White Trash Zombie Unchained (White Trash Zombie 6)

“Ain’t it though?” I said with a thick southern drawl, making her giggle.

“Has Nick asked you out yet?”

My smile vanished. “I . . . kinda broke it off with him.”

“What?! Why? What did he do?” She shifted forward, her face that of a woman ready to come right through the screen to my defense.

“No! Nothing. He’s the best. It’s me.”

She slowly sat back. “Do you not like him anymore?”

“No! I mean, yes I still like him. A lot. I’m just . . . it’s not healthy for him to be around me.”

“Uh huh.” She folded her arms over her chest. “Do you have leprosy?”

I scowled. “Suppose I did have leprosy. It would be best for him to stay away, right?”

“No, because leprosy is curable now, which I know all about because I had a bit part in a documentary a few years ago. See, it’s actually called Hansen’s disease—”

“You’re not helping!”

Justine smirked. “Oh, I think I am. Answer me this: does he still like you?”

I slumped. “Yes.”

“And would you give up if he told you he was ending things for your own good?”

“No. I’d fight for him. You’re right about everything.” I stuck my tongue out at her.

She did a victory fist pump. “Of course I am!”

I let her gloat a bit more, then we shifted the conversation to lighter stuff.

Eventually we said our usual “bye ’til later!” and signed off. I was tired enough to sleep now, but while I was at the computer, I looked up the address of the impound lot. Turned out the St. Edwards Parish Sherriff’s Office didn’t have the need or the space for an impound lot of their own, therefore they and every other police agency in the parish rented space from Big Bubba’s Towing.

The address told me I’d driven past the place about a zillion times on my way to and from the Tribe lab, though I couldn’t picture it for the life of me. Then again, tow yards weren’t usually all that scenic, and therefore unlikely to draw my attention.

I shut down the computer, set my alarm for midnight, and got my zombie ass to bed.

Chapter 30

My alarm went off at midnight. I immediately activated the stay-awake mod since I knew too damn well that if I waited, I’d fall right back to sleep.

Ten seconds later, a warm rush flowed through my body, washing away every trace of fatigue. I sprang out of bed, feeling as if I’d slept a solid nine hours.

I dressed quickly in black fatigue pants, long-sleeved black shirt, and sneakers, then I dug my balaclava out of my underwear drawer and stuffed it into a thigh pocket. It said something about my life that I even owned a balaclava. It wasn’t as if South Louisiana ever got cold enough to need one.

In the other thigh pocket went a brain packet along with a dozen more to keep in my car. A quick rummage through the kitchen junk drawer turned up a big flathead screwdriver, a box cutter, a pair of dollar store gardening gloves, and a multitool—all of which found homes in my various pockets. That should be everything I’d need for the search of Reno’s Camry.

After a quick breakfast of grits and brains, I checked on Kang—verifying he was still asleep and okay—then headed out.

It wasn’t until my GPS told me I’d arrived that I realized why I had zero clue what the place looked like. Big Bubba apparently wasn’t too keen on visitors. On the left, a tiny sign about the size of a piece of notebook paper, marked a gravel driveway, beyond which was a good-sized chunk of property surrounded by a six-foot chain-link fence. The gate was secured with a heavy chain and padlock, and within the perimeter fence, a lighted area glimmered beyond sparse trees. The impound lot, I hoped.

I made a quick check of the GPS map then continued past the Big Bubba’s entrance and turned left onto a rough gravel road that skirted the property. A quarter mile down, I took another left onto a narrow road that paralleled the back side. A deep ditch ran between road and fence, spanned by a second driveway that led to another locked gate. Best of all, about a hundred feet past the driveway was a stand of pines snugged up against the fence, thick enough to keep anyone from seeing my car.

Bubba’s property looked to be about five acres. The impound lot sat near the center, a fenced enclosure lit by a lone streetlight which left everything beyond its glow in shadowy darkness. Perfect for my needs. A dirt track meandered between the perimeter and impound fences, probably going all the way around to meet up with the front entrance drive. Dozens of junk cars filled both corners, and two rusted shipping containers huddled against the fence on the left.

I pulled off the road just past the first pine, killed the engine, then dug my trusty glass-punch tool out of the glove compartment. Yeah, I was a zombie, but I still had no desire to be trapped in my car if it ever ended up in one of the many waterways in the area. And for situations like these, a glass punch tool was quieter than a brick in case there was anyone within earshot. The punch tool went into the pocket that held the screwdrivers, then I pulled on the balaclava and climbed out of the car, locking it behind me.