White Trash Zombie Gone Wild by Diana Rowland Page A

the queen of zombie research.
    After I zombified Philip, she’d used him as a guinea pig for her untested fake brain formula and royally screwed up his parasite. He’d suffered physical consequences ever since but, thankfully, Dr. Nikas’s treatments kept him relatively pain-free and functional. It was like having a debilitating disease successfully managed by meds. Currently, the V12 mod kept him physically stable—and me chilled and dyslexia free.
    Except Philip didn’t have to use a needle. Dr. Nikas had recently implanted one of his special zombie mod ports into Philip’s chest—a clever bit of biotechnology that fused along a rib and allowed a syringe to screw straight onto a reservoir. The mod port worked in cooperation with the parasite to dose out combat, sense enhancement, or any other zombie pharmaceuticals. I planned to write a long letter to Santa this year explaining why I totally deserved a shiny mod port of my very own.
    The empty vial beside Philip told me he’d just received a treatment. I’d last seen him a week ago, and he’d been his typical buff and handsome self. But his hands trembled now as he buttoned his shirt. His blue eyes were sunken, and his skin an ugly grey. A full-blown case of pre-rot.
    â€œYou okay, ZeeBee?” I stepped into the room and frowned at him. “I thought Dr. Nikas’s treatment was doing the trick for you.”
    Philip gave me a smile. I winced as the corner of his mouth fissured.
    â€œIt was until a few days ago,” he said, voice rasping. “He doesn’t know why it stopped working.”
    I shifted, unsettled by the idea that Philip’s pre-rot might be caused by V12. But then again, he took ten times what I did,
and
he had a screwy parasite. Plus, I was super careful. There certainly wasn’t enough risk to make me stop using the V12. I was sure. “That sucks,” I said with a wince. “Does Dr. Nikas have a plan?”
    â€œHe’s going to reformulate.”
    Reformulate.
My gut clenched. Dr. Nikas had cooked up the original version of the “super-mod” in a kitchen in New York as a combat enhancement. I’d used it during the high-stakes rescue of Marcus and Kyle in New York, which was when I discovered that, not only did the super-mod heighten senses and reaction times, it also delivered a serene calm and increased focus. After several attempts, Dr. Nikas had refined the overkill supercharge of the mod into a useful pharmaceutical for Philip’s treatment—Version 12. I’d experimented with it until I found just the right dose for everyday use as well as for an occasional pick-me-up. It was by sheer accident that I discovered it countered much of my dyslexia. I’d have to hope and pray that Version 13 would have the effects I needed.
    â€œWill Dr. Nikas still use the super-mod as the base for your new treatment?” I asked oh-so-casually.
    â€œI don’t think so.” Philip gestured toward his very zombie-looking face. “Fresh approach because of this.”
    Crap. The super-mod base
worked
. That was what I needed, not a new concoction. When Dr. Nikas reformulated, I’d be cut off. No supply. What the hell was I going to do when I ran out? The chances that a completely new recipe would work the same were slim. I couldn’t live without—
    â€œAngel?”
    Philip’s worried voice cut through my flailing thoughts. I caught myself hyperventilating and took a slow, focused breath. “Sorry. I, uh, hate that you’re going through this again.” That much was true. I glanced beyond him to the glass-doored fridge and the tray inside that held three full vials. “Are you still using the old V12?”
    â€œThis was the last time. Dr. Nikas increased the dose, and it stopped the deterioration.” He stood and re-tucked his shirt. “It didn’t reverse it, but at least now I don’t feel as bad as I look.