White Trash Zombie Gone Wild (19 page)

“Don't get caught. ZOMBIES. ARE. AMONG. US!”

The screen went dark. The lights came back up, and wild applause broke out an instant later.

I didn't clap. Couldn't. Not even to pretend I was part of the crowd. Nausea threatened to bring the canapés right back up. The hideous documentary had segments that matched each of the single asterisk filenames on Seeger's list. But what about the double asterisk files? What else was out there? Were there videos of Marcus being broken over and over? And would anyone recognize the crazed zombie at the melée as Philip?

More importantly, would anyone wonder if it could be real?

I looked around wildly for Andrew then froze like a rabbit beneath an owl. A broad-shouldered man stood on the other side of the tent with his arms folded over his chest. Bear, with Nick beside him. I wasn't surprised to see Bear here since his shop was one of the main sponsors. But knowing that Nick had seen the real zombie footage—even if he didn't know it was real—left me feeling weirdly off-balance.

The tent slowly emptied, and at long last I spied Andrew sitting in a folding chair near the back of the stage. Shoulders hunched and face sheet-white, he looked every bit as appalled and freaked as I felt. It was a double whammy for him. Real zombie stuff on top of insider footage from his company.

Braddock stepped into my path when I was a dozen feet away from him. “Now isn't the time,” she told me, gaze hard and voice firm. “I'm taking him out of here.”

Damn it, why did she have to be such a good bodyguard? “I know,” I said. “Everything's screwed up, and he needs to leave.” I gave her my best sincere and pleading look. “But it's vitally important that I talk to him, for his own sake. I swear I won't cause a scene.”

Her eyes narrowed in distrust, but uncertainty flickered in them as well. She glanced toward the screen as if remembering the horrors shown there. Months ago she'd caught a glimpse of the atrocities taking place in the Saberton basement. She couldn't help but wonder how much of the film was real.

Mouth tight, Braddock shifted her regard to Andrew. He clutched his phone in one hand, and his cool business attitude was in tatters. With Snyder's help, he waved off eager fanpoodles but gave Braddock a nod when he saw me.

She glared the mother of all glares at me then stepped aside with obvious reluctance. “No trouble.”

I breathed a thanks and moved to Andrew. He gestured for Snyder to back off.

“How did that footage get out?” I demanded, voice low. “Do you know anything about this?”

“I have no idea how the studio got their hands on it,” he said. “I swear.”

“All right. Shit.” I pulled my thoughts together. “What's Dante Rosario's deal? What does he do for Saberton besides the doggie demonstrations?”

“He's worked security for close to a decade,” Andrew said, slowly regaining his composure. “He became Marla's handler five years ago and was assigned to the Dallas lab for the past six months, up until you people raided it. He's on extended leave now.”

“Sonofabitch,” I breathed. “If he worked the Dallas lab, he was deep into the zombie research crap.” An ugly suspicion stirred in my gut about the video files, but I wasn't ready to share it with Andrew yet. After all, he was first and foremost a Saber of Saberton.

He gave me a grim nod. “I have an exit strategy in the event everything goes to shit,” he murmured. “It's an absolute last resort, but—”

“That's damn good to hear,” I said fervently. “Let's hope it doesn't come to that.” I did my best to keep my tone calm and casual. “Any updates on Kristi Charish?”

“Nothing yet. I'm scheduled to talk to my mother in the morning.”

“Good luck with that.” I made a face. “Keep us posted, and I'll stay out of your way as much as possible.”

He snorted. “Why start now?”

My thoughts whirled as I left him in the tender care of his bodyguards. Dante Rosario had worked at the Dallas lab while Kristi Charish was there. According to Andrew, she'd taken a buttload of documentation with her when she escaped from the lab. What if
she
was the source of the leak?

Contents of USB Flash Drive from D.R
. I didn't know yet how it all fit together, but I had a crazy-strong suspicion that the mysterious “D.R.” from the file list was none other than one Dante Rosario.

Rain from a sneak-attack Louisiana shower splattered my windshield and sent less adventurous Fest goers scurrying to their cars. My stomach growled as I briefed Dr. Nikas, and I switched the phone to speaker and set it on the dash. “Can't security pick up Rosario?”

“He's high profile Saberton,” Dr. Nikas said. “An acquisition would require finesse, even if we had sufficient personnel for the op.”

“So he walks?” I scowled and ripped the top off a brain packet.

“Other projects have priority.”

“But—”

“I know,” he said. “It's frustrating. Potentially damning zombie videos have been made public, and you've uncovered fragments of intel that seem to fit together. But we don't
know
Rosario is in league with Kristi or whether he has a Saberton agenda. It's conjecture.”

“Then we find out for sure. Put a tail on him. Naomi or Rachel or—”

“Naomi and Dan flew out an hour ago to back up Pierce in Portland. Saberton is there in force, which makes recapturing Kristi impossible. Pierce is now hoping to convince Kristi to come with us willingly, but his only contact with her so far has been by phone.”

Ugh. I despised the idea of Kristi Charish working with us while being free to come and go as she pleased, but I also knew that the bitch had smarts and skills the Tribe needed.

“All of our available security people are deployed elsewhere or are working short-handed,” Dr. Nikas continued. “Jacques and Reg are armed because lab security is at half-strength. We don't have the resources for a local non-emergency operation.” Dr. Nikas went silent for several seconds. “Angel, you're the only available person who can deal with this.”

Jacques and Reg were carrying
guns
? Aliens taking over city hall would be less shocking. I sank back in my seat. “Well, damn.”

“I agree wholeheartedly.”

By the time we disconnected, the rain had passed, and a fat rainbow floated over the Fest grounds. Maybe it was a sign that everything was going to be A-okay.

I sipped the packet of brains as I mulled over my options. The most inviting one was to go home, kick back, and watch a bit of mind-numbing reality TV. But I was the Tribe's only hope for gathering intel on Rosario. I was
it
, thanks to a perfect storm of a ton of crap happening at once. It wasn't enough that FBI agents were snooping around funeral homes. No, the universe had to throw in the Kristi Charish wrench, forcing the Tribe honchos to scramble and change their plans to check their out-of-state funeral homes, and instead head to Oregon. Add in Saberton's usual hijinks, Grayson Seeger's murder, and Rosario possibly leaking the video files, and we were running around with our hair on fire while the universe laughed its ass off.

Well, screw the universe. I could handle the Rosario shit. There was always the chance he was still at the Fest, despite his earlier claim that he was leaving. It would be easy enough to check at the gate and find out. If he
was
still here, then I'd wait and tail him when he left. If not, a few calls to hotels within twenty miles might give me—

My phone rang with an unknown number. I stabbed at the answer button. “Hello?”

“Angel.”

Not Randy. Disappointment flashed through me, with anger on its heels. “Judd! Y'all are a bunch of fucking morons! Skip town? Seriously? That's the best plan y'all could come up with? Where are you?”

“Shit. Calm your tits! Yeah, we skipped.” He spoke fast, stressed. “We all talked it over and figured we're gonna stay low 'til shit cools off.”

Cools off? For a murder? He was acting like it was a lousy prank. I clamped down on the urge to scream at him. That wouldn't help. I needed him to believe I agreed and was on his side. “Shit.” I blew out a breath, faked a sigh. “Okay, that might work. Where's Randy?”

“He and Coy are busy setting up where we're gonna be staying,” Judd said. “He asked me to call because he needs you to get something he hid and bring it to me.”

My Angel-sense prickled. “What kind of something?”

“Just a couple of things that need to be properly disposed of, if y'know what I mean.”

Incriminating evidence. The machete and baseball bat. It had to be. “Where are they?”

Judd let out a strained laugh. “I'm telling you in code in case phones are tapped, okay?”

My god, he really was an idiot. “Sure, I'll do it.”

“Good. That's good. They're in the place y'all fixed a wheelbarrow after the river dried up. You know where that is, right?”

Only one place Randy and I had ever fixed a wheelbarrow. But what the hell did “after the river dried up” mean? Did he mean the flood last year when the spillway collapsed? I started to ask then stopped as my Angel-sense did a tap-dance on the back of my neck. “Yeah, I know where it is,” I said instead, “but why can't you just go get them yourself?”

“'Cause we're fucking hiding out.” Judd's voice shook. “I need you to go get the stuff, and then I'll meet you someplace safe. Out by Lock Three.”

I mentally replayed the twenty seconds or so of conversation. It was a code, all right, but it sure sounded as if Judd didn't know what it meant. Which begged the question, why would Randy use a code that I understood but Judd didn't? Randy wouldn't dick around with a murder rap on the line. My pulse pounded unevenly as pieces of an ugly picture fell into place. After the murder, Coy and Judd went to Randy for help covering it up. Coy hid the head and clothes in his garage, Randy hid the weapons on his property, and Judd didn't have a damn thing incriminating at his place. Not to mention, Judd had done his best to throw Coy under the bus by saying Coy had the bat. Maybe deep down Randy hadn't trusted Judd enough to tell him where he stashed the weapons. But whatever the reason, it gave him an ace in the hole.

And he was playing that card right now.

“Let me talk to Randy.”

“I told you, he ain't here!” Judd said, voice rising. “You stupid bitch. Stop fucking around and go get the goddamn things.”

“You're a real sweet-talker, Judd,” I said with a sneer. “But I ain't bringing you jack shit until I talk to Randy.”

“Bring the fucking weapons to the lock in one hour,”
he screamed,
“or you can talk to the pieces of Randy that I cut his worthless ass into!”

I kept my head, only because I'd suspected that was the deal. “Bring Randy and Coy with you, alive and well,” I yelled right back, “or you can stuff the weapons up your ass!
”

He went silent, and for an instant I thought he'd hung up. “Fine,” he choked out. “I'll trade you those two fuckers for the weapons. One hour at Lock Three.”

The line went dead. My hand trembled as it gripped the phone. Had I said the right thing? What if Randy and Coy were already dead? No, Randy was still alive. Judd wouldn't kill him until he got hold of the weapons. But Coy . . .

Sick dread swam through me. Judd had killed once already. The second time would be easier. Randy would protect Coy, though. That's what he always did. God, I hoped he could.

I scrambled to find Ben's number in my contacts and hit the call button. A split second later I hit disconnect. No. I couldn't tell Ben. Not yet. The cops wouldn't be on board with any kind of exchange for hostages. I'd learned that from Marcus. That wasn't how they worked. Never give the suspect what they want. Besides, there was no way in hell Judd would let Randy and Coy walk free—not when they could testify against him. Any fantasy I had of handing over the murder weapons and getting Randy and Coy back safe and sound was just that—a fantasy.

I pressed my fingers to my eyes as I struggled to line up my thoughts. Randy would have known that Judd would kill him as soon as he got the murder weapons. Hell, he'd know that Judd would want to take me out as well, since I knew what happened. So why give Judd what he wanted?

A laugh began in my belly as the answer came to me. Randy was a laid back, pothead, gearhead with little ambition, but beneath all that he was pretty clever. In fact, most people tended to underestimate his smarts. Randy had indeed told me where the weapons were. He didn't have a choice since he knew it was possible Judd would eventually find them.

But my smart, loser ex-boyfriend had also snuck in a clue about where he and Coy were being held.

Randy said to tell you it's in the place y'all fixed a wheelbarrow after the river dried up
.

Not too long after I turned seventeen I got a job at the Jolly Burger—one of the many minimum wage jobs I scored in my young life. Two weeks later a cute guy named Randy Winger came in and started chatting me up, and that night we had our first date—if drinking cheap wine and making out at the boat launch could be considered a date. I quit my Jolly Burger job five days later, already deep in the throes of young love and blissfully certain that in a year or so I'd be changing my name to the awesomely cool “Angel Winger.”

Randy's dad was still living with him back then. Mr. Hank was gruff but kind and never had a problem with me spending the night when things were bad with my dad—though he first made absolutely sure I was above the age of consent. He wasn't stupid. He knew Randy and I were banging like jackhammers, and he wanted to be sure his son didn't get in legal trouble. Mr. Hank also sat me down a week or two after Randy and I started dating, and gave me a
very
detailed lecture about teen pregnancy, STDs, abortion, and contraception. Hearing all this from a grizzled man who watched NASCAR as if it was his religion was disturbing and uncomfortable and more than a little emotionally scarring. That said, it was also damned effective. After he finished, I practically ran to the nearest health department clinic and got on the Pill, which was almost certainly why I didn't end up as a teen pregnancy statistic.

While Mr. Hank had apparently accepted that two people with raging hormones were going to go at it as often as possible, he made it clear that he didn't want to hear it going on under his roof. As a result, Randy and I found a variety of places to screw, but our favorite was an old treehouse in a sprawling oak near the back of Randy's property. Draped in camo netting for extra concealment and hard to find unless you knew which game trail to follow, it was the perfect pot den and sex nook for a horny couple. But the most memorable fuck was the time Randy wanted to try a bunch of different positions from a sex book he'd swiped. Most were okay, but about a minute into the wheelbarrow position my arms started to hurt, and I told Randy that my wheelbarrow was broken. He thought it was the funniest thing ever and, after that, whenever he wanted to go to the treehouse to fuck, he'd ask me if my wheelbarrow needing fixing.

In other words, I knew without a doubt that the weapons were stashed in the treehouse. There was no way Judd would ever figure out that part of Randy's clue. But it was the second part of the clue that had me wondering.

I fretted as I sailed down the highway toward the east end of the parish. “After the river dried up” couldn't possibly mean the spillway collapse last year. Randy and I sure as shit hadn't fixed any wheelbarrows since then, though Judd had no way to know that. There was one possible location that came to mind—one that
did
make sense and would be a horribly good place to keep a couple of people prisoner.

When Randy was in high school, he had a buddy whose family owned a fishing camp on the East Kreeger River, and several times a year he and his buddy would go out there to fish and swim and just hang out. Unfortunately, during Randy's senior year, the East Kreeger River decided to shift its course, as rivers do, and the fishing camp ended up stranded a mile from the new riverbank. The buddy and his family moved away not long after, and Randy took over the camp and made it a man-cave hideaway. Later he brought in other friends, including Judd and Coy, making them all swear to keep the location secret. And, of course, Randy had taken me there a time or two without the guys knowing. Hey, we needed another place to fuck.

Judd hadn't started going to the camp until years after the river shifted, and at the moment I was counting on him not twigging to the “river dried up” bit of the clue and realizing Randy had tipped me off. But what if Judd was there at the camp with the guys? He'd told me he would exchange Randy and Coy for the weapons, in which case he'd be there right now to collect them for the swap.

“Yeah, right,” I said then added
,
“
Ha!
” for good measure. Judd was a lying piece of shit who had everything to lose if he let Randy and Coy go. Right now he was getting ready to meet, ahem,
ambush
me at Lock Three.

And, if Judd
is
at the fishing camp with the guys, I'll call the cops—anonymously—and let them rescue Randy and Coy
, I promised myself.

I made a turn onto a gravel road marked by a bent and rusted sign that said Pickstick Mill Road. After half a mile through towering pines I veered onto a rutted dirt lane then slowed to a snail's pace. Fresh tire tracks stood out in the drying mud. At least I knew my hunch was right, but my worry ratcheted up a few more notches. Peering ahead, I eased around the last curve, ready to back the hell out of there if I saw another car.

I let out the breath I'd been holding. The clearing was barely large enough to hold three cars, but at the moment nothing but winter-brown grass occupied it. There was no other place to park that didn't mean a mile hike through the woods, and I couldn't see Judd putting in that much effort.

As soon as I parked, I grabbed a brain packet from the console and gulped the contents down. Though I couldn't get super-tanked because of the V12, the snack would bump my senses and reflexes up a tad, doubly helpful since I'd be going in armed with more than my sunny disposition. I popped the glove box open to snag my gun out.

No gun. Cursing, I leaned over and dug through crap, pulled papers out and dumped them onto the front seat. No gun!
Shit!
I was absolutely positive it had been in there before the Zombie Fest. I'd shoved a gas receipt in and bumped the metal of the barrel.

“Someone stole it,” I murmured in disbelief as the gun refused to materialize.
Fuck!
It had to have been while I was parked at the Fest. Another ugly truth swept in, and I gritted my teeth. This wasn't random. No broken windows or any other sign of forced entry. Whoever took it was a pro, most likely some asshole hitting cars in the Fest parking lot. Then again, it was also possible my car had been specifically targeted, though it seemed a lot of risk just to take away my gun.

Fine. I didn't need a gun to kick ass. I had plenty of weapons at my disposal: My cutting wit, my hot temper, and my never-say-die attitude. Oh, and the tire iron from the trunk of my car.

Beyond the small clearing, pines crowded together with water oaks and swamp hickory, thick enough to hide anything past a hundred feet. I'd only ever been out here four or five times, and the last had been around three years ago. But a towering magnolia marked the direction as effectively as a neon sign, and closer inspection revealed scuffs and crushed grass along the old game path we'd used.

Spurred by urgency, I broke into a jog and threaded through the trees. Even if Judd wasn't with the guys now, he might return at any moment to check on them.

Or kill them.

Eventually, the trees thinned to reveal a small building that looked completely out of place in the middle of the woods, like the witch's house in Hansel and Gretel, but with less candy. About half the size of a single-wide trailer, with a corrugated tin roof and wood siding stained green in patches by moss, it rested on low pilings at the edge of a shallow valley where the river used to run. In place of the water a forest of young trees now stood, dominated by fast-growing tallows and peppered throughout with the small white flowers of blackberry vines.

Clamping down on the urge to shout Randy's name, I crept onto the sagging excuse for a porch and peered cautiously through a Plexiglas window. My knees wobbled in relief at the sight of Randy sitting slouched against the far wall, while Coy—nicely alive—lay curled up on the floor a few feet away. Each was secured to a thick 8" x 8" support pillar by chains padlocked around their necks. Two gallon jugs of water sat nearby along with another plastic jug that held about three inches of what looked like piss. And, best of all, no sign of Judd.

The door was unlocked, and I yanked it open. Randy jerked in shock, fury blazing in his eyes until he registered that I wasn't Judd. Anger stirred in my belly at the sight of a dark bruise that spread across his jaw.

“Angel.” He let out a shaky laugh. “Coy, wake up! She did it!”

Coy sat up with a groan, blinked at me blearily with one eye. My rage climbed higher as I realized the other was swollen shut. Dried blood flaked off his cheek, and his smile revealed a broken front tooth.

“You did it,” Randy said with a lopsided grin. “I knew you'd figure it out.”

A warm flush of pride went through me. “It was a good clue,” I said then crouched to inspect the chain and padlock at his neck. Not heavy duty, but no way could I break either one, even at top zombie strength.

“I guess I kinda knew in my gut that Judd was up to something,” Randy said, “which is why I hid the weapons in a place he didn't know about. I was crossing fingers big time that you'd get what I meant about the river. I counted on him thinking I was talking 'bout the spillway.” He winced. “Wish I coulda figured out a way to tell you to bring bolt cutters.”

I snorted. “That would've been nice, but I think I have something in my car that'll work. Are either of y'all hurt more than just banged up?”

“Coy caught it worse,” Randy said with a worried glance at his friend.

“I'm alive, and you look like an angel, Angel,” Coy said with an uneven smile. “That's all that matters.”

Randy scowled. “Judd went ballistic. I had a feeling he'd be against going to the cops, but I never expected him to go this far.” He jangled the chain.

“Judd was out of his damn head,” Coy put in, brow furrowing. He had a weirdly charming lisp and whistle to his words now, thanks to the broken tooth. “He was gonna kill us.”

“Asshole missed his chance,” I said. “I'm getting you out of here.”

Randy caught my wrist. “He was raving about real zombies,” he said. “Had this notion you was one. Said he had proof.”

“Yeah, he's crazy.” I forced a laugh and pulled out of his grasp. “Be right back.”

I ran to my car then leaned my hands against the trunk and tried to rein in the panic that squeezed my chest. Judd
knew.
It hadn't been a coincidence that he wrote my name on the notepad. Something in those files convinced him. I needed to get Seeger's damn flash drive—and the copy Judd made—before he caused real trouble, then figure out what the hell made him think I was a real zombie.

I took a deep breath and let it out slowly. Even if I got the drives, the original files would still be out there. Nothing I could do about that yet, but I could sure as hell deal with Judd.

And how much did Randy believe? Before New York, I told him I had a medical condition that was only manageable with an illegal drug. If he could get past the weird factor, he was sharp enough to figure out that “medical condition” equaled “zombie,” and “illegal drug” equaled “brains.” I'd have to play this one by ear and hope he was too stressed to think straight.

Slightly calmer, I rooted through my trunk until I found a found a can of compressed air that I'd bought to clean my keyboard at home and then kept forgetting to bring inside. Randy and Coy looked at me like I was insane when I turned the can upside down and sprayed freezing air on the chains, but their distrust shifted to outright awe when I smashed the tire iron on the frozen links and shattered them. Fuck yeah, science!

They each still had a section padlocked around their necks, but I didn't give a shit about that right now. “It's a fashion statement,” I told them, tone sharp, then hurried them up the trail, chains jangling. When we got to my car I ordered them to hunker down in the back, then I got us the ever-living hell out of there.

“Can we sit up yet?” Coy ventured once I was on the highway.

“No,” I snapped. “Randy, are the machete and bat wrapped up in anything?”

“Yeah, a couple of black garbage bags,” he said. “But you won't have any trouble finding them. They're right in the middle of the treehouse floor.”

“I'm not going to get them.” I pulled off the highway, came to a stop on the shoulder, then leveled a fierce look at the two men. “
Now
you can sit up.”

Chains clinked as they shifted upright. “What's going on?” Randy asked, looking around in puzzlement. “Why'd you stop? Why aren't you gonna get the weapons?”

“I stopped because there's a gas station about a quarter mile up the road,” I said. “You two are going to walk your asses in there and call the fucking cops.” Distress flickered in their eyes, but I glared them down. “You're going to tell them everything that happened without once mentioning my fucking name. You're going to tell them where the weapons are and that Judd kidnapped you when you were about to turn yourselves in, and you're going to tell them you escaped from the fishing camp because you found a can of compressed air under a cabinet and got all sorts of clever.” I paused, put every ounce of pissed-off-and-fed-the-fuck-up I had into my tone and expression. “And if you don't walk to that gas station and call the cops and spill your guts—except for the parts that pertain to me—I
will
make you fucking wish you were still chained up in that goddamn place. Am I making myself absolutely clear?”

It was empty bluster on my part, but they must have understood that I needed to vent all the worry and fear for them that I'd kept pent up until now. They sighed in unison. “Yeah,” Coy said. “Should've listened to you last night.”

“No shit. Now get the hell out and have a nice walk.”

They slid out of the car, then Randy poked his head back in. “Thanks, Angel. You saved our asses.”

“Yeah, I did. Don't you dare fuck up again.”