White Trash Zombie Apocalypse

Chapter 20

Hungry, I detoured to the small fridge in the coach’s office where I’d stashed my bottles. Both were still there, to my relief, probably because I’d marked them in big black marker “Prescription! Do not drink!” After a brief internal debate I went ahead and got one out and chugged it down. With the ongoing zombie weirdness, I figured it’d be best if I wasn’t hungry.

My dad was still snoring on his cot when I returned to the gym. I climbed onto mine and managed a couple of hours of horrible sleep before the sirens from a passing ambulance jerked me awake. One of the great things about living in the country was the quiet. Of course the drawback was that I hadn’t learned to tune out the sounds of city traffic—even a city as small as Tucker Point.

Though exhausted, my mind whirled with worry. Getting back to sleep proved impossible, and I eventually gave up trying and stared at the damn ceiling until my bladder insisted I make my way to the bathroom. I did my business and was almost back to my cot when I spotted a figure standing by the wall on the other side of my dad’s cot. At first I thought it was one of the other refugees. Then his head jerked.

I sucked in a sharp breath. Goddam Philip again. “You get the hell away from my dad,” I told him, my voice low and shaking with intensity. How had he gotten past the guard? If he’d hurt Santa, I was going to be one pissed zombie-mama.

He spread his arms, hands open, palms toward me, the jerky shaking evident despite the gloom. “Come with me,” he said, hoarse roughness in place of the ugly rasp of before.

“Get away from my dad,” I repeated.

To my surprise he obliged by taking a step back toward the wall, keeping his hands in clear sight. “Please. Come with me.”

I clearly heard the blend of intensity and desperation in his voice. He was dangerous and so not fooling around, but the “please” drew me. Shit. If he was about to do some nasty crap to me, I didn’t want it to happen in here where someone else could get hurt or kids might see. “Outside.”

To my relief he gave a single nod. “This way,” he replied, barely audible, tilting his head toward the door at the far end of the gym, opposite the main entrance. My relief ratcheted up a smidge as he led me through the door and down a short flight of stairs to an exit. If he’d come in this way, hopefully it meant Santa was all right.

My pulse slammed as I followed him, and I breathed a silent prayer of thanks that I drank the bottle of brains only a few hours earlier. I was far from fully tanked, but at least I wasn’t hungry.

He exited the building, then moved behind the hedge along the back wall and crouched, fisting his hands on his knees.

I stayed far enough back that he couldn’t reach out and grab me. “What do you want?”

A shudder wracked him. “What did you see?”

“Yeah, right,” I said with a snort. “Why should I tell you anything? So you know whether or not to kill me?” I smiled sweetly and spread my hands. “I didn’t see anything at all. How’s that?”

Even in the low light I could see the grimace that twisted his features. “You…shouldn’t…tell me.” He shook his head as though trying to clear confusion, then pulled two small glass vials from his pocket—one half-full of a milky-yellow liquid, the other full of a milky-blue one. His hands trembled as he uncapped the half-full vial and downed the contents.

“What the hell is that?” I asked, scowling. “What’s going on?”

“Stabilizer.” He held up a heavily tremoring hand. “For this.”

I consciously resisted the urge to move to him, clasp his hand between mine to soothe him. Pursing my lips, I regarded him for a long, silent moment. “Dr. Charish did that to you?” I finally asked.

Giving a single nod, he leaned his head back against the wall and closed his eyes.

I took a very cautious step forward. “Do you need brains?” I asked quietly.

He didn’t open his eyes. “Yes,” he said in a cracked whisper, tinged with a desperation I didn’t think he intended to reveal.

“Stay here,” I told him. “I’ll be right back.” I didn’t wait for a response, simply hurried back inside and to the little fridge and my last bottle. Holy crap, but I really hoped I wasn’t making a godawful mistake. Every fiber of logic in me said to let him rot, literally. He’d been a complete ass to me since I’d turned him, and it was crazy to believe that as soon as I gave him the brains he wanted he wouldn’t do something ugly.

I grabbed the bottle, then headed out again. Philip had shifted to sit with his back against the wall, his head lowered, in that moment looking like anything but a badass zombie soldier. I unscrewed the bottle top and crouched by him.

“Here, drink this,” I said.

He lifted his head, pain flickering over his face as if the simple movement cost him tremendous effort. “I shouldn’t…be here,” he croaked, making no move to take the bottle.

Scowling, I plopped my ass down beside him. “You’re here now. Drink.”

After another few seconds of hesitation, he finally took the bottle from me and slugged down half the contents. A wave of confusion passed over his face as he lowered the bottle.

I had plenty of my own confusion going. My zombie-baby had been a complete and utter asshole, but there was also no denying that something was seriously wrong with him. There was no damn way he could’ve faked the level of anxiety and despair I’d seen in him earlier when he begged Dr. Charish for assistance. The urge to help him kept hammering at me, no matter how hard I tried to focus on the bad things he’d done, and would likely still try to do to me.

“Drink the rest,” I muttered.

His gaze skittered to mine, lines of pain deep in his face. “Have…more?”

I hesitated. No damn way was I telling him about my stash. “Not with me,” I hedged. “But you can have the rest of this.”

He remained still for another few seconds, as if running through his options, then lifted the bottle with both hands and drank another few gulps. He recapped it with a couple of inches of brain smoothie still in it and set it beside me. “Thank you.”

Well, that was a whole lot nicer than the “Fuck you” he’d given me down at the boat launch. “What’s going on?” I asked. “Why did you come here?” I didn’t think it was only to score some brains, even though he’d obviously needed them desperately.

“I shouldn’t be here,” he said again, then drew a breath that verged on a sob. “Angel, it hurts.” A shudder wracked him. “Oh, god.”

I put a hand on his arm. “Philip, I can get you help,” I said quietly, suppressing a shiver at the stark pain in his voice. “Please. Let me—”

“No!” He drew in a sharp, noisy breath. “No,” he said again, shaking his head. “I can’t. You…no.”

Annoyance at the stoic bullshit flared. “Great, so stay fucked up,” I retorted. “You’re a goddamn idiot.”

Philip dropped his chin to his chest, shoulders shaking and breath coming as if weeping silently, though there were no tears.

“Damn it,” I muttered. Sighing, I slipped an arm around him and pulled his head to my shoulder. Stooooooopid parasite. It felt right, but what the hell was I doing?

To my surprise he seemed to ease, breathing becoming a bit more regular. “Shouldn’t be…here,” he murmured.

“Yeah yeah yeah,” I said with a roll of my eyes. “You said that already. Now shut up about it.”

He closed his eyes, tremors easing more. I realized I was stroking his hair, though I didn’t remember lifting my hand to do so.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured after a moment.

For which part? I wanted to ask. There’d certainly been a lot of bad shit. But he was calm now, and I didn’t want him upset and unstable again.

“Yeah, well, you owe me a new jacket,” I muttered.

He lifted his head and looked into my face, eyes nowhere near as confused and pain-clouded as a few minutes earlier. “I have to go.”

“Sure,” I said. “But drink the rest of the bottle first.”

Scrubbing a hand over his face, he shifted to sit fully back against the wall again. He picked up the bottle, looked at the remaining sludgy-brown liquid in it. “When can you get more?”

Was he asking because he wanted me to get him more? Or was he concerned that I’d have to go without?

I avoided a direct answer. “I’ll be okay. My people will take care of me,” I said, with the heavy implication that his people obviously didn’t. “Drink the rest.”

He gave a single tight nod, then nearly ripped the cap off before downing the remainder.

“Why were you dressed up as an extra for the movie?” I asked.

He rubbed at his eyes and set the bottle down. “Have to stay close to the subjects,” he muttered. “Easiest way.”

“Subjects? Of what?” I peered at him, eyes narrowed.

He blinked and looked over at me. “Shit,” he murmured, as if suddenly realizing he’d said too much. He gave his head a sharp shake. “Nothing. Forget I said it.” He paused. “I’m serious. You need to forget it.”

Yeah, like that was going to happen. His shoulder was warm against mine, and I didn’t want to lose the contact with him, but I also knew damn well he was super dangerous and working for people who didn’t have warm fuzzies for me. Reluctantly, I pulled away from him and stood.

“You’re better now,” I made myself say. “You need to leave.”

A barely audible moan escaped him as I moved away, but he pushed himself to his feet, gave a slight nod. “I’m going.”

I slapped down the urge to tell him I’d find a way to give him more help. “You owe me,” I told him instead. “I mean it. Don’t come back around here.”

A wave of what sure as hell looked like sadness passed over his face before his expression hardened. He straightened, looked down his nose at me. “I got what I wanted,” he said, then turned and headed off along the wall behind the hedge.

Confused, I watched him go, unable to shake the feeling I was missing something obvious.