My Zombie Honeymoon: Love in the Age of Zombies Book One (24 page)

I made him drink some water. Then I put him to bed. He was pretty quiet by then. I went back and closed the trap door. I went into the bathroom and cleaned myself up. I hate puking, but even more, I hate someone puking on me. When I was finished I checked on him—he was passed out. Or sleeping. Whatever. I figured he was going to wake up with a bad hangover. He deserved it. The dope.

I went into the living room. I started going through the CDs. He was right about there being love notes on cases from Wayne. I hadn’t thought about them in a long time. I gathered the notes and cases together and sat there reading them and thinking about Wayne. About how things ended. I cried some. I guess my heart never completely healed either. Then I put it all in a box. I was sorry Kevin saw them. I was also sorry I read them. They just made me feel bad. I don’t love Wayne anymore. It’s ancient history. I love Kevin. But Wayne was important to me for a while and thinking about it filled me with regret. When somebody you love hurts you it shouldn’t cancel out all the good times you had and the memories you made with them.

I took a deep breath and made myself move. I took care of chores. I had to harvest the lettuce. I checked the water pH. I finally got a cup of coffee. Kevin doesn’t make coffee as good as me. It’s too weak. It was also a few hours old. I add a pinch of salt to the grounds before brewing. I checked again on Kevin. He was still asleep. His breathing was regular and deep. I went upstairs and looked out the window. A few zombies had shown up since we shot a bunch of them. They barely move in this cold weather. But they move a little now and then and sometimes slowly open their mouth and make that rasping sound I’ve come to hate.

It was a gray day. Kevin told me the solar panels don’t work very well on overcast days. He said we need to limit how much power we use. Looking out the window made me very sad. I was sad for all the people I knew and loved who are gone. My parents. My friends. Musicians and writers I liked. Acquaintances. Even Wayne. He may have treated me bad at the end, but I used to love him and because of him I learned a lot about myself. For a while he was important to me. I feel like I should honor the memory of the people who are gone.

Then I started thinking about Kevin. Despite what happened today, he’s been very good to me. He always tells me the truth, even if I might not like it. He takes care of me. He probably saved me from death. He’s funny and smart and talented. Without his planning, I would have no food to eat or place to stay and I’d probably be out there walking with the rest of them.

I realized how much I love him, not because of what he can give me, but because of how he makes me feel about myself. Around him I don’t feel fat. I don’t feel I have anything to prove. He makes me feel like I really am the kind of woman I see in his eyes. I’ve started realizing that I
am
the woman I see in his eyes. It’s not that he sees me unrealistically, it’s that I’ve seen myself unrealistically. He looks at me like I’m beautiful and sexy and that makes me think maybe I am beautiful and sexy. Wayne overlooked my weight. He was okay with it. Kevin embraces it as a part of me he loves. He said he loves me. Even if he was drunk when he said it, I think he does love me.

I never want him to feel bad because of me. I want to make him feel as good as he makes me feel. I was still upset with him but part of me wanted to do something nice for him to show him I love him. Something to bring him back to me. I double-checked the zombies and when I knew it was safe I went to my house. I got some blouses I thought he’d like, low cut ones that showed some cleavage. Most of them I never had the nerve to wear in public, even though they were dressy. I picked out some of my prettiest bras. Then I picked out some lingerie I bought but never wear. I put the blouses inside a box, and the lingerie inside a smaller box. There’s not much to the lingerie so the box was pretty small. I doubt Kevin will notice the box. That’s how small it is.

I even grabbed a pretty dress, one with a plunging neckline. I know how much Kevin enjoys my cleavage. I’ve seen him staring at my boobs often enough. I also grabbed a couple of old photo albums. Then I went back home and went downstairs. Kevin was still sleeping. I was going through my photo album when I heard Kevin. He called my name. I went into the bedroom. He was breathing very fast and had a strange look on his face. He asked me to come get on the bed. We lay there side by side. He started telling me how sorry he was we had a fight and he got jealous. He couldn’t lie still. He was breathing fast and crying again. He was having a panic attack. He tried to tell me his thoughts but they didn’t make sense. I held him and kept telling him it was okay. He kept apologizing and crying. He said he couldn’t stop his thoughts and felt like he was going crazy. He said he was scared and didn’t want to lose me. I thought that was very silly of him. What would I do, walk out on him? Go back to my house and starve or freeze?

His panic attack lasted about forty minutes. He was a mess. He finally calmed down. After I gave him a Xanax. He was lying face down. His head was in his pillow. He put his arm across my chest. He started feeling my breasts. I really didn’t feel like having sex but thought it might be good for him. But when we tried to, he couldn’t get hard enough. I think it was all the booze, or maybe the Xanax, or maybe it was everything. I could tell he felt bad about that. Eventually he fell asleep.

I went out and looked at old photos again. Most were photos of my family. Some had Wayne in them. I removed those. I took them upstairs along with the cases and notes and put them with the trash in the dishwasher. The photos made me sad. All those faces, smiling and young. Now probably all but me are dead. Or worse. All of my former life in the photos is gone. The love, the friendship, the places. I can’t even go visit the pre-zombie parts of my life. Some of those times were wonderful. Now not so much. But I do have Kevin, even if he was all whacked out today. I know it’s a dangerous way to think, but he wouldn’t have gotten so upset if he didn’t love me. In some ways, I am all he has and he is all I have, except for my memories. Kevin makes me laugh. My memories don’t.

It’s evening, about ten hours after all that stuff happened. I’ve been drinking a lot of water and had a small salad—not much, as I have a terrible headache, which is no surprise. Michelle offered me some ibuprofen, but I said no. I feel like I’ve earned the headache. I don’t recall being so drunk or hung-over since before Tammy died. When she was first diagnosed I freaked out and got stinking drunk one night.

I haven’t read what Michelle wrote, and decided I don’t need to. I don’t really want to know what I said or did, because I know none of it was nice and none of it was pretty.

I do know she came looking for me. She didn’t have to. And she took care of me when I got sick and when I was having my panic attack.

The panic attack was bizarre. I’ve never had a panic attack before, and hope I never have another one. I couldn’t control my thoughts or my emotions. I felt out of control, and I don’t like being out of control. I couldn’t breathe. My heart was pounding. I couldn’t stop crying.

The strangest part was the great divide between my rational thoughts and my feelings. My feelings were of anger, jealousy, and fear. I know it makes no sense, but I was emotionally convinced she was still in love with Wayne. I even convinced myself that when we’re in bed, she’s thinking of him. I was convinced she had betrayed me. How absurd.

My rational side told me those feelings were crazy. Wayne is most assuredly dead or a zombie. The idea of feeling threatened by him—it’s absolutely ludicrous. But no matter how much I tried to talk myself out of those feelings, they wouldn’t go away.

I felt sure it was only a matter of time before she left me. Having no place to go and no one to go to didn’t matter. My feelings were completely irrational and I was off my rocker. The odd thing is, I still have some of those feelings. Even though I know they’re crazy, I still feel . . . I don’t know, threatened or at risk or like I can’t compete with this dead guy who broke her heart a long time ago. Years ago.

I guess what it boils down to is this: I love Michelle. There, I said it. Or wrote it. I’ve never told her, but I have to admit it’s true. That makes me vulnerable. For the first time in a decade, I have strong feelings for a woman. I didn’t intend on it happening. I didn’t try to make it happen. I don’t even know when it
started
happening. But it’s true; I’m in love with Michelle. And yet I can’t bring myself to tell her. I know I should. But even the idea makes my palms get sweaty. Losing Jason and then Tammy, the two people I loved more than anyone, makes me so damned scared I can barely admit it to myself. To love someone is to set yourself up for heartache. It gives them enormous power to hurt you, to hurt you in a way from which you may never recover. Sometimes people quit loving you. Sometimes love isn’t enough to make it work. Sometimes they leave or are taken from you. Sometimes—which I’m just now learning—your love can make you literally crazy, it can start a chain reaction which concludes with delusion and betrayal.

Michelle put some quiet music on and we sat side by side on the sofa reading. Or at least she did. I don’t know if I even turned the page of my book. I pretended to read, but I was really thinking things over, and was appreciating how it felt to be sitting next to the woman I loved. I held her hand—I craved her touch. As the evening wore on, Michelle announced she was going to bed.

I asked her if she was okay with me sleeping with her. She acted surprised I’d even ask and said yes, of course I could. So after she got in bed, I lay down with her for a while. I wasn’t sleepy, though, so I lay on top of the covers. We talked for a while, and at one point we were actually laughing out loud about something silly.

Somehow we got to talking about weird fetishes, and I wondered out loud why nobody has an armpit fetish. Lots of guys have an ass fetish, or a mouth or boob fetish, but no one ever seems interested in armpit sex. We both laughed, and Michelle surprised me by saying some people
do
have an armpit fetish, and it’s called mashlagnia or something like that, and having sex with an armpit is called axillism. I asked her how in the world she knew so much about it and she said, “Believe me, you don’t want to know. But you know the brand of deodorant called
Secret
?

“Sure.
Strong enough for a man but made for a woman.
”

“What’s that mean?”

“It was an old ad slogan back in the day.”

“Well, there’s a reason why I quit using the Secret scent called
Body Splash
. Having
Body Splash
in my armpit brought to mind an experience best forgotten.” We laughed about that, but I had to try not to picture it happening. Her and another guy. I handled it. It felt so good to lie there with my arm around her, laughing and talking. In a little while she fell asleep. I feel like I dodged a bullet. I was a crazy asshole, and yet there she lay, sleeping with forgiveness in her heart for me.

After she fell asleep, I poured myself some bourbon and quietly went upstairs. It was probably around 11:30 and I didn’t have much time before all the plant lights clicked off, so I had to hurry. I spent some time in the living room writing Tammy a letter, then went up to the bedroom. I could smell my vomit on the rug and in the bathroom. That grossed me out, but I knew it didn’t really matter.

I crept into the bedroom and felt my way to the dresser. I reached inside and took out a small box I keep there. I don’t know why I kept it, as I never thought I’d use it, but there it was. I felt like the time to use it was approaching. I also found a small Petoskey stone I’d taken the time to polish. I always wanted to have it set as a pendant, like Lake Menekaunee friends wore. It’s pretty enough—the clarity is great, and I polished it to a gleam. I used to carry it around in my pocket. After holding it in my hand and rubbing it with my thumb for a minute, I slipped it into my pocket. For just a moment I wondered if there were any zombies wearing Petoskey pendants. It was an unpleasant thought. Maybe Petoskey stones bring good luck; maybe they ward off evil. Maybe I should circle my house with them.

I went back down to the first floor and peeked outside. I couldn’t really see much—it was very dark with no moon or stars. I stood there, holding the box in my hand, feeling the weight of my circumstance. Outside were zombies. Downstairs was Michelle, sleeping after a hard day dealing with a crazy man. As I stood there in the darkness, I felt the full weight of our situation. We have no idea if there are other people alive in Ann Arbor. We have no idea how many survivors there are, and how many of them have turned malicious like those three guys. Are there any good people left? How are they surviving? Are there any groups of people who have banded together? This time of year, how are any survivors staying warm and what do they eat?

With a dawning awareness I realized we may have an important role among survivors. I know how to grow hydroponic food and a regular garden during the summer. Michelle has nursing experience and some medical supplies. Hell, if nothing else, I not only have booze in storage but brewing experience. If push comes to shove I know how to distill liquor and have the equipment to do it. And experience growing medicinal marijuana.

I stuck the box in my pocket and went downstairs. Michelle was still sleeping, of course. I’m glad she didn’t wake up to find me gone. I lay beside her, gazing at her face in the fading light. Every part of her I saw, I loved. I loved her eyebrows. I loved her lips. I loved her ears. I loved every one of her wrinkles. I am hers, she is mine, we are what we are, with apologies to CSN.