How the White Trash Zombie Got Her Groove Back (White Trash Zombie 4)

Together we headed into the treatment room to wait for Dr. Nikas. Power lights glowed on several of the devices on the counter, and Dr. Nikas’s odd shorthand covered half the whiteboard on the wall beside the cabinets. A near-empty glass of sparkling grape juice beside a stack of computer print outs told me he’d already been working in here this morning.

The procedure chair looked like a cross between a recliner and a torture device, but I plopped into it anyway. Its position gave the best view of the awesome mural that covered the entire far wall—a scene of a rolling grassy meadow and a distant mountain with brilliant blue sky above. Philip leaned against the exam table, and I surreptitiously studied him. Adjusting to life as a zombie wasn’t a breeze under the best conditions, and his had been pure crap. His parasite was damaged from the bad fake brains Kristi had fed him shortly after he was turned, and as a result he suffered excruciating chronic pain, muscle spasms, and other unpleasant symptoms—a mess of afflictions we simply called the Plague. Much of that had been brought under control or was improving with the treatments, but he still wasn’t anywhere near a hundred percent.

“Your color is better,” I remarked. “But you look worn out.”

He nodded, unoffended by the observation. “My sleep has been off, and the leg pain hasn’t let up,” he admitted, “but otherwise it’s been a decent week.” He snorted and quirked a faint smile. “I puked my guts out after the last treatment, but luckily it didn’t last long. I’m all for no puking this time.”

I grimaced. “Yeah, that sucks. I wish there was more I could do.”

“I’m not complaining,” he assured me. “I promise. Without you helping I doubt I’d have made it this long.”

“Gotta take care of my zombie baby,” I said with a smile that masked a persistent sick fear. After eating the bad brains Philip had turned two of the Saberton guards into zombies, and both had died within three months of being captured by Pietro’s people, despite Dr. Nikas’s best efforts to save them. My blood helped in treatments for Philip, but I still worried. What if the treatments stopped working? What if my blood stopped making a difference?

I took a deep breath and tried to focus my worry into anger at the one who’d done this to him. None of this would have happened without Kristi Fucking Charish.

Philip’s gaze went to the door as it opened, and he pushed off the exam table. Speak of the devil. “Good morning, Kristi,” he said with a pleasant smile to the slim, auburn-haired woman who entered.

She gave a slightly tremulous smile in return and kept her eyes away from me as she moved closer to Philip. “You’re waiting for the new treatment?” she asked, reaching toward him as if for reassurance.

He took her hand and gave it a comforting squeeze. “We are indeed.” He glanced toward the door again as Rachel entered, then he returned his attention to Kristi. “This must be an outing day,” he noted.

“Outing weekend,” Rachel stated, tone brisk but pleasant enough with Philip. “Chris will be leaving with Dr. Charish in a few minutes, but she wanted to see you first.”

Philip gave a low chuckle and tucked a stray wisp of hair behind Kristi’s ear. “Of course you did.”

I watched in stony silence. Philip had no reason to like Kristi, and every reason to hate her fucking guts. Yet they sure as hell looked buddy-buddy.

No, not like buddies, I decided. More like . . . a master and his dog. I didn’t have the warm fuzzies for Kristi either, but this docile version seriously creeped me out. I’d seen her like this before and had assumed she was medicated, but now I realized that wasn’t likely. After all, Pietro kept her alive because she was useful and clever, and she wouldn’t be either if she was drugged to the gills.

A man with bright green eyes and about a billion freckles stepped into the doorway and leaned against the frame. “Philip, you’re hogging all the beautiful women,” he said with an infectious grin. Chris Peterson, another member of the security team.

“Can you blame me?” Philip replied. Kristi turned and gave Chris a bright and genuine smile.

“Not one bit!” Chris stuffed his hands into the pockets of a faded leather bomber-style jacket and gave me a nod and Kristi a quick wink, but the smile he turned on Rachel had a lot more heat behind it. To my surprise her expression softened, and she responded with a look that could only be described as sultry. Hot damn, tough as nails Rachel wanted to get nailed?

A laugh tried to escape me, and I jerked my attention back to Chris. He wasn’t handsome, but he was kind and funny and light-hearted. Nothing at all like Rachel—but maybe that’s what she liked about him? He kept himself in good shape, and though he wasn’t Mr. Suit And Tie like Brian, he dressed well. Today he had on a dark red oxford-style shirt and pressed khaki pants, and of course the awesome leather jacket. He shifted, and I noticed a pair of aviator sunglasses tucked into the front pocket of his shirt.

“Do you fly?” I asked. “Or do you just like the accessories?” I abruptly realized that my second question could be taken as a bit snide. “Crap, I mean—”

Chris simply laughed and held up his hand to stop me from digging myself any deeper. “Both!” he declared. “Been flying for close to twenty years. I actually had to stop about eight years back. Developed Type 1 diabetes, and they grounded me.” What seemed like grief briefly shadowed his eyes, and I realized that being unable to fly must have been a devastating loss. Then he brightened again. “I got back in the air as soon as possible after I was turned, trust me.”

“That’s so cool,” I said fervently, ridiculously pleased that the zombie thing had given that back to him. “I’ve never been in a plane,” I confessed.

“Yeah?” He cocked his head. “I’ll take you up sometime. I fly a couple of times a week.” He shifted his gaze back to Rachel. “You ready to go up with me yet?” he asked her, the double meaning practically screaming through the room.

Briefly flustered, she dropped her eyes to the papers in her hand and began to shuffle needlessly through them. “I, um, would need to check my schedule.” She cleared her throat and recovered her bearing, straightening her shoulders. “Is your driver ready? You need to get going soon.”

He pushed off the door frame. “Simon has the car ready and waiting.”

Rachel nodded. “I’ll probably be up there later this evening for a security check.”

Security check, my ass, I thought with ridiculous glee.

“You got it,” Chris replied. “And then you can take a day off next Tuesday and fly with me.” He gave her a teasing chuckle. “Maybe we can join the mile high club.”

Her mouth dropped open, and a flush climbed up her cheeks, visible even beneath her dark skin. A pained expression came over Chris’s face as he no doubt realized he’d gone too far with the flirting, especially in front of us.

> “I . . . need to get to the security meeting,” Rachel blurted, then hurried out of the room.