White Trash Zombie Apocalypse

Suppressing a shudder of horror, I waited another minute or so in case the door opened again, then crept along the back of the parking lot and in the direction Philip went. I reached the street and froze as I saw him crouched not ten feet away, his focus on the paper bag as he tore into it. Heart pounding, I eased back into the bushes beside the warehouse sign and watched. Philip ripped open a packet, much like the ones that Brian and Rachel had given me, and downed it, near weeping in relief. Must be standard zombie-issue in the corporate world, I thought with a soft snort.



He downed a second packet and then went still as though waiting for the brains to take effect.



Behind me, I heard the warehouse door swing open, and I cast a cautious glance that way. The suited man stepped out, waited for the door to close fully behind him, then headed for the car I’d hidden behind earlier. I remained motionless as he cranked it and pulled out of the parking lot, then let out a soft breath of relief as he passed without looking my way.



For the millionth time I wondered what the hell was going on. Charish had told him to go get the stuff “from the drop spot.” I grimaced. I probably should’ve pocketed the USB drive when I had the chance. Did the contents of that black box have anything to do with the attack on me? God, it felt like a century ago now, though I knew it had been only a couple of days. And what if they came after me again? Or my dad.



Worry clutched at my gut. I needed to get back to my dad. I turned and slowly worked my way behind the bushes, intending to emerge on the street a block or so down.



“Angel?” Philip said from behind me, voice ragged.



I sucked in a breath and spun to face him, my heart slamming as if it was about to burst out of my chest. He stood on the sidewalk no more than a few strides away, tatters of the bag in one hand and the empty packets in the other. His eyes met mine, intense and wild, his expression shifting with emotions I didn’t have the time or inclination to identify. I tore my gaze away and broke into a run, sneakers slapping the pavement. Half a block away, I glanced back to see if he pursued, but he remained where he was, watching me go.



I controlled the urge to run the rest of the way back to the school, since doing so would be Stupid. I only had two bottles of brains left, and as long as I didn’t do something clever like go for a midnight jog, they would hopefully last me until I could get to my stash. I compromised and walked at a quick pace, continuing to cast glances back over my shoulder to see if Philip or anyone else followed. Thankfully, the streets remained empty, and I made it back without incident.



The security guard stood waiting by the door when I returned. He smiled and gave a sigh of obvious relief.



“Thought something had happened to you,” he said as he held the door for me.



I thought of telling him that I could take care of myself, that I’d taken care of myself for a long time. Instead I simply gave him a nod and a smile. “Thanks for worrying.”



I headed down the hall to the gym, oddly comforted by the fact that someone I barely knew gave a shit.



Chapter 20



Hungry, I detoured to the small fridge in the coach’s office where I’d stashed my bottles. Both were still there, to my relief, probably because I’d marked them in big black marker “Prescription! Do not drink!” After a brief internal debate I went ahead and got one out and chugged it down. With the ongoing zombie weirdness, I figured it’d be best if I wasn’t hungry.



My dad was still snoring on his cot when I returned to the gym. I climbed onto mine and managed a couple of hours of horrible sleep before the sirens from a passing ambulance jerked me awake. One of the great things about living in the country was the quiet. Of course the drawback was that I hadn’t learned to tune out the sounds of city traffic—even a city as small as Tucker Point.



Though exhausted, my mind whirled with worry. Getting back to sleep proved impossible, and I eventually gave up trying and stared at the damn ceiling until my bladder insisted I make my way to the bathroom. I did my business and was almost back to my cot when I spotted a figure standing by the wall on the other side of my dad’s cot. At first I thought it was one of the other refugees. Then his head jerked.



I sucked in a sharp breath. Goddam Philip again. “You get the hell away from my dad,” I told him, my voice low and shaking with intensity. How had he gotten past the guard? If he’d hurt Santa, I was going to be one pissed zombie-mama.



He spread his arms, hands open, palms toward me, the jerky shaking evident despite the gloom. “Come with me,” he said, hoarse roughness in place of the ugly rasp of before.



“Get away from my dad,” I repeated.



To my surprise he obliged by taking a step back toward the wall, keeping his hands in clear sight. “Please. Come with me.”



I clearly heard the blend of intensity and desperation in his voice. He was dangerous and so not fooling around, but the “please” drew me. Shit. If he was about to do some nasty crap to me, I didn’t want it to happen in here where someone else could get hurt or kids might see. “Outside.”



To my relief he gave a single nod. “This way,” he replied, barely audible, tilting his head toward the door at the far end of the gym, opposite the main entrance. My relief ratcheted up a smidge as he led me through the door and down a short flight of stairs to an exit. If he’d come in this way, hopefully it meant Santa was all right.



My pulse slammed as I followed him, and I breathed a silent prayer of thanks that I drank the bottle of brains only a few hours earlier. I was far from fully tanked, but at least I wasn’t hungry.



He exited the building, then moved behind the hedge along the back wall and crouched, fisting his hands on his knees.



I stayed far enough back that he couldn’t reach out and grab me. “What do you want?”



A shudder wracked him. “What did you see?”



“Yeah, right,” I said with a snort. “Why should I tell you anything? So you know whether or not to kill me?” I smiled sweetly and spread my hands. “I didn’t see anything at all. How’s that?”



Even in the low light I could see the grimace that twisted his features. “You…shouldn’t…tell me.” He shook his head as though trying to clear confusion, then pulled two small glass vials from his pocket—one half-full of a milky-yellow liquid, the other full of a milky-blue one. His hands trembled as he uncapped the half-full vial and downed the contents.



“What the hell is that?” I asked, scowling. “What’s going on?”



“Stabilizer.” He held up a heavily tremoring hand. “For this.”



I consciously resisted the urge to move to him, clasp his hand between mine to soothe him. Pursing my lips, I regarded him for a long, silent moment. “Dr. Charish did that to you?” I finally asked.



Giving a single nod, he leaned his head back against the wall and closed his eyes.



I took a very cautious step forward. “Do you need brains?” I asked quietly.



He didn’t open his eyes. “Yes,” he said in a cracked whisper, tinged with a desperation I didn’t think he intended to reveal.



“Stay here,” I told him. “I’ll be right back.” I didn’t wait for a response, simply hurried back inside and to the little fridge and my last bottle. Holy crap, but I really hoped I wasn’t making a godawful mistake. Every fiber of logic in me said to let him rot, literally. He’d been a complete ass to me since I’d turned him, and it was crazy to believe that as soon as I gave him the brains he wanted he wouldn’t do something ugly.



I grabbed the bottle, then headed out again. Philip had shifted to sit with his back against the wall, his head lowered, in that moment looking like anything but a badass zombie soldier. I unscrewed the bottle top and crouched by him.



“Here, drink this,” I said.



He lifted his head, pain flickering over his face as if the simple movement cost him tremendous effort. “I shouldn’t…be here,” he croaked, making no move to take the bottle.



Scowling, I plopped my ass down beside him. “You’re here now. Drink.”



After another few seconds of hesitation, he finally took the bottle from me and slugged down half the contents. A wave of confusion passed over his face as he lowered the bottle.



I had plenty of my own confusion going. My zombie-baby had been a complete and utter asshole, but there was also no denying that something was seriously wrong with him. There was no damn way he could’ve faked the level of anxiety and despair I’d seen in him earlier when he begged Dr. Charish for assistance. The urge to help him kept hammering at me, no matter how hard I tried to focus on the bad things he’d done, and would likely still try to do to me.



“Drink the rest,” I muttered.



His gaze skittered to mine, lines of pain deep in his face. “Have…more?”



I hesitated. No damn way was I telling him about my stash. “Not with me,” I hedged. “But you can have the rest of this.”



He remained still for another few seconds, as if running through his options, then lifted the bottle with both hands and drank another few gulps. He recapped it with a couple of inches of brain smoothie still in it and set it beside me. “Thank you.”



Well, that was a whole lot nicer than the “Fuck you” he’d given me down at the boat launch. “What’s going on?” I asked. “Why did you come here?” I didn’t think it was only to score some brains, even though he’d obviously needed them desperately.



“I shouldn’t be here,” he said again, then drew a breath that verged on a sob. “Angel, it hurts.” A shudder wracked him. “Oh, god.”



I put a hand on his arm. “Philip, I can get you help,” I said quietly, suppressing a shiver at the stark pain in his voice. “Please. Let me—”



“No!” He drew in a sharp, noisy breath. “No,” he said again, shaking his head. “I can’t. You…no.”



Annoyance at the stoic bullshit flared. “Great, so stay fucked up,” I retorted. “You’re a goddamn idiot.”