My Life as A White Trash Zombie

I gazed morosely at the contents of the little fridge in my room. Actually, gazing at the contents didn’t take long since the damn thing was empty, but I crouched there with the door open for several minutes anyway, as if my stash would magically regenerate if I wished hard enough. The cold air flowed out onto my bare feet but I might as well have been wearing socks for all I felt it. I absently rubbed my fingertips together, dully annoyed at the faint lack of sensation. My stomach gave an unpleasant twist—like I needed the reminder that I was a few hours past my usual, every-other-day feeding schedule. Great. Everything else faded, but I could still feel the damn hunger.

Used to be that I wanted the edge taken off the world. Hell, that’s why I’d turn to pills or pot or booze. But this was different. It was like the longer I went without brains, the more dead I became.

After Ed had left me in the ER I’d been subjected to a barrage of questions that made Ivanov’s “interrogation” look like a poetry reading. Derrel was clearly worried and distressed, Allen was annoyed and suspicious—and kept muttering under his breath about the loss of the van—and Dr. Duplessis was somewhere in between. I told my story as best I could, keeping it as close to the truth as possible while leaving out the bit about the zombie. To my relief the faint shadow of suspicion in the coroner’s eyes faded as I finished up my version of what happened. And when my piss test came back clean—thank god—even Allen seemed to unbend enough to show actual concern.

Unfortunately, I still ended up with three days off from work. It wasn’t even punishment either, which was the totally bizarre thing about it. It was with pay, and the coroner most likely thought he was being super nice, giving me extra time to make sure I was all right. Normally I’d have been thrilled to get time off with pay. I mean, the coroner was being incredibly cool to do that for me, especially since I was so new. Usually you had to be there for three months before you could get any type of paid leave. And what was I supposed to say? “Gee, thanks for giving me paid time off, but that’s not why I need to come to work. I need to dig through dead bodies’cause I’m starving, yo.”

At least it was only three days. If I hadn’t tanked up on some brains out at the accident scene, I’d have probably been forced to stay out for a couple of weeks to hide how fast I could heal up when properly fed. And then I’d have been like that other zombie. A chill went through me that had nothing to do with the open fridge.

I closed the fridge, stood. I was back on call tomorrow. One more day. I could last until then, right? I wasn’t even smelly yet. Well, not too much. I counted the days: I’d slugged down my last brains day before yesterday, and I was supposed to go back to work tomorrow. Three days without brains. I’d never gone that long before.

Unfortunately, I’d burned through my stash faster than I’d expected getting healed up. I’d been able to bullshit the ER doc, but my stupid body had let me know that it felt like shit. I wasn’t tough enough to fight my appetite when it was clawing at me like I’d swallowed a wolverine.

But how long did I have? I needed a goddamn manual. And why the hell couldn’t Anonymous Letter Dude give me some clues and pointers? Okay, I ate the damn brains. I’ve figured out that I need to keep this job. Great. You win. Now, could I please get a clue?

The “one month” mark was in a few days, and still no sign or word from whoever’d arranged the whole thing with the job. I’d really been hoping that at some point I’d get a “Way to go!” or “I knew you could do it!” or even a “Hi, my name is blank, and I’ve been your mentor.” I scowled. Not a mentor, though. A mentor would have given me some actual advice and instruction on how to handle this whole brain thing. Not just a stupid “If you crave it, eat it” note.

I peered at myself in the mirror. What would I look like all rotted and gross like that guy had been? There were shadows under my eyes, and I looked as if I’d been awake for way too long, but I didn’t have parts falling off. Yet. I shivered, then stuck a Band-Aid onto my forehead where the cut on my head had been. I didn’t want people wondering how I could have healed up so fast. I still wasn’t sure what I was going to do about the fact that there wasn’t a scar. Maybe get my hair cut so I had bangs that covered my forehead? I made a face. Bangs. Ugh. I’d rather have parts falling off.

My dad wasn’t home so I checked my money situation and then headed out. I had an attack of responsibility and used a good portion of my last paycheck to do stupid things like paying bills—even paid the cable bill, which had been cut off. Hopefully this would get around having to give money to my dad, especially since I wasn’t so sure he’d actually pay bills with the money anyway.

My stomach grumbled at me after I dropped off a payment at the power company and I wavered badly on whether to try and sneak into the morgue to snag some brains. The big problem was the fact that I had to use a key card to get in—which meant that it would be logged in the system. Coming in once or twice off-shift wouldn’t be a huge deal, but it would definitely be noticed if I made a habit of it. Especially since the previous van driver had been caught stealing. The last thing I wanted was any more attention.

I caught a scent of fried chicken as I passed a diner on the corner, and my stomach gave another lurch. I almost laughed in relief. This was hunger . . . not Hunger. I still needed to eat regular food—something I’d almost forgotten to do when I was healing up from the wreck. Hell, I tended to forget it a lot when I was low on brains, and forgetting had the unfortunate effect of making me even more ravenous for brains since I was basically starving myself. It didn’t help that food tended to be kinda tasteless if I wasn’t tanked up on brains.

Maybe I can start a new diet craze, I thought with a snicker as I turned in to the parking lot for the Piggly Wiggly. Become a zombie. Cut your appetite in half. For real food, at least.

Pausing my cart by the meat section, I peered down at the various selections of animal flesh. Did it have to be human brains? If I could get the same effect from animal brains, that would make this whole thing a helluva lot less fucked up and a helluva lot easier. Animal brains would be easier to get, right? Though I couldn’t see myself actually killing an animal. Yeah, I was a bit of a redneck, but I got squeamish putting worms on hooks. Would I still be? I wondered suddenly. I used to throw up at the slightest gross thing, and now I was handling brains like a pro. Yeah, but actually killing something is a whole ’nother thing entirely.

I jerked my gaze up to see the butcher giving me a bored and questioning look. “Um, yeah. Do y’all ever sell, um, brains? I mean, like, animal brains?”

“I mean, not to eat or anything,” I quickly added, tacking on a laugh for good measure, though it sounded strained and fake to my ears. “That would be pretty gross, right?”

I shook my head, not trusting myself to speak in case I came across as a complete lunatic. Instead of the partial lunatic he probably already thought I was.

“Yeah!” I exclaimed, leaping on the excuse. “That’s it. A project.” Did I look young enough to be in high school? Or maybe he thought I was in college. Ha. Like that would ever happen.

He gave me a stiff nod, then moved down the counter to help another customer—no doubt someone who actually wanted meat. I let out a breath. Wonderful. Getting animal brains was as hard, if not harder, than getting human brains. And I had no idea if they’d even work the same way.

I swung around with a guilty start to see Monica Gaudreau, one of the other death investigators at the Coroner’s Office. Monica was a short and chunky redhead with a bright personality and a voice raspy from too many cigarettes. Not that she let her raspy voice stop her from talking fast enough to make your head spin. Oh, god, did she hear me asking about brains?

But to my relief she merely flashed me a broad smile. “So the rumors that you’re alive and well after doing somersaults in the van are true!”

She laughed. “Rumors, fact, whatever. You know how it is around that office. I swear, I think the secretary moonlights as a gossip columnist. Hell, she’d make a killing. Maybe I’ll suggest it to her! Anyway, good to see that you’re doing all right. I saw the van in the wrecker yard. I can’t believe you’re up and around!” Then she surprised me by giving my arm a squeeze. “Damn glad, too. It would suck having to deal with one of our own. Besides, you keep Nick on his toes.”

“Ew. Do you smell that?” she said, nose wrinkling. “I think the meat in the cooler’s going bad. Anyway, good thing you were wearing your seatbelt, huh? Heck, the main reason I wear mine is because I don’t want any of the schmucks we work with to see me naked on the table in the cutting room.” She gave a mock shudder. “Pervs!”

“Well, good to see you doing so well. See you at work!” And then she was off down the aisle, pushing her cart at breakneck speed and snatching items off the shelves without a hitch in her stride.

I took a deep breath after she was out of sight, partly to regain my equilibrium after the less than a minute in her presence, but also to try and ground myself in the realization that the people I worked with had been worried about me and gave a shit.

In odd parallel to my earlier fridge staring, Dad was staring bleakly into the fridge in the kitchen when I got home. He looked up and closed it when I entered, surprise lighting his eyes as I plopped several plastic grocery bags onto the counter. He had a beer in his hand and when I did a quick scan of the kitchen I saw only one empty. Good. That meant I was hitting the sweet spot in his sobriety. Just enough buzz to take the edge off and keep him being a cranky asshole, but not so much that he’d progress to being mean and ugly and compelled to detail my numerous failings as a person and a daughter. Defensive much?

“Hey, Dad, I got those burritos you like so much.” I dug through the bags and pulled a couple out. A smile flickered across his mouth, and I felt a little bump of pleasure that I’d thought to get them. He could be a real shit sometimes, but he was still my dad. He’d been there for me when it had mattered the most, even though it had damn near killed him. Yeah, everything had gone to shit after that in other ways, but it taught me to keep my expectations real low.

“Yeah, well, I got some decent food too.” Glancing at my dad as I unloaded the bags, I pulled out a bag of apples. “You should eat some fruit after you eat that. You’ll feel better.”

He didn’t look up as he unwrapped the burrito and stuck the plate into the microwave. “I’d feel better if my daughter had told me she’d been in an accident.” He punched the start button, then turned to me, an odd expression of hurt shimmering in his face.

I sighed. Small towns and the gossip mill. Yeah, well, you were passed out on the couch when I made it home from the ER the other night, and I was relieved since I didn’t want to deal with questions about why I was covered in blood. I knew you’d either be an asshole or you’d pretend to be concerned and caring—depending on how drunk you were, and I didn’t want to deal with either reaction. The times that he was like this—almost normal and real—were so rare that they were damn near precious. And I’d learned to never count on them.

“I didn’t want to worry you,” I said instead. “I wasn’t hurt other than a little cut on my head. It wasn’t my fault, so I didn’t get in any trouble or anything.”

“You still coulda told me,” he mumbled, though there wasn’t much conviction behind it. It was as if he knew how unpredictable his reactions could be. Hell, I was sure he did know, though that made it tougher to deal with in a way. If he knew how much of an asshole he could be, why couldn’t he stop being one?

“Sorry,” I mumbled back. I busied myself with putting food away for a few minutes. “You going anywhere? I was gonna cook dinner tonight for the two of us.”

He gave me a doubtful look, and I had to grin. “Okay, I bought some stuff I can heat up,” I amended. “But it’s still better than that gas station chicken, right?”

I ignored the twinge of uneasiness in my gut and pointed to the bag at the end of the counter. “Just a six-pack. I paid all the bills today, and I was running out of money.” That was a lie. I had a case in the trunk of my car, but I wasn’t going to bring the whole thing in. Things were cool right now. If he drank a six-pack it probably wouldn’t make much difference except to keep him mellow. But if I brought the case inside, he’d be drunk and vicious by the end of the night.

I’d learned how to dole it out to him. Sure, I was a shit daughter for giving him booze and enabling his alcoholism. If anyone wanted to call me out on it, they were welcome to spend a week with him and see what it was like.

He shuffled off to the living room with the six-pack while I finished putting things away. The instructions for the frozen lasagna said it would take thirty minutes to cook, so I stuck that in the oven and set about trying to clear out some of the dirty dishes in the sink. The dishwasher hadn’t worked in years, and the usual routine was that one of us would break down and hand wash dishes about the time we ran out of either clean plates or counter space.

“Yeah,” I called back, crouching as I watched the larger pieces slowly spin to a stop in shallow pools of suds. A shudder swept over me, along with a memory from what had to be over ten years ago. I’d been carrying my plate from the kitchen to the table and had dropped it in this exact spot. The plate had broken into three perfect pieces, but the food—red beans and rice—had spattered all over the floor.

I couldn’t remember what happened next, but I didn’t really want or need to. The next piece of the memory was of me huddled in the corner by the refrigerator and bleeding from a cut on my arm, Dad wrestling a piece of the broken plate away from my mom, her screaming about me and how awful I was and her horrible life. . . .

My fingers brushed the scar on my tricep. After ten years I could barely feel it anymore. Taking a shaking breath, I began to gather up the larger pieces of glass. After dumping them into the trash bin I found the broom and swept up the rest of the glass, then went ahead and swept the whole kitchen. Yeah, Mom had been crazy, but at least the house hadn’t been a shithole when she was around.

Bending to pull the mop bucket out of the closet, I paused, staring at the slender triangle of glass sticking out of my lower shin. It wasn’t big—maybe an eight of an inch wide at the base, and about an inch of it was sticking out. I swallowed, then pulled it out, instantly unnerved to see that another half inch of it had been buried in my leg. But it still didn’t hurt. Or bleed. At least, not blood like I was used to. A thick and dark bead slowly welled up from the cut, as if forced there by gravity more than anything else.

I don’t have one! I began to mentally wail just as I felt a low throb. Going completely still, I kept my fingers pressed to my neck as I silently counted. One one-thousand. Two one-thousand. . . .

The vein throbbed beneath my fingers. Two seconds later it throbbed again. I dropped my hand as unease tightened my gut. Okay, so a heartbeat every two seconds. I wasn’t the greatest at math, but even I could figure out that meant my pulse rate was about thirty—and I’d been around the medical types long enough to know that thirty beats per minute wasn’t considered terribly healthy. Yet I wasn’t dizzy or light-headed. I was simply . . . hungry.

My mood did backflips while I pulled the mop and bucket out of the closet. I knew I should be more freaked out, but weirdly it all made sense considering everything else I’d experienced. I’d bled totally normally when the van wrecked, but I was well-fed on brains at the time.

I turned my attention to the sinkful of nasty dishes and did my best to put questions about how alive I was or wasn’t out of my head. By the time the lasagna was done the floor was clean, the dishes were washed and put away, and I’d managed to replace my worry over my degree of alive-ness with a healthy distaste for how dirty the kitchen had been.

This is the cleanest this place has been in years, I thought with a grimace as I pulled the food out of the oven. Had my dad and I simply given up? Yeah, that’s exactly what we did. It didn’t happen immediately, but after Mom was gone somehow we came to a point where we accepted that there was no point in trying to keep things clean or make things right. I know I had.

But now my situation wasn’t complete shit. Or rather, it was shit in different ways. I ate brains, but at least now I knew I wasn’t crazy. Not after seeing the other zombie. I knew what I was—well, I was about 98% sure—even if I had no fucking idea how I’d ended up that way.

However, right now I wasn’t craving brains as much as a damn clue. How the fuck did this happen to me? Shit, maybe I did overdose, and then . . . what? Maybe Zeke the Zombie could fill me in. I’d told him to come to the morgue, but what if he came by while I was out on this leave? Would he come back? I wasn’t all that eager to share brains with him, but I was also getting desperate for some information, some sort of framework I could put this whole crazy scenario into.

And so do I. Yeah, I’m a brain eater. A zombie. That’s still shit. That’s not normal. I was never going to be normal again. Why the hell was I trying so hard?