My Life as a White Trash Zombie
Page 23

“If you do a lot and are active, you need brains more often,” he said. “In other words, you won’t ever see a zombie exercise. Under normal circumstances you’ll be fine if you eat about a third to half a brain every other day. After a few days without, though, things start to go bad pretty quickly, like a downhill slide. So, if you’re in a job where you have to be fairly physically active, like yours, you’re going to need to eat more often. But,” he said with a gesture at the morgue cooler, “at least you have access to brains.”
“When there are brains to be had,” I pointed out.
“People die all the time, Angel. That’s one thing you can be sure of.”
Sure, but would they die soon enough to satisfy my hunger?
“Okay, next question,” I said. “It’s a virus? Is there a treatment for it?”
He shrugged. “No idea. Virus. Parasite. I don’t know. Maybe a treatment or cure is being worked on. But as far as I know, it’s been around for centuries.”
I pondered that for a few seconds. A parasite . . . what, like a tapeworm? That was too damn creepy. And disgusting. “Okay, well, what about, um, relations.”
He gave me a blank look. “Excuse me?”
I gave a frustrated sigh. “Can we have sex?”
The skin around his eyes crinkled. “Well, we barely know each other, but I’m game.”
“Shit! No. Arrgh!” I could feel my face heating. “You know what I mean.” I scowled at him as he laughed, though a second later I was laughing too. “Okay, I deserved that. I mean, can we—zombies—have sex?”
He grinned. “Yes. But be sure to feed beforehand. It’s much better that way. Plus, you don’t want to risk having bits fall off.”
I shuddered. “Okay, that’s disgusting.”
“It reminds me of an old joke: What did the zombie say to the whore?”
I looked at him blankly. “Um . . . what?”
He winked. “Keep the tip.”
After Kang left, I pulled the internet up on the computer and did a search on the Korean War, then stared at the screen in shock when I saw the dates. 1950-1953. Holy Shit. Kang’s an old man. Had he been surviving by working in funeral homes this entire time?
But he still looks like he’s in his twenties, I thought with growing amazement. Then I sighed. If I’d realized how old he was I would have asked him if he looked young because of the zombie stuff. And how long he’d actually been a zombie. “Don’t be a fool. Stay in school,” I muttered to myself.
Fortunately my job offered plenty to distract me from thinking about my general ignorance. I went out on a pickup of a bum who’d been found dead under a bridge, and then of some lady who’d managed to gas herself in her bathroom by combining bleach and ammonia. I shamelessly grabbed lunch at a drive-thru on my way back to the morgue and scarfed down a burger to satisfy my far-less annoying food hunger, while managing to completely forget the fact that I had two dead bodies in the back of the van.
By the time I made it back to the morgue and got everything put away and entered into the computer, it was close to the end of my shift. Nick would be showing up in the next twenty minutes or so, and the morgue was as spotless as I knew how to make it. I’d remembered to throw the trash from lunch out, but I knew from experience that I should probably check to make sure everything in the van was where it needed to be. Nick was an arrogant pain, and if I’d somehow dropped a single french fry, I’d never hear the end of it.
I stuffed my key card into the front pocket of my jeans and exited out the back door. The door clanged shut behind me as a sickly familiar smell washed over me. I spun around as a jab of adrenaline sent me into high alert. It only took me a second to see the figure crouched in the shadow of the wall, like a lion about to pounce.
But this time I wasn’t injured and alone. And I wasn’t hungry at all.
“You told me to come here,” Zeke said, his voice already beginning to take on an unpleasant rasp. “You said you’d give me brains.” He straightened. He’d changed clothes—now he wore a New Orleans Saints shirt and paint-spattered jeans. They looked grubby and nasty, and I didn’t want to think about how long he’d been wearing them.
A flare of annoyance shot through me. “Yeah, but you didn’t need to scare the crap out of me. Do you get off on that shit?”
“I’m hungry,” he snarled, then he shook his head. “You don’t know what it’s like.”
“Whatever,” I said, scowling. “Y’know, you could’ve killed me that night.”
He bared his teeth. “You’re a zombie. That wouldn’t have killed you.”
Annoyance shifted to anger. “It fucking hurt anyway! And you didn’t know I was a zombie when you caused that accident. If I’d been a normal human that wreck would have really fucked me up.” A cold chill walked through me. “Or was that your plan? Did you want to kill someone?”
He took three long strides forward, but I managed to hold my ground. It helped that I was still totally sharp and focused from my recent meal.
“I saw your van go by,” he said. “I knew it was the coroner’s van, that you’d have to come back soon enough, and that you’d have a body in the back. Why else would you be out at that hour on that highway, except for a pickup?” He paused. His shoulders were hunched in a defensive pose. “I waited until I saw headlights. Saw that they weren’t a car’s.”
“What if you’d been wrong?” I demanded.
He tilted his head. “Then I would have been wrong,” he said in a tone so casual it sent goosebumps down my back.
I spun and started back toward the morgue. He seized me by the upper arm. “You promised me you’d share!” he said, desperation edging into his voice.
I slapped at his arm, almost surprised when I was able to break his grasp. “I know. I’m getting it, asshole!”
He scowled and stepped back into the shadow. I swiped my card and entered the morgue, then retrieved a jar from my lunchbox—the one I’d already taken a few gulps from. Cradling the jar with its stupid masking tape/shoe polish décor, I paused. I’d completely forgotten about this zombie and my promise to him. I probably could have set some more aside if I’d been thinking about it. But my own supply was running low. Besides, it was a promise made under duress, and those didn’t count, right? And surely he was getting brains from someplace else as well. It had been five days since the wreck. He’d be a lot more rotted if he’d been without brains that entire time, especially since I hadn’t given him anywhere near enough to get him fully “fresh.”
And he was willing to take the chance that I’d be killed in the wreck. Suddenly I didn’t want to think about where else he was getting brains.
I returned outside and handed him the jar. “It’s all I have right now,” I lied. “I was out of work for close to a week,” I added with a scowl.
He ignored the jibe and tugged the lid off the jar, eyes closing briefly in bliss as the scent of brains washed over him. Then he looked back at me with a puzzled look. “Tomato soup?”
“Trying to keep it from being so obvious, y’know?”
“I hate tomato soup,” he muttered, but he stepped back and held the jar with both hands as he drank the brain-soup down. I watched, morbidly fascinated as color returned to his skin. A few drops escaped the corner of his mouth, dribbling onto his shirt to form a Florida-shaped stain. Finally he lowered the jar and gave a sated sigh.
“Ah, god, that’s good,” he breathed as he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, then wiped his hand on his shirt “Even if it was tomato.” He held the empty jar out to me. His eyes were whole and clear again. “When can you get me some more?”
I stared at him, then snatched the jar out of his hand. “More? Are you serious? That’s all I have right now.”
A muscle in his jaw clenched. “That’s not going to hold me for long.”
“Hey, it’s your fault I had to go through most of my supply,” I continued, pissed. “That wreck fucked me up. I could have lost my job!”
A snarl twisted his mouth. “And then you’d know what I’m going through.”
“Yeah, well, fuck you.” I’d balled my free hand into a fist without realizing it. “You stole jewelry off dead bodies. That’s fucking sick, man.”
A scowl curved his mouth. “I didn’t steal anything. I was set up.”
“Oh, right,” I scoffed. “By who, the zombie mafia?” But even as I said it, a sliver of doubt managed to work its way in. Kang had been awfully hostile until he’d been sure I wasn’t going to hurt his business.
Zeke’s eyes narrowed. “You could call it that. Some people couldn’t handle competition. Besides, we eat brains! That’s sick.”
“That’s for survival!” I retorted. “That’s life or death.” Or undeath.
He took a step forward and fear flashed through me. He’s going to try to take my keycard so that he can get into the morgue, steal my brains.
“I’m not going to let myself rot away,” he growled. “I’ll—”
“Hey! What the hell’s going on?”
I never thought I’d be so relieved to hear Nick’s voice. Zeke pulled back from me, scowling. I didn’t dare turn around, but I could hear the morgue door swing shut and Nick’s footsteps as he walked up.
“You okay, Angel?” he asked, coming up beside me. I flicked a glance his way. His stance was totally aggressive, in a bantam rooster kinda way. His eyes were fixed on Zeke in what was probably meant to be a menacing glare.
“Yeah,” I said, voice a tiny bit shaky. I thought about saying something else, like Oh, he’s just leaving, or He’s an old friend and was stopping by, but I didn’t. I felt no desire to give Zeke any excuse or out.