My Life as a White Trash Zombie

“Really? But you’re a paramedic, right?”

“Yep. That’s a two year program, though sometimes there are accelerated programs where you can get it in under a year.”

“Do death investigators have to have medical backgrounds?” I asked, suddenly intrigued at the thought of having an actual career.

She shook her head. “This particular office likes for us to have medical background since it makes it easier to understand stuff and work with the pathologist, but it’s not a requirement.”

I sat back, thoughts whirling. I didn’t want to be a van driver forever. I was tied to the morgue because of the access to brains, but what if I went to school for other stuff so that I could be an investigator? That would be more money, I’d still be where I could get to the brains, and—

“So, did you have a question for me?” Monica asked, yanking me back to reality.

“Oh, yeah, sorry.” With difficulty I wrenched my train of thought back onto its tracks, filing away the thought of becoming an investigator for another time. “How hard is it to overdose on alcohol and painkillers like, say, Percocet or Lortab?”

She spread her hands and grimaced. “Wow, that depends on a lot of factors. Weight, health, medical history, you name it.”

“But say someone healthy and normal had a couple of beers, and just had one Perc and one Lortab, that wouldn’t be dangerous, right?”

She pursed her lips. “Without repeating my earlier bit about all the other factors, I think it’s unlikely that someone in good health could OD on that alone.”

I pulled the slip of paper out of my pocket. “Okay, next question. What’s flunitrazepam?”

An expression of distaste twisted her mouth. “That’s Rohypnol. The date rape drug,” she explained.

I stared at her, shock and horror undoubtedly stamped across my face. A sudden understanding flared in her eyes, and I realized she knew exactly why I was asking.

“That one is easy to overdose on,” she said in a tone so gentle that I knew she knew. “Especially if someone had been taking other drugs prior.”

I could feel a flush of humiliation climbing up my neck. I’d suspected that there were more than a few people at the coroner’s office who were aware of my background and what had happened to me. There were privacy regs all over the place, but people still gossiped.

“Yeah, I know all about your history,” Monica said with a dismissive wave. “Big fucking deal. That’s exactly what it is—history. In the past.” She looked angry, and it was with a shock that I realized she wasn’t angry at me, but for me.

I fumbled for something to say but apparently she wasn’t finished. “It’s none of my business, and you can tell me to fuck off if you want,” she said, tone suddenly clipped and harder than usual, “and I don’t know if it’ll make you feel any better,” her mouth tightened into a thin line, “but the asshole who did that to you won’t be doing it to anyone else.”

“What?” I couldn’t manage anything beyond that.

Her eyes grew hard. “I worked a scene that night. An MVA. Only the one occupant. It was a messy accident. Ejection and decapitation. But he had a bottle of pills in his pocket. No markings on the bottle.” She abruptly stood, started shuffling papers. I got the impression she wasn’t looking for anything, simply wanted to do something with her hands. “Anyway, the victim’s tox screen came back clean, other than some alcohol—and not much of that. But I sent the pills off for testing and they came back as flunitrazepam.” She gave her head a sharp shake. “Only one reason why he’d have them. But I didn’t think about it much until . . . now.”

I could only stare, stunned into silence. Monica took a deep breath, released it, then gave me a more normal smile. “Y’know, if you’re really interested in becoming an investigator you should go into some of the old case files and see how they were written up. You can pull reports up by date, if you want.” The look she gave me was strangely penetrating. “I need to go run an errand. Feel free to use my computer. Log out when you’re done, okay?”

She was almost out the door before I could manage a response. “Monica, wait,” I croaked.

She stopped in the doorway, slowly turned back.

“I . . . why do you . . . ?” Shit. I couldn’t say what I knew I wanted to say. Why are you angry for my sake when this was something I did to myself? Why are you pissed on my behalf when I was the moron who got drunk and got into the car with him? Why don’t you hate me as much as I hate myself?

Monica’s expression softened though her mouth stayed hard. “Nobody deserves rape. Nobody.”

“But . . . but I wasn’t raped,” I blurted.

Her eyes darkened. “Not every rape is physical,” she said in a quiet voice. Then she was out the door.

I sat where I was for at least a full minute before I stood and slowly made my way to her chair. The report program was already on screen. All I had to do was input the date. There were three death reports from that day, but only one that was listed as an MVA—motor vehicle accident.

I printed it all out without reading it—reports, pictures, everything—then logged out of the computer, retrieved my printouts, and headed out.

Chapter 33

I ended up going back to the diner, simply because I couldn’t think of anywhere else to go where I would have the room to spread out and look everything over. I felt a little silly as the waitress came up to me, but apparently it wasn’t the first time she’d seen a booth used as a temporary work desk. She merely poured me coffee and gave me a warm smile.

I sipped my coffee and started flipping quickly through the thick sheaf of papers. Right now there was only one thing I was really interested in.

Decedent—Herbert Singleton. White male, thirtyseven years old, lived in Longville. Only next of kin was an ex-wife who lived in Lafayette. There was a driver’s license picture, and I peered at it for close to a minute while more memories flashed into place. Yeah, this was the guy. I’d probably seen him at Pillar’s once or twice before. Not a local. Just someone who wanted a drink and a good time. Maybe too good a time.

So, Herbert, were you the one who made me like this? Were you a zombie? That he’d roofied me, I had no doubt. But he hadn’t counted on the fact that I already had a nice high rocking when he started buying me drinks and adding his special little touch of Rohypnol to them. The full effect must not have hit me until I was in his car. Maybe he realized I was overdosing and he panicked? Then why drive out to the middle of nowhere instead of a hospital?

Because, if he’d gone to the hospital, they’d have figured out that he was probably the one who’d roofied me. But if he made me a zombie, he could walk away from the whole thing. I was dying, so he did whatever zombies do and then dumped me on the side of the road.

I frowned. No, that didn’t hold water. I would have had to eat brains immediately, right? Okay, so he might have had his own stash. And then after dumping me he got into a wreck, or was hunted down by the zombie killer. . . .

My frown deepened. Nope. It still didn’t work. Someone had sent me the clothing and brain-drinks in the ER, and had arranged for the job at the morgue. Well, maybe there’s a big Protect New Zombies conspiracy going on?

I scrubbed a hand over my face. This was stupid. If this guy had been a zombie, why would he have gone to the trouble of making me one too simply because I was overdosing? It was far more likely that he’d taken me out to that remote highway to bash my head in and scoop out some nice fresh brains. Drug the white trash skank, take her out to the swamp, chow down.

And then what? The zombie killer had saved me?

I made a noise of frustration. None of this made sense. But I’d had it with being in the dark. I had the reports, and I was going to find the damn answer if it took me the rest of my undead life.

Well armed with coffee and workspace, I spread the pages of the death report out and began my search for