bottle, then crouched again and wrapped its arms around its legs. I watched, hope and terror doing the tango in my gut.
After about half a minute he lifted his head. Most of the rot had receded, and already I could tell he didn’t smell anywhere near as bad. And now I knew who he was. Zeke Lyons, and he worked at Billings Funeral Home.
No. Used to work there. He’d been fired about two weeks ago when he was caught taking jewelry off the corpses—which explained why he was in his current state. I tasted bile on the back of my tongue. Two weeks without brains . . . and he was a rotted mess.
“More,” he rasped.
I shook my head, frantic. “No. I can’t give you any more.” My voice sounded shrill and thin to my ears, and I knew I looked and smelled terrified. I’d stopped him for the moment, but I’d also made him stronger. I could only hope he was coherent enough to listen to reason now. “I can give you more tomorrow, okay?” I said, nearly stammering. “Come by the morgue tomorrow.”
He flexed his hands, looking down at them. They were whole again. He looked almost normal. Disheveled and dirty, but now he simply looked like a bum, not the walking dead. “I’m hungry now ,” he said in a snarl, then his gaze snapped to me, both eyes whole and clear. And blue. He probably wasn’t bad looking at all when he was whole.
“What are you?” I had to force the question out. I didn’t want to hear the answer. I didn’t want to know it was true.
His eyes narrowed. “Zombie,” he said, then gave a dry laugh that sounded like tearing paper. “You’re new.”
I gave him a shaky nod, nausea roiling in my gut. I was still lying on top of the stretcher, clinging tightly with the one hand. I didn’t trust him to not snatch for the bag again.
“I remember when I was new.” His voice was so low I could barely hear him. “Starving all the time. Like this.” Desperation glittered in his eyes. “You won’t share.”
“I will! I swear!” Panic surged as he reached for the bag again. “But not if you take the body.” I was babbling, struggling to get the words out to make him understand. “If I lose my job I won’t be able to help you.” And I’d be screwed too, but I knew he didn’t care about that.
A flicker of light in the distance seized my attention. “There’s a car coming,” I told him. “Please, go. Run! Come to the morgue and I swear, I’ll give you more.” I was crying now. “ Please .” I didn’t know what else to say.
He jerked his head around, lip curling at the sight of headlights far down the highway. He let out a low hiss, and I could see the two survival instincts battling within him—his current, desperate need versus the fear of discovery.
Fear won, and a second later he spun and loped off into the swamp.
I wanted to sag in relief and curl up into a ball, but I wasn’t in the clear yet. I was a mess and I needed to do something about it. Being out of work because I was injured would be as bad as losing my job.
I pushed myself up to my knees and began frantically shoving body bags and other crap aside. My broken arm screamed in pain even through the dulling of my senses, but my panic was a lot louder. There’d been two bottles in the lunchbox. The other one had to be somewhere around here.
The approaching vehicle was close enough for me to hear the engine by the time I finally spied the second bottle wedged behind the driver’s seat. I grabbed it and repeated the trick of opening it with my teeth, chugged it back as fast as I could, shaking it to get the thick chunks at the bottom.
I sagged against the wall of the van and closed my eyes. A lovely warmth spread through me, coupled with the eerie sensation of my bones sliding back into place and the skin of my arm and forehead knitting back together. Then the sensation faded and a jab of hunger spiked through me.
I opened my eyes and let out a low sigh of relief. The bone wasn’t sticking out of my arm anymore,
After about half a minute he lifted his head. Most of the rot had receded, and already I could tell he didn’t smell anywhere near as bad. And now I knew who he was. Zeke Lyons, and he worked at Billings Funeral Home.
No. Used to work there. He’d been fired about two weeks ago when he was caught taking jewelry off the corpses—which explained why he was in his current state. I tasted bile on the back of my tongue. Two weeks without brains . . . and he was a rotted mess.
“More,” he rasped.
I shook my head, frantic. “No. I can’t give you any more.” My voice sounded shrill and thin to my ears, and I knew I looked and smelled terrified. I’d stopped him for the moment, but I’d also made him stronger. I could only hope he was coherent enough to listen to reason now. “I can give you more tomorrow, okay?” I said, nearly stammering. “Come by the morgue tomorrow.”
He flexed his hands, looking down at them. They were whole again. He looked almost normal. Disheveled and dirty, but now he simply looked like a bum, not the walking dead. “I’m hungry now ,” he said in a snarl, then his gaze snapped to me, both eyes whole and clear. And blue. He probably wasn’t bad looking at all when he was whole.
“What are you?” I had to force the question out. I didn’t want to hear the answer. I didn’t want to know it was true.
His eyes narrowed. “Zombie,” he said, then gave a dry laugh that sounded like tearing paper. “You’re new.”
I gave him a shaky nod, nausea roiling in my gut. I was still lying on top of the stretcher, clinging tightly with the one hand. I didn’t trust him to not snatch for the bag again.
“I remember when I was new.” His voice was so low I could barely hear him. “Starving all the time. Like this.” Desperation glittered in his eyes. “You won’t share.”
“I will! I swear!” Panic surged as he reached for the bag again. “But not if you take the body.” I was babbling, struggling to get the words out to make him understand. “If I lose my job I won’t be able to help you.” And I’d be screwed too, but I knew he didn’t care about that.
A flicker of light in the distance seized my attention. “There’s a car coming,” I told him. “Please, go. Run! Come to the morgue and I swear, I’ll give you more.” I was crying now. “ Please .” I didn’t know what else to say.
He jerked his head around, lip curling at the sight of headlights far down the highway. He let out a low hiss, and I could see the two survival instincts battling within him—his current, desperate need versus the fear of discovery.
Fear won, and a second later he spun and loped off into the swamp.
I wanted to sag in relief and curl up into a ball, but I wasn’t in the clear yet. I was a mess and I needed to do something about it. Being out of work because I was injured would be as bad as losing my job.
I pushed myself up to my knees and began frantically shoving body bags and other crap aside. My broken arm screamed in pain even through the dulling of my senses, but my panic was a lot louder. There’d been two bottles in the lunchbox. The other one had to be somewhere around here.
The approaching vehicle was close enough for me to hear the engine by the time I finally spied the second bottle wedged behind the driver’s seat. I grabbed it and repeated the trick of opening it with my teeth, chugged it back as fast as I could, shaking it to get the thick chunks at the bottom.
I sagged against the wall of the van and closed my eyes. A lovely warmth spread through me, coupled with the eerie sensation of my bones sliding back into place and the skin of my arm and forehead knitting back together. Then the sensation faded and a jab of hunger spiked through me.
I opened my eyes and let out a low sigh of relief. The bone wasn’t sticking out of my arm anymore,
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