White Trash Zombie Unchained (White Trash Zombie 6)

Chapter 1

Ten more measly miles. My index fingers drummed a happy beat on the steering wheel. I hadn’t been home in three weeks—not since Mardi Gras, when a four-wheeler chase through the woods ended with me literally falling apart. Flying limbs. Rotting chunks. Not pretty.

Up ahead, a squirrel darted onto the road, then thought better of it and dashed back to the pines. My heart pounded stupidly hard, and I eased my death grip on the wheel. In theory, I was regrown, rehabbed, and ready to take on the world. In reality, this was my first time i

n the driver’s seat since the accident, and I was still getting used to my new parts.

Thankfully, there was almost no traffic along this part of Highway 51—the rural, two-lane road between the zombie research lab and my house. Even with my extra-cautious driving, I was making good time.

I dug through the baggie on my lap for a desiccated brain chip—a get well gift from my friend Naomi. Perfectly freeze-dried and dusted with Cajun spices, it was the certified junk food of the zombie gods.

My phone buzzed the instant I stuffed the chip in my mouth, with the caller ID showing “Z.B.” I rolled my eyes, unsurprised at the call. A little over a year ago, I’d been forced to turn badass operative Philip Reinhardt into a zombie, which I figured made him my Zombie Baby. In return, Philip had become a teensy bit protective of me. If I didn’t answer, he’d no doubt come looking for his Zombie Mama.

I stuck in an ear bud and hit the answer button. “Hey ZeeBee!” I chirped. “How’s it going?”

“You snuck out of the lab.”

“I didn’t! You just happened to be in the bathroom when I left.”

“Riiiiiight.” Lucky for me, he sounded more amused than pissed. “Dr. Nikas recommended you stay another day.”

“Yep. Recommended, not ordered. It’s cool. I don’t have to go back to work until tomorrow, so it’ll be fine. I’m just gonna hang out with my dad.”

“I could have driven you home. I’m not sure your reflexes are up to—”

“Dr. Nikas wouldn’t have let me go if he was worried.” He’d actually said I wasn’t quite back to my normal self, but was likely no worse off than most drivers out there. That was good enough for me. “You did your zombie-baby duty and wheeled me around to my classes last week. You’re off the hook.”

He laughed. “I give up. Don’t come crying to me when you have a fender bender.”

“You’ll be the first one I blame.” I caught sight of a car in my rear view mirror. It was a good half mile behind but closing way too fast. “Let me call you later. Gotta focus.”

My speedometer read sixty-two mph, which meant this asswipe was doing at least ninety. My contrary side dared me to slow down and straddle the center line, but the morgue tech in me had seen enough vehicular fatalities to put an end to that fantasy.

With one eye on the rear view mirror, I edged close to the side of the road and slowed to a respectable fifty. Despite my bluster to Philip, I didn’t trust my reflexes a hundred percent yet. And I trusted the speeder’s level of stoopid even less.

Especially considering the flash of blue lights in the distance behind him. The speeding car swerved into the other lane even as I eased my right wheels onto the narrow band of gravel between road and ditch. I stopped and waited. Three. Two. One.

Whoom!

My car rocked in the wake of the speeding silver Camry. I caught the barest glimpse of the driver as the car blew past. Male. Maybe. I stayed put and kept watch behind me, not about to move until the pursuit passed.

An unmarked midnight blue Dodge Charger flew by, though nowhere near as fast as Mr. McSpeedy. The driver had dark hair and a surly expression—Detective Mike Abadie. Not my favorite person, but a good cop. It looked like he was either backing off from chasing the Camry—since high speed pursuits risked civilians—or he was herding the guy into a roadblock.

Curiosity clamoring, I snagged the last brain chip from the baggie and pulled onto the highway. If it was, indeed, a roadblock, I’d find out soon enough.

Three miles later, I rounded a curve and slowed at a sea of flashing red and blue lights ahead. Two Sheriff’s Office cruisers were parked along the right shoulder while Abadie’s Charger and an unmarked dark green Chevy Impala blocked my lane. On the other side of the highway, the Camry rested with its nose in the ditch. The driver lay face down on the asphalt as a tall, black woman in plainclothes handcuffed him. Beside her, Abadie holstered his weapon.

Closer to me, a stick-thin deputy with scraggly blond hair packed away a set of spike strips. Beckett Connor. We’d been out on at least a dozen scenes together over the past year. Decent guy. Bad haircut.

The second deputy motioned for me to stop. Fit, muscled, hair shorn in a crisp high and tight. He’d been hired only a few months ago, and though we’d chatted on several scenes, I couldn’t remember his name for the life of me.

I rolled down my window, trying to not be too obvious as I peered at his name tag. “Hey . . .” U. Blagojevic? How the hell was that pronounced? “. . . You!” I said brightly. “What’s going on—whoa!” My train of thought derailed as my gaze lifted to his face. “That’s an impressive sunburn.”

“Hey, Angel.” He managed a weak smile from his tomato-colored face. “Yeah, Connor and I spent four hours on the water yesterday.”

“And you’ve never heard of sunscreen?”

Connor barked out a laugh, his face and arms darn near as red his partner’s. “Our boy here brought the sunscreen, except turns out it was plain ol’ lotion. But hey, my skin is as soft as a baby’s bottom!”

“Uh huh. If my baby’s bottom looked like that, I’d take it back to the hospital.”

“Wouldn’t blame you,” Connor replied with a wink then turned away to load the spike strip case into the trunk of his cruiser.

“So, anything exciting going on here?” I asked U. Blagojevic, lifting my chin toward the man being handcuffed.

He shrugged. “Just another day at the office. You know how it is.”

Well, that was completely unhelpful. But before I could ask a more probing question, Connor hollered that the road was clear.

“You can go on through now,” Blaggy said. “But take it easy ’til you’re past the vehicles.”

I rolled up my window then took full advantage of my slow speed to shamelessly gawk at the spectacle. The Camry’s tires were thoroughly shredded, and the airbag lay like a deflated jellyfish over the steering wheel. Abadie and the plainclothes woman had pulled the handcuffed guy to his feet, allowing me a good view of him. His nose was bloody, and he had on a tailored dark grey suit. Definitely didn’t look like a typical car thief. Maybe he was an embezzler on the run? Or a serial killer? Whatever his crime, he looked pissed.

The woman glanced my way, and all thoughts of the bad guy’s identity fled. Short-cropped greying hair and a distinctive scar that started beneath one ear and ran across her throat. FBI Special Agent Sorsha Aberdeen. Her eyes narrowed in recognition.

Crap. I yanked my gaze away and continued past the vehicles. I had plenty of questions, but no way in hell was I going to stop and ask them. Not while an FBI agent who I suspected knew zombies were real was around. I’d only met her once, right before Mardi Gras during her investigation of a short film that included footage of real zombies. I’d pretended the zombie rot on my cheek was part of a costume—but that woman was smart and suspicious, and my gut told me she wasn’t fooled by my fib.

As soon as I was clear, I stepped on the gas and got my ass out of there. My paranoid side expected the FBI agent to come chasing after me, but my rear view mirror remained free of flashing lights and official vehicles.

I eventually turned onto the road that led to my house then slowed behind a FedEx truck, most likely destined for old Mrs. Grady, who lived across from us. Ever since her husband passed away last year, she’d taken to ordering nonstop from the shopping websites and got deliveries damn near every day. Sure enough, the truck stopped a few feet beyond my driveway.

The driver exited the truck carrying an Amazon box about the size of a sofa pillow. I hopped out to check the mail and gave him a wave. “Hiya, Chester! Another one for Mrs. Grady, I see.”

“Nope. This one’s for you, Angel. Good thing you’re here. Can’t release it without your sig.”

“For me? Huh.” Maybe my dad had ordered a welcome home gift for me. Or a new toilet seat. Knowing my dad, it could go either way.

&n

bsp; I tossed today’s bills and junk mail onto the passenger seat then exchanged my signature for the package. Definitely big enough for a toilet seat, but a bit too heavy.

While Chester delivered an unwieldy pile of four packages to the neighbor, I set the box on top of the mail and drove on up to the house. A warm, fuzzy feeling wrapped around me as I climbed out of the car.

Home.

An almost-new, two-bedroom prefabricated house with sky-blue siding and a tidy porch. Real gravel for a driveway, too, instead of the carpet of crushed beer cans it once had. The place wasn’t much, but it was ours—replacing the rickety excuse for a house that got washed away in the flood last year. But even if it had still been the same old piece of crap house, I’d’ve been just as thrilled.