White Trash Zombie Apocalypse by Diana Rowland

structures and make their own place unique. Even through the driving rain it was easy to note personal touches, from carefully tended flower beds to small additions like gazebos or rock gardens, to choice of paint colors. I had no doubt that everyone who lived along this street was a renter, and it impressed me that, with rare exceptions, they all seemed to take pride in where they lived. I’d never lived in a rental a day in my life, and right now the biggest “personal touch” I gave my house was to keep the weeds hacked down to something that could resemble a lawn.
    Derrel’s Dodge Durango and the St. Edwards Parish Sheriff’s Office crime scene van were already parked by the curb in front of my destination. I only saw one unmarked unit, which told me that this was the type of death that didn’t require a horde of detectives.
    I parked behind the unmarked car, then pulled on a raincoat I’d picked up at Goodwill during my Gala shopping. On a normal-sized human it would probably hit mid-calf, which meant it was ankle-length on me. And when I paired it with the white rubber shrimp boots I currently sported, I had every confidence it would keep me awesomely dry. The only drawback was the polka-dots. Lots and lots of polka dots in varying sizes and in eye-searing colors. Fine. I’d be dry
and
visible.
    Detective Abadie sat in the front seat of the unmarkedcar, typing on his laptop. I rapped hard on his window as I passed and gave him a big bright smile when he jerked in surprise. He raked a gaze over the raincoat, rolled his eyes, and gave me a sour look before returning his attention to his laptop in a pointed dismissal. I laughed and continued up to the house with the stretcher and body bag. Abadie didn’t like me—though he’d once clarified that he didn’t
hate
me, he simply didn’t
like
me, which somehow made all the difference in the world and made it particularly fun to harass him in any innocuous way I could.
    This duplex had a small but tidy front yard and a utilitarian, no frills look about it. A couple of pieces of white wicker outdoor furniture and nothing else on the porch. Derrel stood there, out of the rain, and looked up from his notepad as I approached. “Nice slicker,” he remarked. “Four more days, right?”
    I got the stretcher and myself under shelter, pushed my hood back and shook the worst of the water from my raincoat. “Is everyone counting down to my GED test date?” I asked in mock exasperation.
    “Sure thing. There’s a big calendar down at Double D’s Diner.” At my shocked look he laughed. “I’m kidding, promise! Figured that might be a bit too much pressure on you.”
    “Ya think?” I said, then gave a weak laugh. “I’m barely holding it together as it is.”
    “You’ll do great,” he stated with such utter conviction that it was hard not to believe it.
    “Thanks, Derrel.” I slipped my raincoat off and draped it over the back of a chair. “So, whatcha got here?” I asked with a jerk of my head toward the house.
    His eyes dropped to his notes. “Brenda Barnes. White female, twenty-eight years old. Roommate found her dead on the bathroom floor about an hour ago. No obvious trauma.”
    “Y’think it might be drug overdose?” Sadly, the death of someone that young was far too often the result of such a thing. I should know. Hell, it had been an OD that got me turned into a zombie.
    But Derrel shrugged, shook his head. “Doubtful. No vomit or pulmonary edema. The roommate, Ginger Nelson, swears the victim wasn’t a user, and there were no pill bottles or other evidence of that.”
    “I guess that’s both good and bad,” I said with a slight wince. “I mean good in that it wasn’t a bullshit way to die.”
    “Agreed. So for now I’m not inclined to call it a suicide or an OD, though toxicology will show that for sure.” He closed his pad. “The roommate said she turned the victim over when she found her, so we don’t know what her original position