How the White Trash Zombie Got Her Groove Back (14 page)

“I hadn't seen him in almost a year,” I replied. “I couldn't exactly say, ‘Hey, gimme a car. 'Kay, thanks, bye!'”

Naomi looked over at me, a frown line between her eyebrows. “He didn't try anything, did he?”

“Nah, he was cool,” I said, and shrugged. “We talked a bit, that's all.”

“You okay?” she asked, lowering her voice. “You don't exactly look okay.”

“It was weird seeing him again,” I confessed.

She sat back. “I've never been in that situation.”

I shot her a look of surprise. “Really? No exes?”

“Pathetic, huh?”

“Stop that,” I ordered. “It's not pathetic. Hell, if it makes you feel any better, Randy's my
only
ex.” Except as soon as I said it I remembered it wasn't true.
Nope, you got two exes now.
I hadn't told Naomi about Marcus yet. Everything had moved so quickly there'd been zero time to slow down and talk. Pour my heart out. Whine. Now wasn't the time either, not in a crowded car when a hell of a lot more than my love life was at stake.

“I also have half a decade on you,” she pointed out, but she had a bit of a smile now.

“And last time I checked, it wasn't a contest,” I shot back along with a light punch to her arm.

She chuckled softly, then looked ahead at Kyle. “I'm not going to be trying to win the ex competition, that's for sure.”

I reached and gave her hand a squeeze. “Good plan. And I think you're safe there.”

“Damn straight.” She lifted her chin. “Okay, folks,” she said at a more normal volume, “let's get the hell out of town.”

I knew better than to ask if we could swing by my house so I could throw some stuff into a bag for the trip. Maybe I wasn't a hotshit experienced operative like the other three, but I had enough brainpower to know the Tribe most likely had my house staked out. Of course, if I'd been a hotshit operative like the other three, I'd have had a jump bag packed like the others, and wouldn't be silently trying to figure out how the hell I was going to buy basic toiletries and enough clothing for several days with the eighteen dollars and ninety-four cents I currently had in my purse.

As stealthily as possible, I counted my money again, clinging to the stubborn hope that one of the bills would magically turn into a hundred dollar bill, or even a twenty. When that failed to happen, I quietly dug through my purse, searching every nook and cranny for cash.

Crap. Eighteen dollars and ninety-four cents wasn't going to get me very far. “I know y'all are going to say No,” I said, “but I need to hit an ATM. I won't ask to do it again after this, I promise.”

Kyle met my eyes in the rear view mirror. “Not a problem, Angel. We're still close enough to Tucker Point that the location won't give anything away.”

Naomi turned to look at me, frowning slightly. “But you don't need to. I can cover anything.”

“I have money,” I replied, a bit defensively. “I don't have much cash on me, that's all. I need to get it out of the bank.”

A hint of annoyance crept into her expression. “Okay, but we haven't even been on the interstate five minutes.”

“Which bank?” Kyle asked, not exactly ignoring Naomi, but not quite taking her comment under consideration either.

“Lake Pearl Bank,” I said, avoiding Naomi's eyes. “But any ATM'll do.”

Naomi gave Kyle a
Seriously?
look, then made a small frustrated noise in her throat and flopped back into her seat.

What the hell was her issue? I didn't think I was being obnoxious by insisting on paying my fair share, but I was so out of my depth I couldn't be sure. Where was the line between being a moocher and accepting help?

“There's a BigShopMart about ten minutes ahead,” Kyle said, “You can use the ATM, and we can pick up a few supplies at the same time.”

“Thanks,” I said, relieved, and even Naomi seemed somewhat mollified.

We made it off the interstate and to the store without incident. The others headed off to shop while I stopped at the ATM.

I stuck my card in and hit the button for express withdrawal of two hundred dollars, then stared at the “Insufficient funds available for this transaction” screen, which might as well have said “Haha! Fuck you, loser!”

A second attempt for a hundred dollars got the same obnoxious screen. Baffled, I did a balance check—which I probably should've done in the first place, but I'd thought for sure I had close to three hundred dollars in my account. Sure, I'd paid some bills recently, but those checks had all cleared, hadn't they?

The slip of paper spat out at me like a tongue, with $13.42 listed as my balance.

I crumpled the paper and flung it into the trash can, then grabbed a handheld shopping basket and stalked into the store. For a bizarre several seconds I felt like I was back in high school, trying to scrape out a way to buy clothing that didn't suck, and knowing that the cool kids would snicker behind their hands at me. Hell, the uncool kids as well.

Scowling, I shook off the memory. I wasn't poor anymore. I was
broke
, and there was a big difference between the two. However, growing up dirt poor had taught me a few things—some bad, like how to shoplift, and some good, like how to scrape by until Dad's next disability check came in.

I only considered the shoplifting angle for a second. Or two. Instead I scooped up cheap travel size toiletries at a dollar each, found a two-pack of underwear that I knew would crawl right up my ass, but hey, it was a buck ninety-nine for both, then scrounged up sweat pants and a t-shirt that wouldn't survive three washings, but hopefully, I wouldn't need them to.

Naomi and Kyle were already in line to check out when I approached the registers. I had absolutely no idea how they'd managed in such a short time, but their cart was piled high: Snacks and drinks, miscellaneous clothing and jackets, duffel bags, a large suitcase, and other every day necessities such as rope and zip ties and duct tape.

I joined a line a few registers down, sternly telling myself I didn't need to be self-conscious about how little I had in my basket. Someone got in line behind me a few seconds later, and I couldn't help but smile when he murmured, “Hey, ZeeEm.”

“Hey, ZeeBee,” I replied. “You doing okay?”

“Five by five.” He leaned over my shoulder and peered into my basket. “You get everything you needed?”

The lie leaped to my lips, but I swallowed it back down and shook my head. “I couldn't get any money from the ATM,” I told him, fighting down a wave of embarrassment. Damn it, harder to shake off those old ghosts than I thought. “I got a toothbrush and deodorant and a change of clothes, but that's it.”

He bumped his shoulder lightly into mine. “That'll get you by for now, right?” he asked, and I nodded. “We'll be making a stop during the day tomorrow I'm sure. I can help you out.”

“Sure. Thanks. I mean, I'm sure it's a computer glitch or something,” I hurried to add. Even though I knew Philip wouldn't judge or look down at me, I didn't want to add “can't manage money” to the list of my obvious faults. “I'll call the bank in the morning and get it straightened out.”

We finished our business and got everything loaded into the car. Naomi had the sense to buy a couple of cushy pillows, and I didn't mind one bit borrowing one when she offered. I jammed it between me and the door, and sighed in relative comfort as Kyle got us going again and back on the interstate.

What a crazy-ass day.
And here I was, on the way to New York City. Exciting and scary, yet after about ten minutes that faded into monotony. Since it was the middle of the night, the scenery sucked. Dark interstate, headlights and taillights, road signs, exits with gas stations and restaurants lit up like Christmas trees, and then more dark interstate.

I adjusted the pillow, closed my eyes, and let the hum of the tires lull me to sleep.

* * *

Philip's raised voice jarred me from a weird dream about winning the lottery then having to hide on the perm shelf in a beauty supply store because a horde of six-armed insurance salesmen were after me.

“Not the next exit. Stop
now!
”

I opened my eyes and sat up, blinking to focus. Philip was leaning forward, speaking to Kyle, face twisted in concern.

“What's wrong?” I peered out the window but saw only the same damn nighttime non-scenery. Gravel crunched beneath the tires as Kyle pulled onto the shoulder, and his worried eyes met mine in the rear view mirror.

Philip abruptly flung the door open on the non-traffic side of the car, then turned to me and jabbed the release on my seat belt. I barely had time for an
Oh, no, not again
before he seized my wrist and dragged me out. I yelped in pain as I stumbled and landed on my knees in the gravel. “Fucking shit, Philip! Stop!”

He paused, and for an instant I thought he'd obey me, but he simply spun back to snatch one of the small coolers of brains from the floorboard. As soon as he had it, he pulled me to my feet and took off at a jog toward the guardrail and the woods beyond. I clutched at his forearm to help me keep my balance and fought to dig my heels in, but my barely hundred pounds didn't stand a chance of slowing him down.

“Do something!” I yelled back at the others, then saw that they weren't exactly sitting back and observing. Kyle had the emergency flashers on and a tranq gun in his hand, while Naomi moved toward the trunk of the car.

“Too dangerous,” Philip said, voice taut and strained as he continued to drag me away from the car. “Too many cars. Too many people.”

“No! Philip, you have to stop,” I ordered, heart pounding. What if he didn't snap out of it this time? How far would he go to “protect” me? “Listen to me. It's more dangerous away from the others!”

If he heard me it sure as hell didn't make a difference. Breathing hard and face flushed, he set the cooler down on the other side of the guardrail, bodily lifted me over, then gripped my wrist again before I could make a dash for it. He stepped over, grabbed the cooler, and once again set off toward the woods.

“Shit, stop! Goddammit!” I seized hold of his hair and tried to figure out how I could jump onto him and bite him the way I had during the mayhem at the movie shoot. Except it'd been summer then, and he hadn't been wearing a jacket. Could I bite through that, or would I have to try to yank it aside?

Luckily, I didn't have to find out. He let out a sudden low moan, stumbled, and went sprawling, taking me down with him. His hand went limp, and I pulled away from him and scrambled to my feet. My legs felt wobbly, as if I'd done a few hundred squats, and I sat back down. Probably a result of the stress and shock.

“Did you tranq him?” I asked Kyle as he loped up, though I didn't see any darts sticking out of Philip's back.

“No, he went down on his own,” Kyle replied, crouching as Philip rolled drunkenly to his back.

“Philip?” I put a hand on his shoulder as he blinked up at the sky. The anxiety was gone from his face at least, though now he looked as if he had the mother of all headaches. “Talk to me, damn it.”

“I'm okay,” Philip said. “Head hurts. You okay, Angel?” He tried to sit up and managed it with our help.

“I'm good,” I told him. “More worried about you right now.”

“It was the same as at your house and the spillway.” Dismay wound through his voice. “Like watching myself and having no control. Headache is worse this time though.” He looked around, as if realizing for the first time that we were all sitting in the grass on the side of the interstate. Naomi remained by the car, trunk open as if she was looking for something, but she kept glancing our way, and I didn't miss the gun in her hand. “Damn. I'm sorry,” he said.

“It's not your fault,” I snapped. We
needed
to find Dr. Nikas more than ever. My legs were behaving now, so I stood and brushed myself off. “Let's get out of here.”

Kyle and I helped Philip to his feet, and we returned to the car. Philip settled into the back seat with me again, and Kyle stuck the cooler on the floor between us.

“That was fun,” Naomi said as she settled in the front. Her eyes flicked from Philip to me and back, worried.

No one spoke as we resumed driving.

“Do you have any sort of warning before one of these fits comes on?” I finally asked after a few tension-filled miles. “Y'know, like how migraine sufferers sometimes see auras and stuff?”

“I'm not sure,” Philip said wearily. “There's an antsy feeling, but probably too late to do anything about it. Comes on fast.” He grimaced. “It was happening when I told Kyle to stop the car, but I couldn't do anything about it.”

“Guess we'll need to be on our toes then,” I said. “And you still don't get to drive.”

I'd hoped for a laugh or at least a smile, but Philip merely looked at Kyle's hands, tight on the steering wheel. “Locking me down would be better,” he said.

I stiffened in response to the implied threat, even though he'd been the one doing the implying. “And how do you want to do that?” I demanded. “Go back to the Tribe? Or have us tie you up in a hotel room? You think you'll be cool separated from me the next time one of your fits comes along?”

“Handcuffed in the trunk?” he suggested, but it was clear he wasn't completely serious. At least I hoped not. He gave me a half-hearted smile. “We need some sort of plan. Tranqs don't always work well on me, and I'm not sure they'd work at all when I'm in that state.”

“I guess we'll find out,” I said and rubbed the back of my neck. I had a bit of my own headache going on. “How the hell can we plan ahead if we don't know what triggers it, we have no warning, and we don't know how to stop it?”

“The episodes are short, which helps,” Philip said, but his expression grew serious. “If this happens again, I want to get locked down. I'm not kidding,” he said at my stubborn expression. “Cuffed and duct taped like a mummy in the trunk would do it.”

“We'll talk about it then,” I said stiffly before anyone else could enter an opinion. Kyle and Naomi glanced at each other, but they recognized I wasn't in the mood to discuss this any more. I crossed my arms over my chest and defiantly closed my eyes, and before I knew it I was asleep again.