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

Chapter 16

Getting back to the hotel “nice and safe” took a couple of hours by the time we rode the subway, changed trains, took a bus, two different taxis, and then the subway again before hiking five blocks. The whole time I couldn’t get the image of Kyle’s mugshot out of my head, but when we finally reached the hotel I figured if anyone tailing us still had us in their sights they fucking deserved to catch us, and I’d invite them in for some damn drinks.

Philip and Kyle were already there when we made it to the room, but only by about fifteen minutes, according to them. I grunted a tired greeting, then gave Philip a head nudge to follow me into the bedroom.

I closed the door as soon as he entered, poised and ready to tell him about the picture of Kyle, but the words caught in my throat when he turned, and I got a look at his face. He’d had tons of practice hiding pain, but I knew the signs. Deep furrows between his brows, his mouth drawn down a bit on the right side, and the slight squint to his eyes.

“What’s going on with you?” I asked instead.

He stripped off his shirt. “This.” He gingerly lifted his arm to show me his side, and corpse stench wafted over me. Mottled skin surrounded a large patch of oozing rot and exposed ribs. “The thigh is just as bad,” he said, expression grim, “and my arm is close to unusable.”

“Shit,” I breathed as I put my hand over the matching place on my side. No, not matching. It was in the same location, but my imprint-mirrored rot was little more than a spongy patch. Gross, but not gross. I peered at his side in dismay. “It’s getting worse.”

“It is,” he confirmed. “And today the pain started. Not the rot itself, but the areas around it.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “Plus a killer headache came on about an hour ago and won’t go away. A bad one. Goddamn MegaPlague.”

Shit. It had to be bad for him to call it bad. “Eat some brains,” I ordered. “Drink some coffee. And lots of water.”

“I’ve been drowning in water,” he said. “And Kyle’s leaving now to pick up some pizza he ordered. We’ll put brains on that.” He blew a breath out. “It’s like little needles inside my head. I’ve never had anything like it before.”

“Then lie down,” I said, firmly pointing to the bed. “It can’t hurt.” At least I hoped not. This whole Plague thing was so weird, I honestly had no clue what would help or hurt, especially now that it was MegaPlague.

He sat on the edge of the bed, then carefully reclined and draped his arm across his eyes. “Damn, Angel. This is bad. I’m sorry.”

“Shut up,” I told him gently. “You have nothing to be sorry for. I’m sorry you’re going through all this crap.” No way would I ask him about Kyle now. Another hour or two wouldn’t make a difference. “Rest. You need it.”

“You eat my pizza, and I’ll get revenge.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” I solemnly assured him. “Mostly because you always have those nasty bell pepper things on yours.”

“Kyle muttered something about getting all cheese to keep it simple.”

“Kyle is a very wise man.”

He snorted. “Is that what you call it?” His eyes closed, but the skin around them remained tight with discomfort.

“I’m sure there are other words.”

Philip mumbled something in response. I stretched out on the bed with a couple of feet between us, closed my eyes and tried to shut out the gnawing worry about Kyle and Jane and Philip and everything else.

At some point I must have succeeded, because the sound of the front door woke me from a doze. A few seconds later I heard Kyle say, “Food.”

Rubbing my eyes, I got up and went out to the main room to see Kyle setting two large pizza boxes on the table. Naomi wasn’t there, but the bathroom door was closed, and I heard the shower running.

“Hey. Cool. Thanks,” I said.

He gave me a small smile. “Anytime. No bell peppers, right?”

“Yeah, nasty stuff,” I said, surprised and pleased that he remembered my dislike of them. Or . . . maybe it was all part of the insider game. Know your players.

Really, Angel? I did a mental eye roll at my overactive paranoia. Why on earth would the fact that bell peppers make me gag be important info?

He flipped open one of the boxes to reveal pineapple and onion on one side and pepperoni and bell peppers on the other. “Half cheese and half ham and mushrooms on the other,” he told me. “Brain packets in the fridge.”

“You’re awesome,” I said fervently and shoved aside the nagging doubt about him. At least for the moment. I grabbed a plate and got a peppered slice, squeezed brains onto it and brought it into the bedroom. “Hey, ZeeBee,” I said, nudging the bed a bit. “Food’s here. You need to eat.”

He groaned softly, and I realized he hadn’t been asleep. “I’ll get it in a sec.”

I narrowed my eyes at him. “Dude, if you don’t eat a couple of bites right now, I’ll chew it up and spit it into your mouth which would be beyond gross for both of us since there are bell peppers on that slice.”