My Life as a White Trash Zombie

Derrel had told me a while back that Dr. Leblanc was a fan of the Socratic Method, which made absolutely zero sense to me at the time. In fact, I didn’t even realize he’d said “Socratic” and thought he’d said “secreting,” which had me just as confused. It wasn’t until I said something about “the secreting method” that Derrel explained—after laughing his ass off at me first—that the Socratic Method was a way of teaching by using questions. I didn’t understand the whole thing, but there were times when I really wished Dr. Leblanc would give me a straight answer.

However, I was willing to go along with it for the moment. “Well, sure. I mean, in the last couple of months we’ve had three people with heads cut off and two others who died of pretty major head injuries.”

He lowered the scalpel and regarded me. “Three,” he said after a few seconds.

“Three what?”

“Three who died of major head injuries,” he said. “Right before you were hired we had an MVA fatality where cause of death was multiple traumatic injuries, most notably decapitation.”

A bizarre chill walked down my spine at this for no reason I could understand. “Okay,” I said, shaking it off. “So. Six total.”

He didn’t lift his scalpel again and continued to look at me. “But what makes you think any of the accidental deaths could be related to the decapitations?”

I sighed and shrugged. “Never mind. I’m being silly.”

A smile flickered across his mouth. “I’m not going to let you off that easily. You think there might be a connection. What led you to that theory?”

I fidgeted. I could hardly say that my zombie super-sense told me that there were brains missing from squished-head guy and decomposed-guy. “Okay, um, the three men who got decapitated. Not the one from the car wreck—” Memory flickered but was gone before I could focus on it. “—but the pizza guy, Sweet Bayou guy, and this one are connected because the heads were chopped off.”

Dr. Leblanc gave me an approving nod. “That is definitely a telling detail. And I believe the fine folks at the Sheriff’s Office are quite inclined to agree with you.” But he still made no move to begin the dissection of the kidney. “Now what leads you to believe that the other three deaths are connected?”

All I could do was shrug helplessly. “I got nuthin’,” I said. “Just seemed weird, so many guys with their brains falling out.”

He smiled and began his cut. “It’s funny how sometimes things seem to have an odd synchronicity.” At my blank look he explained, “Those times when the same word or phrase or incident seem to repeat. Most of the time a closer examination reveals little more than coincidence. And, of course, decapitation is such an unusual and shocking way to die, that when such occurs, it tends to stick in our memory.” A thoughtful expression came over his face. “In fact, about ten years ago or so, a couple of skeletons were found out in the swamp. The skulls were missing, and there was trauma to the spinal column that indicated they’d been decapitated with several blows to the back of the neck.” He shook his head. “It caused a huge stir, obviously, but the case went nowhere. Theories ranged from a psychopath haunting the swamp and collecting heads, to an especially gruesome mob hit.”

I could only stare at him. More people had been decapitated?

Dr. Leblanc smiled, almost as if he could see the thoughts ticking through my head. “But that same year three other bodies were found in the swamp as well—one was a hunter who died of a heart attack, one was a drug dealer from New Orleans who’d been shot and dumped, and the last was the husband of a woman who figured poison would be less of a hassle than divorce. Yet no one remembers those.”

“You did,” I pointed out.

He chuckled. “I did the autopsies. I highly doubt anyone else remembers, though I would imagine there are quite a few who remember the two headless bodies. It made quite a splash in the news for a while.”

“Okay,” I said with a nod. “I see your point.” I did, too. But, still, could those two have been somehow connected to these? Maybe it was a serial killer who decided to take a long break?

I fell silent while I pondered this. Zombies could live a long time, so it wasn’t outrageous at all to think that whoever was doing the beheading stuff now might have also been doing it ten years ago.

“Did you ever figure out who those two were?” I asked.

He gave a slight shrug. “ID was made from items found in what clothing remained. It was a fairly young couple who’d recently moved to the area. The police had a great deal of trouble finding out much about them, and there was a healthy suspicion that they were part of some sort of witness relocation program.” He gave a slight grimace. “Which, of course, added weight to the theory that it was a mob hit or something of that ilk.”

I frowned as a nasty certainty began to form in my gut. I’ve had tunnel vision. I’m looking at this all wrong. “Well that sucks the shit from a dead rat’s ass,” I muttered.

Dr. Leblanc gave a dry chuckle as he sliced into the kidney. “Angel, you truly have a way with words.”

I grinned sheepishly. I hadn’t meant for him to hear that. “Hey, go with your strengths, right?”

“You have more strengths than that.”

“Aww, Doc, you’re gonna make me blush.”

After the autopsy I put the body back in the cooler, turned my attention to cleaning up, and allowed my mind to wander and sort through all this new information.

First off was the biggie: I’d definitely been looking at this all wrong. I needed to stop trying to force a connection where there probably wasn’t one. What if Zeke did kill those two people? He had to have been getting brains from somewhere, and he’d been living in that area. Then what if someone else chopped off his head and the heads of the other two men? That made a lot more sense.

Therefore, why were Zeke and Peter Plescia and Adam Campbell murdered? I knew Zeke was a zombie, I was pretty sure Peter was one, and I didn’t really know anything about Adam, but I sure did have a big ol’ hunch. But let’s assume for the moment that he was. Zombies couldn’t eat other zombie brains, which meant it was doubtful that this was a zombie doing the head-chopping. Or rather, it wasn’t a zombie driven by hunger.

There was only one answer I could come up with.

Someone was hunting zombies.

Chapter 26

I drove home in a cold sweat, arguing with myself the whole way. I was jumping to conclusions. I didn’t know for sure that Peter Plescia and Adam Campbell were zombies. Maybe it’s a serial killer who happens to be going after bums. And pizza delivery guys. And technical writers.

Yeah, right. My hideous gut feeling was that my first theory was the right one.

The churning of my thoughts came to a screeching halt the second I walked into the house.

Horror sliced through me, but I was frozen in place, framed in the doorway as the distinct scent twined around me. I could see the broken glass in the hallway, the liquid and tapioca-like chunks in congealing puddles.

No. Oh, god no. I should have given him money. I should have put a lock on the fridge.

My pulse pounded loud behind my eyes and I could barely hear the rantings of my father. I heard my name. Heard some insults and cursing. They didn’t register. All I could focus on was the carefully hoarded stash now soaking into the already nasty carpet of the hallway.

I felt myself moving forward, every footstep feeling surreal and deliberate. My dad appeared in the hallway, face twisted into anger, one of my jars in his hand.

“You fuckin’ worthless bitch,” he yelled. “Where are you hiding it? I know you got booze! What the fuck is this shit? You tryin’ to poison me?” He flung the jar down to shatter and mingle with the rest.

“Those weren’t yours,” I said, and I shocked myself at how calm and mild I sounded. Inside I was shrieking.

For an instant he seemed shocked as well, but then he rallied. “Everythin’ in this house is mine!” he frothed,