“Hey, Randy. Look, I think maybe you should leave town.”
He sucked in a sharp breath. “Oh, fuck. Am I in trouble?”
“No! Sorry. No, it’s nothing like that. I promise. It’s just . . . I dunno if you’ve been watching the news, but some people have been getting sick.”
“Yeah, saw that.” He barked a laugh. “The ‘zombie seff-lite-us,’ right?”
I winced. “Yeah. Zombie- or necro-meningoencephalitis is what they’re calling it. I have an inside track on this kind of stuff since I work at the Coroner’s Office, so I know this thing is contagious.”
“Oh shit.” All humor left his voice. “Like how bad? In the air or sex or fluids or what?”
Well, how about that. Randy had more of a clue than I thought. “Right now it’s fluids. The people who have it like to bite, which transmits it. But it could get worse. I mean, there’s some talk that it might even be spread by mosquitoes and, well . . . I know we’re not dating anymore, but I don’t want to see anything bad happen to you. I was hoping that maybe you could get away from here for a while, at least until there’s a vaccine or treatment.” Please god let us find a treatment. A cure. Anything.
“Thanks, Angel,” he said with unexpected warmth. “That’s really sweet. I feel the same way about you. I’m finishing up a repair job on a private jet out at the Tucker Point Airport tonight. It came in Monday, but we’ve been waiting on a part for two goddam days and just got it. Once that’s done, I suppose I can take a road trip over to Houston and drop in on my dad.”
“That’s terrific,” I said, feeling a bit of the worry ease. It was one strand of a zillion, but every little bit helped. “Since when did you know how to repair planes?” Randy had fixed cars for as long as I’d known him. Maybe the occasional motorcycle, but that was about it.
“Since two weeks ago when I started apprenticing with the main aviation repair guy out there,” he said with a note of pride. “Figured it was ’bout time I got a proper job, y’know? Luke says I’m a natural. I guess I pick up that mechanical shit real easy. Like, I can just see how it’s supposed to work.”
“This is going to sound corny as all hell, but I’m really proud of you.”
“Well, you kinda inspired me. I mean, if a good-for-nothing like Angel Crawford can get her shit together . . .” He snickered.
“I can still kick your ass,” I warned, but I couldn’t help but grin.
“Oh, I know it. I’m gonna slather on some DEET then call my old man and let him know I’m heading that way tomorrow. He’ll either be thrilled or pissed.”
“I know your dad, and he’ll be thrilled,” I said. “Take care, and let me know if you run into any trouble.”
“You got it. Thanks, Angel.”
He disconnected. I stuffed my phone back in my purse. Now to talk a certain Mr. Jimmy Crawford into getting the hell out of town.
• • •
I expected to find my dad either napping or kicked back on the couch watching reality TV. What I did not want to find was my dad out smoking in the back yard.
Turned out it was none of the above. Instead, I walked in to find him sitting cross-legged on the floor in front of the TV, game controller in hand and a gaming headset with mic holding down his wispy hair. On the screen was a busty blonde wearing a skimpy fur bikini and armor that barely covered her nipples. Dad jabbed a button, and the woman swung a fire-wreathed sword at a dog-sized beetle, slicing it cleanly in two.
My dad hooted in glee. “Yeah, take that, you little shitlickers!” His thumbs smashed buttons with fierce intensity as a silvery wasp-thing dove toward the bikini barbarian. Her arm jerked forward, skewering the bug. It exploded in a shower of sparks, and a giant “4” glowed briefly on the screen.
“Hot damn!” He whooped in delight. “Another level!”
“Hey, Dad,” I said then repeated myself at twice the volume.
He jerked around then yanked the headset off and scrambled to his feet. “Hey, Angelkins! Man, this thing is a real treat.” He gestured to the TV with the headset. “Um, I hope you ain’t mad that I cracked it open, but Libby down at Kaster’s called and said they was getting fumigated so they didn’t need me to come sweep up ’til tomorrow when they’d have al
l the dead bugs. So I was kinda bored, and the box was just sittin’ here . . .”
“I’m not mad,” I said, mouth twitching. “I am impressed you were able to get it set up.”
His chin went up. “I ain’t as dumb as I look, Angel.” Then he grinned sheepishly. “Plus, that Arnold Stein character who sent it included step-by-step directions that were written so easy a squirrel could follow ’em. Even got it hooked up to the internet. Directions said that was important.”
“That’s pretty cool. But why are you a porn star?” I cocked my head toward where the woman stood with her sword raised high, chest thrust forward, and back arched to show off her overly curvy ass.
His face scrunched. “Well, the directions said this character was all set up and ready for you. I tried to make me a man-type fighter, but I couldn’t figger out how to get him clothes and gear. I finally settled on it bein’ less weird to play a lady fighter than to be a guy struttin’ around with nothing but a hankie covering his junk.”
I choked back a laugh. “That sounds reasonable,” I managed then stepped closer to the TV and peered at the corner of the screen. “You named her Momzombique?”