My Life as a White Trash Zombie

I peered at myself in the mirror. What would I look like all rotted and gross like that guy had been? There were shadows under my eyes, and I looked as if I’d been awake for way too long, but I didn’t have parts falling off. Yet. I shivered, then stuck a Band-Aid onto my forehead where the cut on my head had been. I didn’t want people wondering how I could have healed up so fast. I still wasn’t sure what I was going to do about the fact that there wasn’t a scar. Maybe get my hair cut so I had bangs that covered my forehead? I made a face. Bangs. Ugh. I’d rather have parts falling off.

My dad wasn’t home so I checked my money situation and then headed out. I had an attack of responsibility and used a good portion of my last paycheck to do stupid things like paying bills—even paid the cable bill, which had been cut off. Hopefully this would get around having to give money to my dad, especially since I wasn’t so sure he’d actually pay bills with the money anyway.

My stomach grumbled at me after I dropped off a payment at the power company and I wavered badly on whether to try and sneak into the morgue to snag some brains. The big problem was the fact that I had to use a key card to get in—which meant that it would be logged in the system. Coming in once or twice off-shift wouldn’t be a huge deal, but it would definitely be noticed if I made a habit of it. Especially since the previous van driver had been caught stealing. The last thing I wanted was any more attention.

It’s only one more day, I reminded myself. It’s not worth the risk.

I caught a scent of fried chicken as I passed a diner on the corner, and my stomach gave another lurch. I almost laughed in relief. This was hunger . . . not Hunger. I still needed to eat regular food—something I’d almost forgotten to do when I was healing up from the wreck. Hell, I tended to forget it a lot when I was low on brains, and forgetting had the unfortunate effect of making me even more ravenous for brains since I was basically starving myself. It didn’t help that food tended to be kinda tasteless if I wasn’t tanked up on brains.

Maybe I can start a new diet craze, I thought with a snicker as I turned in to the parking lot for the Piggly Wiggly. Become a zombie. Cut your appetite in half. For real food, at least.

Pausing my cart by the meat section, I peered down at the various selections of animal flesh. Did it have to be human brains? If I could get the same effect from animal brains, that would make this whole thing a helluva lot less fucked up and a helluva lot easier. Animal brains would be easier to get, right? Though I couldn’t see myself actually killing an animal. Yeah, I was a bit of a redneck, but I got squeamish putting worms on hooks. Would I still be? I wondered suddenly. I used to throw up at the slightest gross thing, and now I was handling brains like a pro. Yeah, but actually killing something is a whole ’nother thing entirely.

“Can I help you?”

I jerked my gaze up to see the butcher giving me a bored and questioning look. “Um, yeah. Do y’all ever sell, um, brains? I mean, like, animal brains?”

He didn’t look bored anymore. Now his expression was more along the lines of “are you fucking nuts?”

“I mean, not to eat or anything,” I quickly added, tacking on a laugh for good measure, though it sounded strained and fake to my ears. “That would be pretty gross, right?”

He eyed me dubiously. “And dangerous, too. Mad cow disease. That sort of thing.”

I blinked. Maybe that’s what I had? Some sort of disease?

“But to answer your question,” he continued, “No, we don’t carry that sort of thing here. Does it have to be a cow brain?”

I shook my head, not trusting myself to speak in case I came across as a complete lunatic. Instead of the partial lunatic he probably already thought I was.

He pursed his lips and frowned. “Is this for some sort of school project or something?”

“Yeah!” I exclaimed, leaping on the excuse. “That’s it. A project.” Did I look young enough to be in high school? Or maybe he thought I was in college. Ha. Like that would ever happen.

A low snort escaped him. “My advice would be to find someone who hunts. Get them to give you the brain when they process the carcass.”

Process the carcass. That sounded oddly hideous. I gave him a weak smile. “Gotcha. Thanks.”

He gave me a stiff nod, then moved down the counter to help another customer—no doubt someone who actually wanted meat. I let out a breath. Wonderful. Getting animal brains was as hard, if not harder, than getting human brains. And I had no idea if they’d even work the same way.

“Hey, Angel!”

I swung around with a guilty start to see Monica Gaudreau, one of the other death investigators at the Coroner’s Office. Monica was a short and chunky redhead with a bright personality and a voice raspy from too many cigarettes. Not that she let her raspy voice stop her from talking fast enough to make your head spin. Oh, god, did she hear me asking about brains?

But to my relief she merely flashed me a broad smile. “So the rumors that you’re alive and well after doing somersaults in the van are true!”

I blinked. “Umm. Rumors?”

She laughed. “Rumors, fact, whatever. You know how it is around that office. I swear, I think the secretary moonlights as a gossip columnist. Hell, she’d make a killing. Maybe I’ll suggest it to her! Anyway, good to see that you’re doing all right. I saw the van in the wrecker yard. I can’t believe you’re up and around!” Then she surprised me by giving my arm a squeeze. “Damn glad, too. It would suck having to deal with one of our own. Besides, you keep Nick on his toes.”

I managed a weak grin in the face of her machine-gun style of speech.

“Ew. Do you smell that?” she said, nose wrinkling. “I think the meat in the cooler’s going bad. Anyway, good thing you were wearing your seatbelt, huh? Heck, the main reason I wear mine is because I don’t want any of the schmucks we work with to see me naked on the table in the cutting room.” She gave a mock shudder. “Pervs!”

“Yeah, no kidding,” I finally got in, somehow keeping the smile fixed on my face. It wasn’t the meat in the cooler going bad.

“Well, good to see you doing so well. See you at work!” And then she was off down the aisle, pushing her cart at breakneck speed and snatching items off the shelves without a hitch in her stride.

I took a deep breath after she was out of sight, partly to regain my equilibrium after the less than a minute in her presence, but also to try and ground myself in the realization that the people I worked with had been worried about me and gave a shit.

How cool was that?

In odd parallel to my earlier fridge staring, Dad was staring bleakly into the fridge in the kitchen when I got home. He looked up and closed it when I entered, surprise lighting his eyes as I plopped several plastic grocery bags onto the counter. He had a beer in his hand and when I did a quick scan of the kitchen I saw only one empty. Good. That meant I was hitting the sweet spot in his sobriety. Just enough buzz to take the edge off and keep him being a cranky asshole, but not so much that he’d progress to being mean and ugly and compelled to detail my numerous failings as a person and a daughter. Defensive much?

“Hey, Dad, I got those burritos you like so much.” I dug through the bags and pulled a couple out. A smile flickered across his mouth, and I felt a little bump of pleasure that I’d thought to get them. He could be a real shit sometimes, but he was still my dad. He’d been there for me when it had mattered the most, even though it had damn near killed him. Yeah, everything had gone to shit after that in other ways, but it taught me to keep my expectations real low.

“Thanks, Angelkins. I was about to go down to the corner and get some fried chicken.”

I made a face. “That stuff’ll give you the runs.”

He snorted. “Like the burritos won’t?” But he pulled a plate out of the cabinet and snagged one of the frozen burritos.

“Yeah, well, I got some decent food too.” Glancing at my dad as I unloaded the bags, I pulled out a bag of apples. “You should eat some fruit after you eat that. You’ll feel better.”

He didn’t look up as he unwrapped the burrito and stuck the plate into the microwave. “I’d feel better if my daughter had told me she’d been in an accident.” He punched the start button, then turned to me, an odd