White Trash Zombie Apocalypse (White Trash Zombie 3)

“Get away from my dad,” I repeated.

To my surprise he obliged by taking a step back toward the wall, keeping his hands in clear sight. “Please. Come with me.”

I clearly heard the blend of intensity and desperation in his voice. He was dangerous and so not fooling around, but the “please” drew me. Shit. If he was about to do some nasty crap to me, I didn’t want it to happen in here where someone else could get hurt or kids might see. “Outside.”

To my relief he gave a single nod. “This way,” he replied, barely audible, tilting his head toward the door at the far end of the gym, opposite the main entrance. My relief ratcheted up a smidge as he led me through the door and down a short flight of stairs to an exit. If he’d come in this way, hopefully it meant Santa was all right.

My pulse slammed as I followed him, and I breathed a silent prayer of thanks that I drank the bottle of brains only a few hours earlier. I was far from fully tanked, but at least I wasn’t hungry.

He exited the building, then moved behind the hedge along the back wall and crouched, fisting his hands on his knees.

I stayed far enough back that he couldn’t reach out and grab me. “What do you want?”

A shudder wracked him. “What did you see?”

“Yeah, right,” I said with a snort. “Why should I tell you anything? So you know whether or not to kill me?” I smiled sweetly and spread my hands. “I didn’t see anything at all. How’s that?”

Even in the low light I could see the grimace that twisted his features. “You…shouldn’t…tell me.” He shook his head as though trying to clear confusion, then pulled two small glass vials from his pocket—one half-full of a milky-yellow liquid, the other full of a milky-blue one. His hands trembled as he uncapped the half-full vial and downed the contents.

“What the hell is that?” I asked, scowling. “What’s going on?”

“Stabilizer.” He held up a heavily tremoring hand. “For this.”

I consciously resisted the urge to move to him, clasp his hand between mine to soothe him. Pursing my lips, I regarded him for a long, silent moment. “Dr. Charish did that to you?” I finally asked.

Giving a single nod, he leaned his head back against the wall and closed his eyes.

I took a very cautious step forward. “Do you need brains?” I asked quietly.

He didn’t open his eyes. “Yes,” he said in a cracked whisper, tinged with a desperation I didn’t think he intended to reveal.

“Stay here,” I told him. “I’ll be right back.” I didn’t wait for a response, simply hurried back inside and to the little fridge and my last bottle. Holy crap, but I really hoped I wasn’t making a godawful mistake. Every fiber of logic in me said to let him rot, literally. He’d been a complete ass to me since I’d turned him, and it was crazy to believe that as soon as I gave him the brains he wanted he wouldn’t do something ugly.

I grabbed the bottle, then headed out again. Philip had shifted to sit with his back against the wall, his head lowered, in that moment looking like anything but a badass zombie soldier. I unscrewed the bottle top and crouched by him.

“Here, drink this,” I said.

He lifted his head, pain flickering over his face as if the simple movement cost him tremendous effort. “I shouldn’t…be here,” he croaked, making no move to take the bottle.

Scowling, I plopped my ass down beside him. “You’re here now. Drink.”

After another few seconds of hesitation, he finally took the bottle from me and slugged down half the contents. A wave of confusion passed over his face as he lowered the bottle.

I had plenty of my own confusion going. My zombie-baby had been a complete and utter asshole, but there was also no denying that something was seriously wrong with him. There was no damn way he could’ve faked the level of anxiety and despair I’d seen in him earlier when he begged Dr. Charish for assistance. The urge to help him kept hammering at me, no matter how hard I tried to focus on the bad things he’d done, and would likely still try to do to me.

“Drink the rest,” I muttered.

His gaze skittered to mine, lines of pain deep in his face. “Have…more?”

I hesitated. No damn way was I telling him about my stash. “Not with me,” I hedged. “But you can have the rest of this.”

He remained still for another few seconds, as if running through his options, then lifted the bottle with both hands and drank another few gulps. He recapped it with a couple of inches of brain smoothie still in it and set it beside me. “Thank you.”

Well, that was a whole lot nicer than the “Fuck you” he’d given me down at the boat launch. “What’s going on?” I asked. “Why did you come here?” I didn’t think it was only to score some brains, even though he’d obviously needed them desperately.

“I shouldn’t be here,” he said again, then drew a breath that verged on a sob. “Angel, it hurts.” A shudder wracked him. “Oh, god.”

I put a hand on his arm. “Philip, I can get you help,” I said quietly, suppressing a shiver at the stark pain in his voice. “Please. Let me—”