A funeral home van was parked at the end of the walkway and an Asian-looking guy leaned up against the outside wall by the door, an empty stretcher parked on the sidewalk beside him. Maybe in his mid-twenties or so, he looked more like some sort of goth-punk rocker than a funeral home worker to me. His hair was cut in a spiky mop with one long lock that draped across his face, and he was wearing black pants embellished with zippers and chains. His T-shirt was plain black, which somehow seemed conservative considering the rest of his general look, though in the next second I decided that wearing something adorned with skulls might be frowned upon by the funeral home he worked for. I probably stared rudely for a couple of seconds before he pushed off the wall and grabbed the stretcher.
“Hi. Sorry,” I said, holding the door for him as he pushed the stretcher in. “I was just finishing up after an autopsy. Hope you haven’t been waiting long.” I pressed my lips together to keep from smiling as I noted that he had a tiny skull earring in his left ear. Wow, darlin’, you digging the death thing a bit much, huh?
“No big deal,” he said with a casual shrug. He had the barest touch of accent, telling me he probably hadn’t been born here, but it was so faint I figured he must have been only a kid when he’d come to the states. “I saw the van,” he continued, “so I knew someone was here. I figured you had your hands full.”
“Who are you here for?” I asked, pulling the door closed behind him..
He tugged a piece of paper out of his pocket and glanced at it. “Faust, Daniel.”
I controlled my smile. Faust, Daniel was the fine gentleman whose brains I’d just chowed down on. “Got it. I’ll bring him right out.”
I retrieved the body from the cooler and brought it and the stretcher back out to the main room, then plopped into the computer chair. I was stupidly proud of myself that I’d picked up the computer system with little trouble, though my typing still sucked ass. “Okay, Faust, Daniel. . . .” I flicked a glance up to the funeral home worker. “Which home are you with?”
“Scott Funeral Home.” His tone was strangely mild, and his eyes stayed on me in a way that probably should have been unnerving, but I was high on brains and feeling too good to be down in any way.
I made the appropriate entries, then printed out the receipt. Standing, I yanked it off the printer, then handed it to him with a dorky flourish. “Sign here, and he’s all yours,” I said.
“You’re new here, aren’t you?” A slight smile played on his face as he signed the paper.
“A little over a month,” I replied.
“Is there anyone else here new?”
I shook my head. “Just me.”
He straightened, eyes raking me in a strangely appraising way. “So you’re probably the one who can tell me where all the brains have gone.”
I felt as if he’d punched me in the gut, and I know I stood there with an utterly stricken look on my face.
“I . . . uh . . . what do you mean?” I said, but I couldn’t keep my voice steady. I knew I sounded guilty as hell. Shit. I didn’t think anyone would have noticed that they were missing. Nick had told me that the funeral homes never did anything with the bag of organs.
The skin around his eyes tightened in annoyance. “What, you thought no one would notice? That’s not how this works. Didn’t anyone tell you?”
“Tell me what?” I managed, voice cracking.
“The brains come to me at the funeral home,” he said with patronizing slowness. “Then I distribute them.”
My initial shock and terror faded to be replaced by a strange relief. But I didn’t dare reveal myself yet. There was always the chance that he was with some organ donation service, and if I came out and said, “Hey, you’re a zombie too?” I’d look like a complete whacko.
“Who the hell are you?” I said instead. “And why do you need the brains? Who do you distribute them to?”
He leaned against a filing cabinet and tucked his thumbs into the top of his pockets. “You’re new, aren’t you.”
“I told you,” I said, scowling, “I started here a month ago.”
He shook his head. “That’s not what I meant. You’re a new zombie, right?”
I swear my knees shook, and I had to grab at the table behind me.
“Oh, thank god!” I exclaimed before I could think. “Shit, I swear there was a part of me that thought I was fucking crazy. I mean, I’m wanting to eat . . . well, y’know.” I realized I was babbling and forced myself to stop and take a deep breath. “Is that—really? Is that what I am?” Instead of horror at the confirmation all I could feel was overwhelming relief. I’m not crazy. There’d been that teeny tiny sliver of doubt. Okay, so I’m a monster. And, yeah, that’s more acceptable than being insane.
He cocked his head. “You really don’t know? Why did you think you were craving brains?”
My attitude slowly began to reassert itself. “Well, how the fuck was I supposed to know? I thought I was nuts!” Then I narrowed my eyes at him. “You’re one too, right?”
“That’s right.” He stuck his hand out. “I’m John Kang. Everyone calls me Kang.”
I took his hand, shook it. “Angel Crawford. Nice to meet you.” He didn’t feel dead or undead, or whatever. His skin was warm, and he looked totally alive to me. Did that mean he’d fed recently?
I inhaled sharply. “You left that note!”
He gave me a puzzled look. “Note?”
“Yeah, there was a note at the ER and on my van. . . .” I trailed off as his expression remained blank. Disappointment curled through me. Yeah, that would have been way too easy. I shook my head. “Never mind.”
He was silent for several seconds, regarding me. “Who the hell changed you?”
“Changed me? What, you mean someone made me like this on purpose?”
“Well, yeah. It’s not something that happens by accident. You have to be close to death already, then get bitten all to hell by a zombie to get the virus into you, and then you have to eat brains almost immediately to feed the virus.”
“Well, I don’t know these things,” I nearly snarled as the frustration threatened to boil over. “I figured I’d been bit or whatever by accident. Hell, I had no idea what happened.” Did that mean that whoever left the notes for me was the one who changed me? But why? And if it was a virus, was there some sort of treatment for it? “Why don’t you tell me what the hell’s going on!”
“Sure,” Kang said. “But first, you need to ante up the brains.”
I could only stare at him for several seconds. “Wait . . . you mean I have to turn all the brains over to you? Why?”
Kang’s expression tightened. “Because that’s how things work. I get the brains, and then I distribute them.”
“To who?”
“Other zombies. Who the hell do you think?”
I narrowed my eyes. “Uh huh. And when you say distribute, do you mean you have a soup kitchen sort of thing set up for local zombies looking for a meal? Or do you sell them?” I had a feeling I already knew the answer. Zeke, the zombie who’d ambushed me with a tree, wouldn’t have been so desperate if there’d been a place to get free brains.
“I sell them,” he replied, practically spitting the words out. I could see that my failure to instantly buckle under was annoying him.
“Do you get them from the other funeral homes too?”
He lifted a shoulder in a shrug. He was working really hard to keep his cool, I had to give him that. “I get as much as I can. Look, this is an efficient system we have going on here. I don’t need you coming in and screwing everything up.”
I folded my arms across my chest. “So you’re telling me that you’re the only zombie who works in a funeral home?”
“I’m the only one in a position to take care of all the others,” he retorted. “If you think you’re going to come in here and cut into my business, you’re deluded.”