My Life as a White Trash Zombie

eyes. “Ed and I have known each other since we were kids. He thinks he can get away with battery on a police officer, and one of these days I’m gonna slap cuffs on his skinny ass.”

Ed merely smiled serenely. “And the next time you get a boo-boo in the line of duty, I’ll be sure to tell the ER folks that you’re too much of a man to need painkillers.”

The deputy snorted. “Speaking of, you need to stop dicking around and get her to the ER.”

“Get the hell out of my way, and I’ll do that,” Ed said with a glare at the deputy. Ivanov gave a low laugh, then gave me a wink as he stood and walked off. I stared after him for several seconds as I struggled to make sense of this side of the gruff deputy.

“He can be Mr. Grouchy Pants,” Ed said quietly, “but I think this time it was more worry than anything. We’ll get you checked out, and then everyone will be happier.”

“I’m not hurt that bad,” I insisted, even as I wondered if the deputy had really been worried about me. “All I need is a Band-Aid for my head.”

“You could be an extra in a slasher movie with all the blood you have on you,” Ed said, “but I’ll be damned if I can find any other cuts besides that one. You must have hit one hell of a bleeder.”

I gave what I hoped was a neutral shrug. “I feel all right. I really can’t afford to miss a bunch of work.”

“I don’t know if you’ll be kept out of work, but since you were driving the Coroner van, I’m sure you’re going to have to do a urinalysis—a piss test.” He shrugged.

“Oh.” Shit. It had been weeks since I’d smoked that pot with Randy, and it’d been over a week since I’d taken any pills, so surely I was clean now, right? “Oh, yeah. Okay.” God, I hoped so. “But I really don’t need to ride on the stretcher, okay?”

Ed gave me a reassuring pat on the shoulder. “If you can walk, that’s fine.”

I made it into the ambulance without falling over, then proceeded to worry about the piss test the entire way to the hospital. Would the drugs show up? Or worse, would the fact that I was a . . . a zombie? I had a feeling I was being stupid, but at least it managed to distract me from all of the other stuff on my mind. Maybe someday I wouldn’t have anything to worry about. Wouldn’t that be a shock.

When we got to the ER, Ed hopped out then gave me a hand to help me down. I gave him my left without thinking, then had to bite back a yell of pain when he took hold of my arm to assist me. The crap on my arm had closed up all the way, but obviously it wasn’t totally healed.

“You gonna make it?” he asked, peering at my face with worry. “You just went pale. I can put you on the stretcher if you need it.”

I took a deep breath. “I’m cool. Sorry. Probably straightened too fast.” I pulled away from his grasp as gently as I could, trying to not be obnoxious about jerking my arm away or anything. I sure as shit didn’t want anyone to know about the arm thing. If they x-rayed it and saw that it was still kinda broken, I’d definitely be out of work for a while. I simply had to make it until I got home, and then I could down a Percocet or. . . .

I scowled to myself. No. No painkillers for me. None of that shit worked on me anymore. That sucked ass.

Brains instead. I sighed. Too fucking weird.

Ed somehow managed to cut through the usual procedures, and I was settled into an exam room within a few minutes. The nurse came in and I nearly flinched when I recognized her as the bitchy redhead from the last time I was here. I kept waiting for her to start in with the snide looks, but she merely took my vitals and left.

“Hate that fuckin’ bitch,” Ed muttered, and I had to stifle a bark of laughter. He gave me a sheepish grin. “Sorry. I got bit by a dog last year, and she was so nasty it was as if she thought I deserved to get bit.”

I wanted to respond, but the door opened and half the Coroner’s Office poured in. At least it seemed that way. In reality it was only Derrel and Allen Prejean, followed by—to my enormous shock—the coroner, Dr. Duplessis. But none of the men were small, and the already tiny room seemed suddenly overcrowded.

Ed gave my arm a squeeze—the unbroken one, thankfully. “Take care of yourself, Angel. And don’t take this the wrong way, but I’d rather not meet you like this again.”

I grinned. “I’m cool with that.”

He gave me a parting smile, then left me to fend off a barrage of questions from the three remaining men.

Chapter 12

I gazed morosely at the contents of the little fridge in my room. Actually, gazing at the contents didn’t take long since the damn thing was empty, but I crouched there with the door open for several minutes anyway, as if my stash would magically regenerate if I wished hard enough. The cold air flowed out onto my bare feet but I might as well have been wearing socks for all I felt it. I absently rubbed my fingertips together, dully annoyed at the faint lack of sensation. My stomach gave an unpleasant twist—like I needed the reminder that I was a few hours past my usual, every-other-day feeding schedule. Great. Everything else faded, but I could still feel the damn hunger.

Used to be that I wanted the edge taken off the world. Hell, that’s why I’d turn to pills or pot or booze. But this was different. It was like the longer I went without brains, the more dead I became.

And that scared the living shit out of me.

After Ed had left me in the ER I’d been subjected to a barrage of questions that made Ivanov’s “interrogation” look like a poetry reading. Derrel was clearly worried and distressed, Allen was annoyed and suspicious—and kept muttering under his breath about the loss of the van—and Dr. Duplessis was somewhere in between. I told my story as best I could, keeping it as close to the truth as possible while leaving out the bit about the zombie. To my relief the faint shadow of suspicion in the coroner’s eyes faded as I finished up my version of what happened. And when my piss test came back clean—thank god—even Allen seemed to unbend enough to show actual concern.

Unfortunately, I still ended up with three days off from work. It wasn’t even punishment either, which was the totally bizarre thing about it. It was with pay, and the coroner most likely thought he was being super nice, giving me extra time to make sure I was all right. Normally I’d have been thrilled to get time off with pay. I mean, the coroner was being incredibly cool to do that for me, especially since I was so new. Usually you had to be there for three months before you could get any type of paid leave. And what was I supposed to say? “Gee, thanks for giving me paid time off, but that’s not why I need to come to work. I need to dig through dead bodies’cause I’m starving, yo.”

At least it was only three days. If I hadn’t tanked up on some brains out at the accident scene, I’d have probably been forced to stay out for a couple of weeks to hide how fast I could heal up when properly fed. And then I’d have been like that other zombie. A chill went through me that had nothing to do with the open fridge.

I closed the fridge, stood. I was back on call tomorrow. One more day. I could last until then, right? I wasn’t even smelly yet. Well, not too much. I counted the days: I’d slugged down my last brains day before yesterday, and I was supposed to go back to work tomorrow. Three days without brains. I’d never gone that long before.

Unfortunately, I’d burned through my stash faster than I’d expected getting healed up. I’d been able to bullshit the ER doc, but my stupid body had let me know that it felt like shit. I wasn’t tough enough to fight my appetite when it was clawing at me like I’d swallowed a wolverine.

But how long did I have? I needed a goddamn manual. And why the hell couldn’t Anonymous Letter Dude give me some clues and pointers? Okay, I ate the damn brains. I’ve figured out that I need to keep this job. Great. You win. Now, could I please get a clue?

The “one month” mark was in a few days, and still no sign or word from whoever’d arranged the whole thing with the job. I’d really been hoping that at some point I’d get a “Way to go!” or “I knew you could do it!” or even a “Hi, my name is blank, and I’ve been your mentor.” I scowled. Not a mentor, though. A mentor would have given me some actual advice and instruction on how to handle this whole brain thing. Not just a stupid “If you crave it, eat it” note.

I really hoped I wasn’t expected to figure this crap out on my own.