White Trash Zombie Unchained (White Trash Zombie 6)

“Nah. Came with that name. I’d’ve picked a name that wouldn’t twist my tongue all up. Like Beth. Somethin’ easy.”

“Beth the Barbarian. I like it.” Plus, now I was certain the game was from Andrew. But why? “I’d like to play it some,” I said, “but first you and I need to talk.”

I couldn’t bring myself to tell him I was the cause of the epidemic. At least not yet. But I filled him in on what was going on with the shamblers and how dangerous things were getting, then told him I wanted him to leave town for his own safety.

When I finished, he crossed his arms over his chest and gave me a defiant Jimmy Crawford glare. “Nope.”

I shook my head in disbelief. “Dad, didn’t you hear a single thing I just said? Contagious disease that turns you into a zombie. And not the cool kind like me!”

“I heard you,” he said. “But I ain’t leaving, and you can’t make me.”

I threw my hands up in exasperation. “Actually, I can make you. I’m stronger than you, remember?”

“But you ain’t more stubborn!” he declared with a satisfied smirk. “And you’re out of your damn mind if you think I’m leaving when you might need help.”

I saw it then—the flash of bone-deep fear and worry. My annoyance vanished. Only a few weeks ago, he thought he’d lost me forever. How could I expect him to go off on a frickin’ vacation?

“You’re right,” I said. “I’m sorry. I was out of my damn mind.” I seized him in a hug. He returned it with just as much gusto.

“Glad you understand,” he said gruffly.

“I do.” I pulled back and gave him a serious look. “But can we compromise? Can you stay at the Tribe’s lab?”

He made a face. “That place ain’t the most welcoming. And it ain’t exactly a hotel.”

“It’s not a fleabag dive, either! You’d have a room to yourself. Meals. Security out the ass.”

He eyed me. “Same as jail. I ain’t goin’, and that’s final.”

I sighed. There was no convincing him when he was like this. “Okay, fine. Stay here, but don’t go out! I mean it. And you need to wear mosquito repellent anyway, and lock the doors and windows, just in case.”

My dad grumbled under his breath but nodded. “I’ll get the shotgun out, for even more just in case.”

“Since when do we have a shotgun?”

“We don’t have a shotgun. I have a shotgun. Twelve gauge. Did a favor for a buddy of mine, and he gave me it.”

“Huh.” I flopped onto the sofa. “Okay then. Do you have shells for it?”

“A box of number six.”

Nowhere near the stopping power of double-aught buckshot, but enough to do damage. I was all for saving the shamblers, but not if my dad was in danger.

“That’ll do.” I glared at him. “Just make sure you’re shooting a shambler. When Mr. Cleg down the road gets drunk, he looks like one. Go for the legs. It’s pretty tough to actually kill them.” Not to mention I still clung to the hope they could be cured. “And if it gets really bad out there, I will drag your butt to the lab.”

He smiled and settled beside me. “Kinda nice you worryin’ about me.”

“You’re my dad, dummy.” I let my gaze linger on his face. Though he’d only recently turned fifty, he looked at least a decade older. His thin hair was streaked with grey, and lines crowded around his eyes and mouth, helped along by decades of smoking, drinking, and stress, as well as an old back injury and a lack of anything resembling exercise. “I worry about you,” I added quietly. “Not sure I could handle losing you.” I grabbed his hand. “Dad. I . . . I might live a really long time. That is, I’m not going to die of old age.” I took an unsteady breath. “Dad, you could become . . . like me. I could—”

“Angelkins.” His voice was soft and calm. “No.”

My chest tightened. “What do you mean, No? Dad, you wouldn’t have to ever worry about cancer or heart disease or arthritis or even a cold!”

A gentle smile curved his mouth. “Baby, I don’t want to be immortal. Don’t need to be. I already done my best thing ever: I made you.”

My lower lip quivered. “B-but I don’t want to lose you.”

“It’s gotta happen eventually, either way, Angelkins. A man ain’t s’posed to outlive his kids.”