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“Got it. Thanks,” I said and kept the bright smile on my face until he left the room. Gah. The north conference room was where the inner circle held their super private closed-door pow-wows. Even with all the stuff I’d done for the Tribe, I’d never been invited to one of those meetings. Never really wanted to be, either.
Pierce asked me to come because I’m patient zero, I told myself, but logic didn’t help my overactive imagination. What if they had more information about how Douglas Horton and Connor became shamblers? And what if that information drove them to prevent more shamblers by getting rid of the source—me?
Which would be totally stupid since surely they’d want to keep me alive in order to use my unique parasite to find a cure. Besides, if they wanted to get rid of me, they’d hardly call me into their inner sanctum to do the deed. The carpet was really nice in there.
One thing was for sure, though—if they had plastic drop cloths on the floor, I was totally out of there. I’d seen enough mobster movies to know what that meant.
I transferred Mr. Fluffy into a suitable ventilated container, stuck a note on top that read “Property of Angel,” then gathered my courage and proceeded to the meeting room.
About half the size of the main conference room, this one had a good deal more elegant comfort. An enormous whiteboard took up most of one wood-paneled wall, and a screen dominated another. Eight leather executive chairs surrounded a burnished walnut table, with a pad of paper and pen at each place. Best of all, there was no plastic to protect the luxurious cream carpet from blood stains.
Marcus occupied the seat at the head of the table, flanked by Dr. Nikas and Kyle. Brian sat near the other end, and across from him was a woman I didn’t recognize. Mid-thirties or so, wearing a deep blue hijab. She had serious dark eyes that flicked up to me before returning to the tablet before her.
Marcus gave me a nod of greeting. “Angel, I don’t believe you’ve met Shideh Rajavi yet. She’s our accountant and financial advisor.”
And she was human, too, with a brain that smelled just right to my still teensy-bit-hungry parasite. How did a human get to be part of the inner circle of the local zombie mafia? I held my questions and did the polite smile and nice-to-meet-you, which she did right back, then I took the conspicuously empty seat between Brian and Kyle. Brian was Kyle’s zombie daddy, but there was no love lost in that relationship. Several years ago, Kyle had been a Saberton operative, in the final stages of aggressive lymphoma caused by an experimental combat stimulant. He’d welcomed death for long-standing personal reasons and was ready for it. But Brian stole death away from him, turning him zombie against his will—on Pietro’s orders to recruit him.
Pierce entered and closed the door firmly behind him then sat at the opposite end from Marcus. Suddenly that was clearly the head of the table.
“Let’s cut right to the chase,” Pierce said, placing both hands flat on the polished surface. He launched into a quick and dirty briefing about the shambler in the morgue and how it related to me and Judd, the suspected gator involvement, the decision to go to the swamp in the hopes of retrieving the body and getting tissue samples from alligators, and finally our encounter with the Saberton thugs and all that we discovered.
My presence was justified when the topic moved to Connor, and I was asked to relate what happened before, during, and after his collapse, up to and including the hospital and his death. Once I finished, I fielded questions, even from the accountant. Kyle gave his report next—with about a thousand percent more detail than I had on the hospital events. He even rattled off Connor’s heart rate and other vital signs at varying stages of the ordeal. Damn, the dude was a pro.
At long last, the others seemed satisfied that they’d wrung every scrap of information from me and Kyle.
“Angel killed Judd Siler a little over three weeks ago,” Pierce said. “Then two days ago this drowning victim, Douglas Horton, decides to go for a fucking walk in the morgue. And yesterday Deputy Beckett Connor appeared to succumb to the same malady—and then died in the hospital under suspicious circumstances.” He frowned at Dr. Nikas. “What have you found out?”
“I’ll begin with the alligator samples,” Dr. Nikas said. “All but one were normal. The tissue of the off-color gator was rife with a parasite mutation identical to the one found in Mr. Horton.”
I shuddered. “What happens if an infected gator bites another animal? Will the prey go shambly?”
“I wish I knew the answer,” he replied, eyes haunted at the implications. “I have some preliminary tests running, but resources are thin, and my priority must be the development of a cure.”
“Get on with it,” Pierce growled. “The samples?”
Amazingly, Dr. Nikas didn’t flip him off, as I would have done in his place. “The severed hand Rachel retrieved from the Saberton vessel carried the mutated parasite, as well.”
Marcus muttered something foul. “Saberton got away with the rest of the body, which means they’re in possession of the mutated parasite now.”
Dr. Nikas exhaled. “I’m afraid so.”
I made a hmmfing noise. “We’ll be here all night if we keep calling this thing the mutated parasite. I vote we name it Eugene. Two sy
llables instead of six. Easy peasy.”
Pierce let out an annoyed grunt, but Dr. Nikas gave me a curious smile. “Why Eugene, Angel?”
“Because it messes with you genes.”
Brian groaned, and Kyle almost smiled. Dr. Nikas simply inclined his head. “Eugene it is then.”
“What about Deputy Connor?” Pierce snapped.
“My testing shows that Beckett Connor was infected with, ah, Eugene.”
I raised my hand. “Connor is being autopsied today. Will there be a problem with lab tests and stuff? Will they find Eugene?”
“Based on the samples taken, I would say not,” Dr. Nikas said. “Eugene is as cagey as the normal organism, and detection requires specialized equipment and the knowledge of precisely what to look for.”
