White Trash Zombie Unchained (White Trash Zombie 6)

WOOF WOOF. If not for the fence, that sucker would be on my skinny ass.

“Rocko! Shut up!” Tow Truck Guy hollered. “Leave that possum be.”

WOOF WOOF WOOF.

Shit. Staring down the bigass dog made him think I was a threat that needed to be dealt with. The last thing I needed was the guy coming over to investigate. I closed my eyes to slits, ducked my head, and went as still as possible.

Rocko rumbled a deep menacing growl. Better than barking for my predicament, though a shitload scarier. Here I was, rotting and being menaced by a rottie. I’d laugh if I wasn’t so terrified.

“Dammit, Rocko,” Tow Truck Guy shouted. The music got louder as he opened the passenger door. “Get in here, NOW!” He started our way.

The dog didn’t move. I prayed for the shadowy darkness to keep me hidden from human view. The scent of the man’s brain raised a low growl in my own throat. Shit shit shit. I groped through the weeds. My hand closed on a baseball-sized rock, and I hurled it at the fence beside the possum’s hidey hole. Either the dumbest or smartest thing I ever did. Could go either way.

Clang.

The possum popped out of the tire and fled the scary fence monster, letting out a stream of grunty screech-growls. Dog and master jerked their heads toward the sound—away from me.

Tow Truck Guy hollered at Rocko. “C’mon, ya dumbass beast. Possum’s gone. Get yer ass in there!”

Rocko finally listened and bounded toward the truck. The dog jumped up into the cab and settled on the passenger seat. The man shut the door, then he and his fresh brain made their way to the driver’s side. The door opened and closed, cutting off the source of the irresistible smell.

Breathing raggedly, I willed the skull-cracking urge to subside. Clenched my fists until the tow truck was long gone. Wasted time. Wasted brains. Stupid tow truck. Stupid dog.

Focus, Angel. Brains in the car.

It was hard to focus with the dull fog creeping in again. I half-crawled, half-dragged myself away from the impound lot and toward the perimeter fence. Only a hundred feet. I could do it. My leg thought differently, throbbed. I looked back to find it twisted a full ninety degrees below the break and threatening to pull loose. No no no. I didn’t have enough brains in the car to completely regrow a limb. And how the hell would I drive without a right foot?

One step at a time, Angel.

Had to get to the car first. Brains were there. Yanked off the balaclava and sliced a hole in the top, then slipped it over the break like a sleeve. Stripped out of my shirt and cut off the bottom half. Kinda sorta got my foot turned the right way after an awful grating of bone. Forced my increasingly clumsy hands to obey and wrapped the t-shirt piece around the balaclava and break. Needed more. Stretchier. I struggled to wriggle out of my sports bra then gave up and sliced the front. Wrestled it off. Cut it in two. Rewrapped the t-shirt piece snugly. Used the bra to secure it above and below the break. That would be enough to keep my foot from falling off. Best I could do for now.

I pulled my shirt—now a crop top—back on and crawl-dragged for the perimeter fence line and my car beyond.

Or not. I collapsed in the middle of the dirt track, a godawful realization penetrating the haze of my thoughts.

The fence. Even if I could make it there, I’d never be able to climb it. No way.

And I was hungry. Soooo hungry.

I flopped onto my back and stared up where the stars would be. Like Big Bubba and Carol Ann. But I didn’t have a Big Bubba beside me to carry me to the hood of my car. Brains in my car. No Bubba. Memory of a warm hand squeezing mine. Better than Bubba. Nick.

Nick! I scrabbled for my phone. Hit the speed dial with shaking hands mottled by rot patches. Shit. Answer answer answer.

“Angel?” Sleepily.

“Need . . . help.” My voice sounded raspy and wet.

“Where are you? What happened?” No longer sleepy. Intense. Focused, like I needed to be.

Focus, Angel.

“Back of . . . Big Bubble’s thing. Cars. Need brains. From my car . . . can’t. Fence.”

“Big Bubble’s? I don’t . . . Oh, Big Bubba’s Towing on Cooter Mill Road?” Scuffling sounds in the background.

“Back of Bubbub. Car on lil road.” I struggled to form the words. “Brains in glub . . . glove thing. Broken. Me. Help?”

“Tell me if this is right.” More banging and scuffling. “You’re at the back of Big Bubba’s property. You’re hurt and need brains, but there’s a fence between you and your car. Brains are in the glove compartment.”