Free Box of Zombies: Rise of the Dead Volumes 1-3 by Donna Burgess Page B

columns like brittle hair. Unease laced itself through her chest and stomach.
    “Come on, slow ass,” Morgan called over her shoulder as she vanished into the dark of the front door, the rickety screen door slamming behind her.

THREE
    SOUTHERN HOSPITALITY
     
    Some old country song played from back room, the snap and crackle of an old vinyl album and a woman’s soft, mournful warbling. Savannah began to sweat immediately. Morgan plopped down on an ancient sofa, dust rising around her.
    “You girls want some iced tea?” Johnny drawled.
    “That would be nice,” Morgan said. Then she patted the space next to her, kicking up more dust. “Sit down, Monster. Don’t be rude.”
    Johnny slunk off into adjacent kitchen. Savannah thought she could hear him speaking to someone else.
    She shuffled her feet. “I’m not being rude.” Then she called out, “That telephone, Johnny?”
    “Hold on,” he called from the kitchen.
    In a few moments, he returned, two tall glasses filled with muddy brown liquid in his hands and a bottle of Natural Light tucked under one arm.
    “Ladies,” Johnny said, giving Morgan a smile to melt the icecaps. The tea was as thick as molasses, but Morgan sipped hers as if it was actually drinkable. She shot Savannah a heated look—drink up, bitch—and Savannah brought the jar up and took a long whiff. Sure, it smelled like regular old iced tea, but there was also something else there, barely perceptible—some strange odor that just didn’t seem right. Probably just her imagination, but she wasn’t about to take a chance.
    Suddenly the house began to shake. Savannah started to say something, but caught herself just in time. The mysterious kitchen dweller appeared. All six hundred pounds of her. She was on the down side of middle age, wearing a lime green housecoat that was more stains than color, a pair of bedroom slippers crushed as thin as tissue paper, and glasses so smudged her beady eyes were only suggestions behind the lenses.
    “Baby, you should’ve told Mamma you were havin’ comp’ny,” she grunted. She huffed and puffed from the short walk from the kitchen to the living room. A sheen of greasy perspiration glistened off her moon pie face, and Savannah assumed she was perpetually sweaty. Judging from Mamma’s smell, she bet she was, anyway. Those “Saturday Night Baths” weren’t just myths.
    “These ladies had car trouble. I couldn’t just leave ’ em on the side of the road in this heat,” Johnny told her.
    Mamma shook her head. “Oh, no, no, no!” She smiled toward the girls, her lips pulling back, her eyes unchanged. “My Johnny’s a real gentleman, ain’t he?”
    “He is that,” Morgan agreed, too eagerly. She stood up and stuck out her hand. “I’m Morgan.”
    “Well, you’re a pretty little thang, Miss Morgan,” Mamma said, burying Morgan’s slender fingers in the folds of her hand.
    Morgan pulled away and Savannah detected the slightest look of disgust on her friend’s face. She sat back down and took another sip of the iced tea, wiping her palm on the hip of her shorts.
    “Who’s your friend?” Mamma asked, her voice suddenly not as welcoming. Savannah had heard that tone plenty of times—most folks didn’t like what they didn’t understand.
    “Mon—Savannah,” Morgan said.
    Savannah loathed chitchat. “The phone, Johnny. Can I call the tow service now?”
    “Already did.” Johnny swigged his Natty Light and wiped his lips with the back of his hand. “They’re backed up, but they’ll be out here directly.”
    “Any idea how long?”
    “You in a hurry?” Mamma snapped suddenly.
    Savannah jumped, surprised at the fat woman’s sudden ferociousness. “Well, no, ma’am,” she stammered, hating herself for being somewhat intimidated. Then she raised her chin and met the woman’s icy gaze. “I mean yes. Morgan and I need to be back at school. People will be worried if we’re late.” Then she added, “They’ll come looking for