White Trash Zombie Gone Wild (22 page)

“Good thing the mockumentary is attached to a B-movie and not a blockbuster,” I said wryly.

Her piercing gaze lifted to my face. “The video was uploaded yesterday and has already had over a million views.” While I stood speechless in shock, Aberdeen smoothly extended a business card. “In case you remember anything else about the victim,” she said. “Or, if any thoughts come to you about the video.” She exited the cooler without waiting for an answer. I stuffed the business card into my pocket and followed her out.

Allen was waiting for us in the intake area, holding a blue folder that he passed to Agent Aberdeen. “Everything I can give you without a warrant is in there. It's not much. Sorry. Preliminary tox screen showed cocaine and benzos in his system, but it'll be at least a week before the full toxicology report is back.”

While she checked out the folder, I added my initials next to her signature on the property list. SA Sorsha Aberdeen.

SASA
. That was the acronym on Seeger's video file list.
**use for deal with SASA
. Double asterisk. And I specifically remembered that none of the double asterisk file names matched any of the clips used in the stupid mockumentary. Seeger had planned to pass files to her, but never got the chance.

“Miss Crawford? Mind if I take a photo?” Agent Aberdeen lifted her cell phone.

I startled out of my thoughts. “Of me?”

“Why yes. Of your makeup for the Zombie Fest.” She smiled, but her gaze was far too intent for my comfort. Beside her, Allen looked as disconcerted as if he'd been asked to drop trou in the middle of Main Street.

The cell phone remained steady before me like a rifle in a firing squad. She wanted a picture, but the natural pre-rot greyness and smudges of black under my eyes weren't exactly photo-worthy. Not with all of the really cool costumes and makeup around town. “Maybe I should go touch it up first?” I said, suddenly desperate to find a mirror.

“No need. It's perfect as is,” she said, voice and smile equally steely. “Humor me?”

It wasn't a request. Refusing would draw suspicion. “Sure. It's not much makeup. Just a little something I threw on this morning.”

The cell phone camera flashed before I finished speaking. I blinked away spots as it flashed again.

Expression triumphant, she turned the phone around for me to see. Along my left cheek, dead-grey skin hung in tatters with nasty red and black flesh below.

I clamped down on my dismay. “Looks better than I thought,” I choked out.

She tucked the phone away. “You have my card.”

“I'll walk you out,” Allen said. At the door, he looked back and mouthed
Don't fucking move
before exiting with Special Agent Sorsha Aberdeen.

The instant the door closed, I tossed the clipboard onto the receiving desk and ran for the bathroom. Leaning close to the mirror, I poked at the squishy patch of rot on the side of my grey-as-wet-concrete face. A knot of worry tightened in my chest. I'd downed a whole bottle of brain smoothie not even fifteen minutes ago. I shouldn't be
rotting
.

I dabbed at the spot with a wet paper towel and managed to slough off one of the skin tatters. Hands trembling, I crumpled the paper towel and dropped it into the trash can. I couldn't go out in public with a rotted face, and makeup wouldn't cover this. A big gauze pad could work. The tape might rip my skin, but I'd have to risk it. I tentatively scratched the inside of my arm, relieved and encouraged when the skin stayed intact. There was still a sliver of hope that I wasn't about to fall apart completely. Yet.

I jumped as a fist pounded on the bathroom door. “Angel!”

“Jesus! I'm taking a leak!” Damn it. I flushed the toilet then washed my hands, stalling in the hopes that my parasite would get a fucking clue and pull my face together.

Nope. Face still gross, but hands squeaky clean.

I dried my hands and stepped out of the bathroom. Across the hall, Allen stood in the doorway of the morgue tech office. “Sorry,” I said with a totally relaxed and chill smile. “I had a lot of coffee this morning.”

Allen slipped his phone into his pocket and didn't return my smile. “Let's talk,” he said then turned and moved behind the desk.

I hung by the door. “What's up?”

He snatched a paper lunch bag from a drawer, then dropped it to the desk with a heavy plop. “You tell me.”

“You bought me brunch?” My attempt at a laugh came out weak and strained.

His lips thinned. “Are you
trying
to incite an investigation?”

“What do you mean?”

He stabbed a finger at the bag. “Open it.”

Wary, I moved to the desk and unrolled the top of the bag. A plastic sandwich baggie held odd lumps—

“Pig brains, Angel?” The words cracked out. “
Pig
brains?”

Ice spread through every muscle in my body. There was no lying my way out of this nightmare. “I guess I'm fired?” My voice sounded tinny and distant.

He slammed the flat of his hand on the desk. “
No
brains in the organ bags is one thing. Pig brains takes it to a different fucking level.”

No brains.
So he
did
know brains had been missing before. That's why he called me in on Friday. “Look, I'll go. You'll never have to deal with me again.” My voice shook, but my thoughts were surprisingly clear. “No more loser Angel in your department.”

Allen folded his arms over his chest and leveled a stern look at me. “If you leave now, it will only make your situation worse. I suggest you sit down.”

“Sit down and wait so the cops can scoop me up? Sorry, but no.” I took a step toward the door then hesitated as it all started to sink in. I was about to walk out of this life forever, leave a job I loved, where I wasn't a loser. It
sucked.
“Allen, this isn't what it looks like. I . . .” Shit. What could I possibly say?
A girl's got to eat?
“I'm so sorry,” I gasped then fled toward the exit.

“Angel! Stop!” Allen shouted after me. “I haven't called the cops.”

I slid to a stop with the exit in sight, turned and frowned at Allen where he stood in the office doorway. “Why not? What are you waiting for?”

He exhaled. “I'd like you to answer a question for me. You owe me that much.”

I wavered between staying and fleeing. “You won't call the cops?”

“Not unless you give me a reason to.”

A bigger reason than replacing human brains with pig brains? Absurd hope flickered that something could be salvaged from this mess. “Ask away.”

“In private.”

We were alone in the morgue, but maybe he figured there was a chance another employee would pop in. I returned to the tech office but made sure Allen wasn't between me and the door.

He dropped into the chair on the far side of the room. “You're really grey,” he stated. “And the rot on your face looks bad.”

I tossed off a shrug. “Half the population of Tucker Point is grey or green or rotten. What's your question?”

He leaned back, eyes on me. “I want to know what's been going on with you these past few months. Pig brains. Careless raids on the cooler. Reckless behavior, like jumping into floodwater for that gurney. You were solid before. What changed?”

I blinked stupidly at him. That was his question? Not why was I stealing brains? “I've been on a special medication,” I managed to say. “For dyslexia. It messes with my impulse control, but I'm changing meds now.”

He blew out a breath. “Thank God. I thought it might be something less, ah, manageable.”

What the—?
I had no idea what Allen's deal was, but he had yet to fire me or press charges. “How long have you known about the brains?”

“Since the gash on your hand healed without a trace.”

My breath caught even as I shoved my hand behind my back out of pure reflex. I'd cut my hand on a scalpel last year, and Allen had stitched it to save me a trip to the emergency room. He'd almost been nice about it, too. “I have this really amazing miracle scar cream,” I said. “Works like a charm. What does that have to do with anything?”

“Angel, I
know
.” His voice stayed calm, but his eyes were wary. “I started checking the organ bags after that. You're a
goule-gris
.”

I didn't know much French, but I understood
grey ghoul
. Blood drained from my head, and I swayed. Allen shot to his feet and shoved a chair under my butt as I sank. A weird numbness set in, as if I was along for the ride in some other person's screwed up life. Allen had
known
for all this time. “I don't understand.” I looked up at him, baffled. “Why didn't you say anything?”

“You were doing what you had to do, and no one was getting hurt.” He sat on the edge of the desk. “I figured you had good reasons to want your privacy. But when you started behaving erratically, I knew it was only a matter of time before you got caught and by someone other than me. That would hurt the Coroner's Office nearly as much as it would you, and I can't have that.”

I felt as if I'd been dropped into a weird dream-world. “How do you know about z—” I swallowed. “—about
goule-gris
?”

“A few years ago I went on a medical aid rotation to the Central African Republic.” He grimaced. “We provided emergency services for refugees and victims of armed conflict. There was a local woman, a nurse who I worked closely with. Sorella.” His voice softened on her name. “I found out she was
goule-gris
when I accidentally poisoned myself with a wound salve I'd seen her use for a cut on her leg.”

A strange calm settled over me. Allen knew what I was, and he wasn't going to have me arrested. “It was toxic to you, but not to her.” I cocked my head, intrigued. “Did her wounds heal without the salve?”

He rubbed a hand over his jaw. “Not as well. I don't know how it worked, but as far as I can tell it helped conserve, uh, brains.”

I snapped out of my slouch. “What was in it?” I asked. Demanded.

A corner of Allen's mouth twisted. “That's the same question John asked when I told him this story.”

“Who the hell is John?” But the answer hit me an instant later. My jaw dropped. “Wait. John
Kang
?”

Allen nodded. “Once you've seen
goule-gris
color, you don't forget it. Less than a year after Africa, John came in to pick up a body, and he had that grey cast. It went from there. He told me—repeatedly—that outing your kind is frowned upon, which is part of why I kept quiet when I found out about you.”

My mind spun as I worked to readjust to this bizarre new world. “Did you tell Kang what was in the salve?”

“The ingredients that I knew of, yes. But I have no idea about the proportions or techniques.” He tipped his head back in thought. “Okra seed, moringa leaf, stinkblaar.” His forehead creased. “Boomslang venom—I won't forget that one anytime soon—myrrh oil. There might've been more, but I'm not certain.”

Ideas formed and fell apart only to sprout again. “Did Kang figure anything out with it?”

“No clue. He was a private kind of guy. We didn't talk about the
goule-gris
aspect much after the first few days.”

Had Kang shared the word
zombie
with Allen? Too weird. “I know this is going to sound kind of lame, but thanks. For keeping my secret.”

Allen didn't quite smile, but his face lost some of its tension. “I kept my eye on you once I realized. But you make it to work on time, do a good job, and haven't fucked up anything that I know of.” He shrugged. “As long as you weren't hurting anyone, there was no need for me to butt into your life.”

I stared at him. “I thought you hated me.”

“There was no love lost for the first few months, that's for sure,” he said, then made a sour face. “But you have
no
idea how many times I've been burned by losers who slid into a morgue tech job because of a relative with influence.”

I winced. I'd been one of those losers when I started out. “Then why do you still jerk my schedule around all over the place and treat me like crap?”

He surprised me with a bark of laughter. “I treat
everyone
like crap. That's what makes me so lovable. As for your schedule, you never complained about it. I was happy to have an employee who was flexible.”

Now that I thought about it, he'd never given me a lick of trouble about arranging my schedule around classes. I'd spent all this time being butthurt because Allen wasn't
nice
to me. “What now?”

Allen sobered and met my eyes. “No more taking all the brains. Leave some every few bags. No more carelessness. Don't do your collecting when people are here. There's a limit to how far I can cover your ass. If you get into a bind,
tell
me, and I'll do what I can without drawing attention. And for God's sake no more pig brains. Anyone with half an eye can tell they're not human.”

I nodded meekly. “Does this mean I still have a job?”

“For now.” He gave me a mild glare. “But I'll fire you in a heartbeat if you do anything to jeopardize your coworkers or this department.”

Relief danced through me. “Got it.” I pushed to my feet. “Thanks, Allen. For being decent.”

“Don't get used to it.”

“And they use this for zombie wound care in the Central African Republic?”

I grinned at the naked awe and delight in Dr. Nikas's voice. Allen had left to watch the parade with his wife, and I was on cell phone in the morgue tech office, kicked back with my feet on the desk. I'd already given him my update concerning Allen and Special Agent Aberdeen, and had saved the best news—the
goule-gris
salve—for last. “Apparently so,” I said. “Those ingredients were just the ones Allen could remember, so it's possible there's a secret ingredient missing.”

“We won't know until I experiment,” he said. “But even so, the information offers avenues I haven't explored.”

“Right. So, this got me thinking. Allen told Kang about this stuff, too. And we've been scratching our heads trying to figure out what was in Kang's system that made him re-grow while the others stayed in stasis.” I took a deep breath. “What if Kang spent a couple of years experimenting with those ingredients? Maybe it changed his cells or his parasite, and that's why he has an extra boost for re-growing. Like he's been pickled in zombie steroids.”

Dr. Nikas let out a laugh. “Pickled zombie. Angel, not only are you a ray of light in an often dreary world, but you may well be correct.”

With a parting promise to keep me in the loop, he hung up. I had a feeling he was already filling a whiteboard with scribbled notes.

Still grinning, I exited the morgue with a light step and headed to my car. There was still plenty of time for me to make it to the Fest. I'd picked the loose skin off the rotten patch and taped a patch of gauze over it—one that I'd smeared with eyeliner to make it look like it was part of my “costume.” For good measure, I taped smudged gauze pads onto my collarbone and forearm to complete the look.

I stopped dead as a muffled scream of rage and frustration reached me from the only other car in the lot. Nick's, parked at the far end of the first row. He sat in the driver's seat, head thrown back and face contorted. I stood rooted to the spot in shock as his long scream trailed off to a guttural howl and finally shuddering silence.

Instinct and worry urged me to rush to him, but I found myself hesitating. Maybe he didn't want help. Maybe he just wanted to be left alone. I had no desire to go through a repeat of the scene at the restaurant, but I also couldn't go on my merry way without checking on him. I approached his car, only to see him violently ripping a sheet of paper into smaller and smaller pieces. At the sight of me, he froze, then quickly slipped on his I-don't-give-a-shit expression and flung the door open.

“Hey, Nick. You cool?” I sauntered up to his door and snuck a casual peek inside the car. Paper bits littered the interior like confetti. On the seat was a torn envelope with LSU School of Medicine in the corner, and beneath it I spied the butt of a gun. What the shit? Sure, his dad owned a gun shop, but I'd never known Nick to carry a gun before.

“Everything's great,” Nick said, “if you don't count all the detours for the stupid parade.” He grabbed his messenger bag, got out and slammed the door. “I need to finish a report, and it took me twice as long as usual to get here.”

I suspected his temper had more to do with the confetti-fied contents of that envelope than traffic. My heart sank. It had to be a rejection of his med school application. Damn. I glanced at the gun. But why did he need
that
? Protection? Murder? Suicide?

No. Not Nick.

I hoped.

I cocked my head at him. “You sure nothing else is bugging you?”

“I'm fine, okay?” He stalked toward the building, but not before I got a good look at his right eye—red and puffy, and promising a nice shiner.

“Nick!” I dogged his steps. “I'm not going away this time. Did your dad do this?”

His shoulders jerked with tension, but he didn't stop. “No! I clocked myself with the lat pulldown bar at the gym earlier.”

Right. And I only ate brains on holidays. “Talk to me. Five minutes. If you still want me to go away after that, I will.”

He key-swiped his ID and yanked the door open. “What do you want, Angel? I said I'm fine. I have work to do, and the last thing I need is you hanging around.”

I ducked in after him. He kept his face turned away so I couldn't see his swollen eye. “Fuck it!” He threw his hands up. “Since your idea of a good time is to screw with me today, go for it. Just don't expect me to help you.” He strode off through the morgue toward the front offices.

I followed like a lioness waiting for her prey to wear out so she could pounce. “Did I ever tell you about my mom?”

Nick headed up the stairs. “No. But I'm sure you're about to bombard me with the story.”

I took the stairs two at a time right along with him. “She went to jail when I was eleven. For child abuse.”

He glanced at me, but didn't give a smart ass remark this time.

“She was mentally ill, but that didn't change or excuse what she did to me. My dad didn't see it, or didn't want to see it. Not until she broke my arm. That's when he finally called the cops.”

Nick stepped into his office and plunked his messenger bag onto the desk. “I'm sorry you had a rough time, but I don't get why you feel the need to tell me about it now.”

“Because when I was seventeen, I started getting it from my dad.”

He flinched as if poised to either bolt or punch me. I'd struck a nerve. “I was acting out and being a little shit,” I continued. “And he was an alcoholic who didn't know how the hell to deal with my screwups.” I paused, chest tight. “I figured I deserved it.”

His face stayed blank, but a multitude of emotions boiled behind the thin facade. He yanked papers from his bag and slammed them onto the desk. “You were a fucked up loser. I bet you deserved every bit of it.”

My composure cracked as if he'd taken a sledgehammer to it. “Takes one to know one,” I shot back. “You can't even get into med school after all your bragging about pre-med this and pre-med that. Who's the loser now?”

I fled the office before he could respond to my stupid and nasty comeback. I knew damn well that Nick was in lashing-out mode and projecting all of his shit onto me. So why did his words hurt so damn much?

“Angel!”

I kept going toward the stairwell. He didn't want to talk, and neither did I anymore.

“Angel. I'm sorry.” Misery filled his voice.

Sighing, I turned to see Nick in the hall outside his office, looking utterly bereft.

“I'm sorry, too,” I said, returning to him and the office. “I shouldn't have said that about med school. That was low. I know how much it meant to you and how hard you worked.”

Nick collapsed into his chair. “I'm going,” he said. “I'm fucking going to fucking med school.”

Frowning, I struggled to process that. “Okay, I'm lost. I thought you got rejected. What were you ripping up in your car?”

“You saw that?” He grimaced and turned beet red. “It was my acceptance. I got it last month.”

Baffled, I sank into the other chair. “But that's good, isn't it? Being a doctor is your dream.”

“Yeah,” he said morosely. “Classes start in August.”

“Dude, you make it sound as if you're going to your execution.”

He looked away. “I can't help it if I've considered other options.”

I mentally backtracked to reassess everything I'd seen and learned about him in the past year and a half. His pompous attitude about academics and being pre-med. His flurry of med school applications and exams and interviews. And his current look of defeat. “You really don't want to be a doctor?”

Slumped shoulders twitched. “It's the smartest thing.”

“That's not what I asked.” I leaned forward and fixed him with a penetrating look. “Nick, do you
want
to go to med school?”

“I'd be stupid not to after all the work and money that's gone into it.” He wadded a piece of paper and hurled it at the trashcan. “I guess I'm stupid.”

“You're not stupid, and you know it.” A picture began to form of an ugly family dynamic. “It's your dad who wants you to be a doctor.” I paused as more pieces clarified. “When I saw you outside Crawfish Joe's, that was when you told him you didn't want to go through with it.”

Nick pounded a fist into his thigh. “I
like
being a death investigator here. Right now, all I want to do is work and get back into theater and volunteer with Allen on medical relief missions and keep my friends. I
don't
want to bury myself in stress for the next decade. Even if I did, I'd specialize in forensic pathology. I sure as hell don't want to be a fucking trauma surgeon so Bear's survivalists can have a goddamn medic for the apocalypse!”

I leapt to my feet and slammed my hands on the desk. “Then
do
all that shit you want to do! Get back into theater, and volunteer with Allen on medical relief missions, and for fuck's sake don't be a trauma surgeon unless that's what
you
want. Don't kill yourself for someone else's dream. Fuck that noise!”

“I wish I could just say fuck it.” The flicker of fire had left his voice. “But I can't.”

“You can't be your own person?”

“I made a deal.”

I grabbed his chin and turned his face to get a good view of his bruised eye. “Is this part of the deal? How many times has he hit you?”

He jerked away. “It's not like that. This med school thing blindsided him, that's all. He yells a lot, but he's never hit me before.”

“But he made sure you committed yourself to
his
vision of what your life should be.” I shoved a hand through my hair, frustrated and aching for Nick. Bear was brawny and a good foot taller than Nick. Not to mention, charismatic and intimidating as hell. I had little doubt Nick grew up walking a line of fear and respect with him. “Look, I get it,” I said. “He's your dad. And now he's pissed off because, god forbid, you dared to have a speck of free will.”

“You don't understand what—”

“Nick. I swear to God, I've been there, on the receiving end of verbal and physical abuse.” I straightened and gathered my thoughts, gentled my voice. “I get that it's easier to stay silent and take it. When you've been beaten down so hard for so long, the last thing you want to do is push back and make it worse.”

He shot to his feet and turned away, sending his chair skittering into the wall with a bang.

I moved in and put my hand on his shoulder, felt the stress vibrating through him. “The problem with keeping your mouth shut is that you die by inches,” I said softly, willing my words to reach the core of him. “Your own hopes and dreams keep slipping farther away, until one day you realize you never got the chance to live the life
you
wanted.”

“Angel.” His voice shook as if every pent up emotion wanted to spew out all at once. “I don't know what to do.”

“Yeah, you do. But the thought of
doing
it is terrifying.” I gave his shoulder a gentle squeeze. “Do you want to live your own life? Or die crushed beneath someone else's dream? You're in control of that, whether you like it or not.”

He went still beneath my hand for several seconds before turning to face me. “I want to stay here.” He forced a crooked smile. “Someone needs to keep your butt in line.”

“Ain't that the truth!” I grinned then poked him in the sternum. “So don't you dare let your dad bully you.” I poked him again. “You don't have to take that crap.” I waggled my finger to ready for a third poke.

Whisper-faint amusement touched his eyes as he swatted my hand. “Yeah, I don't have to put up with bullies.” He let out a long sigh, but looked as if he'd dropped a billion pounds of burden. “I'm such a chickenshit. I couldn't even tell him to keep his stupid tranquilizer gun and shove it up his ass.”

Relief washed through me. A
tranq
gun. From his dad. “First off, you're not a chickenshit. Standing up to a parent is the hardest thing ever. Second off, why the heck did he give you a tranquilizer gun? Bears? Cougars? Raging nutria?”

Nick rolled his eyes. “Don't ask. You'll be sorry.”

“Aw, c'mon. Spill.” I lifted my poking finger in mock threat.

He snorted, shook his head. “Fine. You asked for it. My dad gave it to me so I could defend myself against . . . zombies.”

“Zombies?” The word squeaked out.

“Hand to god. Toldya you'd be sorry.” A smile lifted his mouth. “It's completely insane. But, just for absurdity's sake, why would anyone think a tranquilizer would work faster on a zombie than a regular gun? Or a baseball bat?”

“A tranq for
zombies
.” I managed a laugh and hoped it didn't sound strangled. “Oh, man. That's crazypants. Where'd he come up with a wild idea like that?”

Nick threw his hands in the air. “He must've been talking to some seriously whackdoodle people over the weekend. He's never bought into the woowoo crap before.”

Whackdoodle or not, who had given Bear the idea of a tranq gun? Regular tranquilizer drugs didn't do shit to zombies unless it was enough to stop ten elephants, but Saberton had a special formula that took zombies down in seconds. Could it have been one of Andrew's security people? Or Dante Rosario? He'd sure been palsy-walsy with Bear in the gun shop on Friday. I needed to find a way to check the darts in Nick's tranq gun. If they were zombie-grade, that put an ugly spin on everything.

“Well, if Bigfoot attacks, you're set,” I said then winced as I caught sight of the clock. “Crap. I'm heading out to the Zombie Fest and need to get going before I get blocked in by the parade.”

Nick grinned. “By the way, nice makeup. How'd you get the skin tone so smoo—”