How the White Trash Zombie Got Her Groove Back

Chapter 2

After we finished, I returned Sarah Lynn to her body bag and placed the clear plastic bag of organs between her legs. Under normal conditions I’d wait until I was alone in the morgue, then go into the cooler and collect that brain for my own dining pleasure. But not this one. It would stay right there in the bag with the liver and kidneys and other organs. I wasn’t about to risk screwing up my zombie parasite by eating a Saberton-contaminated brain. It might as well have been a lump of sawdust for all the appeal it had now.

I tucked the body away in the cooler, cleaned up the morgue and readied everything for the next day’s autopsies. With that done, I grabbed my phone from my purse then headed outside and to the other side of the back parking lot. Dr. Ariston Nikas ran the zombie research lab where I worked part-time, twice a week. If anyone had answers about autopsies and zombie research, it would be him, but I wasn’t about to risk that someone might overhear.

Dr. Nikas answered on the second ring. “Hello, Angel,” he said, a smile in his pleasantly accented voice. “I was about to call you.”

“Oh? What do you need?”

“No, you go ahead first,” he said. “It must be important if you are calling.”

I checked around me, then lowered my voice. “You remember the movie extra who died from the Saberton experiments a few months back? We just had another case. Sarah Lynn Harper. She was an extra too. Twenty something with hypertrophic cardiomyopathy that wasn’t there two months ago.”

“Oh, dear.”

With those two words my hopes for a non-Saberton explanation sank. “You think the experiments caused it?”

“That would be my first theory,” he replied solemnly “It’s unprecedented for that condition to develop in such a short time frame. The common denominator for both victims is Saberton.”

“There were a couple of hundred extras,” I said, stomach knotting with anger and dread. Most of the extras had been unemployed, laid off from a factory Saberton bought and closed. The company had promised to rehire everyone once Saberton got some big juicy defense contract, but that had yet to happen. “All of those people could die or get screwed up? We have to do something!”

“Philip smuggled enough of the Saberton research data to me that I may be able to develop a counter agent,” he said, referring to Philip Reinhardt, a Saberton employee I’d been forced to turn into a zombie when I was a prisoner in Dr. Kristi Charish’s secret lab. Philip turned out to be an undercover operative working for Pietro Ivanov—the head of the local “Tribe” of zombies—and it was because of heroic efforts on Philip’s part that Dr. Nikas was able to stay a step ahead of most of Saberton’s bullshit.

Dr. Nikas released a sigh heavily tinged with regret. “I’d truly hoped the death of Brenda Barnes had been an isolated incident.”

“I’m with you there.” I began to pace in the parking lot to vent some of my anger and frustration. “But there’s something else. Sarah had lymphoma that went into remission after the filming, and when we autopsied her, it was like she never had it. The same shit that killed her, cured her.”

Dr. Nikas fell silent for a moment before answering. “That would be my conjecture. It apparently mimicked the zombie parasite’s healing ability, which is . . . remarkable.”

“It’d be cool if it didn’t come with the whole dying thing,” I kicked savagely at a pine cone in my way. “Saberton hasn’t stopped, have they? They’re still experimenting.”

“They have too much invested to stop,” he stated. “They aren’t operating in south Louisiana anymore, but I have no doubt they’re forging ahead with some form of zombie research. Without Philip undercover with them anymore, my information is sketchy.”

A number of curse words leapt to mind, but I held them back for Dr. Nikas’s sake. “So, what were you going to call me about?”

“I have a new protocol ready for Philip that I’d like to start as soon as possible, balancing his parasite with yours. Would you be able to come in at two this afternoon?”

I stopped pacing and tried to think if there was anything I needed to do after work. The drive to Dr. Nikas’s lab took about half an hour and burned up gas I could barely afford, but I was willing to do it if it would help out my zombie-baby, Philip. Dr. Charish’s stupid fake brains had badly screwed up Philip’s zombie parasite, and without Dr. Nikas’s work to repair the damage and stabilize him, Philip would’ve been dead ten times over. In fact, about once a week I volunteered blood and time so that Dr. Nikas could use the zombie mama-baby connection to develop treatments for him.

My left arm began to itch, as if in response to my thoughts about blood samples. The needles the lab used had a special coating on them to keep the parasite from closing the skin and clogging the needle, and ever since I’d started giving blood frequently, a few months back, I’d had this stupid itch. On the other hand, Philip had improved tremendously in that time, which made it worth putting up with a relatively minor annoyance.

“I can come at two,” I said. “But aren’t you going out with Pietro today?”

“It’s a late day,” he replied. “We’re doing dinner instead of lunch, so no worries.”

“That’s good,” I said, relieved to hear the “date” hadn’t been cancelled. Dr. Nikas didn’t get out much, and the occasional outings with Pietro always seemed to do him good. “I clock out of here at noon, so I’ll run home and change after that, and see you a bit before two.”

After we said our goodbyes I returned inside and settled in to work on organizing and labeling the shelves in the supply room. Although this sort of busy work usually distracted me pretty well from various troubles and worries, it sure as hell didn’t work this time. By the time Nick walked in a half hour later, I’d labeled every shelf, arranged protective gear by color, and lined up scalpel blades by size.

Nick the Prick. That’s what I’d secretly—and sometimes not so secretly—called him for the first several months of my time with the Coroner’s Office. At some point this past spring he’d become plain old Nick to me. He still had his pompous, know-it-all moments—lots of them—but he’d also patiently tutored me for my GED without asking for any sort of payment, and had been unexpectedly kick butt helpful and supportive after I lost everything in the flood.

He stood in the doorway now and surveyed my handiwork. “Everything okay?” he asked.

“Sure!” I chirped. “Couldn’t be better.”

“Right.” He nodded slowly, lips pursed. “Is that why you labeled that box of gloves ‘Hand Cover Things’?”

Shit. I gave a weak chuckle and ripped the offending label off the box. “I wonder how that happened.”

His mouth tightened into a worried frown. “Maybe your dyslexia has developed into preliminary dementia.”

For a second I thought he was serious, then I rolled my eyes and flicked the wadded-up label at him. “You are such an ass.”

“I think that’s been established,” he said with a trace of amusement in his green eyes. “And ass or not, I don’t believe you.”

“Yeah, sorry,” I said, sighing. “I have some things on my mind and can’t focus worth shit.”

“Think you can focus on walking and carrying?” I gave him a baffled look, and he continued, “Doc is swamped, and I thought he could use a cappuccino. Me too, for that matter. You want to go to Dear John’s Café with me to help carry?”

“You mean stop this whirlwind of inaccurate labeling?” I asked even as I dumped the label maker into a drawer. I doubted he really needed help carrying stuff, but rescuing me from my self-inflicted mental misery was the kind of gesture that had lost him his prickhood.

“I’m sure the morgue will survive,” he said, then turned and headed for the door in quick strides. Halfway there he hesitated, as if remembering he should have waited for me, and I smiled to myself and hurried after him. As if to make up for running off without me, he held the door and flashed a genuine smile. He wasn’t a big guy, only a few inches taller than my not-quite five foot three, but he carried enough attitude for a guy the size of Andre the Giant. I hadn’t seen much of Nick since the GED tutoring finished. He usually worked a different shift, but since my awesome partner Derrel was off on vacation to the Bahamas for the next ten days, Nick was filling in for him.

Even though we’d worked together for close to a year, I didn’t know all that much about Nick. Aside from making sure people knew he was a pre-med student, he didn’t volunteer much personal information. Every now and then I’d ask about his family or what his childhood was like, and each time he would either suddenly realize he had something else he needed to do, or he’d quickly change the subject.

Maybe the two of us weren’t all that different. Not that he’d been a loser addict dropout or anything, but maybe being a pompous prick was his way of putting something in his past behind him and saying, “Fuck y’all. I’m here, and I’m cool no matter what.”

Or maybe I was just making shit up to hear myself think.

Outside, a cool breeze made me wish I’d grabbed my jacket. It wasn’t cold enough to bother going back for it, but it left no doubt the Louisiana summer was over. We took a shortcut across the back lot then skirted the St. Edwards Parish Courthouse to put us on Dead End Way, a busy avenue that had long outgrown its name.

“Anything I can help with?” Nick asked after we crossed and started down the side street toward the shop.

It took me a second to realize he was referring to my lack of focus. “Nah,” I said. “Personal stuff. I’ll get over it, but thanks anyway.” I couldn’t exactly tell him I was worried about the long term effects of unethical zombie research on innocent people.

“You always shake bad shit off in no time, so I bet you’ll be doing better before the day’s out.” For an instant he looked embarrassed by his own words of encouragement, then he cleared his throat. “Maybe some hot chocolate will perk you up. My treat.”

I gave him a warm smile. For all his Nickitude, I appreciated the decent person and friend under it all. I kind of suspected he liked me, but he seemed to be totally respectful of my relationship with Marcus, and he’d never said or done anything to make me feel uncomfortable.

“Thanks,” I said. “Don’t mind me. I’m just moody.” I hesitated, then forged on into scary territory. “I sorta told Doc I was going to sign up for college classes next term.”

His head snapped around. “At TPCC? That’s a big step.”

I stuffed my hands in my pockets, his shock confirming my suspicion that it was a big and stupid step. “Yeah. I should probably back out and wait until I have more tutoring under my belt with Jennifer.” And that could be a while since the dyslexia specialist cost a fortune. I had to space out my sessions in order to pay for them. Hell, for that matter, how was I supposed to pay for college?

“No!” Nick commanded, bringing my near escape from college to a screeching halt. “You can do it. No point in putting it off. And, uh . . .” He trailed off and seemed to find the sidewalk ahead very interesting.

The guy could be kind of cute when he got flustered. I hid a smile. “And what?”

“Maybe I could help out,” he blurted a little too eagerly, then backpedaled to a more casual, doesn’t-matter-to-me tone. “I mean, you know, if you get stuck on something.”

My smile slipped out as this particular worry faded away. “I’d like that,” I said and meant it. “Though I still don’t know how I can afford tuition.”

“Financial aid,” he said firmly. “Grants, scholarships, loans. I’ll help you with the applications.”

Well, there went my last remaining excuse. “Okay, so do you think I should take Introduction to Life Sciences or Biology one-oh-one?”

“If you want the credits to really mean something, take one-oh-one. Life Sciences won’t transfer to a four year school.”

“Wait.” I blinked, then shook my head. “A four-year? I haven’t even thought about that.”

Nick shrugged and lifted his chin in his I-know-all-about-this posture. “No point in wasting time,” he declared. “Better to have credits that transfer than not. It’s the only smart choice.”

I gulped. One-oh-one was sure to be a lot harder than Life Sciences. “I guess that makes sense,” I said weakly, wishing it didn’t.

“Of course it does,” he said as he opened the door to the shop. A delicious mix of smells flooded out—coffee and chocolate and all sorts of baked gooey things. “I’ll order. You want anything besides hot chocolate?”

“Since you’re buying, I’ll have one of those cherry cream cheese pastries,” I replied with a grin. “I love those things.”

“You got it,” he said and joined the line by the counter.

Dear John’s Café offered good beverages, pastry, and snacks, along with plentiful booths and decent free Wi-Fi. But its claim to local fame was the paper enshrined on the wall near the register—a Dear John letter that actually started off with “Dear John.” The letter had been written to the owner, John Hickey, ten years ago by his wife when she left him for his brother’s ex-wife. According to local legend, after a heavy drinking binge and a night in jail, John realized it was the best thing that had ever happened to him, quit his insurance sales gig, traded in his Lexus for a Toyota, downsized his house, and invested everything in the café. Who the hell knew if any of it was true, but it made a good story, and great coffee and a solid business model made for a booming business.

“Angel,” a woman called from the far end of the shop.

I looked toward the voice and saw Pietro Ivanov and Jane Pennington cozied up in a half-circle booth by the back wall. Jane gave me a warm smile and gestured for me to come over. A pleased tingle ran through me as I waved and returned the smile. It still floored me that anyone as cool as Congresswoman Jane Pennington wanted anything to do with little old me. She even called me on occasion when she wanted to poll “ordinary, everyday people” for opinions. I was far from either, but I wasn’t about to tell her that.

I tapped Nick on the shoulder. “Hey, I’m going to be by that booth by the back wall,” I told him. “Come find me when you’re done? I have some people I want you to meet.”

He nodded acknowledgment, and I headed back toward Pietro and Jane. Pietro was a rich-as-fuck local businessman, and also uncle to my boyfriend, Marcus Ivanov. But more importantly, Pietro as head of the local group of zombies, devoted himself to their survival and welfare, at times by whatever means necessary. I didn’t always agree with the “necessary means” Pietro and his organization used, but I’d also learned that none of the issues they dealt with were black and white.

Plus, I didn’t have much room to talk. Less than five months ago I’d bashed a man’s head in with a baseball bat and then feasted on his brains. Sure, he’d been shooting me seconds before, but there was no denying I’d used necessary means to remove the threat.

Pietro watched me approach, a relaxed smile on his face that only seemed to make its appearance around Jane. Sixtyish-looking, stocky but fit, he complemented her effortless elegance perfectly. Half-finished cups of coffee and the remains of a shared pastry sat on the table in front of them. I gave Pietro a nod of greeting then smiled to Jane. “I didn’t know you were in town.”

“I’m not really,” she said with a quiet laugh. “Only passing through to take care of a little business in my district and see Pietro.”

I glanced over as Nick approached. “This is my friend Nick Galatas,” I told them. “He’s one of the death investigators at the Coroner’s Office, and he’s also totally responsible for me finally passing the GED.” I grinned. “Nick, this is Congresswoman Jane Pennington and Pietro Ivanov.” I didn’t try to hide the hint of smugness in my tone that I knew such cool people. If the situation was reversed, Nick would be all over it.

Nick did the handshake thing with both of them, seeming totally confident and comfortable. “I helped a little with Angel’s preparation and studying,” he said, “but Angel was the one in the test room. She worked hard and earned it.”

A little heat rose in my face at the praise. I had worked hard, dammit, but it was still cool to have it recognized. “It’s too bad you can’t be here a little longer,” I said to Jane. “You’re going to miss the oh-so-awesome Nutria Festival this weekend.”

Pained amusement lit her eyes. “Believe it or not, I gave a speech there last year on the condition of our wetlands.”

Pietro laid his hand over hers on the table, gave it a squeeze. “We met at an incredibly tedious fundraiser only a few days after that. Jane stopped me from slitting my wrist with a broken champagne glass to escape the boredom.”

A joke from Pietro? If he didn’t watch out, having Jane as a girlfriend was going to turn him into a normal person.

Jane laughed. “I’m not sure it was quite so dramatic,” she said.

“You were still a state senator then, if I’m not mistaken?” Nick asked.

Pietro smiled broadly. “Right up until the now former Congressman Dale Grubbs was caught taking kickbacks.”

“I couldn’t have possibly won the special election to replace him without your help and support,” she told Pietro, voice warm with affection, then gave me a smile. “And as much as I regret missing out on nutria jambalaya,” she shuddered, “I’m off to New York this afternoon for a few engagements before The Child Find League Fundraiser Saturday, then back to DC. Committee meetings, staff meetings, and more meetings.” She shuddered once again.

“You’re on the House Judiciary Committee, right?” Nick asked, in a way that made it clear he already knew the answer. At Jane’s nod he continued with a smile, “Congratulations on that. Impressive feat for a freshman Congresswoman to score a spot on such an influential committee, but I suppose having doctorates in Political Science and Law helped considerably.”

I tried not to look as surprised as I was at the two doctorates thing. And here I’d assumed she was a medical doctor. Duh.

Jane chuckled. “It certainly didn’t hurt, though I’m still getting used to the maneuverings and behind-the-scene deals that aren’t taught in the classroom.”

Nick gave a knowing nod. “Your detractors who are complaining that you’re not doing enough to secure a defense contract for Saberton don’t understand how the system works.”

An expression of true regret swept over her face. “I would love to wave a magic wand and reopen the factory so that all those people could be rehired,” she said, referring to the employees laid off after Saberton bought a farm machinery company and then failed to obtain a hoped-for defense contract. “But the sad and brutal truth is that in order to ensure Saberton lands that contract, I would have to expend every bit of political capital I’ve acquired in the past few months, and owe quite a few favors besides.” She sighed. “I can’t afford to ‘blow my wad’ on the Saberton contract.”

Nick nodded again. “Not when there are bills coming up for programs and funding that have far more impact on this area,” he said. “Wetlands, drilling rights, flood control. It would be a short term fix with long term issues.”

I glanced over at Nick, probably with my mouth hanging open, impressed and surprised that he had a clue. Hell, more than a clue. I caught the gist of what they were talking about, and as much as I wanted to see those factory jobs come back, I had a hard time getting behind anything that helped Saberton Corporation in any way. I figured Pietro couldn’t either, not with their track record of fuck-y’all exploitation of both zombies and regular people. Yet Jane’s reasoning seemed logical and sound, and not at all based on an “I Hate Saberton” point of view. Then again, as far as I knew, Jane still knew nothing about the zombies. I had no idea if or when Pietro planned to tell her, but that sort of thing was waaay into the sort of none-of-my-business that I actually abided by.

Jane smiled at Nick, genuine and appreciative. “You know my pain. Damned if I do, damned if I don’t. I’m going to have to find other solutions for the unemployment situation.” She sighed. “It’s a frustrating dance.”

Pietro leaned in and gave her a kiss on the cheek. “One you do with poise and grace, my dear.”

Jane gave Pietro a warm smile accompanied by a soft-eyed look that left no doubt how she felt about him.

Time for Nick and me to leave the lovebirds to do their thing. “We should get going,” I said. “It was great running into you two.”

Jane reached and touched my arm. “It was wonderful to see you, Angel, and a pleasure to meet you, Nick.”

We made our goodbyes and headed to the counter. I picked up the box with pastries and glanced over at Nick. “How did you know so much about that stuff?”

“I read a lot,” he said with a shrug as he collected the carrier with the drinks. “And this is a hot topic, locally.”

“I’m saving up for a computer,” I said as we headed to the door. “Maybe I can watch news videos or something.” A gust of wind sent leaves scuttling along the sidewalk as we stepped out.

“It’s important to keep up with what’s going on,” he replied with a knowing nod.

“By the way, thanks for asking me to come with you. I needed the distraction.”

He shot me a smug look. “I know.”

Laughing, I punched him in the arm, hard enough for him to feel it, but not hard enough to spill the coffee and chocolate he carried. I had my priorities.

He made a show of rubbing his arm, but we were both smiling when we returned to the office.