White Trash Zombie Apocalypse by Diana Rowland

My gaze snapped up to Looming Zombie—the one Philip called Roland—and met his eyes. Gorgeous blue.
And that’s probably the other one
. One of Charish’s guards had eyes like that. The makeup couldn’t hide those.
    Oh, this was all kinds of bad. Philip and his freakin’ zombie-spawn. He’d been in bad shape when he made them—mean, near berserk, and rotting too soon—damaged by some experimental shit Charish had done to him. Who the hell knew how screwed up the two he’d turned were.
    I landed a hard kick to Philip’s shin, but he seemed unfazed by my struggles. I got in a few more solid kicks and foot stomps, and then he tucked away the tranq gun and pulled a knife.
    I made a strangled sound pushed out by panic. “No…no! Let me go,” I managed. “Oh god.” It was hard as hell to kill a zombie, but I had no doubt he knew how to do it.
    “Shut up, Angel,” he said, voice deep and hoarse. He wrestled my bitten arm up and sliced the jacket sleeve. “Have to make sure the goods aren’t damaged.”
    A stupid pang of grief went through me, and I stared in horror at the long rent in the lovely fabric. “You cut my jacket!” Yeah, I was captured by a couple of Evil Zombies, but a girl has her priorities. “You fucking
dick!
” I slammed my boot heel down into the top of his foot. “Get off me!”
    Philip hissed and shifted. “God damn it, Angel.”
    “Let her go,” a clear, strong voice commanded from off to my right.
    Philip hauled me around with him as he turned to face the approaching man—who, unnervingly, had a very real gun drawn and pointed at us. Fortyish with close-cropped brown hair, the newcomer bore a serious-as-all-hell expression perfectly complemented by a dark suit. I had no clue who the hell he was, but I was pissed and scared and desperate. I thrashed and kicked back hard into Philip’s shin. “Yeah. Let me GO!”
    Philip tightened his arm around me and looked to the left where Looming Zombie moved away with the tranquilizedBad Zombie slung over his shoulder, then dragged me backward with him into the shadows. “No problem,” he snarled, and shoved me roughly forward.
    Totally off balance, I went sprawling to the sidewalk. The palm of my right hand grated against the concrete, and white hot agony shot through me as my already broken wrist impacted and shattered.
    “
Asshole!
” I shouted as I soon as I could get a full breath, though it came out as more of a pained wheeze. I shifted to sit heavily, cradling my arm to my chest, and caught a glimpse of Philip sprinting away before he was lost to the darkness.
    The man holstered his gun and moved toward me. “Ms. Crawford. Are you all right, ma’am?”
    The pain faded and my senses dulled as my parasite kicked in. “No, I’m not all right,” I growled as I struggled to my feet. “And, goddammit, that motherfucker cut my jacket!”
    “Yes, ma’am,” he said in a cool, professional tone. No accent to speak of. And no edible brain scent. Yet another zombie. “What are your injuries?”
    “I dunno. My wrist is broken.” I examined my jacket sleeve with dismay. I felt my lower lip quiver. “Goddammit,” I muttered. “He could have at least cut the seam. What a dick.” I snapped my eyes to the man, abruptly wary. I’d discovered from Bad Zombie that knowing my name didn’t instantly translate to “friend.”
    “And who the hell are
you
?” I asked. I took a step back, ready to bolt.
    “Brian Archer, ma’am. I work for Mr. Ivanov. He called to say you’d lured a zombie out the west exit.”
    The relief nearly dropped me to the ground again. “Oh. Good.” Of course Pietro had some security people around. I’d told Jane to call Pietro, and he must have sent this dude.
    Brian reached into his jacket pocket, pulled out awhite plastic tube thing that looked like a yogurt packet for kids and held it out to me. “Here, you need this, Ms. Crawford.”
    I frowned at the packet without reaching for it. “Why do I need