How the White Trash Zombie Got Her Groove Back by Diana Rowland (English) Paperb

Description: How the White Trash Zombie Got Her Groove Back by Diana Rowland When the Saberton Corporation declares war against the Zombie Mafia, Angel and the remnants of her gang must claw their way through corporate intrigue, zombie drugs and undead trafficking to rescue their friends. FORMAT Paperback LANGUAGE English CONDITION Brand New Publisher Description Horror meets humorous urban fantasy in fourth book in the White Trash Zombie series • Winner of the 2012 Best Urban Fantasy Protagonist by the RT AwardsOur favorite zombie Angel Crawford has come a long way from her days as a pain-pill-addicted high school dropout with a felony record. After a year highlighted by murder, kidnapping, and the loss of her home, all she wants to do is kick back, relax, and maybe even think about college. But when key members of the "Zombie Mafia" go missing, she has no choice but to get involved. Angel is certain Saberton Corporation is behind the disappearances, yet she cant shake the sense that a far deeper conspiracy is at work. With the small band of friends she can trust, Angel strikes out to track down the missing zombies.From a seedy redneck bar in the backwoods of south Louisiana to a high society cocktail party halfway across the country, Angel claws her way through corporate intrigue, zombie drugs, and undead trafficking. In no time at all shes embroiled in kidnapping plits and hostage negotiations—though for once shes the one calling the felonious shots. Add some breaking and entering, criminal damage, and a wee bit of terrorism, and Angels up to her undead ears in the kind of trouble she excels at. But when unexpected danger threatens to destroy her, all the brains and bravado in the world may not be enough to keep her from going to pieces. Author Biography Diana Rowland has lived her entire life below the Mason-Dixon line. She has worked as a bartender, a blackjack dealer, a pit boss, a street cop, a detective, a computer forensics specialist, a crime scene investigator, and a morgue assistant, which means that shes seen more than her share of what humans can do to each other and to themselves. She won the marksmanship award in her Police Academy class, has a black belt in Hapkido, and has handled numerous dead bodies in various states of decomposition. She presently lives in southern Louisiana with her husband and her daughter where she is deeply grateful for the existence of air conditioning. A master of urban fantasy, shes the author of the Demon series and the White Trash Zombie series. She can be contacted via her website, dianarowland.com, or on Twitter at @dianarowland. Review Praise for the White Trash Zombie series:"Rowland is a hilarious writer, and her White Trash Zombie series shines in a crowded genre." —USA Today "An incredibly fun series, and a breath of fresh air in an increasingly crowded field.... While theres no denying that the basic premise is fascinating and entertaining, the real draw here is Angels personal journey of growth and self-discovery." —Tor.com"Uber-talented Rowland takes a break from her Demon series to produce a wonderful story with a zombie heroine who is endearing and engaging. This unique twist on a coming-of-age story explores a young womans journey toward self-acceptance in the face of long odds. Throw in the need for brains and a nasty serial killer and presto—you have the recipe for a terrific read!" —RT Book Reviews "An intriguing mystery and a hilarious mix of the horrific and mundane aspects of zombie life open a promising new series from Rowland.... Humor and gore are balanced by surprisingly touching moments as Angel tries to turn her (un)life around." —Publishers Weekly"Rowlands delightful novel jumps genre lines with a little something for everyone—mystery, horror, humor, and even a smattering of romance. Not to be missed—all thats required is a high tolerance for gray matter. For true zombiephiles, of course, thats a no brainer." —Library Journal"Blending very mild horror, humor and mystery, I was hooked from the start. Both urban fantasy and zombie fans will enjoy this highly entertaining novel. Full of suspense, drama, and several surprising twists, this is one zombie story I couldnt get enough of." —Sci Fi Chick"Angel will make you laugh out loud, and she will also make you come close to losing your lunch. After all, these are creatures that suck down pureed brains for a pick-me-up.... Angel is a distinct character, and she has grown through the series." —Kings River Life Magazine"Equally gross and heartwarming, disgusting and riveting, My Life as a White Trash Zombie is a clever read. If you like to see a flawed heroine pull herself back up, and can handle visceral imagery, its a brilliant book. Fans of Carolyn Crane, Stacia Kane and Allison Pang will dig on this one. Big time." —Vampirebookclub.net Review Quote "Rowlands delightful novel jumps genre lines with a little something for everyone -- mystery, horror, humor, and even a smattering of romance. Not to be missed." Excerpt from Book Chapter 1 Sweat dribbled into my eyes and my ribs ached, but I stood my ground against the burly man in front of me. He flexed his hands as we slowly circled each other, his teeth bared in a sneer framed by a truly majestic beard. His hand shot out to seize my sleeve. I twisted to break his grip, but he merely shifted to grab my shoulder with his other hand. Within about two seconds he spun, slammed his butt into my hips, hoisted me up and sent me flying. I landed hard on the mat, breath whooshing out of my lungs before I remembered to slap my hand down. "No, no, Angel, the slap is part of the fall." That was my sensei, his voice laced with three months of frustration from trying to teach me the most basic aspects of jiu jitsu. "Right," I wheezed. "Got it." My brawny opponent reached down and grabbed the front of my gi, then hoisted me up to set me on my feet as easily as picking up a kitten. "Cmon," he rumbled. "Try it on me. Its all about balance." All about balance, my ass. I weighed barely a hundred pounds, and Freddie easily topped three hundred. Lips drawn back in a snarl, I seized his sleeve, grabbed his shoulder with my other hand, then spun and tried to slam my scrawny ass into his groin in an attempt to copy the move hed performed on me. "Youre not going to get him onto your back using brute strength," my sensei lectured as Freddie remained immobile. "Try a different move. Try osoto gari." I gave him a blank look, and he sighed. "Trip the Drunk Guy," he said, supplying my own nickname for the move. "Gotcha!" Why did they have to use so many weird names for things? And yes, I knew it was Japanese, a beautiful and elegant language that wasnt weird in the slightest, but I still had trouble with parts of the English language. Expecting me to remember a bunch of foreign words was asking way too much of my brain. Of course, for all I knew osoto gari actually meant Trip the Drunk Guy. I adjusted my grip, yanked on Freddies arm to try and get his weight onto one leg, then shot my own leg forward and slammed it back into his to sweep it. Like kicking a tree trunk. "Pull on the arm," sensei suggested, oh-so-helpfully. "I am," I growled, then added a belated, "sir." I continued to yank and pull and grip and kick and sweep until finally Freddie tumbled to the ground--with a perfect slap and fall--though I was pretty sure hed simply taken pity on me. Sensei probably suspected the same thing, but he looked more relieved than anything. Poor guy. It wasnt his fault that I wasnt exactly the best learner in the world. After my brilliant demonstration, it was my turn to stand back and observe humongous Freddie and normal size Chance go at it. My ego recovered slightly as I watched Chance get taken down over and over, though when he fell he slapped the mat and did shit right instead of flopping like a sack of flour the way I did. About a month ago Id snapped something in my ankle because of my horrible form, but a quick snack of brains healed the damage right up. That was one awesome thing about being a zombie. As long as I had my "protein shake" in my bag--with its super special ingredient--no one, especially my sensei, ever needed to know I was hurt. Sensei gave the two men some critiques on form, then turned to me. "Rollouts, Angel," he instructed, gesturing to the length of the mat. "Both sides, back and forth twice, then youre done." "Yes, sir!" I said with a cheerful grin, then proceeded to throw myself at the mat in the most spaztastic rolls any jiu jitsu dojo had ever seen. I wasnt sure, but I think sensei might have wept a little. "Cherry red face." The skin parted beneath my scalpel as I let out a soft snort of derision. "Oh, please. Give me a hard one. Carbon monoxide poisoning." Dr. Leblanc smiled from where he leaned against the counter. Fifty-something, with thinning grey-blond hair, glasses perched halfway down his nose, and more flab than muscle around his middle, he wouldnt stand out in a crowd, but I didnt care about that one little bit. The pathologist for the St. Edwards Parish Coroners Office was one of my all-time favorite people in the world, mostly because he seemed to have absolute faith that I was capable of all sorts of great things. I didnt always believe him, but I sure tried my best to live up to his expectations. Barely an hour earlier Id been spazzing my way through jiu jitsu, and one of the reasons I hadnt given up weeks ago was because, shortly after I started training, Dr. Leblanc had remarked that he would be honored if I would invite him to attend my belt ceremony once I earned my yellow belt. Honored. Before I was turned into a zombie, Id been a drug addicted high school dropout with a felony conviction who couldnt hold a job. And Dr. Leblanc couldnt have cared less about any of that. "All right," Dr. Leblanc said, "lets stick with the carbon monoxide subject." He tipped his head back as he contemplated my next challenge. "Your decedent has second and third degree burns over ninety percent of his body. No evidence of other trauma. Tox scan comes back clean. Carboxyhemoglobin level is five percent. How does that level corroborate your decedents death by fire?" I drew the scalpel down the womans abdomen to finish the Y-incision as I thought. "It doesnt," I said after a moment. "Poor dude probably got himself killed, and the murderer tried to use the fire to cover it up." "Are you sure?" He leveled a stern look at me. "Yes," I said, with mock-seriousness. "Well, not about the murder part," I amended, "but about the dead-before-the-fire-started part. With only five percent on the . . ." I faltered. I knew what the damn test measured, but I had a hell of a time spouting off the word. "With a carboxyhemidoodamajigger level of only five percent, theres no way he was alive when the fire started, otherwise itd be way higher from breathing carbon monoxide." The hamster raced on its wheel in my head. "Could be he died of a heart attack and dropped a cigarette onto a pile of newspapers. Five percent would be pretty normal in a smoker." I shrugged. "Murder or accident, dude didnt die from the fire or its smoke." His smile returned. "I should probably say Im impressed, but the truth is, Im not." "Huh?" "To be impressed Id have to be surprised by how well youve absorbed the material," he said. "And Im not surprised at all." Flushing with pleasure, I returned my attention to the body and finished separating skin and flesh from ribs. "I still have a long way to go." I set the scalpel aside and picked up the big pruning shears--the same kind I used to snip branches at my house. Not that I actually did much in the way of yard maintenance besides shoving a lawnmower around every few weeks. "But every piece of knowledge is one more step down that long path," he replied. He watched me snip through ribs to remove the triangle-shaped section, then pushed off the counter to step forward and peer into the chest cavity. "And one day you will look at that long path and find only a few steps left." "Keep being so wise, and Im going to start calling you Most Honorable Master Leblanc," I teased as I wiped down the shears. "Youd look awesome with a long white beard and moustache to twirl." He laughed. "I suppose I do sound a bit pompous." "Nah, its cool," I said with a grin. "Just dont ask me to punch through boards or anything." "I can promise you thats not likely to happen," he replied, then picked up a scalpel and began his examination of the throat, chest, and abdomen. Funny thing was that I had punched through boards before--not all that long ago, in fact. A flash flood had washed my house away this past summer, and with my dad and me trapped in the attic, Id punched and kicked my way through the plywood and tar paper and shingles to give us a way out. Nobody knew about that, though, except my dad. It wasnt the sort of thing any normal person could do, and especially not one like me--barely a hundred pounds of skinny bitch who sure as hell didnt look tough enough to break a toothpick, much less rip through a roof. Then again, I wasnt normal. Not one bit. I moved to the end of the table and began work on the young womans head. Mid-twenties, pretty in a girl-next-door sort of way. Sarah Lynn Harper. The name didnt ring a bell, but I couldnt shake the nagging feeling Id seen her before, when she was alive. Scalpel in hand, I made a slice from ear to ear on top of her head, then peeled the scalp back to expose her skull. Trading scalpel for bone saw, I cut a neat circle all the way around, like a bowl cut gone wrong, then took a chisel-like tool called a skullcracker, shoved it into the groove and twisted. The bone gave a satisfying crack, followed by a wet sllrrkk sound as I pulled the top of the skull off to expose the pink and grey convolutions of the brain. The weird and gross music of the morgue, I thought with amusement, then took a deep breath and inhaled. The lovely scent of that brain filled me, but I resisted the urge to grab a handful and stuff it into my mouth. I wasnt all that hungry, but yummm, fresh brains. Id chow down later when there werent witnesses to how very not normal I was. My desire to munch on brain matter wasnt because I was crazy. No doubt there were people whod argue that I had a mental twitch or three, but that was beside the point. About a year ago I woke up in the ER with memories of horrible injuries yet not a scratch on me. I soon discovered that an anonymous benefactor had arranged for me to get a job with the Coroners Office, and Id been harvesting brains out of body ba Details ISBN0756408229 Author Diana Rowland Short Title HOW THE WHITE TRASH ZOMBIE GOT Language English ISBN-10 0756408229 ISBN-13 9780756408220 Media Book Birth 1966 DEWEY 813.6 Series White Trash Zombie Year 2014 Publication Date 2014-07-01 Series Number 4 Place of Publication Akure Country of Publication Nigeria Pages 336 Publisher Baal Hamon Publishers Format Paperback Imprint Baal Hamon Publishers Audience General We've got this At The Nile, if you're looking for it, we've got it. With fast shipping, low prices, friendly service and well over a million items - you're bound to find what you want, at a price you'll love! TheNile_Item_ID:140105898;

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