White Trash Zombie Apocalypse

Chapter 22

Once again I found myself grateful that I lived in a small town. I expected to have to go through all sorts of hassle to get a replacement phone, since the DMV was closed and my only photo ID was a photocopy of my actual driver’s license. But the guy at the phone store remembered me from when I’d been in a few weeks before, and I scored new phones for my dad and me with practically zero hassle. Unfortunately the brand new phone had barely any charge and, since I actually wanted to use my phone, I ended up buying a car charger as well so that I could give it some quick juice in Derrel’s Durango.

The bank people were less accommodating and weren’t keen to give me a new debit card without something vaguely official. However, they cheerfully accepted my dad’s cash for deposit, though I remembered to hold back a couple hundred. Until I had an ID, I wouldn’t be able to withdraw once it was officially deposited.

The storage unit was my last stop. I worried that Derrel would want to come in with me to help get stuff, which would have been awkward as hell since, well, y’know, freezer full of brains. I assured him I wasn’t planning on taking anything out since I didn’t have any place to put it, so there was nothing to lift or carry, and told him all I wanted to do was look for a scrapbook I thought I’d stored a couple of months ago. I spun a line about how it would ease my mind to know that something personal had survived the flood and, luckily, he bought my lie and waited in the car while I went inside. Of course then I got stupidly bummed out because there wasn’t a damn thing in my storage unit but a goddamn freezer full of brains and some pork ribs, which meant that yeah, everything we’d owned really was gone.

Still have brains at least, I told myself. Could be a helluva lot worse.

I stuffed three bags of frozen brains into each of my side pockets, then instantly regretted the fact that I now had only the thin fabric of my cargo pants between me and frozen brains. Yeah, totally comfortable.

I returned to the Durango, gave Derrel a big smile. “It was there!” I lied.

“Awesome!” he said with a wide grin. Grief of loss swept through me again. Goddammit, but the next time I got some memorabilia I was going to make sure it was stored someplace safe.

“Can you spare me a few more minutes?” I asked as I unplugged the phone from the car charger. “I need to make a phone call now that I have a bit of charge.”

“Take your time,” Derrel said in his easygoing manner. I gave him a smile and walked a few steps away from the Durango.

I dialed Pietro’s number, once again glad that it was so close to my ex-boyfriend’s number and therefore easy to remember.

He picked up on the second ring. “Angel. I’ve been waiting to hear from you. How are you? I’ve been very concerned. I only recently found out that Marcus didn’t pick you up from the shelter yesterday.”

“Hey, Pietro,” I said. “I’ve sure as hell been better. It’s cool about Marcus. I saw the paper this morning.” I shifted the phone to the other ear. “I can’t thank you enough for sending the helicopter. I don’t think my dad woulda made it if not for that.”

“I was more than happy to help,” he replied. “But I’m so very sorry you lost so much.”

“Thanks,” I said, then blew out my breath. “About Marcus. Brian told me not to say anything to anyone about the highway fight because of security. Does that include Marcus? We have enough crap between us without keeping something like that from him.”

After only a second of hesitation, Pietro replied, “That situation is settling. Use your discretion and share what you feel you need to.”

“Okay. Great,” I said, more relief than I expected washing through me. “Look, I also called to tell you I saw Philip last night. Twice.”

He fell quiet for a few seconds. I heard a click, and I had the strongest impression that he’d done something to record the call. “What happened?” he finally asked.

I told him about following Philip and what I found in the box under the steps, and about seeing him with Dr. Charish and how she gave him the paper bag with the packets of brains. Then I told him about how Philip came to find me and how I gave him my last bottle of brains.

“I don’t know why I helped him,” I confessed to Pietro. I wasn’t quite ready to share my zombie-parent-compassion theory. “I mean, he’s been nothing but a complete tool to me, but…god, he was so obviously hurting.”

“Angel, you have no idea how thankful I am that you helped him,” he said.

I blinked. “Um. You are?” I asked, baffled. “I don’t understand. Isn’t he working for Saberton?”

“Yes,” he said. “But as an operative for me.”

“Whoa,” I breathed. I fell silent for a few seconds while I wrapped my head around that. “Wait,” I said, anger flaring. “He was working for you this whole time? Even when he attacked me? Why the hell didn’t you tell me?”

I heard him exhale. “Angel, I understand how you feel,” he replied. “There was so much at stake. Is so much at stake. Everything has been on a need-to-know basis in order to protect Philip and his assignment. If the Saberton men with him ever witnessed anything from you other than your genuine reaction to him as one of them, he would be compromised…and so would you. However, as he is due to be extracted tomorrow, there’s little harm in you knowing now.”

“Oh.” I scowled. I hated the answer, but I also understood it. Damn it. “Well, he’s in really bad shape,” I told him, then narrowed my eyes as another piece of the puzzle clicked into place, and I didn’t like the picture that was forming. “Hang on,” I said. “That drop he made…” Son of a bitch. If Philip was an operative for Pietro, that had to mean the stuff he left in the box under the steps was meant for Pietro’s people. There wouldn’t have been any reason for him to be skulking around to pass something to Saberton since he was openly working with them. And good ole Dr. Charish had been there waiting for the stuff…

A brand new anger flared. “Is Charish still working for you?” I walked a little farther away from the Durango. I had a feeling I was going to be raising my voice real soon.

He drew a deep breath and released it, and when he spoke his voice sounded heavy and tired. “I reacquired her a few days after she fled the factory lab incident with you,” he told me. “She is contained and works under Ariston’s supervision.” He paused. “He needs her.”

“Contained?” I spat the word. “Well no one contained her when she was a vicious cold bitch to Philip. He begged for brains, and she jumped his ass for not rationing properly. Then she only gave him two packets when he obviously needed a lot more.” The plastic of my phone creaked, and I forced myself to relax my grip before I broke it.

“She and Dr. Nikas were temporarily at the Tucker Point lab location to monitor the data and samples from Saberton’s zombie research that Philip left at the drop site,” Pietro told me. “However, Ariston had to return to the main lab the night of your fight with the Saberton men out on Highway 1790. Heather needed medical attention, and he wanted to preserve the brain remnants for future use from the zombie she killed.” His voice was a bit too calm and even, and I had a strong feeling he was more than a little pissed off himself. But whether it was because Philip had been wronged, or because the oh-so-secret mission had been jeopardized, I couldn’t tell.

“Great, so he needs help from y’all and gets treated like dirt,” I said, scowling.

“Philip has other means of signaling that he needs assistance,” Pietro told me. “The lab itself was never a contact point, and he wouldn’t have gone there if he’d been thinking clearly.” He sounded oddly weary. “Ariston failed to foresee an interaction between Philip and Charish and so hadn’t left any instructions. Charish knew him only as a Saberton informant working on the movie set.”

My scowl deepened. “Well, y’all need to do something for him now. He’s hurting bad and twitchy.”

“Considering the current circumstances, I’ll get word to him that we’re going to move his extraction up for later today. You said he did get stabilizer?”

“Oh, the stuff that keeps him from shaking?”

“Right. That’s Ariston’s formulation to ease the pain somewhat and keep Philip functional.”

“Yeah. He had two vials. One kinda yellow and the other a milky blue. He drank half of one when he was with me.” I wanted to get pissed off again at the reminder of how Charish had fucked Philip up, but it was getting a bit tiring being so mad all the time.

I thought I heard a low intake of breath. “Angel, are you certain one was a milky blue?”

“Totally.”

“And which one did he drink from last night?” The tension in his voice was palpable.

“The yellow.” I frowned. “Why?”

“All right. There still might be time,” he said, almost as if to himself.

“Pietro? What’s going on?”

“The yellow vial is most likely stabilizer,” he said. “The color varies with the batch as the formulation is improved. It’s the milky blue one that concerns me since that’s the color of the parasite stimulant that Ariston sometimes uses for testing. I’m no doctor, but I don’t think it would react well with Philip’s already unstable parasite.”

Fucking hell. Had Charish given him the wrong thing on purpose? I knew in my bones that Dr. Nikas hadn’t messed up the vials.

“It could simply be a coincidence, but I’m giving orders for his immediate extraction,” he continued. “Thank you for calling me, Angel. This has been very helpful.”

And with that he hung up. I stared down at the phone while I muttered a few nasty words, then headed back to the Durango.

“Where to now?” Derrel asked. “Back to the high school?”

I nodded. “My dad’s probably wondering what’s taking me so long.”

It was a few miles. Longer than I would’ve wanted to walk, but only a couple of minutes to drive. “You can let me out by the gym door,” I said as we got close.

“Sure thing.” He glanced my way as he pulled to a stop. “Look, you guys are welcome to come stay at my place tonight if you want. It’s not big but may be better than here.”

I cocked an eyebrow at him. “I dunno. Do you have roving bands of roaches patrolling the halls? I’m kinda used to those now.”

His face twisted into a mock grimace. “Unfortunately, I can’t offer roach guards. But I do have a disdainful cat. Will that work?”

“Thanks, partner. I’ll ask my dad what he wants to do,” I said with a grateful smile. “I have your number if we decide to take you up on it.”

“You’re welcome, Angel,” he said. “Give me a call later, or you’ll get more texts than you know what to do with.”

“I will!” I promised, laughing. I leaned over and gave him a hug, then slipped out of the car and headed inside.

There was no sign of my dad in the gym, and the plastic bag with his clothes and jacket was gone. My heart hammered as I jumped to the worst conclusion: Kidnapped by Saberton. Alarm rose as I swept my gaze around the room again, as if doing so would magically reveal that he’d been hiding. I took a breath and tried to convince myself that, with my dad, it could just as easily be that he left on his own through sheer bullheadedness.

The tool-stealing teenage refugee was flaked out on the floor in front of the TV.

“Hey, do you know where my dad is?” I asked.

His eyes flicked to me and then right back to the screen. “He left with someone.”

My scowl deepened at the lack of useful information, and I moved between him and the TV. “What kind of someone?” I snarled.

He jerked his gaze up to mine, an outraged response on his lips, but it died when his eyes met mine. I was fairly well tanked up and oh-so-very-much not in the mood for bullshit, especially when it came to my dad.

His throat bobbed as he gulped. “A man. About thirty, I think. Short dark hair, on crutches. Your dad knew him.”

Marcus. I bet he loved faking an injury. The tension drained out of me. “Oh, cool. Thanks!” Okay, so the thought of my dad and Marcus having guy-time together wasn’t exactly comforting but it was better than the other theories I’d concocted. I yanked my phone from my pocket to call Marcus then scowled at the flashing battery symbol. Crap. Obviously five minutes on the car charger wasn’t worth a whole lot.

“Angel!”

I spun to see the woman who’d given me the ride to the Coroner’s Office striding toward me. “Your boyfriend was just here,” she announced with a smile, and I had to bite down on the automatic denial that Marcus was my boyfriend. “I told him I didn’t know when you’d be back,” she continued, “but he wanted to go ahead and get your dad settled. He left a note for you.” She thrust a folded piece of paper at me.

“Thanks,” I said, taking it. She gave me another bright smile and then hurried off. I unfolded the paper and read.

Angel—

Your dad’s safe with me. Please call when you get this note. You can both stay at my place as long as you want.

Marcus

I peered at a stray mark before his name. It looked as if he’d started to write an “L” and thought better of it. Love? Exhaling, I refolded the paper and stuffed it into a pocket. Stay with Marcus. It wasn’t an ideal solution, especially considering our last conversation, but it was a lot better than remaining in the shelter. And I liked Derrel too much to inflict my dad’s permanent company upon him. My mouth twitched in wry amusement. At least Marcus was already used to the ornery bastard.

As concern for my dad evaporated, worry for Philip flooded in. Now that I had a clue as to his real situation, I wanted to see for myself that Pietro’s people got him out okay, and if they hadn’t yet, to get some brains to him. I could call Marcus as soon as I did so. Pietro had said Philip was working on the movie, so now I just needed to figure out how to sneak into where they were filming.

Hurrying to the door, I almost ran smack into Jane Pennington as she came in, and it was only a quick maneuver by one of her staffers that kept us from all falling in a heap.

“Angel!” Her eyes widened in surprise as she recovered her balance and steadied herself on her cane. “I didn’t know you were here,” she said, genuine concern in her voice. “Pietro told me he got you out, so I thought you’d be somewhere besides in the shelter.” Brow furrowed, she swept her gaze around the gym with its cots and motley inhabitants.

I winced. “Yeah, it’s been pretty crazy,” I said. “We spent last night here, but I think we’re gonna be staying with Marcus. For a couple of days, at least.” I could unpack my feelings about all of that later.

“I hope everything works out,” she said. “I’m so sorry for your losses.” She looked like she was going to say more, but one of her aides, a middle-aged man with sharp features and a serious expression touched her arm.

“I’m sorry, Jane,” he said, “but they’re about to start filming the crowd scene. We can come back here to speak to the refugees afterward.”

Indecision swept over her face. It was clear she cared deeply about my situation, but it was also obvious that she really wanted to see the movie zombies. It was such a totally human and awesome and non-congresswomanly display that I had to choke back a laugh, and I sure as hell liked her even more for it.

“Hey, is it okay if I tag along?” I said, making the decision moot for her. Besides, this would get me behind the barricades so I could make sure Philip was being taken care of. And if Pietro’s people hadn’t yet reached him, I had two chunks of frostbite on my thighs—or rather, two pockets full of thawing brains—that might be of use.

Jane grinned. “Absolutely!”

We left the gym and headed toward the barricades across the gaps in the chain-link fence surrounding the football field. Beyond them, the movie crew positioned lighting and numerous cameras while a whole horde of zombies chilled out, waiting for the start of the filming. As I’d hoped, I had no trouble getting onto the set by following in Jane’s wake. No questions asked.

The extras clustered around Jane in a strange meet-and-greet zombie fest. At first I wondered why they were so enthusiastic, then I remembered she’d been instrumental in assuring that laid off factory workers were given the jobs. The unaffected grin on her face told me she was in utter heaven as she peered at makeup and laughed at outrageous shambling. I sure as hell hoped Pietro was dating her because he actually liked her and not for some ulterior purpose.

The pace of activity increased as the crew members readied for filming. Makeup people touched up zombie rot and prosthetic gore, and other crew circulated through the crowd with water bottles and some of the white-wrapped bars. Apparently shambling was hard work, I thought with amusement.

A sudden shiver of unease ran through me for no reason that I could name, even as an odd noise like soft moaning rippled through the crowd of extras. Mildly weirded out, I surreptitiously palmed a handful of brains from a baggie in my side pocket and got it into my mouth without anyone seeing. At least I hoped not.

The something’s-wrong feeling increased as I scanned the area. Though filming hadn’t started, extras began to stagger or flail their arms or sway in place. Definitely not normal. I downed another handful of brains as I slipped through the crowd, again glad that I was skinny enough to do so with ease.

However, I was less than thrilled by my lack of height since I couldn’t see a damn thing. I went still and lifted my head, scenting the air and not caring how strange it looked. Hell, I was surrounded by a bunch of people pretending to be undead. I was the normal one in this crowd.

Yet my sniffing only confused me more. I caught hints of the distinctive zombie-rot odor, but it came from multiple sources. Not good.

Another weird ripple of unease passed through me, once again accompanied by a bizarre shift in behavior of the extras. Unnerving groans came from all around me, and a fake zombie nearby staggered and sank to the ground, hands clawing at her face and throat. My frown deepened as the latex peeled away, revealing a square stick-on patch on the side of her neck surrounded by faintly grey skin that didn’t look made up. Baffled, I swung my gaze around, caught a glimpse of one of the makeup people holding a cardboard box in her hand with what looked like more of the strange patches in it along with some of the snack bars that had been handed out earlier.

I steadied my gaze on the makeup artist, and my heart skipped a beat. It was the petite black woman who’d stolen my blood at the boat launch. A makeup artist who draws blood?

Realization slammed in.

The subjects. Philip was undercover with Saberton, and he’d said he needed to stay close to the subjects. I stared around in shock and no small amount of horror as bits and pieces began to fall into place. The extras were being used as test subjects by the Saberton Corporation.

And now bits of the conversation with Dr. Nikas lit up.

Fake brains are the holy grail.

Dangerous to test them on zombies since it risks changing the parasite—like what ruined Philip.

A way to make temporary zombies…

Oh my god. The stick-on patches. The too-real looking grey skin. The snack bars. Some sort of research patch on a temporary zombie being fed fake brains? It made a horrible and sick sense. Saberton was temporarily zombifying the extras in order to test fake brains on them. No one would blink twice at zombie extras actually looking a little like zombies for a while.

Righteous anger flared—not only at the Saberton associates but at Pietro’s team as well. Instead of putting a stop to it and trying to protect these people, they’d had Philip remain undercover so that he could steal whatever findings Saberton came up with and pass them over to Dr. Nikas to use in his own research. People didn’t matter.

My gut tightened. Brenda Barnes, the cardiomyopathy victim, most likely died from this testing. The adhesive on her neck. It fit.

An extra staggered in circles nearby, confusion in his eyes turning sharp and feral. Something was going wrong with the temporary zombies, causing bizarre actions and actual zombie-like behavior. Then I felt it. With no obvious cause, a weird, twitchy unease touched with hunger permeated me. Philip. Call it a zombie-mama’s intuition, but I had a bad feeling Philip was the source of the problem with the extras. He was somewhere in this crowd, going nuts and throwing off some sort of weird feeding frenzy pheromone. Damn.

Turning, I pushed through the crowd of temp zombies around Jane, elbowed one sharply out of the way as it reached for her. “Jane! You need to get out of here.”

Her brow furrowed as she looked around for some obvious source of danger. “What? Why?”

Crap. She probably thought the extras were still simply being in character, giving her a little demo. Yeah, well she’s gonna get one hell of a demo if she doesn’t get out of here! But what the hell was I supposed to tell her?

“Um, there’s a labor dispute, and I think there’s about to be a riot!” I blurted, then fought back a cringe. Holy crap, but that was without a doubt the dumbest thing I’d ever said. “Look, you need to get off the set,” I insisted.

A small frown of doubt touched her mouth as she took in the increasingly erratic behavior of the extras. “Yes, I suppose you’re right.”

I shot a look to her aide. “Get her out of here or…or I’ll tell Pietro you didn’t get her out of here!” Too late I realized the threat was pointless if he didn’t know how much power Pietro held.

Fortunately he at least seemed to understand that the crowd was growing unruly for no discernible reason. He nodded and slipped an arm around Jane’s waist on the opposite side from her cane. “I’ve got her,” he told me, then looked to Jane. “Let’s get you to the car, Dr. Pennington.” He shepherded her toward the barricades, and I stayed long enough to make absolutely sure she was really getting out of the crowd before I turned back to the mess.

Crew members and staff sought to regain order but were losing the battle as the bizarre rowdiness increased. Distantly I heard someone yell to get the cameras running. What the hell? I thought in outrage, though a sensible part of me totally understood that any director worth a shit would want to film a crowd of zombies going nuts. Besides, the director probably had no idea what the real deal was.

I fought my way free from the thick of the crowd, continuing to scan and scent. My gaze passed over a black-haired woman, then went right back to her. She stood tall, scanning the crowd, and didn’t seem at all disturbed by the craziness around her.

I shoved a stumbling extra out of my way as I got closer to her. “Heather?” I asked in disbelief as I peered at her, noting on closer inspection that she was wearing a dark wig over her blonde hair.

Her attention rested on me, and a smile touched her mouth. “Hey, Angel,” she murmured, then went back to scanning the crowd. “I’m in with Mr. Ivanov. Can’t thank you enough.” She looked calm and oh-so-very ready for action.

“That’s awesome,” I said. I figured her minimal disguise was to help keep her off the Saberton radar. “You’re looking for Philip too?” I mentally prayed for her to tell me they’d already found and extracted him, but she merely gave a sharp nod.

“Yep. Me and Kyle—my trainer—were nearby when the call came in,” she told me. “Others are on their way.”

Crap. Philip hadn’t been extracted yet, adding confirmation to my gut feeling that he was the source of the problem with the berserk extras.

I felt his influence—a growing unnatural hunger accompanied by waves of unease, like insects crawling in my skull and sending twitches through my muscles. Unlike the poor extras who didn’t have a clue what they were experiencing, I didn’t have much trouble controlling the compulsion to feed, especially since I was fairly tanked. Yet along with the undesirable urge came something else—a strong sense of Philip, as though I knew where he was without knowing.

I lifted my head and scented the air again. There, to my left. I slipped through the increasingly wild crowd, surrounded by shouts and cries that were far too realistic to be part of a movie.

A fake zombie reached for me, confusion and anger warring it out on his makeup-covered features. I dodged the grab only to be forced to spin away from another who lunged toward me, lips pulled back from rotted teeth. For an instant I wondered if that was makeup or if the extra actually had poor oral hygiene. The latter, I decided as the few teeth in his head snapped together on nothing.

Baring my own—far better—teeth, I shoved the fake zombie back and continued moving toward where my newfound intuitive radar told me Philip was. Another zombie let out a gurgling moan, and a heavier waft of rot hit me like a fist. Shit. This wasn’t one of the extras. This was Tim Bell of the broken nose, and he looked bad, eyes wild and desperate, and flesh shredding for real from his clawed hands. A young woman with only light zombie makeup stood beside him, eyes wide in confusion, but not acting erratically. Maybe not a test subject?

Tim let out a rasping snarl, then grabbed the woman’s arm in a hard grip. She let out a shocked wail of pain, confusion shifting to a perfectly understandable fear. I could easily smell her brains, which meant it had to be driving Tim absolutely bonkers.

“Heather!” I yelled, hoping the woman was within earshot, even as I kicked Tim’s knee as hard as I could. He staggered and let out a bellow, but to my relief he released the young woman. Snarling, he turned on me, a scary, dangerous expression coming over his face. In my peripheral vision I saw other extras grow more agitated as he focused his fury on me. Great. Goddamn pheromones all over the damn place.

The young woman fled through the crowd, but in her place Heather appeared. Her sharp gaze took in the situation and no doubt noted that this particular zombie was waaaay different from the other misbehaving extras.

“Whatcha got?” she asked calmly. Her eyes never left Tim as she pulled out a collapsible police baton and snapped it open.

“He’s a real one,” I told her quickly. “Philip made him, and he’s all messed up.” Tim was obviously hungry, and though I had pockets full of thawing brains, I wasn’t about to waste them on this motherfucker unless absolutely necessary. “The other one Philip made might be somewhere in here too.” Crap. And Philip. Like a nest of pissed off snakes in my belly, I sensed him escalating out of control.

“Oh, right,” she said, brandishing the baton. “We’re supposed to get those two as well as well as Philip.”

I took a step back as she squared off against the very pissed-off Tim. “I need to find Philip,” I said, feeling the urgency of it rise with every passing second. “You got this one?”

“Yep,” she replied with an adrenaline-charged smile. “I got this.”

I gave her one last dubious look, then continued to weave through the seething crowd. More extras grabbed at me, but thankfully, they only seemed to have a touch of the full zombie strength and speed, so a few well-placed kicks and elbows got me past them. I shoved an extra dressed as a rotting cheerleader out of the way, then breathed a curse as I caught sight of Roland, the other Philip-made real zombie. He didn’t have any makeup on, and he didn’t need it. His head swiveled from side to side, lips curled back and teeth snapping together repeatedly. Saliva strung from the corner of his mouth and his eyes shone with madness.

With a roar, he charged one of the camera crew who was trying vainly to restore some order in his little corner of the fiasco. I sucked in a breath. I knew there was no way I’d be able to intervene in time to save the crew member. Yet before Roland could close the distance, a stocky man wearing a shirt lettered “Security” lifted a gun and fired with a familiar whuuush sound.

A tranq gun.

A yellow tuft bloomed on Roland’s chest. He took two more steps and then crumpled onto his face. The man with the tranq gun lowered it, and I got another start of surprise. This was the asshole who’d stepped on my hand out at the boat launch. Turning, I quickly lost myself in the crowd. I didn’t want to get tranqed myself, and I was more than happy to leave him to deal with the neutralized Roland.

My zombie-mama heart lurched, and I froze as an inhuman, snarling bellow cut through the crowd noise. I ducked past another cluster of people and around the corner of the building that housed the concession stand, just in time to see Philip take a Saberton security man by the head and smash it into the cinderblock wall.

Well, shit, I thought. This is bad.