My Life as a White Trash Zombie

Chapter 23

After parting ways with Marcus and Ed, I drove home. Or at least I thought I was driving home but somehow I ended up out on Highway 1790.

I slowed as I approached the spot where I’d hit the tree. I could see it on the side of the road where it had been pulled aside by road crews. I could also see the long scrape and scar in the asphalt where the van had overturned and slid.

I parked on the side of the road, shut the engine off, got out of my car.

Broken glass sparkled along the edge of the highway, catching the sun in what could have been a lovely display. I shivered, reminded of the way the glass and broken mirrors had reflected the moonlight.

Blood and teeth. Sightless eyes. A head twisted too far. Bones and flesh.

I blinked and shook my head, momentarily robbed of breath by the sudden images. I’d been in another accident. Before the one in the van. I squeezed my eyes shut, struggling to recall, but the scattered memories slipped away as soon as I tried to focus on them.

Opening my eyes, I walked to the tree, shoes crunching gravel and glass. When I woke up in the ER I was convinced that I was seriously hurt. Yet there wasn’t a mark on me, and I was a zombie. If I’d been hurt that badly, surely it would have taken a huge amount of brains to fix me up.

A quick burst of anger surged through me. Who the fuck made me like this?

A breeze swirled along the highway, rustling the grass and briefly quieting the insects. I scowled and rubbed my temples. I hated that I might never find out who made me a zombie. The one-month mark had passed right on by without an explanation or note or anything that might have cleared things up. But now that I’d come this far I understood why the one month thing had been so important. I needed to stick with the job for that long to be sure that I’d be around brains when the drinks ran out, and to be sure I could maintain a supply. Whoever’d decided to get me started in this direction was apparently satisfied with his or her work and had probably moved on to the next victim. Or charity case. Whatever the hell I was.

“Or monster,” I muttered. No, not a monster yet. I hadn’t killed anyone. Not like Zeke. He’d killed those four people. I was certain of it. And if I’d given him the damn body, maybe he wouldn’t have had to kill anyone.

Guilt tugged at my gut even as I tried to fight it off. I couldn’t be responsible for Zeke’s actions. But was he even responsible for his own? Surely he had to be deep into the hunger to be driven to murder. Yet, even as I thought it, I couldn’t help but wonder. Sure, one murder I could see—sort of. But after that. . . . Maybe he’d realized how easy it was.

I frowned. The victim from Sweet Bayou Road had been murdered before Zeke lost his job at the funeral home, which meant that he might have already discovered that it was easier to get his food fresh. And as decomposed as the drug dealer was, he had to have been killed before Zeke caused my wreck. Let’s not forget that he was trying to kill me, too. The guilt vanished, swept away by anger. He didn’t know I was a zombie when he pulled the tree onto the road. He probably figured he was getting a two-for-one deal. The brain in the body bag, with me as a chaser.

“Fucker,” I growled. There was no way I was giving him any more brains out of my stash.

But if I didn’t help him get brains, was I helping to drive him to more murder? Maybe I needed to do the exact opposite. Maybe I should try and hunt him down and give him brains out of my stash—never mind what Kang said.

Besides, what if this ever happened to me? Sure, I was fed and sated right now. But how could I know that I wouldn’t end up like Zeke if I lost my job and my access to brains.

I didn’t know.

And it scared the shit out of me.

My dad was sitting on the couch when I walked into the house. I stopped dead in the doorway, my hand still on the knob as I took in the sight of him. He looked a bit thinner, or maybe that was my imagination.

He looked up as I entered, a flicker of apprehension—or was it worry?—in his eyes. “Hey, Angelkins,” he said in a low rough voice.

My shoulders unconsciously hunched at the childhood nickname. He always used it when he was feeling beaten down. Maybe it was his way of trying to recapture those glimpses of the past that weren’t made of shit. “Who bailed you out?” I asked, closing the door behind me. It probably wasn’t the nicest welcome home I could have given him, but to his credit he didn’t seem to be surprised by the hostility in my voice.

He looked down at his hands. They were empty—no beer, no cigarettes. “Got a PR.”

Personal recognizance. All he’d had to do was promise to come to court for his arraignment. I’d kinda figured he’d end up getting one. At least that took the pressure off me. I didn’t ask how he’d made it home. I knew he still had a few buddies who’d be willing to give him a ride. He’d done for it others often enough.

“Okay.” I stood there for a few seconds more, then finally decided I didn’t really have anything to say to him. Or nothing that wouldn’t start a whole new round of shit.

I started toward the hallway to my bedroom.

He stood up. “Baby, I’m sorry. I said . . . and did . . . some terrible things.”

His words stopped me, and I pivoted back to him. “I’m not gonna drink anymore, Angel,” he said, meeting my gaze. He looked earnest, but I knew he was saying it right now because he’d been scared. He’d spent two days in jail, and right now he was willing to do or say anything to not go back there. I understood that completely. It was why I’d taken a job in the morgue.

I also knew that after a while that fear would fade. Another week or month or so, and he’d start to forget how bad it had been, and he’d want a drink. I’d heard this announcement before. And I’d seen how well his willpower held out.

But there was no point in throwing that in his face right now. It wouldn’t accomplish anything except to hurt and demoralize him. “That’s great, Dad,” I said instead. “I hope that works.”

I turned away and continued to my bedroom. He didn’t stop me again.

I heard him moving around the house. After a little while the front door opened and closed, followed by the sound of his beater pickup starting up.

As soon as the sound of crunching beer cans faded away I came out of my room and went outside to the big trash can by the side of the house. As I’d suspected, there were several bottles of liquor plus a couple of six-packs of beer. It would be admirable if I hadn’t been through this bullshit before. He’d promise to change, then try and go cold turkey, zero to sixty as soon as possible. No rehab, no counseling or support groups, ’cause he was tougher than that, right?

Except that in a few days he’d start to feel it, and he’d hate it, and he’d get mean and resentful, and somehow it would be my fault that he felt so shitty because he was only trying to get sober for me. And my life would become a complete living hell, or I’d simply avoid coming home. He’d never hit me like that before—once or twice, yeah, but never a full-out beating. It was possible that him snapping like that was a one time thing. It was also possible that it would only get worse from here.

Maybe this time will be different. Too bad I couldn’t make myself believe it. I pulled the bottles and beer out of the trash can, then walked to the shed behind the house and dumped them onto the workbench.

I wasn’t going to sabotage him. I wasn’t going to put it all back in the house or anything like that. But I was sure as hell gonna have it close at hand for the next time the shit hit the fan.