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What really sucked ass was that this was gonna be his last one. He was still short what he needed, but Bunk could kiss L.J.’s black ass—only place he wanted to be was in his crib with his custom Uzis and the police lock on the fuckin’ door.

Instead, this white detective was bringin’ him in on a shit misdemeanor when there were zombies and shit all over the city.

Crazy as the streets had been getting, it wasn’t nothing compared to what the cop house looked like. L.J.’s cousin Rondell used to talk about the crazy-ass shit that’d go down in cop houses in New York, but that sorta shit didn’t happen in Raccoon.

Until today. Cops all over the fuckin’ place, running around, shouting at each other, yelling on the phone. L.J. couldn’t make out a single word anyone was saying—just a big-ass wall of noise.

“Come on,” L.J. was saying to the detective who was dragging him in. “You think anybody gives a shit about my narrow black ass right now? Look around!”

The detective just said the same thing he’d been saying since he finished reading L.J. his rights back on Polk Avenue: “Shut up.” When they got to Sergeant Quinn’s desk, the detective said, “Book him on a three-fourteen.”

“You must be outta your minds! Look at me—I’m a businessman!”

L.J. looked around the cop house. He saw two uniforms—a cracker-ass white boy named Duhamel and his partner, a candy-ass nigger named Cooper—bringing in a big guy who looked whiter than milk.

He had the same dead eyes Dwayne had.

“Now, lookie there at that trippin’ Herman Munster motherfucker. That’s your problem.”

Duhamel and Cooper were having a bitch of a time keeping ol’ Herman subdued. Duhamel yelled to the sergeant, “Give us a hand over here! This guy’s insane!”

Quinn walked around to the other side of his desk and moved L.J. toward the holding bench.

“Jesus!”

L.J. turned around—that was Cooper, who was now holding his arm and grimacing like he was in some deep pain.

“He bit me!” Cooper was yelling. “Son of a bitch bit me!”

Duhamel, like a typical cracker-ass white boy, started beating on Herman with his nightstick. Fuckin’ cops always went for the fuckin’ stick when things didn’t go their way.

Quinn cuffed L.J. to the bench, then ran across to help out Duhamel and Cooper.

Herman was taking a mad beating, but it wasn’t doing shit. He just fucking stood there.

L.J. wasn’t liking this at all.

“Yo! You can’t just leave me here, Quinn! You gotta give me some hardware, man!”

Quinn ignored him, and whipped out his own stick to use on Herman.

Shaking his head, L.J. turned around to see who else was stuck on the bench.

There was just one woman—dressed like a ho. Probably was a ho. Shit, if they was bustin’ L.J.’s ass, they were probably sweepin’ the hos on Harbor Street, too. End of the month, Bunk wasn’t the only one wanting the books clean. Cops had to answer to assholes, too—fucking quotas, so they picked on legit businesspeople like L.J. and honest hos like—

Shit, L.J. knew this one. He couldn’t see her face, ’cause her head was down, practically sunk into her tits. And there was plenty of room down there, too, which was how L.J. actually recognized her.

“Rashonda? Goddamn, is that you, girl?”

But Rashonda didn’t say shit. Was like she fell asleep or some shit.

With his free arm, L.J. nudged her in the ribs. At least he had some company.

“Now, don’t be sayin’ you don’t remember me.”

She looked up.

Only then did L.J. see that her shoulder was bleeding. Looked like somebody’d bit her.

And her eyes were as dead as Dwayne’s and Herman’s, and all the other zombie-ass motherfuckers he’d been seeing all day.

“Goddamn, girl, who you been fuckin’?”

Then her mouth opened a whole lot wider than any mouth had any fucking right to. Rashonda’s teeth were all black—and trying to bite L.J.

“Shit!”

Seven

They told Jill Valentine she was insane.

They told her she was rumormongering. That what she was telling everyone was truth was, in fact, in the realm of video games and action movies, not real life. That she was seeing things,