White Trash Zombie Gone Wild (15 page)

“For the last demonstration, it's your turn to see if you can trick her,” the announcer continued from the edge of the stage. “Dante will take her offstage so she can't peek.”

Dante?
At least he looked like a Dante. Man and dog disappeared through the back stage curtain. Yep, definitely Tactical Pants Man. I'd know that ass anywhere.

The announcer gestured with one hand. “Everyone who received a box at the beginning, come on up!”

A dozen people made their way to the stage, ranging in age from preteen to a couple in their eighties. Each carried a wooden box about the size of a loaf of Bunny Bread and sealed with a padlock. While the announcer lined up the participants, the words
Dante Rosario and the Marquise de Saber
filled the screen above the stage, followed by
Paws of Service. Paws of Pride.
Stirring music swelled as the video showed Rosario and the dog picking through smoking rubble, working next to cops as they combed through woods, and locating a missing child. It closed with a shot of the pair standing proud as a list scrolled by of the places where they'd volunteered, with a giant Saberton Corporation logo at the very end. Even I had to admit it looked seriously cool. Damn it.

The announcer swept his arm toward the participants. “One of those boxes, and
only
one, contains a zombie hand. It's up to the Marquise to find that hand. If she fails, everyone in this audience wins a pair of tickets to
High School Zombie Apocalypse!!
” He paused and smiled for the applause. “Of course, if she succeeds in finding it, you all lose!” He grinned at the chorus of boos. “But not to worry. No matter the outcome, each of our contestants here on the stage will win a free item of their choice from the Tasty Brains booth
and
a ticket for tomorrow's raffle!”

The crowd cheered again, and Rosario returned to the stage with the dog trotting along happily beside him. I edged behind the woman next to me. Cadaver dogs made me more than a little nervous, even when they were just doing their job.

“All's fair in a zombie war,” the announcer told the people lined up across the stage. “Feel free to try and distract the Marquise. Dance or holler or stand on your head, but no touching her.” His gaze swept the audience. “All y'all can help, too. Remember,
everybody
wins if she gets it wrong!”

The participants and audience started enough whooping, hollering, and gyrating to rival the antics of Saints fans when their team played the Falcons. Rosario and the Marquise de Saber paced in front of the participants. She didn't so much as twitch an ear in reaction to anyone, but I had a feeling Rosario hadn't given her the command to seek yet. He knew what he was doing. Playing it up big for the crowd. Building the suspense. At the perfect moment, he tapped his thigh in what I suspected was the signal for the dog to do her thing. She made one pass down the line, sniffing. Then she came back, halted in front of a teenage boy and dropped to her belly, ears perked and eyes riveted on the box in his hands.

Rosario called the dog off, and an assistant unlocked all of the boxes. One by one, the contestants opened their empty boxes, leaving the boy until last. He opened his box to reveal a fake zombie hand, to an uproar of applause and cheers. The announcer lifted it and waggled it at the crowd. I had little doubt that there was a bit of dead human hidden in that hand for the Marquise to scent. Not all that shocking considering that cadaver dogs were trained with donated cadaver tissue.

“There you have it, folks. Give a big round of applause to Dante and the Marquise de Saber. Catch their demos twice every day of the Zombie Fest. Bring your friends!”

Rosario waved at the crowd. The dog lifted her paw, too, eliciting a round of laughter and applause and waving back. The Marquise's ears perked as the breeze shifted, and she looked my way. Shit. I was a little on the rotten side due to the V12. Not enough for people to notice, but plenty of stench for a cadaver dog. I stepped back, but not before Rosario met my eyes. It was only for an instant, until I let the crowd swallow me, but cold settled in my belly. A Saberton-sponsored guy with a cadaver dog. Even though it was obvious the pair did a lot of demos, and Tucker Point might simply be one stop on the tour, I didn't trust anything that connected Saberton and zombies. I'd keep my Angel-sense sharp around this guy.

“Your donation to support training of service dogs is greatly appreciated,” the announcer continued. “Cash, check, or card! And remember, Saberton Corporation will match your donation two to one. You heard that right! For every dollar you give, the dogs get three!”

Because Saberton is so kind and fucking charitable.

But enough of that shit. Time to put it behind me and get on with finding the guys.

•   •   •

After following the signs to the Hunting Grounds—and hitching a ride on a passing four-wheeler—I found the Three Dumbass Amigos in their zombie hunter outfits near a pair of stately oak trees. They had their heads together, engaged in discussion intense enough that they didn't notice me walk up.

“HI, GUYS!” I said, nice and loud, tickled when all three startled and made various
Jesus fuck, Angel!
type of exclamations.

Randy recovered first and gave me a sour look. “Thought you weren't coming out with us.” He flicked my VIP badge on its lanyard. “Where's your boyfriend?”

Was that jealousy? I flicked his earlobe in return. “Oh, you mean my
girlfriend
Justine Chu? She's getting her picture taken with the other VIPs.”

Randy stared at me for a second then snorted and gave my shoulder a light shove. “Almost had me going there.”

Judd took a swig from a bottle of ginger ale, scowled. “Randy, c'mon. We gotta get our shit together.” He gave me a tight smile lacking any hint of friendliness. “Sorry, sweetcakes. We have work to do.”

“That's cool!” I chirped. “I don't have anything else going on. Happy to tag along and help out.”

Coy gulped, eyes wide. “Nah, it's for hunters only. You said you didn't want to hunt, and uh, you even came as a zombie.” He gestured frantically at my makeup and clothing.

“Oh! No, I'm really a hunter,” I said. “See, I dressed up as a zombie to make the other zombies less suspicious. It's like wearing camouflage.” No way was I giving in that easily. “Okay, it's settled then. Let's roll!”

Judd's face reddened. “Hang on, we don't have you registered, which means you can't go on the hunt with us.” He shot a Do Something glare in Randy's direction. “Right?”

Randy jammed a hand through his hair. “You two go get set up,” he told Judd and Coy. “I'll take care of this.” After a brief hesitation, the men moved off. Randy turned to me. “Look, Angel, forget the hunt. I didn't register you.”

I acted hurt. “What the hell, man? Are you really bent out of shape because a coworker gave me a VIP pass?”

“You're the one who told me you weren't gonna come out with me this afternoon,” he shot back. “Don't blame me.”

“I was still dealing with my shitty morning when I said that. A five a.m. call to pick up a dude with his head chopped off tends to throw me off my rhythm.”

“I'm supposed to know you changed your mind? That's bullshit, Angel.”

If this was a real argument, he'd have a point. “Okay, well, I changed it.” I softened my voice. “Can't you put my name down for the team?”

He glanced at the retreating Judd and Coy. “They won't let me,” he said. “The, uh, registration people.”

Right. I knew who he meant. “Could you at least try?” I jiggled my VIP badge. “I betcha this will get me in.”

Randy looked down at the badge as if it was a horrible truth—which it likely was. His shoulders slumped. “Sure. Let's go see what that thing can do.”

Giving a great impression of a man heading to his execution, he walked with me to the registration table. Once there, I was delighted to learn that Randy had in fact included me when he'd turned in the team members, which meant I was already signed up. All I had to do was fill out a couple of forms and sign the release and waiver of liability.
Take that and shove it up your ass, Judd.

As soon as I finished the paperwork, we headed to the prep area. Randy appeared calm and laid back, but I'd known him for too long not to notice the little signs of stress. The way he rubbed his left thumb and finger together. His lack of friendly banter. The creases on his forehead.

Not that I had any room to talk since I was just as stressed. I wanted desperately for my suspicions to be wrong, but it wasn't easy with how squirrelly all three were acting. It also didn't help that I kept getting annoying stabs of brain hunger despite the recent “ProteinGel” brain packet. To my relief, Randy wasn't paying close attention to me, and I managed to sneak a few brain chips into my mouth and gulp them down. That settled the hunger again—for now.

“So, how's this zombie hunt thing work?” I asked Randy as we neared the prep area.

He blinked as if he'd been deep in thought. “We gear up and load weapons, then around fifteen minutes before our hunt the coordinators come around and check the shit for safety. Once that's done, we climb in the truck,” he lifted his chin toward a big black pickup with a giant zombie decal plastered along the side, “and they take us to the beginning of the course. When it starts, we have thirty minutes to get through the course without getting painted by any zombies, and at the end you're scored for how many hits you get on them.”

“Painted?” I asked, frowning. “The zombies have paintball guns, too?”

Randy shook his head. “Nah, see, the only zombies on the course are the ones the Fest hires, and they have gloves that leave paint on you. Plus they have all sorts of people out there watching for cheaters. You lose points any time a zombie grabs you, and if you get grabbed three times you're dead, though your points still count for your team. If you get disqualified for safety violations, none of your points count.”

A six-foot-tall sign near the pickup had THE RULES emblazoned at the top. A quick scan showed plenty of sensible guidelines such as No open-toed shoes, No shooting point blank/within five feet, No touching or grabbing zombies, NO DRUGS OR ALCOHOL. A line at the bottom stated that Zombie Fest officials reserved the right to eject anyone at any time based on whatever criteria they wanted to use. Nice.

“I gotta know,” I said to Randy. “Does Judd really think people believe he's drinking ginger ale?”

Randy's mouth twitched. “Dunno what you mean. Looks like ginger ale to me.”

Judd and Coy stood by a sign with a big red “13” on it. Coy tugged on his equipment vest while Judd checked his paintball rifle. Judd's mouth tightened at the sight of me. He nudged Coy and murmured something. Coy glanced my way then suddenly became super concerned with the positioning of his gear.

I spied a foam machete lying on the ground a few feet away. “You bringing this, too?” I asked Randy as I scooped it up.

“Nah, that's not allowed in the hunt,” he said. “There's a group of people who do a kind of role-play zombie attack thing after hours where they bash each other with hard foam stuff. One of 'em must've left it behind.”

“That sounds like fun.” I made a few chopping swings with the foam machete then let out a laugh. “Whack whack whack! Hack a zombie's head clean off.”

Coy's throat worked. He turned away and busied himself adjusting the vest.

“Put that down before you do something stupid!” Judd snapped.

Gee, touchy much?
I shifted to a two-handed grip. “C'mon, it's foam.” I batted his arm. “How stupid can I get?”

Judd made an angry grab for the machete, but I jerked it out of his reach. His face reddened, and he balled his fist as if he was ready to take a swing at me, but Randy stepped between us.

“Hey, stop it! Both of you!”

“Jeez, lighten the hell up, Judd,” I said.

Coy seized Judd's arm before he could respond and dragged him away. “Dude, you're gonna fuck everything up,” he murmured, and it was only because of my recent brain snack that I could hear him. He tugged Judd back another step and toward the pile of equipment. “Get your shit on so we can get this over with,” he said at a more normal volume.

Randy let out a strained chuckle. “Yeah, I'm ready to be done with the prep shit and get to the good stuff.”

Judd muttered a curse, stomped to the equipment, and started rooting through a bag. A sinking feeling threatened to tug my heart right into the ground. This was supposed to be a recreational activity. Coy and Judd were a bundle of nerves, and Randy was obviously trying to cover for their odd behavior.

Judd flipped open a small plastic case and began smearing on camo face paint. The sinking feeling abruptly tripled in strength. Green goop. Maybe it hadn't been bug shit on the cigarette butt.

“Y'know, I think maybe y'all will do better without me,” I said and dropped the foam machete. “I need to take care of a few things anyway.”

Randy couldn't hide his relief. “Yeah. Yeah, I understand.” Not even a token effort to talk me into staying. He took my elbow to walk me out of the prep area, and I didn't resist. “Sorry, Angel,” he said after we were a couple dozen yards away from the others. “It's . . .” He sighed. “Sorry.”

Stress carved his face into sharp angles, as if he was carrying the world on his shoulders. It seemed utterly wrong for him to look like that. This was Randy. Easy-going. Laid back. Barely ever worried about anything. “Randy,” I said, voice soft, “is everything okay? You know you can tell me anything, right?”
Please, tell me
, I silently urged him.
Spill your guts so that we can fix this. I know something's wrong, dammit.

Indecision flickered in his eyes, but then he shrugged it away. “What've I got to tell?” he said. “Oh, yeah. Ol' man Brody's truck needs a new tranny, and I'm here instead of working on it.”