We pushed the bin fully into the elevator and readied ourselves to fight our way out. The metal syringe buried in my gut felt like ice in my fingers, and I forced myself to breathe deeply and keep my hand steady.
“We’re going up one floor and then out,” Pierce said in a low voice, holding the door until Andrew could hunker behind the bin, and I could crouch on top. “No other choice since this elevator only goes between these two basement floors.” His mouth twisted in annoyance. “She’ll have her team waiting for us, but the one possible bright spot is that there are probably only a dozen or so left.”
“Only a dozen.” I laughed weakly. “Awesome.”
He nodded toward the syringe in my hand as the elevator began to rise. “Show time.”
“Right.” The word came out as a squeak. I cleared my throat and tried again. “Right,” I said, then took a deep breath and pressed the plunger.
I felt nothing for a second. And another. And—
“Oh, sweet Jesus,” I gasped. Warmth raced through me as if every neuron in my body was waking up for the first time. My vision snapped into razor sharp focus, colors intensified, and every noise grew distinct. The thud of Andrew’s pulse. The hiss of Pierce’s breath. A shift of flesh in the bin beneath me. The scrape of fabric against metal above me, and a bolt sliding back. I jerked my eyes up to the outline of the service hatch, and my lips pulled back from my teeth. “Zombie Super Powers, Activate,” I breathed.
I surged up from the crouch and slammed the palm of my hand into the hatch. It flew open and smacked the unlucky security guard in the chin on the way, giving me a split second of advantage, which I seized along with his collar. He scrabbled for purchase, but gravity remained on my side as I used my weight to pull him down through the hatch and to the floor. Also on my side was the sudden stop when I smacked his head into the corner of the bin, and it took only two more Angel-assisted skull-meets-industrial-plastic blows to split it. I dug my fingers in and ripped his head open like a kid tearing into a Christmas present, yanked the brain out of its nice warm home, then lifted the lid of the bin and dropped the brain in.
“Breakfast in bed, y’all!”
Pierce’s eyes rested on me as I resumed my perch on top of the bin, but he seemed to approve of my actions. He turned toward the door as the elevator stopped, grip tightening on the knife in his right hand. Muted growls and wet sounds of slavering came from within the dumpster, and I smiled. Hungry zombies were hungry.
“He had this,” Andrew said.
I looked down to see him still cowering behind the bin, his face flecked with blood from the guy who turned into breakfast. In one hand Andrew held a canister about five inches long, with a pin still in place. Smoke bomb or tear gas, I figured. Maybe a flash bang. Whatever it was, I’d stopped the bad guy before he had the chance to use it. One point for Angel.
“Thanks.” I plucked the thing from Andrew’s grasp and handed it off to Pierce, then focused on the elevator door. My blood hummed through my veins, and the scent of the men outside coiled through the widening opening.
“Six,” Pierce murmured, but I was already in motion. I leaped from the bin, pushed off the right side of the elevator door to launch myself at the first guard on the left. He tried to shift the aim of his tranq gun, but I grabbed his head and snapped his neck before his finger could tighten on the trigger. Beside me, Pierce moved quickly to bury his knife in the chest of a guard. He wrenched the blade up and threw the man aside as my guy dropped. A blond man with a scraggly soul patch fired a real gun at me but the bullet simply grazed my hip. I leaped forward and snapped a kick hard into his knee, spun and smashed my elbow into his face, wrenched the gun from his hand, then spun back again to ram the butt of it into the throat of a third man.
I held back a manic laugh. No way would I be able to pull off these moves without the mod. Everyone seemed to move so slowly. Taking them out was like dancing through people trapped in mud.
Pierce broke the wrist of another guard even as a round took him in the thigh. Unfazed, he slashed his knife across the shooter’s throat. The last standing guard brought a tranq gun to bear on Pierce, but I dove at him, grabbed him by the face and smashed the back of his head into the wall. He slumped to the floor, leaving a trail of blood on the cinderblock.
I swung around to deal with the next opponent, only to see that there wasn’t one. Six guards littered the floor, at least three quite dead, with the others definitely not posing a threat anymore.
Pierce cleaned his knife on the shirt of one of the guards, straightened and slid it back into its sheath.
“Good work, Angel.” He gave a nod of fierce satisfaction as he surveyed the carnage, then pulled Gentry’s radio from his belt and flipped through frequencies.
My skin prickled, and I clenched and unclenched my hands. I’d come down off enough highs to know I didn’t have much longer as a superzombiebadass. I pivoted to the guy whose head I’d smashed into the wall, gripped him by the face again, cracked his skull open and scooped out his brain. I repeated this with the other two dead guards, then split one brain in half, handed one chunk to Pierce, then took the other two full brains back to the elevator. Andrew had pushed the bin forward to block the elevator door, and now sat slumped against the back of the car, eyes slightly glazed. I gave him a grin, then lifted the lid and chucked in the two full brains. Kyle lay curled on his side atop the body bag. He growled and awkwardly pulled one of the brains to him with his forearms. Brian stirred sluggishly, still heavily under the effect of the tranq. Marcus groaned and shifted but didn’t look up.
My elation shifted to worry. “Marcus?”
“Still out,” Kyle mumbled through a mouthful of brains. He swallowed awkwardly with his screwed up jaw and tongue, then bit off a piece of brain, spat it into his hand and stuffed it into Marcus’s mouth. “You take care . . . business out there,” he slurred. “I’ll take . . . care of business . . . here.”
I released a shaky breath. “Thanks.” Frustration clawed at me despite his encouragement. Marcus and Kyle still had Saberton’s experimental drugs in their systems, and I didn’t have a clue how to counter it or help them get back to full strength. More brains can’t hurt, I told myself. And I’m doing everything I can to get us out of here. That’s how I’d help them. Take care of business, just like Kyle said, and get them to Dr. Nikas.
I closed the lid then crouched against the wall beyond the elevator to wolf down the remaining brain half. My hands trembled, and a slight queasiness wanted to push back against the brains I swallowed down. Yep, definitely coming down off that incredible high. Damn it.
“You doing all right?” Pierce asked. He bit off a chunk of brain, watching me carefully.
Wiping my mouth with the back of my hand, I nodded. “Yeah. Hard crash though. Need a minute.”
He finished his brain and didn’t bother wiping his mouth. “There’ll likely be another team waiting past the next door. We need to move quickly before they realize we’ve taken these guys completely out.”
I scarfed down the rest of the brain and got to my feet. Now I was the one who felt stuck in mud, though my little snack helped a bit.
A dart whizzed past my ear. “Angel, get back!” Pierce shouted in the same instant. I flattened myself against the wall behind the corner as Pierce dove into the elevator and took cover by the number panel. “Three,” he told me, pointing down the hall. Guess they decided not to wait for us.
Well, I sure as hell wasn’t going to wait for them to come to us, not in my current non-badass condition. The sound of approaching footsteps spurred me faster as I yanked the knife and another syringe from my pocket. Pierce hissed “too soon” at me, but I ignored him. If I didn’t do it now it would be too late.
I jabbed the knife into my gut, eerily amazed that I’d reached a point where I could do so with relative ease. Shouts and more footsteps grew louder as I shoved the syringe in and pressed the plunger.
3 . . . 2 . . . 1 . . .
Delicious fire raced through my veins, and when the first man came close I stepped around the corner, grabbed his shotgun and slammed it up and into his face. As he staggered back I wrenched the gun from his hands, then swung the butt to clock the guy beside him in the temple and drop him like a stone. Something punched me in the side, and I swung around to see a third guard, a woman, still a good twenty feet away down the corridor. Fire leaped from the muzzle of the gun in her hand. I staggered back a step as the round smacked me in my thigh, but before I could shift my weight to charge her, her head snapped back in time with the sound of another gunshot, and she went down with a neat hole in the center of her forehead.
I spared a quick glance back to confirm that yes, it was Pierce’s shot that had taken her down, then turned on the one guard still standing—the one whose face I’d slammed with his own shotgun. “Jarvis,” or so his name patch read. Blood from his nose mingled with a portwine birthmark that covered the left half of his neck and disappeared under his shirt collar. Eyes wide in shock, he dropped his hands from his nose and jerked them out to his sides in a position of surrender.
“Please. Please don’t kill me.” His voice shook, high and thin, and his eyes darted around at the dead bodies. He didn’t look much older than me, for fuck’s sake. How the hell did he get tangled up in this shit?
“Get down on the floor and put your hands behind your back!” I barked at him. Or tried to bark. It came out more like a wheeze as my tanked up parasite dealt with two bullet holes, but he flung himself to the floor and stuck his wrists behind his back.
“Please don’t kill me,” he repeated, breath coming unevenly.
“Don’t give me a reason to,” I said as I ziptied his wrists together. “Stay still and be cool, and you’ll be fine.” Yeah, he was a cold-blooded asshole if he was on the special team, but that didn’t mean I had to be.
He gulped once and then went as still as a statue.
Pierce approached and made a quick examination of my two healing bullet wounds as the flesh closed. “Hang on,” he said, then moved over to the guard he shot, used the shotgun to smash her skull open, pulled the brain out and brought it to me. “Tank up again while you move. We still have to get to the van.”
I ripped the brain in half and handed him one piece with a nod toward the bin. Understanding, he slipped the brain under the lid.
Maybe there’s something to the whole concept of a zombie soldier after all? I wondered as I ate. Feeding off one’s enemies seemed to be working so far.
I was more prepared for the crash when it came this time. As the prickling began I put my hand against the wall and took several deep breaths. An urge to weep filled me as, once again, the world grew dull and normal, and I bit the inside of my cheek to hold it back. The urgency of our situation clawed at me, but it was still several more seconds before I could pull my hand from the wall, leaving a bloody print behind.
I forced my legs to take me over to the elevator, and by the time I’d crossed the ten or so feet, I felt almost not-crappy. I grabbed the bin handle, then saw that Andrew still sat slumped against the back of the elevator.
“You hanging in there, dude?” I pulled the bin out a few feet to give him some room to get up, but to my surprise he shook his head.
“Shot,” he said in a shaky voice then pulled his hand away from his side to reveal a red spot the size of a quarter on the left side of his shirt below his ribcage.
“Oh, shit,” I breathed and came around the bin to crouch by him and peer at the wound. “How the hell’d you get shot? You stayed down the whole time, didn’t you?”
“Yeah.” He swallowed then nodded toward the wall and a small divot in the metal. “Ricochet.” A one in a million shot had bounced perfectly to hit him.
“Can you walk? Or, um, do you need to ride?” I gestured to the bin with an apologetic wince.
“I can walk,” he insisted. He struggled upright, then swayed, paling.
“No, you can’t.” I seized his right arm and laid it across my shoulders, then grabbed him around the waist. “Pierce, Andrew’s hurt. We need to move.”
Pierce turned toward us, knife in one hand and gun in the other, bloody and badass and looking as far from Pietro as I could possibly imagine without a sex change. His lips pressed together at the sight of Andrew.
“You need your hands free,” he told me. “And he’s safest inside the bin.”
Andrew blanched and started to protest, which I completely understood since I totally got how being crammed into a rolling dumpster with hungry zombies—who probably didn’t like him very much—could be the stuff of nightmares. Unfortunately, his physical state and us getting the hell out of the building took priority over his mental state.
“Sorry, Andy,” I said, “but he’s right.” I flipped the lid up. It was going to be a pretty cozy fit with a fifth person in there, even if one was in a body bag. “Y’all be nice to your guest,” I told the three zombies as they blinked up at me. To my relief Marcus was finally focusing on me, and Brian looked as if he had a little movement back. “I’ll explain it all later,” I added.
Andy continued to babble protests, but I wrestled him in and got the lid closed, then set both hands on the bin, dug my feet in and shoved it forward. Pierce stalked ahead, every inch the predator. I breathed deeply, but there were too many scents of blood and brains and rot for me to tell if there were any humans nearby who still posed a threat. Pierce seemed to be having the same problem to judge by the way he paused every ten feet or so to scent.
We came to a corner and stopped. Pierce listened and sniffed the air before quickly peeking around, then motioned me forward. Twenty feet down the corridor was a set of battered grey metal double doors that I recognized from my first escape from this place. “Déjà fucking vu,” I muttered.
“The warehouse is through there, then the parking garage,” Pierce murmured, but worry creased his forehead.
“Surely Nicole is out of guards by now?”
“There are still a couple of the Special Team I haven’t seen yet,” he said, and I realized he’d probably taken great care to memorize the features of every guard he encountered in the holding area. The dark flare of anger in his expression told me he’d paid especially close attention to any who were particularly cruel.
“Are you okay with me leaving that guy tied up back there?” I asked.
Pierce looked past me as if able to see around the corner to where the guard lay. “I wouldn’t have left him alive if he’d been one of the more memorable ones,” he said. “Though I will say he got off light with the broken nose and a few minutes of terror.”
Relief flickered through me. The whole cold-blooded killer thing weighed heavily enough on what little soul I had left. It would’ve sucked to have my one little mercy taken away. “Is that why you didn’t kill the Braddock lady?”
“Thea Braddock is the head of Saberton security but does no direct work with the Special Team’s duties,” he told me. “She has no final authority over them, and I fully believe she didn’t know what went on behind those closed doors. She’s a decent person who’s on the wrong side.”
Decent. That was a good word.
“Come on,” he said. “I don’t smell anyone out there, but we need to make a move.”
Together we eased forward, extending every sense we had. Yet as soon as we passed through the double doors and into the warehouse, we stopped and exchanged a worried look.
“It wasn’t locked,” I said. “They know we have to come this way. They want us to come this way.”
His expression darkened as he nodded, but he helped me get the dumpster rolling again, and we continued to the exit. At the door he tested the knob, jaw clenching as it turned easily. Unlocked. Shit. He opened the door a crack then scented and listened before pushing it open a foot wider. The van was still there, backed up to the loading dock. The garage was empty and silent, but a sharp edge seemed to vibrate the air.
“It’s too quiet,” I murmured.
“It’s that bitch’s last chance to keep us from escaping,” he growled. “This garage is a deathtrap. A sniper or two with tranq rifles could likely take us both down.” Frustration churned in his eyes as he formed and discarded plans.
I glanced back to make sure no one was sneaking up on us from behind, and something shifted in my pocket as I moved. The phone. Wouldn’t do much good to call for help. We didn’t exactly have a cavalry standing by—
Sucking in a breath, I shot a hand out to grab Pierce’s arm. “Close the door,” I said, quivering in excitement. “I have an idea.”
He complied, eyebrows lowering as I pulled the phone out. “Correction,” I said with a grin. “I have an awesome idea.” With gleeful determination I selected all the naughty pics I could find and texted the lot to Philip with an accompanying message: <If you don’t hear from me in 20 minutes send all pics to every website and news station in the world!!>
I fidgeted until the phone dinged to indicate the pics all went through, then called Nicole a.k.a “CEOILF.” It connected after one ring, but no one spoke on the other end. Didn’t matter. I had puh-lenty to say.
“Nikki!” I cried. “Hang on, sweetums, I have some neat stuff to send you. I know you’re gonna want to take a look at this. Maybe you should have it blown up and framed to hang over the fireplace.” I found and sent my absolute favorite pic of the lot—a truly artistic shot that showed Nicole’s face and her naked nethers. “Turns out Pierce was a real photobug! And, wow, your hooha looks terrific, even after twins! Did you have a C-section? And, I have to know, do you do that anal bleaching stuff?”
Her sharp gasp told me the instant the photo arrived on her screen.
“This one’s definitely my favorite,” I prattled on, “but the one where you’re bent over your desk with the Manhattan skyline in the background is a close second. That’s pure art!” I paused for a couple of seconds to let it all sink in. “Now here’s the deal, Nikki, sweetie. Because I’m nice, I haven’t sent these to one of those spring-break-titties websites yet. Ooh! I wonder if there’s a ‘CEOs Gone Wild’ website?”
She made an inarticulate noise, but I pressed right on. “However, because I’m not stupid, I already sent the whole darn package to a buddy of mine—all the pics Pierce took, the pics you sent him, along with the cute sexting you two did back and forth. And I told my buddy that if he didn’t hear from me in fifteen minutes with my super special ‘I’m Okay’ code phrase, he was to spread these lovely gems far and wide on every website and news feed that he could find.”
“You . . . you . . .”
“I know you have some nasty shit planned for us in the garage, you fucking bitch.” My voice was hard and sharp now, all trace of humor gone. “Unless you want to be the laughingstock of the entire goddamn world, I suggest you tell your people to stand the fuck down. Oh, and if anything’s been done to the van, it better get undone. Y’got me?”
Her breath came in short panicked gasps. Seemed I’d found her weak spot. “No one will stop you,” she choked out. “Get out. Get out. Leave my son.”
Pierce tilted his head, smile widening as the sound of scuffling and muted shouts came from beyond the metal door.
“Not until we’re completely clear,” I told her. “Then we’ll let him go.”
“Get out!” Fury and terror resonated in her voice. “Get out. Get out! GET OUT!”
I disconnected while she was in mid shriek. So much for her calm calculating crap. Pierce leaned against the doors, body shaking with silent laughter, despite our predicament.
“I think she wants us to get out,” I said with a grin.
Still chuckling, he eased the door open again, even as a door slammed on the other side of the garage. The air no longer held that sharp edge. “Wait here,” he ordered. Gun in hand, he loped to the cargo van, made a quick circuit around it that I figured was to check for explosives, then jumped up to the loading dock and pulled the van’s rear doors open.
As soon as he gestured to me I shoved the bin his way, and in no time at all we had it loaded up and the doors closed. I stayed in the back while Pierce took the driver’s seat and got the van going.
“We’re out and clear,” he announced less than half a minute later.
“Hot fucking damn,” I breathed. Shifting to my knees, I swung the lid of the bin open. “How’s everyone doing?”
Kyle lifted his head, expression grim, and his hand pressed to Andrew’s belly. “Some worse than . . . others.”
“Hurts,” Andrew gasped, breathing in short sips. “Oh, god.”
“Shit. Help me get him out,” I said before remembering that none of the zombies were at full strength by a long shot. Still, Kyle and Marcus managed to give enough push to help me get Andrew out and lay him down on the van floor without too much jarring. My eyes met Marcus’s, totally relieved to see him moving and aware, but I barely had time for a smile before a choked cry of pain from Andrew pulled my attention.
“Jesus, you’re pale,” I muttered, lifting his shirt to peer at the little bullet wound. Barely any blood surrounded the pea-sized hole, but when I put my hand on his abdomen it was hard.
“I’m dying,” Andrew gasped, fear and pain twisting his features. “Oh, god. Hurts.”
He is dying, I realized with sick dread. “P-Pierce!” I called out, barely catching myself from saying Pietro. “Andrew’s in really bad shape. I think he’s bleeding internally. We need to get him to a hospital!”
Pierce glanced quickly back, cursed. “I’ll call Dr. Nikas.”
“He needs surgery,” I insisted as he dialed. “Like, right now.”
To my dismay, he shook his head. “Even if we could get him to an ER in time, we wouldn’t take him. We can’t.”
“Why the hell not?” I demanded, dismayed. “Can’t we, well, dump him and take off?” I shot Andrew an apologetic look, but he wasn’t exactly paying attention to me.
Pierce’s eyes briefly met mine in the rear view mirror. “Gunshot wounds are investigated, Angel,” he said, regret mingling with firm decision. “We can’t risk any law enforcement involvement.” He lifted the phone to his ear. “You heard?” he said into it. “It’s Andrew Saber, on the verge. Here’s Angel.”
I seized the phone. “Dr. Nikas. Tell me what to do!”
“Angel, send me a picture of the wound and location. Quickly,” Dr. Nikas added. “He is still conscious?”
Hands trembling, I snapped two pics and sent them. “Yeah, he’s conscious, but not by much. Pale, cold, and clammy. He’s starting to lose it.”
“And his abdomen is hard?”
“Like a rock.” Damn it, I was getting a very bad feeling.
His soft sigh sent my bad feeling spiraling higher. “There’s nothing medically to be done except surgery,” he said gently, “and if you are still in the van it is probably too late for that. I’m so sorry, Angel.”
“Oh.” I swallowed past a thick knot in my throat. “Okay. Th-thanks, Dr. Nikas.” Numbly, I handed the phone back to Pierce.
Kyle dragged himself up and over the side of the bin and landed in a naked, crumpled pile beside it.
Andrew gasped in a breath, flailed a hand out to clutch weakly at my arm. “Help . . . Dying.” A sob turned into a cough, and panic filled his eyes. “No. Please . . .” His arm fell away, and his eyes rolled back.
Shit. I grabbed his shoulders. “Andrew! Listen to me. I can save you. You know I can.” Godalmighty, I sure hoped I could. It wasn’t always a sure thing, as I knew all too well. “But I won’t—I won’t do that if you don’t want me to.”
His eyes fluttered, but he managed to focus on me. “Oh, god.” In that moment I didn’t know if his fear of death could overcome the terror of becoming one of us, becoming a monster. “Y-yes.” His voice was weaker, words slurring.
“Yes?” I gave him another little shake. “Yes, what? I need to know, Andrew! I need to know for sure!”
“Yes . . . bite.” The last word died away, but it was enough. At least I hoped so. I looked over at Kyle. He understood what I needed from him, the confirmation and reassurance. His nod was slight, yet it was enough. Holy fuck, but I hoped this worked, for Naomi’s sake as well as Andrew’s. No time to gather my nerve any more.
Leaning down, I sunk my teeth hard into the muscle at the side of Andrew’s neck. He jerked, but only barely, and his cry of pain was little more than a wheeze. Please let this work. Please please, I silently begged as I bit harder. I’d know soon enough if it would. When I’d turned Philip, instinct took over within a minute, guiding my body to do the damage necessary to transfer the parasite. Yet when I tried to turn another “volunteer” the next day, no instinct rose to lead me, and the man died.
My fingers dug into Andrew’s shoulders as I bit and gnawed. He wasn’t struggling anymore—unconscious by now, and close to death. I thought I heard Dr. Nikas’s voice, distant and tinny on the phone, calling my name, but I didn’t dare let my focus shift from Andrew, from the blood in my mouth and the scent of him.
Hunger rose in a wave like a cresting orgasm, a driving, snarling need to rend and rip and tear at the flesh beneath me. An eerie growl leapt from my throat as my teeth ripped and my fingers tore. Beneath the violence I wept in relief. It’s working.
I gave myself up to the instinct, only dimly aware of the others in the van with me. Finally, I paused, lifted my head and bared my teeth. Blood dripped from my chin onto the ravaged body of Andrew beneath me.
The growl throbbed within me. “Braaains.”
Someone shoved a hunk of brains into my hand. Kyle, maybe. Didn’t matter. Instinct shifted me to the next stage, and I chewed the brains and spat them into the seeping wounds. Chew, bite, spit, repeat. He wasn’t dead yet. I sensed the flickering spark of life on a level I couldn’t explain. Yet he didn’t wake, and the wounds didn’t close. Chew, bite, spit, repeat.
More brains were pushed into my hand as soon as I needed them. The van stopped, and the back doors opened. Chew, bite, spit, repeat. I heard Philip’s voice but couldn’t focus on the words. Chew, bite, spit, repeat, wake up, Andrew, come on, goddammit, chew, bite, spit, repeat. Pierce spoke to the others, then he and Philip pulled the bin out, giving me more room. Wake up, Andrew, come on, goddammit, chew, bite, spit, repeat.
Someone, another zombie, sat near me and laid a hand on Andrew’s shoulder. I lifted my head, teeth bared and a growl in my throat. Pierce gave an answering growl, but I didn’t sense that he wanted to take my spawn from me. Spit-hissing, I returned to biting and braining. I thought that some of the wounds were starting to close, but so much more slowly than with Philip. Yet with only the one experience to draw on I had no idea if this was going wrong.
“Angel.” The voice cut through to me as Philip’s hadn’t.
Nostrils flaring, I looked up to see Pierce spit something into his hand and hold it out for me. Brains. Pre-chewed. My human side had no problem registering that this was beyond disgusting, but my parasite didn’t give a shit. My hand darted out and scooped the mush up, shoved it into my mouth, then I bit and spit some more. Maybe some spores or whatever from a mature zombie would get things kickstarted in ol’ Andy.
The cycle shifted to scoop, chew, bite, spit, repeat, while I did my damndest to avoid thinking about how this was the weirdest possible way to swap spit with another person. And it was Pietro, which made it even weirder, except that Pietro was Pierce now, and wasn’t some sixtyish older guy anymore. It didn’t help that Pierce Gentry had been an asshole. I still had a hard time getting that out of my head.
Andrew sucked in a breath then coughed. His eyes flew open, and he gasped in more air only to expel it in an unintelligible sound. I sagged in relief and fatigue. With Pierce’s help, I shifted to sit against the wall of the van and gathered Andrew close, cradled his head against my shoulder. He trembled in my arms, eyes not really focusing on anything yet.
Pierce set a chunk of brain in my hand—unchewed—and I held it to Andrew’s lips. “Time to eat.”
He recoiled, but even as one instinct pulled him away, a newer, stronger one had him leaning in to take the chunk from my fingers. He opened his mouth for more, and this time Pierce guided my hand to a container beside me that held chunks of brain, bite-sized and ready for feeding.
I fed Andrew another chunk and gave Pierce a weary smile of thanks. He gave my shoulder a light squeeze then exited out the back of the van and shut the doors behind him.
Andrew ate for several more minutes, eyes half-closed as he took the chunks from my hand and swallowed them. The wounds on his torso healed to smooth, unblemished skin beneath the blood and remnants of gore, and a hint of color returned to his face. He didn’t look a hundred percent healthy yet, by any stretch, but he no longer resembled a day-old corpse either.
When he didn’t open his mouth for another bite I knew his own parasite had enough fuel for the moment. “You need to sleep now,” I said. While he slept the parasite would do its thing to make a permanent home in Andrewville.
His eyes struggled open. “Wh-what am I going to . . . do?”
“Sleep,” I told him firmly. “We’ll figure out the rest later.”
He tried hard to form words, but at this point he didn’t stand a chance against what his body and his new tenants needed. He mumbled, then his eyes closed, and he relaxed against me. Fatigue rolled over me, and I shifted him to a somewhat more comfortable position for both of us while still holding him close.
The back door creaked open, and Philip peered in, concern on his face. His eyes met mine, questioning, and I knew he was there for me but would have no problem withdrawing if that’s what I needed. My hand felt as if it weighed a thousand pounds, but I managed to lift it enough to gesture him over. He climbed in and closed the door, then sat beside me and slipped an arm around my shoulders—not in a cuddly way, but more in a You’re a tired zombie way. I gratefully leaned against him while Andrew’s head lay tucked in the crook of my arm between us. I wanted to make a silly crack about how we were the weirdest zombie family ever, but instead I rested my head against Philip’s shoulder, closed my eyes, and went right to sleep.