White Trash Zombie Gone Wild (13 page)

Though Tucker Point was the primary hotbed of Zombie Fest hoopla, the site of the Fifth Annual Deep South Zombie Fest was about fifteen minutes east of the city on sixty acres of former farmland owned by Ms. Charlotte Glaspy. Her father had bought it almost twenty years ago with the intention of building an outlet mall, but had been nice enough to choke to death on a strawberry before cutting down a single tree. Ms. Charlotte, his only heir, apparently decided that an inheritance of several million dollars was plenty and saw no need to add to it by messing up a really nice chunk of land. With plenty of open pasture and wooded areas, the Glaspy property soon became a popular spot for a variety of outdoor concerts and festivals.

And, to my shame, I'd never once been out there despite living in the area my entire life. Fortunately, a multitude of signs between the highway and the festival grounds made it easy to figure out where to go. Dozens of people in zombie makeup and reflective vests directed cars down back roads, toward broad fields, and into neat rows. Once parked, I joined the line to get in and grinned up at the awesome entrance gate—a barrier ten feet high and fifty feet long that resembled a pile of hundreds of rotting zombies. Animatronic heads moved, and arms reached out toward the arriving crowd. At the very top, actors in zombie getup crawled and moaned and made grabs at people. A ragged tunnel cut right through the middle of the pile and led to the Fest itself.

When I managed to drag my ooo-ahh gaze from the gate, I did a double-take at a woman in line who looked as if her face was falling off. She wasn't the only one with a kickass makeup job. A teen girl had gore dripping down her throat and wiggly intestines poking out of her stomach. A man with salt-and-pepper hair gestured with a skeletal hand that still had bits of flesh clinging to it. It took me several confused seconds to realize he was an amputee wearing the bone-and-gore hand in place of a prosthetic.

Fortunately, I was hungry enough to verify that all these people in amazing makeup really
were
humans with nice juicy human brains. If not for that handy little superpower, I'd have been hard pressed to tell they weren't rotting. It was too bad Nick hadn't been able to finish my makeup before getting that phone call. And what the hell was that about anyway? I intended to damn well figure out what happened.

At the gate, a round-faced man in a black DSZF T-shirt smiled as he took people's tickets but, when I handed over my VIP pass, his face positively lit up.

“Welcome to the Zombie Fest-er, Miss Crawford!” He pulled a blue and green lanyard out of a box, looped it through the hole in the top of the pass then slipped it over my head with a flourish. “This pass gets you into the VIP Graveyard!” He gestured with excitement toward an enormous white tent off to the right beyond the gate. “VIP members
only!
Plenty of free food and drink as well as trained experts who'll help with makeup and costumes.
Plus
, you get to have your picture taken with Justine Chu.” He quivered in glee. “Oh, and don't forget the sneak preview of the ‘documentary'”—he even made air quotes—“
Zombies Are Among Us!!
You can see the trailer in the Graveyard today at two and four, and there'll be a special screening of the whole thing tomorrow.”

With that, my VIP pass and I made our way through the gate. It looked as if half of Tucker Point was already inside with the other half waiting to get in, and twice as many out-of-towners. Less than a third or so were in costume or makeup, but everyone seemed to be in the spirit of things.

To my left stood dozens of booths selling merchandise or food, with a large Bear's Den booth dominating the pack. Several delightfully cheesy carnival rides occupied the center of the main Fest area, and a large and deliberately crude sign pointed beyond the rides to “Hunting Grounds.” And that barely scratched the surface of the spectacle. It was as if the Fest and studio people had started with one of those great big church fairs with all the rides and crafts and game booths, added a dash of Louisiana Crawfish festival with beer trucks and every kind of amazing food, then piled on zombies, paintball, and Hollywood. It was insane and utterly awesome.

I checked at an information booth for the times of the afternoon hunts and learned that prep didn't start for another hour and a half. Good. That meant I had time to track down Andrew Saber before I went searching for Randy, Judd, and Coy. And I knew right where to start.

Like a fancy white circus tent with six peaks, the VIP Graveyard sprawled over enough real estate to house a jumbo jet. Framing the entrance were two humongous statues locked in mortal combat: one a fierce huntress with a machete and the other a rotting high school football player.

I half-expected to be turned away despite my VIP pass, since I hardly looked like a Very Important anything. But the security guard simply flashed a UV light at my pass then waved me in. I walked between the statues and stepped from bright afternoon into an incredible moonlit graveyard. Clever lighting transformed the top of the tent into starry blackness, and a full “moon” high in the center cast pale light over everything. Props, plants, and landscaping combined to create a realistic and creepy graveyard about the size of a tennis court and ringed by a wrought iron fence. People milled beyond it, crowding around exhibits and clustering in social groups. I followed a gravel path through the graveyard and a creaky gate, and then into the main affair of food and fun.

A scan of the other VIPs showed me that this was the Rich People tent, no doubt about it. Perfect teeth and smooth skin, trim bodies honed beneath a surgeon's knife or a hot-yet-stern trainer's eyes, jeans that cost what I made in a week, elegant manicures on both genders, and not a split end or bad dye job in sight. Even the people in costume were in niiiiiice costumes, hunters and zombies alike. I also noted way too many men making idiots of themselves over actress and zombie-hunting heroine Justine Chu, which proved once again that money couldn't cure stupid. Then again, she was plenty gorgeous—almond-shaped eyes, high cheekbones and full lips, and an athletic figure that still had enviable curves. Fortunately for her, two crew members kept the line moving and discreetly intervened whenever it looked as if a fan was getting a bit too adoring.

I spied Andrew near a giveaway table stocked with zombie farmer dolls riding Saberton farm equipment. To my amusement, he was damn near as popular as Justine even though he wasn't
quite
as pretty. I spared a moment to watch him deftly handle a variety of wannabe business partners as well as several women who were wannabe Mrs. Andrew Sabers, each angling to become the heiress-by-marriage of the Saber fortune.

Oh, if they only knew they were fawning over a real zombie.

I helped myself to a sparkling juice and several way-yummy crawfish canapés, and watched Andrew in my peripheral vision as he talked to people and smiled the kind of smile you put on when you don't feel like smiling. Standing a dozen feet to his left was a woman in a crisp pantsuit and a serious expression. Thea Braddock, the Saberton head of security from New York. During our raid, Pierce had spared her life because he considered her a decent person and believed she'd been unaware of the atrocities inflicted upon zombies in the Saberton subbasement.

Her gaze skimmed over me and stopped. She recognized me from the New York showdown. I gave her a polite nod. Her eyes narrowed, but she offered a micronod in return which clearly said
I'm watching you, and if you pull any stunts I'll flatten you.
Off to Andrew's right stood another Saberton bodyguard, Tom Snyder, dressed in a tailored dark suit. As far as I knew, he hadn't been involved in the zombie lab shit. Good thing. If he was one of the fuckers who'd helped torture and abuse zombies, I'd be starting a whole different kind of zombie hunt at this shindig. In any case, neither of them knew their boss was a zombie.

The gaggle of hopefuls around Andrew finally moved on, and his smile dropped away as if it weighed a hundred pounds. He reached behind a sign on the table, retrieved a blender bottle and gave it a shake. He took a long drink—of brain shake, I figured—then closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose as if he had a headache. My stomach growled, and I gave it a pat.
Hush now, Mama will give you a brain packet as soon as I have a little privacy.

I sidled to within a couple of feet of him, well aware that Thea Braddock had her eye on me. “Ohhh, Mr. Saber!” I purred in a mockery of the women who'd been fawning over him. He startled and snapped his eyes open. “You're so handsome,” I gushed and fluttered my eyelashes as he glared. “And RICH!”

Braddock moved toward us but stopped when Andrew waved her off. She eased back but continued to give me the stinkeye.

“You're a laugh a minute, Angel,” Andrew sneered, putting on a scowly face which was as much a show for onlookers as it was directed at me. It wouldn't do for the Saberton security peeps to see two supposed enemies acting cozy. He continued more quietly, “Did you get my message?”

Crap. That must have been the text that came in when I was talking to Nick. “Things were hectic after you called. What's up?”

“I found out that my mother is flying to Portland today.”

Double Triple Crap. I nibbled at my canapé. “Kristi Charish is in Portland.” And, as of yesterday, so were Pierce, Marcus, Brian, and Kyle.

“From what I've heard, Charish has notes and documentation from the Dallas lab.”

“So?” I frowned. Surely a lab like that had copies of documentation all over the place. “Were all the backups destroyed? And why doesn't she just FedEx them to Nicole?”

“I'm not in the loop, but it's clear there's more going on. When Charish esca—” He stopped and cleared his throat. “When she disappeared the week before your people raided the Dallas lab, she took files with her. This is the first we've heard of her since then.”

Escaped?
That was damn interesting. Sounded like Saberton had been holding her as a captive researcher in their Dallas zombie lab. I'd last seen Kristi Charish right before New York, when she was working with Dr. Nikas—as
our
captive researcher. Saberton was responsible for her escape from the Tribe, and I would have bet anything that she'd pounce on the chance to work with Saberton—and their resources. Orrrrrr maybe she
had
pounced on the chance and then, once she discovered that she wasn't going to be top dog at the Dallas lab, got pissy and had to be locked down. That sounded like the Kristi Charish I knew and loathed. “Are you telling me Saberton had no idea where she went after she fled Dallas?”

“That's right. I notified Naomi yesterday when Charish contacted my mother. That's all I know.” He took another long pull from the bottle and gave a barely perceptible shudder. I doubted it was because of the taste of the brains in his “protein drink.” Way more likely that he was having a tough time adjusting to the scent of so many fresh live brains around him. I remembered how crazy hungry I'd been as a new zombie. Poor dude was going through the same shit. I could sympathize since my own brain hunger clamored as if I hadn't eaten in days and days. If it wasn't for the pesky fact that Ms. Braddock would have me face down on the grass with a knee on my back in the blink of an eye, I'd probably try to snag the bottle out of his hand and chug it down.

I lowered my voice more. “Top off more than you think you need when you have to go out in public.”

His hand tightened on the bottle, and his eyes flashed in frustrated outrage at his situation. Yet he took another long slug. “What the hell am I supposed to do if my mother brings Charish to New York?” he muttered.

I crammed the rest of the canapé into my mouth, chewed and swallowed before speaking. “You get up in the morning, take a shit, eat breakfast, work out, shower, or whatever the hell you usually do, then go to work and do the same crap you've always done. Charish has worked around zombies, but she's only human. She can't smell brains and doesn't have any superpowers that'll tell her you're
different.
”

Andrew didn't look convinced. “No one has suspected so far.” He took another drink from the bottle as if drawing reassurance. “If I get outed, I'll end up as a test subject. My mother is heartless.”

“No one's outing anyone,” I said with absolute certainty. Too much at stake. For me as well. If Andrew got outed, it would push the Tribe closer to exodus. “No one will suspect.” I shut up and plastered on a bland smile as Braddock approached.

She touched Andrew's arm. “Mr. Saber? You're on in ten minutes, and the promoter would like to go over a few things with you beforehand.”

Andrew nodded. “Thank you, Ms. Braddock.”

Braddock gave me another pointed once-over then returned to her former position.

I finished my juice and tossed my cup into a trash barrel. My bladder politely informed me that I was going to need to do something soon about all the juice I drank, which in turn reminded me of Andrew's porta-potty call. “How do you know Grayson Seeger?”

“Only in passing from Saberton's association with the movie.”

I gave Andrew a stiff smile. “You mean Saberton's abuse of extras for unethical zombie experiments?”

He glared at me. “I mean Saberton's position as a financial backer to one of his productions.”

“Whatever.” I rolled my eyes. “Why did he want a meeting?”

Andrew's face bunched in a perplexed frown. “I don't know. He said it was an important deal that I didn't want to miss. I agreed to meet him for lunch. But . . .”

“He got whacked before he could give you the deal of a lifetime.” My frown echoed his. More clues and bits of info, but still nothing resembling a full picture. Yet. “Whatcha doing in ten minutes?”

He scowled, and this time it wasn't for show. “Promo for the
Zombies Are Among Us!!
documentary. Part of the deal with the production company. Stupid shit.”