My Life as a White Trash Zombie
Page 3

I read the letter again, hand shaking. I thought I’d dodged a bullet with that visit from the two detectives, but here was another one right behind it, ready to flatten me. I didn’t want to go back to jail, and I didn’t want to end up like my mom and die there. But why would I die within weeks? What was that all about? Maybe someone who had a grudge against me was in jail already? I’d pissed off plenty of people in my life, but as far as I knew there wasn’t anyone who hated me enough to want to kill me.
I turned the letter over, searching for any clue as to who had sent it. It was printed on plain white paper and the envelope was an ordinary white envelope. No signature. No postmark. None of this made any sense. I couldn’t think of a single person who’d bother finding me a job, much less threaten me with jail to make sure I kept it.
Why jail? Why not rehab?
Because jail’s a bigger threat, I realized. Rehab would suck, but jail. . . . Whoever sent this stuff had to know that jail scared the shit out of me.
I read the letter one more time, then took a deep breath and started getting dressed while my thoughts continued to tumble. It wasn’t as if I’d set out to be a loser. I didn’t wake up every morning and say, “Hey, how can I screw my life up today?” But the universe sure seemed to be rigged against me, and most of the time it didn’t seem to matter how hard I tried since I was obviously never going to catch a break.
Except. Except this letter wasn’t a couple of hardass cops questioning me about something I didn’t know shit about. This was someone holding a big whopping threat over my head, who also seemed to be crazy enough to give the slightest crap about me—and give me that break I kept saying I wanted. Me. Loser girl. If this job was for real and I didn’t at least give it a shot I’d be right back at being a Grade A Screwup. But who the hell would do this for me?
I had a feeling the only way I was going to find out would be to take the stupid job.
Drive a van for a month. How hard could that be?
Chapter 2
I made it home from the hospital and obediently set my alarm for 7:30 A.M. This was my chance to turn things around, to not be a complete screwup.
My alarm went off at 7:30. I slapped the snooze and rolled over.
I woke up again at 9:15.
Crap!
I took the fastest shower of my life, yanked on jeans that I hoped were clean, grabbed the first T-shirt I could find that didn’t show my navel or have something obnoxious printed on it. Great. I had a job handed to me, and I screwed it up the first day. That I didn’t understand why I supposedly had this job was beside the point. If it paid real money and didn’t involve me getting naked, I was willing to give it a shot. Besides, I’d been doing some thinking. I was a huge fan of all those crime scene shows on TV, so I knew that coroners did forensics and that kind of stuff, and carried all their equipment around in big vans or Hummers—which most likely needed drivers, right? In other words, there was a really good chance that this job could be exceedingly cool.
But hell, anything’s better than working a minimum wage job at Bayou Burger, I thought as I pulled the shirt over my head and raked my fingers through the frizzy mess of my hair.
I lost several precious minutes in a frantic search for my purse. I had a vague memory of having it when I went to the bar the other night, which meant I had zero idea where it had ended up. Hell, I didn’t even know where I had ended up, other than the ER. Oh yeah, and naked on the side of the highway.
I finally dug the spare keys to my battered little Honda out of the bowl on top of my dresser, then ran for the front door. At least my dad wasn’t up yet. Not that I expected him to be any time before noon. That was fine with me because it meant I didn’t have to try to explain to him where I’d been or what had happened. He probably had no idea I’d even been in the hospital. Again, I had no problem with that.
I hit the door at a run, then turned around and ran right back to snag one of the stupid drinks from the little fridge in my room. It usually only held beer, but I hadn’t wanted to put the drink-stuff in the kitchen fridge and risk my dad drinking one or throwing them out by mistake. I knew he wouldn’t believe me if I told him they were medicine. At least that’s what I assumed they were. In fact he’d probably be more likely to throw them out if I said that. He got drunk damn near every night, but he acted as if I was a serial killer if he found a joint or pills in my room.
I remembered to shake the bottle, then opened it and gave it a dubious sniff. There was a faint coffee-chocolate smell, but beneath that there was a tang of something I couldn’t quite place—nutty or meaty, with a faintly metallic edge. “Whatever,” I muttered. I’d consumed disgusting crap before.
It was thick, with a texture that reminded me of tapioca. I had a split-second desire to gag and spew it all out, then it suddenly shifted to a craving for more. I didn’t think I’d be able to drink the whole thing, but before I realized it I was shaking the bottle to get the last few strange tapioca-like chunks out.
I lowered the bottle slowly as an energizing warmth spread through me—kinda like a shot of Everclear, but without the getting drunk part. I felt awake, alive. The only thing that kept me from slugging down another was the fear that I might overdose on it, and I sure as shit didn’t want to end up back in the hospital.
I dropped the empty bottle in the trash can and glanced at the clock: 9:30.
“Crap!”
I ran for the door.
The St. Edwards Parish Coroner’s Office was in Tucker Point—about twenty minutes from my house. Despite a couple of wrong turns, I managed to make it there before ten and by some miracle still managed to get the job. I didn’t have to interview or anything, which was a relief since I was a pro at tanking interviews. The human resources lady had apparently been expecting me because she pulled out a folder with my name on it and plopped down a big stack of paperwork for me to fill out. That I could handle. I was pretty darn good at filling out employment forms. It was the whole bit about keeping a job that I wasn’t so great at.
Unfortunately, the human resources lady didn’t know anything about how I’d managed to get hired and gave me a funny look when I asked her about it. I finally shut my mouth and concentrated on filling out the million forms in front of me. The last thing I wanted was for her to realize I didn’t deserve this job.
Once I finished with the paperwork the lady turned me over to a guy named Nick Galatas who was supposedly going to train me as a van driver. Nick was a couple of inches taller than me, though that didn’t mean much since I was only five foot three if I really stretched. He had dark brown hair and green eyes, and would have probably been kinda good-looking except for the fact that he seemed to have a permanent smirk on his face.
“You’re going to be partnered with a death investigator,” he informed me over his shoulder as he led the way through the building that housed the Coroner’s Office. It was a new building and everyone seemed to be really proud of it, but to my disappointment it didn’t look anything like the forensics shows I watched on TV. Instead it seemed like any other government office—over air-conditioned, low-key colors, boring posters, generic office furniture. There were a few doors that required a key card to enter, with impressive names like “Toxicology” and “DNA.” But I was again disappointed on discovering that the labs weren’t full of nifty chrome and cool blue and pink lighting. Total letdown.
“Twice a week you’ll be on call for a twenty-four-hour period,” Nick continued. “Otherwise you’ll be working mostly the morning shift. That’s when I have class,” he said, making it sound like he had an appointment to see the frickin’ pope.
“Okay,” I said with a shrug. I didn’t really care what shift I worked. They all sucked equally as far as I was concerned.
“I’m pre-med,” he added smugly.
“Okay.” I said again. I didn’t shrug this time, but his jaw tightened a bit as if he was annoyed that I wasn’t displaying the proper amazement at his accomplishment.
“And I’m next in line to be promoted to death investigator.” The look he gave me was nothing short of a challenge, and I had to fight to not roll my eyes. What, he expected me to start crowing about my own accomplishments so he could top them? He’d be waiting a long time for that.
“Cool,” I replied, forcing my face into a smile. I didn’t even know what a death investigator was, though I assumed it had something to do with investigating death. But Nick sure as hell didn’t need to worry about me horning in on his position. I only had to get through a month of this.
We came to the end of a long hall, stopping in front of another locked door. Nick glanced at me as he pulled out his key card. “Here we are,” he announced. “You’re going to be spending a lot of time here.”
I registered the word on the door. Morgue. A sick, sinking feeling began tugging at my insides. “I will?” I said, hoping my voice didn’t betray my sudden unease.
The smug smile returned. “Well, yeah. Your job is to pick up bodies and bring them here to the morgue.”
Van driver. Oh, Angel, you moron. What the hell did you think the coroner needed a van for?
One month. I took a slow deep breath. That’s all I had to do. “Oh. Okay,” I said as calmly as I could manage. I was totally not okay, but damn, I didn’t want Nick to see it.
He swiped the card and pulled the door open, stepped through and gestured for me to follow. I hesitated half a second but forced myself forward.
The smell hit me first. I’d expected a putrid and nasty rotting-flesh smell, but instead the air held a confusing mix of antiseptic cleanser, blood, and another odor that I couldn’t immediately place. A second later recognition smacked into me, and I realized it was the stench of the stuff used to preserve dead things, like the frog I had to dissect when I took Biology in high school.
Except, I never did dissect the frog. I was so grossed out and freaked at the smell and the mere thought of cutting into the thing and seeing its insides and guts and organs and everything, that I threw up all over the floor of the Biology lab. The teacher yelled at me, the other kids laughed, I started crying, then I threw my books down into that puddle of puke and marched out of the classroom and out a side door of the school. About a week later a social worker came to the house because, even though I was sixteen and old enough to drop out of school if I wanted, there were still procedures and shit. I don’t think Dad even knew I’d stopped going to school until the social worker showed up, disgust in her eyes and a fake-caring smile on her pinched face as she minced across the flattened beer cans in our driveway. But Dad didn’t make me go back to school, just told the lady I was going through a lot ’cause my mom had killed herself a couple of months ago, even though I wasn’t “going through” anything and was totally fine. He was the one being all grieving and stuff, and I think he simply didn’t have the energy to get into it with me. So I told the lady Biology and high school were useless crap, I was going to get a job, and I was never coming back to school.