White Trash Zombie Gone Wild Read Online Free PDF Page A

beneath.
    Before I could think too hard about fake-zombies wandering around toting animal brains—and what that would smell like after a few hours—my gaze fell on the red 1968 Dodge Charger parked in front of the butcher shop. The only person around here who owned a car like that was my
other
ex-boyfriend, Randy.
    Maybe he’d come into town for sausage or steaks? He sometimes had friends over for beer, pot, and barbecue on Friday evenings. I shaded my eyes and scanned the butcher’s shop. No sign of him through the window, so I shifted my looksee to the business next door: The Bear’s Den Gun Shop and Indoor Range. A huge Zombie Fest poster filled one corner of the window, but beyond the poster, I saw Randy lounging against a counter inside. I’d known him since I was fifteen, and he’d never shown any interest in camping, hunting, or owning a gun. But his buddy Judd worked there, and they were most likely cooking up plans for the weekend. Judd wasn’t my favorite person ever since he asked me out during one of my many breakups with Randy and got all kinds of pissy when I turned him down. But, hell, lots of people weren’t my favorites. For the most part, I put up with them anyway. Life was too short to hold more than a handful of grudges.
    Randy and I had dated for about four years, breaking up and getting back together a couple dozen times. We finally broke up for good not long after I became a zombie but, when I got back from New York, we started hanging out again some. Randy knew me better than anyone else—except for the fact that I was a zombie—which meant I could relax and be myself and not worry about coming off as trashy or ignorant. And though I never
ever
wanted to date Randy again, it turned out we worked pretty nicely as friends.
    And, as a friend, I was totally allowed to be a nosy bitch. Might as well go with my strengths.
    I left Alma’s brainy menu behind and jaywalked through the slow-moving traffic. A chime sounded as I pushed the Bear’s Den door open, barely audible over the hubbub in the store. It was more crowded than I’d expected, and I took a couple of seconds to get my bearings. I wasn’t exactly a gun shop kind of chick, especially since I became a convicted felon right about the time I was old enough to buy a gun. Fortunately, I wasn’t a felon anymore. About a year ago, someone—most likely Pietro Ivanov—had pulled a few dozen strings to get me pardoned by the governor.
    My adventures in New York had included shooting myself in the ass, an event that was sure to end up on the blooper reel of the life of one Angel Crawford. However, the upside of my little mishap was that Mr. Deadly Operative himself, Kyle Griffin, took me under his wing and taught me how to shoot a variety of firearms safely and precisely. I suspected his generosity was more a desire to reduce the chance that I might accidentally shoot him, but I didn’t mind. Though my concealed carry application was still in process, Louisiana law allowed me to have a gun in my car, where I currently had a Tribe-loaned Kel-Tec PF9 in the glove box. As crazy as my life was, it made sense to keep a little heat close at hand.
    Even though The Bear’s Den took up a good chunk of the block, I hadn’t realized how
big
the place was. To my left, half a dozen black-shirted salespeople prowled behind a glass-enclosed display case that ran the length of the shop. Handguns and knives and other deadly stuff filled the case, and the wall behind it was one long rack of rifles and shotguns. To my right, a mounted deer head with enormous antlers loomed over a broad archway that led to the hunting, camping, and archery supplies. Everywhere else, shelves and racks held all sorts of accessories, equipment, and clothing. Posters hung from the ceiling with warnings such as: “ALWAYS TREAT A GUN AS IF IT’S LOADED” and “FINGER OFF THE TRIGGER UNTIL YOU’RE