White Trash Zombie Gone Wild Read Online Free PDF

READY TO FIRE.” But my favorite was “ASSHOLES AND IDIOTS WILL BE MAULED BY THE BEAR” complete with a picture of a scary, burly man—the owner of the shop himself, Bear. He stood behind the counter, wide shoulders hunched, hands huge but nimble as he demonstrated to a customer how to break down a handgun. His T-shirt read “Don’t just survive.
Thrive!
”—a testimony to his standing as the local expert on survival and disaster preparedness.
    A murmured “Excuse me” to my rear jarred me out of my gaping. I stepped aside to let a Hispanic man in black tactical pants and a form-fitting grey shirt go by, then shamelessly ogled him as he continued past me and down the counter toward Bear.
That
was the kind of male body those compression shirts were made for. V-shaped torso, trim waist, and biceps that popped from the sleeves in a way that said “I have these muscles as a result of being fit and strong in a lot of different ways” as opposed to “I have these muscles because I do bicep curls while I stare adoringly at myself in the gym mirror.” Sparkly fireflies danced between us. I took a step toward him. Holy crap, that ass was like two firm apples that—
    Jesus, Angel, get a grip on yourself!
The V12 was still kicking in hard. The sparkly fireflies side effect wasn’t so bad, but the suppression of impulse control—a remnant of the original combat version of the mod—could be downright inconvenient. Useful in high danger situations to tweak reaction time, but not so helpful while lusting after a stranger. But I could handle it. I always got it under control before anything embarrassing happened.
    I reined in my inner sexual harassment of Tactical Pants Man and looked around for Randy. The entire section by the front window was nothing but Deep South Zombie Fest paraphernalia—posters, T-shirts, caps, coffee mugs, key chains, and a buttload more novelty items. Randy stood by a pyramid of dark blue duffel bags emblazoned with the Bear’s Den logo and
Zombie Hunter Survival Kit
in searing red letters. Long and lanky, Randy didn’t have movie star good looks or a Tactical Pants Man body, but he had a nice face and a sweet, lazy smile. A bright blue Zombie Fest cap covered light brown hair nearly the same color as his eyes. He had a duffel slung over one shoulder and was talking to Coy Bates—a slim black man with tidy shoulder-length dreads. Randy and Coy had been friends since sixth grade, and Coy was one of a very small number of Randy’s friends who I actually liked. He always seemed to have a smile for everyone, and though he smoked pot with Randy most weekends, he stayed focused on his growing taxidermy business.
    I skirted a display of paintball supplies, edged past a gaggle of men who were enthusing over a catalog of reloading equipment, then sidled up to Coy and Randy and gave them matching light arm punches. “Hey, guys. Coy, is that deer head above the arch your work?”
    Randy gave me a grin, and Coy’s face lit up with pride. “It sure is,” Coy said in a gentle drawl. “Bear’s son bagged it last fall. I got a lot of new business after Bear trusted me with it.”
    â€œIt’s gorgeous. You did a great job.” I smiled up at it.
    Sparkles glittered over the antlers. It turned its head toward me, eyes glowing like hot coals, and winked.
    I sucked in a breath. “Holy shit!”
    â€œAngel?”
    I flinched at Randy’s voice and yanked my gaze to him. He looked perfectly normal, to my relief. “I mean, uh, holy shit, those are big antlers,” I said with only the tiniest hitch in my voice, despite the thumping of my pulse. I’d never had a hallucination like
that
before. Could the V12 have caused it? The sparkles sure added weight to that suspicion. I shot a wary glance at the arch. The deer stared straight ahead with glassy brown eyes. Maybe it wasn’t a