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

Naomi shuddered at the thought. “No way. She’s—” She stopped as I held up my hand at the sound of returning footsteps. A few seconds later Philip and Andrew stepped from the shadows.

“Everything cool?” I asked as I stood.

Philip nodded then sat Andrew down about ten feet away from Naomi, making sure to position him so the light was between them. With Naomi mostly in shadow, it would be almost impossible for Andrew to see more than a vague shape. No need to give him more opportunity to recognize her.

I motioned for Philip to come with me farther down the tunnel. “I need to go meet Brian,” I said in a low voice as soon as we were out of human earshot. “Everything will be easier once we hook up with him, and then we can get Naomi’s ankle taken care of properly.”

A frown creased his forehead

. “I don’t like you going out alone.”

“I know,” I said. “But with Kyle gone, we can’t let Andrew go free. We have to hold onto him as a possible ace in the hole if we want to stand a chance of getting back in to rescue Pietro and Kyle.”

“And with Naomi injured, someone needs to stay with her and keep an eye on him.” He grimaced. “I’m getting worse. The weakness is constant now, and when it flares I can barely lift my head.”

“That’s why I want to go sooner rather than later.”

He obviously wasn’t happy about it, but he didn’t continue to argue. “All right. Make sure we have a way to get him,” he jerked a thumb toward Andrew, “out and to wherever Brian and Dr. Nikas are, without too much of a scene.”

“Andrew’s trouble waiting to happen,” I said. “Probably need to secure him more and have a gag ready in case anyone happens to come down this way.”

“I’ll take care of it.” Philip sent a chilling look in Andrew’s direction.

“I’ll be back as soon as possible.”

He pulled me into a hug. “You be careful, you hear me?”

I returned the hug, let the comfort of it peel away a bit of the worry and stress. “You know me. I’m always careful.”

“Let’s not go there.” He gave me a squeeze then released me and dug in the side pocket of his pants to produce a map of Manhattan. “You’ll probably need this.”

“Y’think?” I smiled. “Now you can double down on your awesomeness by showing me where I’m meeting Brian and which trains to take.”

He chuckled softly, then spread the map against the wall and patiently showed me exactly where to go and how to get there. To my relief there was no need for me to change trains or anything that would stretch my redneck brain.

“Now get going,” he said. He folded the map again—successfully, which amazed me—and stuffed it into my side pocket. “I’ll hold down the fort.”

With a parting smile, I turned and loped off down the tunnel to the Lincoln Center hatch.

Chapter 26

A crisp wind ducked between the buildings and snuck beneath my light jacket, bringing with it the scents of bread and coffee and some sort of greasy who-knew-what from a food cart on the corner. I pulled my hood up and hoped the wind would take some of my own stench away in the process. Hours of running and sweating and all sorts of anxiety-making activities hadn’t left me feeling as fresh as a daisy. Fortunately, it seemed New Yorkers weren’t the type to pay attention to a scraggly waif in their midst or, at least, didn’t feel obliged to say anything about a little stink.

I had no doubt I looked like the greenest tourist in existence as I worked my way through the touch screen menu to get a MetroCard, but I finally managed to pay my fare and board the train I needed without having to ask the homeless guy sitting against the wall for help. A small crowd was already waiting for the train, but I continued farther down the platform and managed to score a car with only a few people in it. An Asian woman sat at the far end, headphones on and lips moving as if silently singing along to her music. A few seats away a black man in a business suit knitted something blue and complex. A man with reddish-brown hair and wearing sunglasses sat in the middle of the car, a German Shepherd sitting quietly at his feet.

The dog lifted its head and let out a low growl as I sidled past. I froze.

“Hush, Marla,” the man murmured, and the dog subsided and laid its head on its paws again. “It’s because you’re a pretty girl,” he continued, not moving except to speak. “Marla gets jealous of pretty girls.”

All right, so apparently he wasn’t blind since he knew I was a girl. Though maybe he was blind since I was far from pretty at the moment. “Yeah, well, tell her I’m not your type,” I said, probably a bit more grumpily than I’d intended, but blind or not, the dude creeped me out a little, though I couldn’t put my finger on why. I tugged my hood a bit lower, quickly continued to the end of the car and stood by the door before looking back at the pair. The man hadn’t moved and still seemed to be staring straight ahead, but Marla watched me intently. When my stop came I hurried off, weirdly relieved when they remained on the train.

Maybe Marla used to be a cadaver dog? I mused as I trotted up the steps of the subway station. Ed Quinn’s girlfriend, Marianne, had worked search and rescue with a dog who’d been trained to find corpses. Ed had used the dog’s ability to smell rotting flesh to find zombies, who he’d then stalked and murdered.

I shuddered, glad to emerge from the subway even though the sun had set and I didn’t know the turf. It was beyond unlikely that some random guy on a subway in New York would figure out I was a zombie—or even know about zombies in the first place—but the encounter still left me weirded out.

At the risk of looking like a tourist again, I consulted the map and peered at street signs to get my bearings. Fortunately, I looked raggedy enough that I didn’t make a tempting mark for pickpockets or muggers. Or maybe the ever-so-faint scent of rot wafting off me kept assailants at bay. Hey, whatever worked. Stuffing the map back into my pocket, I tugged my hood down low again and slouched east on Canal Street. Surely Brian would have enough brains with him that I could top off. It wouldn’t solve my spongy patches, but I’d take what I could get at this point.

After another quick peek at the map, I continued for several blocks on Canal—which wasn’t much like the Canal Street in New Orleans at all—then headed north on Greene. After half a block I slowed my pace and let myself drink in the charm of the area. With wrought-iron lamps, cobbled streets and granite blocks instead of pavement, the street instantly gave off a vibe of sedate and classy. Narrow buildings four or five stories high crowded together on either side, many with carved and columned store fronts, and with fire escapes painted the same color as the rest of the structure. The occasional bit of graffiti dotted a wall, but less frequently as I continued up the street. It was quieter along here, and even the thrum of car tires over cobblestones seemed almost melodic.