My Life as a White Trash Zombie

Chapter 28

I sat in my car and bit my lower lip as I considered my situation. I was scheduled to work the following morning, so there was no reason for me to start panicking yet about my next brain-meal. It had only been two days since my last—longer than I usually liked to go, but I was only barely beginning to smell, and I was getting weirdly used to the gradual dulling of my senses. As long as I didn’t go crazy with activity it should be at least another full day before I started actively rotting.

Somebody would surely die in time for me to get a meal. I was going to be fine. Really.

I groaned and rested my forehead on the steering wheel. I suck as a motivational speaker.

Screw it. I had nothing to do and nowhere to go, so maybe this was a sign that it was time for me to take the first step and see how much it would really cost to find a new place to live. Time to be a grown-up, right?

I drove to an apartment complex about five minutes from work—a nice place that looked clean and safe. It didn’t have super-fancy landscaping or a guarded gate or anything like that, so hopefully it wouldn’t be too expensive. I parked in front of the leasing office and tried to control the nervous flutters in my stomach, shamed by how clueless I was about the process. Normal people would learn this stuff from their parents. Or maybe even in school. There’d been a class called Life Skills when I was in high school—the sort of class that had once been called Home Ec, but wasn’t called that anymore because that would be politically incorrect or some crap like that. I’d even taken that class and made it through the part about how to boil eggs. But the section on how to do stuff like balance a checkbook and make a budget had been at the end of the semester. After I dropped out.

Sick anger swam dully through me. Where were the people who were supposed to make sure I grew up right and not a complete fuckup? My parents? Yeah, that was a joke. Mom couldn’t stand to be around me. Dad had actually been all right at basic dad stuff until he had to do it all himself. Then it was like he gave up doing anything at all. By that time I’d been self-sufficient enough to make sure I got fed and had clothes to wear. But there was more to growing up than that.

This is stupid, I chided myself. Taking a deep breath, I held it until spots swam before my eyes then let it out. “Yeah, well I’m a goddamned grown-up now,” I muttered. I picked up dead bodies for a living. I could handle this. Okay, so I got screwed in the parenting department. But there was no getting that time back. I could whine and bitch about it all I wanted, and it wouldn’t change a damn thing. Everything that happened from here on out was my own doing.

With that attitude firmly in hand, I got out of my car and headed up to the leasing office.

By mid-afternoon my positive attitude had taken a hard beating. The rent on the first place was half a month’s salary. Plus the security deposit. And fees for getting the power turned on. And if I wanted cable there was a deposit for that. I knew I could live without the TV but not without power. On top of that there was a form to fill out for the background check. . . .

I slunk out of there without filling out any applications or paperwork. I looked at three other apartment complexes, and the only one that I thought I might be able to afford had cars on blocks in the parking lot and groups of shifty-eyed young men who watched me in ominous silence as I walked up to the office. Simply visiting the place left me freaked out and scared. I couldn’t imagine living there.

Anything that isn’t total scuz is going to be too expensive , I realized with tired resignation. But I sure as hell wasn’t giving up yet. I still had options before settling for being homeless, right? I could go back and live with my dad, or I could take Randy up on his offer

Not Randy. The speed of the thought surprised me. My dad had a million issues, but if I stayed with Randy, I’d go nowhere. I’d be in that trailer, stagnating. And that was without factoring in the whole I’m-a-zombie thing.

And then there was my dad. If I rented a storage unit and bought a fridge, maybe I could store brains there. I wouldn’t have to worry about him messing with my stash again.

But I’d have to worry about him messing with me. I still wasn’t ready to face him. Not yet.

I could do what Zeke did and live out in the woods or sleep in my car. Get a gym membership so that I had a place to clean up. And be scared all the time that someone would screw with me while I was asleep. No, I needed some place with a door that locked.

Hunger coiled in my stomach, a constant background growl, reminding me of my more pressing need. Compared to needing brains, worrying about where to stay seemed almost pointless. One more day, I told myself. I can tough this out. A humorless laugh bubbled up. It wasn’t as if I really had a choice.

Or rather, I didn’t have a choice that I was willing to take.

Yet.

I ended up blowing about eighty bucks at a hotel in Tucker Point which got me a room with clean sheets and a toilet with no stains. I didn’t need anything fancy or exotic. I only needed a safe, quiet place where I could spend the next twelve hours or so doing as little as possible. No need to burn up any more brains than absolutely necessary. With that in mind I indulged in a long, hot bath, watched TV for a few hours, and then fell asleep.

When I woke up it took me nearly a minute to figure out where I was. It didn’t help that I could feel my movements becoming more sluggish and uncoordinated. The smell was starting to kick in too. Great, so I couldn’t smell anything else, but I sure as hell could smell myself.

I clenched my teeth against the coiling of hunger and headed down to the free continental breakfast that the hotel offered. Maybe if I could really fill up on regular food it would slow the rotting a bit.

There were a few other people in the lobby, but I did my best to keep my distance from them—not only to keep anyone from noticing my smell, but also because I was becoming more and more aware of the scent of brains in living people.

And it was beginning to seriously freak me the hell out.

Scarfing down a bagel managed to still one hunger, but did nothing for the one that snarled for something I didn’t have. How bad would it be if I had to go several more days like this? My gut tightened into a knot at the thought. I didn’t even want to consider that possibility. Already I craved sensation. I wanted to feel and taste properly again. I wanted music to have a tune. I wanted—desperately—to feel alive again.

I can see how someone could go rogue, the thought whispered to me, and the sudden understanding left me cold.