My Zombie Honeymoon: Love in the Age of Zombies Book One (11 page)

When I glanced up, Michele was smiling at me. She’d obviously noticed my blush. Which, of course, made me blush more. I hate blushing.

“Ready when you are,” she said through her smile, arching one eyebrow.

I turned my head to hide any further blushing. “Which is the heaviest?” I asked, picking up a few to test their weight.

“Probably the inflatable mattress. It’s over thirty pounds,” she said pointing out the box. It was a queen sized mattress with a self-activating pump, the box said. Sounded comfortable. I bent at the knees and grabbed the box, straightening out as I lifted. “Ready to get the door?”

“Set the box on the counter, I want to make one more check outside,” she said, moving into the living room. I did as she suggested, waiting until she got back before I hefted the box again.

“You do that so easy!” she said, “I had to drag it across the floor! The coast is clear, but will you be able to carry it all the way?”

The box really wasn’t
that
heavy. I wondered if she was flattering me on purpose.

“Sure, no problem. I’ll let you open the gate, close it behind me, then scoot ahead and open the door to my house.”

“Sounds like a plan,” she said, grabbing what looked like an overnight bag. “Ready?”

As I nodded, she cracked open the door, took a quick look around, then opened it all the way.

“It’s show time!”

I headed out the door and toward the gate. Behind me Michelle quietly closed the door then sprinted in front of me. She opened the gate, again looking around, then opened it wide enough for me to get through.

Smart girl
, I thought,
Quiet as a mouse!

As I went through the gate, I looked toward the street. No zombies in sight. That was a relief.

Michelle closed the gate behind us, then quickly headed to my house and held the door open for me. She bolted it behind us as I headed toward the hidden trap door.

“Where’s the trap door?” she asked me. “I can’t see it!”

I put the mattress down, then walked over and placed my weight strategically on one board. It looks like the board has an uneven crack in it, but it’s actually weighted so one end lifts up if you step on it just right. When the end lifts up, you can see a ring to grab. Michelle grabbed the ring and pulled. The trapdoor opened, the wood plank ends staggered so there was no obvious seam in the floor.

“Very nice!” Michelle said. As she continued lifting the door, she said, “Why is the door so light? I expected it to be heavy!”

“It has a counter weight,” I explained, “that’s what makes it so easy to lift.”

“Sweet!” she said. We grabbed her stuff and went down the stairs where we placed them in an empty corner of the room.

When we went back upstairs, I said, “Let’s leave the trap door open. I just wanted to show you how it works.”

Michelle looked pretty awesome in the dim light with my gun sticking out of her belt. We made three more uneventful trips. After the fourth trip, there was barely anything left. “Do you want to take a last look around?” I asked.

“No, this hasn’t been my home for long,” she said, “it’s really just a house. The stuff in the house matters to me, but that’s it. I don’t have an emotional connection to the place.”

What happened next was a combination of mistakes. First, in our haste to finish, we didn’t check outside for zombies. Next, when she opened the gate for me, she glanced toward the street—but not behind the gate. As I hurried toward my house I heard Michelle scream.

I turned around and saw a zombie attacking her. It had been hidden behind the gate. It was a female zombie—or used to be a female. The clothes were soiled, and in tatters. Her blouse was nearly torn off, exposing a gaping wound in her side. One shrunken breast flopped around as she tried to grab Michelle, her desiccated nipple the color of a dark bruise. The bra hung limply around her waist.

Michelle stumbled, the gun falling out of her belt.

She had the box between her and the zombie. It went into a craze, smelling her blood I guess, and began making the loud snarling, rasping sound. It was desperately reaching out, trying to get her, snapping its teeth and clawing her.

Despite the zombie’s advanced stage of decomposition, it still had a lot of weight and strength, knocking Michelle backwards onto the ground. The box and the zombie fell with her. As they hit the ground, the box crumpled and with the zombie grabbed hold of Michelle’s hair, stretching her head and neck to bite her.

“
Kevin! Help me!!
” she shrieked. I was already in motion, having dropped my box, and was going for the gun she’d dropped. I picked it up, pointed it at the zombie and pulled the trigger. The gun went off, making a not-so-neat hole in the fence, just a few inches above Michelle’s head. Michelle’s eyes went even wider as she yelled “
Shoot IT! Shoot IT!! NOT ME!!
”

This time I fired at the zombie’s back. The impact of the bullet caused the zombie to lurch, but it continued grasping for Michelle’s neck. I aimed again, this time for the head, making sure Michelle was not behind it. I pulled the trigger, and instantly half of the zombie’s head exploded, showering Michelle in dead tissue, brains, and bits of bone. The zombie collapsed, no longer moving. Michelle pushed the zombie off, then scrambled to her feet, screaming, “
Kevin! Behind you
!!”

Turning around, I saw two zombies about fifteen feet away, stumbling toward us. They had smelled us. Or heard us. Probably both.

I shot at the first one but missed. “Kevin! Wait!” Michelle shouted. Next thing I knew she was peeling the gun from my hands, making it look easy as she shot the first zombie in the head. As the zombie fell , she shot the other one.

The sound of the shots echoed around the neighborhood, and we heard a small ensemble of rasps in response. Just then, a very tall zombie came around the corner of the house. He was wearing a t-shirt and no underwear. The zombie’s pecker was shrunken and nearly black.

“
Grab your stuff! Let’s go!!
” I shouted, picking up my box. Michelle shoved the inert zombie off her, then picked up her crumpled box, smearing herself with more zombie detritus. As she and I ran for the door, the zombie moved closer. It was only about ten feet away, with another half-dozen more a few feet behind it.

We made it through the door, slammed it closed, and bolted it. As the zombies began to pound and scrape at the door, trying to get at the fresh meat and blood they smelled (or sensed), we leaned back against the wall. We were both breathing heavily, both of us under an adrenalin rush.

“Let’s get downstairs,” I said, “maybe they’ll lose interest and wander off.”

We headed down the stairs, closing the trap door behind us. Even with the trap door closed, I could hear them pounding and scraping at the door.

Michelle looked at me with a wildly desperate look in her eyes. “Kevin,” she pleaded, “I’m covered in zombie guts! I’ve got to get cleaned up!” Her hair was matted with zombie brains. Her face and neck were splattered. In fact, she was nothing but a mess. “Ugh, it stinks!”

“Don’t worry about how you look or smell,” I said, “at least you didn’t get bit!”

“I don’t give a damn how I
look
! I have zombie guts on me, Kevin! I could get infected!!”

I hadn’t thought of that. I quickly headed toward the bathroom and started the shower.

“In here!” I shouted over my shoulder. “I have a shower!”

When I turned around, Michelle was trying to take off her blouse. I said “Wait, let me do that. Raise your arms.” I grabbed the bottom hem of her shirt and carefully pulled it up, turning it inside out in the process so all the dead tissue remained with the blouse instead of getting all over her. Examining her body (and I must admit I enjoyed this part), I couldn’t see any sign of cut, bite, or injury.

She had a lovely body, at least from the neck down. Not the fake, plastic, flat-bellied model kind of beauty, but the all-American, healthy
curvy
kind of beauty. She was voluptuous. The kind of woman who feels soft in your arms, not hard and bony. Women should feel soft.

After I peeled her blouse off, she was standing in front of me wearing only jeans and her bra. And zombie guts.

I noticed it was a pretty purple bra. Pretty, purple, and
big.
She reached back and unhooked it, turning her back to me as her breasts spilled out.

Despite everything, I could feel myself getting hard. Not having sex for ten years will do that to a guy.

“I’ll get a garbage bag for these clothes,” I said as she unbuttoned her jeans. I glanced back as I left the room and saw her pulling them down and stepping out of them, wearing only a pair of purple panties with little ribbons interwoven into the elastic. They matched the bra.

She closed the door behind her, then shouted as the room grew dark. She hadn’t realized there were no lights in the room. She opened the door a crack as I said, “I’ll get a trash bag and a lantern.”

I heard her open the shower door and get in, despite the darkness. I got a trash bag and the LED lantern, then went back into the room. Between the relative darkness and the opacity of the shower door, I could barely make out her figure in the shower. I picked up her blouse and jeans, making sure the part I touched was clean of zombie, and dropped them into the trash bag.

I thought I heard the sound of sobbing. “Hey, are you okay in there?” I asked.

“I’ll be okay. I’m just freaked out. And I stink like zombie,” she said through her tears. I remembered what I felt like when I’d had my close encounter of the zombie kind.

“Listen, you’re okay. We’re both okay. You take a nice hot shower and get yourself cleaned up. I’ll have a drink waiting for you to help calm you down,” I said, “unless you’d rather have a pharmaceutical.”

“I could really use a Xanax,” she said. “I’m shaking like a leaf! And I think I might . . .”

I heard retching sounds, and quickly left the room figuring she’d rather puke in private. At least she was in the shower and I wouldn’t have a mess to clean up.

I went back to the first aid box and rooted through it until I found the Xanax. One milligram. Not a strong dose. I shook one out of the bottle, grabbed a glass of water and went back into the bathroom. Michelle seemed to be done puking.

“Here’s some water,” I said, “and the Xanax.” She opened the door and stuck her hand out, taking the tablet and then the water. Without saying a word, she closed the door, and I vaguely saw her take the pill and drink the water. Then I guess she started scrubbing and shampooing again. I would have liked to stay and watch, but decided to use discretion and left the room.

I didn’t know what to do with the bag of soiled clothes. Eventually I took them upstairs—all the way to the second floor, where I put them in an empty closet. Maybe at some point I can burn them. I left the bra in the bathroom since it had no zombie guts on it.

Eventually I had to knock on the door and tell her she needed to get out, the hot water heater was draining the batteries. As she turned the water off, she asked me to get her bathrobe out of one of the boxes. Once I found it, I opened the door a crack and hung it on the hook mounted on the inside of the door.

I was sitting in the living room when Michelle came out of the bathroom, wearing her bathrobe. She came in and sat on the sofa.

“So . . . how are you doing?” I asked. When she looked up at me she was a bit glassy-eyed so I knew the Xanax was kicking in.

“I’m okay,” she said, “I’m trying to shake it off.”

As we sat there talking, the steamy, soapy, clean smell of the hot shower wafted into the room. I hadn’t smelled that in years. I don’t notice it when I’m in the shower. But when someone else takes a shower, sometimes I become aware of the comforting smell as it wafts over me. I found it evocative.

It reminded me of Tammy. Many times she’d be in the shower and would call for me to join her. We liked to take showers together. I wondered if Michelle was a shower-sharer.

It hit me then—I was mentally disturbed. Probably all of my family and friends were dead. Outside my house were half-rotten
creatures
who used to be living, breathing friends, neighbors, and strangers. Now they were monsters who wanted to attack me, eat me, to infect me. I was hiding out in my basement. There were no police, no law, no doctors. I had limited food, limited fuel, and limited luck. The odds were stacked against my survival.

And in the middle of this maelstrom of horror, pain, misery, and death, I was getting a hard-on, looking at a pretty woman in front of me, naked beneath her bathrobe, skin warm and flushed from a hot shower. I kept wishing the bathrobe would fall open.

Just then Michelle said, “Kevin, I think I’m going to . . .” Before she could finish, she got a strange look on her face, one of alarm and disgust, and quickly capped her hand over her mouth as she began to gag. She sat down for a minute before she removed her hand from her mouth.

“Ugh,” she said, “that smell came back into my head for a second. I scrubbed and scrubbed, but I can still smell it.”

There’s nothing quite like a beautiful, sexy woman gagging in your face to break the mood. I got a bucket from the grow room and placed it at her feet. Just in case.