs could one town hold? But any fantasies I might’ve had about breaking in and freeing zombie prisoners were gone now that I’d seen it would be pretty much impossible without getting shot a whole bunch. Or tranqed, which would be even worse, since it would probably land me right on my own vivisection table.

Suppressing a shudder of horror, I waited another minute or so in case the door opened again, then crept along the back of the parking lot and in the direction Philip went. I reached the street and froze as I saw him crouched not ten feet away, his focus on the paper bag as he tore into it. Heart pounding, I eased back into the bushes beside the warehouse sign and watched. Philip ripped open a packet, much like the ones that Brian and Rachel had given me, and downed it, near weeping in relief. Must be standard zombie-issue in the corporate world, I thought with a soft snort.

He downed a second packet and then went still as though waiting for the brains to take effect.

Behind me, I heard the warehouse door swing open, and I cast a cautious glance that way. The suited man stepped out, waited for the door to close fully behind him, then headed for the car I’d hidden behind earlier. I remained motionless as he cranked it and pulled out of the parking lot, then let out a soft breath of relief as he passed without looking my way.

For the millionth time I wondered what the hell was going on. Charish had told him to go get the stuff “from the drop spot.” I grimaced. I probably should’ve pocketed the USB drive when I had the chance. Did the contents of that black box have anything to do with the attack on me? God, it felt like a century ago now, though I knew it had been only a couple of days. And what if they came after me again? Or my dad.

Worry clutched at my gut. I needed to get back to my dad. I turned and slowly worked my way behind the bushes, intending to emerge on the street a block or so down.

“Angel?” Philip said from behind me, voice ragged.

I sucked in a breath and spun to face him, my heart slamming as if it was about to burst out of my chest. He stood on the sidewalk no more than a few strides away, tatters of the bag in one hand and the empty packets in the other. His eyes met mine, intense and wild, his expression shifting with emotions I didn’t have the time or inclination to identify. I tore my gaze away and broke into a run, sneakers slapping the pavement. Half a block away, I glanced back to see if he pursued, but he remained where he was, watching me go.

I controlled the urge to run the rest of the way back to the school, since doing so would be Stupid. I only had two bottles of brains left, and as long as I didn’t do something clever like go for a midnight jog, they would hopefully last me until I could get to my stash. I compromised and walked at a quick pace, continuing to cast glances back over my shoulder to see if Philip or anyone else followed. Thankfully, the streets remained empty, and I made it back without incident.

The security guard stood waiting by the door when I returned. He smiled and gave a sigh of obvious relief.

“Thought something had happened to you,” he said as he held the door for me.

I thought of telling him that I could take care of myself, that I’d taken care of myself for a long time. Instead I simply gave him a nod and a smile. “Thanks for worrying.”

I headed down the hall to the gym, oddly comforted by the fact that someone I barely knew gave a shit.

Chapter 20

Hungry, I detoured to the small fridge in the coach’s office where I’d stashed my bottles. Both were still there, to my relief, probably because I’d marked them in big black marker “Prescription! Do not drink!” After a brief internal debate I went ahead and got one out and chugged it down. With the ongoing zombie weirdness, I figured it’d be best if I wasn’t hungry.

My dad was still snoring on his cot when I returned to the gym. I climbed onto mine and managed a couple of hours of horrible sleep before the sirens from a passing ambulance jerked me awake. One of the great things about living in the country was the quiet. Of course the drawback was that I hadn’t learned to tune out the sounds of city traffic—even a city as small as Tucker Point.

Though exhausted, my mind whirled with worry. Getting back to sleep proved impossible, and I eventually gave up trying and stared at the damn ceiling until my bladder insisted I make my way to the bathroom. I did my business and was almost back to my cot when I spotted a figure standing by the wall on the other side of my dad’s cot. At first I thought it was one of the other refugees. Then his head jerked.

I sucked in a sharp breath. Goddam Philip again. “You get the hell away from my dad,” I told him, my voice low and shaking with intensity. How had he gotten past the guard? If he’d hurt Santa, I was going to be one pissed zombie-mama.

He spread his arms, hands open, palms toward me, the jerky shaking evident despite the gloom. “Come with me,” he said, hoarse roughness in place of the ugly rasp of before.