How the White Trash Zombie Got Her Groove Back by Diana Rowland Read Free Book Online

Haven’t seen you in a while.”
    â€œI have a security meeting not far from here in a little while,” he explained, then tapped his upper chest. “I figured now was a good time for Dr. Nikas to check out my port and test a new mod.”
    I’d only found out about ports and mods a few months ago, but I was seriously considering putting them on my Christmas list. Mods—modifiers—were specialized drugs that revved up or toned down parasite activity as needed. The port itself was implanted beneath the skin and provided an easy way to get a mod into the body. With a port, mods could either be delivered quickly, dumping into the system all at once, or the drug could be stored and set to release slowly. Mods could have some pretty awesome effects, such as more efficient brain usage, or better senses, or resistance to the kind of tranquilizers that worked on zombies. All sorts of useful stuff.
    The drawback was that only one or two mods could be used at the same time, and some couldn’t be mixed at all without big side effects. They were a lot like regular human drugs in that respect.
    â€œEverything go okay with that?” I asked.
    â€œSome kinks with the mod still, but it’s looking promising,” he said. “It’s designed to be a short term turbo charge of zombie abilities. Speed, strength, reflexes, senses, that sort of thing. Would be nice to have for emergencies.” He stretched and stifled a yawn. “But right now I’m simply waiting to see if Mr. Ivanov has anything for me before I take off.”
    â€œDon’t let the excitement of it all overwhelm you,” I said with a grin. “How’s everything else going?”
    â€œBusiness as usual in the zombie security world,” he said, which I figured was his way of saying he couldn’t talk about anything. “Never a dull moment with the Tribe.”
    The Tribe. Pietro Ivanov’s organization was actually a number of corporations—a chain of funeral homes, real estate, construction, and even health care clinics that disguised the zombie research. And probably a ton I didn’t have a clue about as well. Up until a couple of months ago I’d privately referred to the whole deal as “The Zombie Mafia,” yet after some time working steadily in the lab, I discovered that the people
in
the organization—humans and zombies alike—referred to it as “the Tribe.” After some thought—and with the greater knowledge I had of Pietro, his people, and his goals—the reality of the whole common-ties-common-support thing settled in, and I grudgingly agreed that Tribe was a better nickname.
    Most of the time, at least. There were reasons the whole Mafia tag had come up in the first place, and that undercurrent was still alive and kicking.
    I peered at Brian. “Don’t you ever get to go off and play on your own?”
    Brian’s eyes widened in exaggerated wonder. “You mean . . . not be on call?” Then he laughed. “I have down time, sure, but I’m never truly off duty.”
    â€œWell, that sucks,” I said, narrowing my eyes. “When do you get to be your own person?”
    â€œI’m doing what I want to do,” he said, giving me a reassuring smile. “I have a couple of hobbies to fill in the gaps. I can’t imagine a different lifestyle.”
    I wondered about the gaps. As far as I knew, he didn’t have a girlfriend. At one time he’d seemed seriously interested in my best friend, Naomi—formerly known as Heather—but that fell flat when she hooked up with Kyle Griffin, one of Brian’s top security guys.
    Brian seemed content enough, though, and I knew it really wasn’t any of my business. Not that I’d ever let that whole “none of my business” thing stop me from being a nosy buttinsky before.
    â€œWell,” I said, “if you’re okay with your schedule, I