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

I resisted the urge to say, “Yeah, whatever,” only because it was Dr. Nikas. I wouldn’t disrespect him like that. Besides, if he bothered to make the distinction, it meant there was something to it. “Mature zombie,” I echoed. “What exactly does that mean?”

He weighed some milky yellow powder on the scale then added it to my mixture. “Sulfur. Grind it in to where the paste is an even color, then we’re nearly done.” He settled back in his chair then laid his hands flat on the table. “It means there is no longer anything distinguishable as human-versus-zombie organism. The DNA restructure is complete. A rare success.”

“Uh,” I said while I struggled to make sense of that. “Are you saying Pietro-Pierce-whoever isn’t really human anymore?”

“Physically, none of us are, Angel,” Dr. Nikas said with a certainty that sent a shiver through me. “Not once the organism establishes itself. The changes begin immediately. Pierce and I are perhaps even less human from a purely physical perspective.” His eyes met mine, gentle and troubled and ancient. “I don’t feel any less human than I ever have.”

It took me a minute to get past his claim that we weren’t simply humans infested with a parasite, and then another minute to push aside the useless worry that, if we were so changed, how could we be sure we remembered what it was like to feel human? “So it’s not a parasite?”

“Technically, no. When I first tried to understand the science of it, parasite was my initial impression, and the term stuck.” He flashed a smile. “Besides, it’s easier to say parasite than mutualistic symbiont with parasitic aspects.” His eyes crinkled with amusement. “In the end it’s merely semantics. A new word such as zombite would better acknowledge its unique function, but old habits die hard.”

Dr. Sofia Baldwin had convincingly explained to me that the parasite healed damage and kept zombies healthy only because it benefited the parasite to have a healthy host. If there weren’t enough brains for it to do that, it saved itself and let us rot. That sure sounded like a parasite to me, but Dr. Nikas knew a billion times more about it than either Sofia or I did.

“Who’s in control after maturity?” I asked. “The not-a-parasite or the human?”

“Neither,” he said. “There is no distinction—a new unified entity with no loss of who one was and is as a person. However, before experiencing it, one cannot even conceive the enhancements to the senses, perception, and overall awareness. Pheromones, taste, global species sensitivity. It’s exhilarating, even overwhelming at first, though totally natural.”

No, not natural at all! I silently protested. Yet in my little zombie heart it rang true, like an instinctual knowing and acceptance on top of eager curiosity. “That sounds more like a living steroid than a self-serving parasite.”

Dr. Nikas beamed. “A well considered analogy, Angel,” he said. “And that is the model I work with now, rather than symbiosis. To put it very simply, the organism is the ultimate mod. It gradually optimizes its target through bio-restructuring until it gets the job done—albeit with some heavy side effects.”

I peered at him. “You said you’re mature too, like Pierce?”

He nodded and extended his hand toward me, palm down, unbuttoned his sleeve and pushed it up to the elbow

. “Point to any spot on my forearm,” he instructed.

Baffled, I reached to touch a spot a couple of inches above his wrist. I started to ask what he was doing, then could only stare, mouth hanging open. Like a slow-motion movie special effect, the skin of his forearm rippled and shifted as a scar formed, thick and white, angling across his forearm where I’d touched.

“Whoa.” I stared at the two-inch long defect in the skin. “Have you ever had a scar in that spot?” I asked. Maybe it was a weird parasite-memory thing?

“Never there,” he murmured. A few seconds later the scar rippled and became smooth skin again even as a long and barely healed gash appeared across the back of his hand.

“Whoa,” I said again,

“I am mature, yes,” he said. “Conscious control within genetic parameters.”

I processed that. “In other words, you can control stuff that could change on a normal human, but you can’t sprout wings?” I gave a nervous chuckle.

“That’s correct,” he replied. “And I can’t change my basic blueprint. No higher cheekbones or blue eyes instead of brown.”

It started to make a weird sort of sense. “Unless you—a mature zombie—ate someone’s brain, got a new blueprint, and decided to redecorate.” I watched with continued fascination as he smoothed his hand back to normal—whatever “normal” meant in this freaky context.

“Correct again,” he said.

I dragged my gaze from his hand to his face. “Conscious control. Is that how Pietro made himself look like he was in his sixties? Instead of staying younger-looking like regular zombies?”

“Yes, and it has proven quite useful.” He shifted and looked away “I’ve never had the need to transform or mimic aging. I stay away from people, for the most part.”

With the way Dr. Nikas lived as a recluse in his lab, there was no one on the outside who saw him enough to realize he never aged. The thought of so few people ever knowing him sent a weird and sad pang through me.

Dr. Nikas looked in the direction of Pierce’s room and exhaled softly. “I’ve been with him a long time. Mature zombies don’t tend to stay close together, but I . . .”

“You need him, and he needs you,” I finished for him.

A smile twitched his lips before fading. “He shelters me, and I keep him balanced,” he said. “I was broken long ago. For all of our physical and even mental healing capacity, most psychological or emotional wounds remain untouched, even in maturity.” He pulled his gaze back to mine. “Angel, you know I can’t tolerate a crowded room, much less a public life. With him, I can simply be who I am.”

“What happened to you?” I asked after a moment’s hesitation.