My Zombie Honeymoon: Love in the Age of Zombies Book One (32 page)

I turned away, and on impulse looked into the cab of the truck. Besides empty beer cans littering the floor along with empty cigarette packs, the only thing usable was a roll of duct tape—which I decided to leave. There were blood smears on it.

We headed home for a quiet night. Seeing that guy, seeing his tattoo—it rattled us both.

We decided to leave both bodies where they were. That sick bastard didn’t even deserve a zombie burial. Let the rats eat him.

February 4
th

We finally finished hauling away all the bodies. There were no major problems, although we were both glad to be done with it. We dumped them in the basement of one of the burned-out houses.

Every day after we hauled we were compelled to take a shower (I was equally compelled to shower
with
her). Handling the zombies also had an effect on my appetite. Usually, hard physical labor will make me hungry, but when it comes to hauling half-rotten bodies . . . well, let’s just say I won’t be eating any canned meat for a while. Michelle, however, seemed fine. If anything, she seems to be eating more. The nurses training she had must have eliminated her squeamishness.

She continues to act a little strange around me. And she’s moody. I know a lot of women have PMS, but I’ve never noticed it in her before. A couple of times I caught her crying, and when I asked what was wrong, she said “Everything.” I wondered if it meant she wasn’t happy with me, but an hour later she was dragging me to the bedroom, desperate to get a taste of Big Kevin. I don’t get it. Was she mourning her friends and family who are gone? Mourning the loss of our world? Or, hell, was she upset because she’s gained a few pounds? I haven’t said anything about her weight—I’m not a complete idiot
all
the time.

A few times I noticed her staring at me. Not in a loving or lustful way—hell, I
like
those stares—but in a way that made me uneasy. What’s she thinking?

PMS. Geez, what a number it does on women! I’ve known women who had it so bad, I didn’t dare go near them. What’s the difference between a zombie and a woman with PMS? You’re allowed to shoot the zombie.

I wonder why Michelle is getting it so bad now? Is it the environment, the lack of sunlight? Seasonal Affective Disorder? Some missing vitamin or nutrient? Is there something in the air? Or is it just the level of stress we’re under?

When she looks at her ring, she’s usually smiling, although once I caught her crying. I asked her again what was wrong, and this time she said, “My ring is so pretty and I’m so happy to be with you.” Seems an odd thing to cry about, but I never claimed to understand women. My not being able to understand her merely confirms that she is, indeed, a woman.

She had another talk with the doctor tonight. Maybe she’s having plumbing problems. Women are usually reluctant to talk about that stuff with their man, and men are usually reluctant to hear it anyhow. I can’t imagine what else it could be, unless I’ve turned into a zombie but am unaware of it. I’m not craving her thigh, as far as I know, only what’s between her thighs.

A good ribeye, on the other hand . . . that, I’m craving. Damn, I miss Knight’s. I still remember how it smelled when you walked through the door on a cold winter day—grilled steak mainly, but undertones of alcohol, baked bread and fried food. My mouth’s watering just thinking about it.

And the way the plate smelled when the server first put it down in front of me, the seared steak still slightly sizzling as the juices began to pool on the plate near the melted butter from the baked potato. Drops of condensation beginning to form on the pint glass of Founder’s.

Sigh. I need to stop with the food porn.

February 7
th

Yesterday was kind of odd, not having to haul bodies like we’ve been doing nearly every day for weeks. It was nice to just putter around the house. We actually watched a movie, too. Between scavenging, hauling bodies, taking care of the plants, cooking and cleaning up, we haven’t had as much leisure time lately.

Michelle used the down time to jump my bones a couple of times. I think her PMS has affected her libido, as she seems to want it more than ever. Not that I’m complaining. But I’ll be glad when she finally has her period and gets over her PMS! When she’s not horny, she’s moody. She’s like a pendulum, swinging from emotion to emotion. I never know what to expect.

Never trust women. I should get it tattooed on my forehead. Or chest. Or maybe a lower body part.

So today started out great. We’d had a nice day. Nothing unusual, unless you consider being in love, barricaded in a basement surrounded by zombies and growing plants under lights unusual. We’d had a nice dinner, I had some beer I’d cooled in the root cellar, Michelle had a glass or two of wine.

She didn’t know it, but I also took one of the Cialis pills. Just to see.

I was sitting on the sofa when she came and sat next to me. I put my arm around her, and she leaned over and kissed me. I kissed her back, one thing led to another, and before too long we were lying naked on the bed. She stroked me until I was hard, then said, “I’ll be right back.”

“Where are you going?” I asked.

“To get some lube.” she replied.
Lube? Since when did she need lube?

She disappeared for a minute and came back with a bottle of lube. I noticed she had latex gloves on.

“Why the gloves?” I asked as she lay back down and poured some lube onto her hands.

“Sometimes I react to the glycerin,” she said, then reached over and started stroking me again. It felt very nice. “Besides, it’s kind of kinky.”

That sounds interesting. I’ve never been into latex, but it might be a novel experience,
I thought. Little did I know.

She asked me, “Hon, what’s that Klingon Proverb they used in one of the Star Trek movies? Something about revenge?”

“’Revenge is a dish best served cold.’ It was in the second Star Trek movie,
The Wrath of Khan
. Why are you asking?”

“I don’t know, it just popped into my head. I don’t think I agree. I think revenge is a dish best served hot.”

“Is that right?” I asked. It was hard to concentrate on what she was saying, as her hands (both of them) felt so great stroking me. I don’t think she’d ever given me a hand job before, and I liked it! Her hands felt so warm and slippery. The latex added an interesting texture. I was wondering if the lube she used was some of the warming lube, because it started really warming up and feeling nice. But within thirty seconds, it was warmer than any warming lube I ever used. And being alone for ten years, I had plenty of time on my hands (so to speak) to try different kinds.

“What kind of lube is that?” I asked. It was starting to get a little
too
warm. “Is it some kind of warming lube? I might be having a reaction to it.”

“No, it’s just regular lube. Speaking of warming though, remember when you sliced my lettuce with the same knife you sliced hot peppers with? Wasn’t that funny?!”

“Sure, I thought it was funny.”

The lube was starting to get
too
hot.

“Well, before I came back, I cut open a hot pepper and rubbed a little on my hands.”

By now the heat was definitely on the uncomfortable side. It wasn’t horrible, but it sure wasn’t pleasant. I jumped out of bed and started fanning my penis as it bobbed up and down like a hyperactive kid on a pogo stick.

Now mind you, it wasn’t excruciating. But when I realized she was seeking revenge, I decided to overreact. Then perhaps her need for retribution would be satisfied.

“Ow! This hurts! I can’t believe you did this!!”
Fanning didn’t seem to help. I ran into the bathroom and turned on the shower, no hot water, just cold, and jumped in. I gasped as the water hit me. Michigan water in February is
very
cold.

I grabbed the soap and started washing myself—I knew my only hope was to wash off the capsaicin. The cold water helped, but I couldn’t tell if the soap was doing any good.

I could hear Michelle, the snake, laughing in the bedroom.
“You’re a horrible person! You’re not getting any for a month!!”
I yelled, hoping she couldn’t hear my smile. I kept washing with soap, rinsing, washing with soap. Lather. Rinse. Repeat. Michelle’s laughter disappeared for a minute, then she rushed in carrying a big handful of snow.

Trying to look apologetic (but her grin was counterproductive), she said, “Here, maybe this will help.” She packed the snow around my erection, which cooled the burning just a tad.

“That’s better! Get more snow
!!” I cried.
“No, forget it!”
I jumped out of the shower without drying off, dashed through the living room and up the stairs, then straight out the door and into the snow. Michelle followed me.

I think under most circumstances, I would have gone flaccid by now, but the Cialis seemed to be living up to its reputation. Sticking straight out, as I ran into the yard it wagged around like a dog’s tail, except this dog was
not
happy.

With the moon shining bright, I turned around, dropped to my knees and started shoveling snow onto my crotch. Even in the dim light, I could see how red I was. Michelle was laughing so hard she couldn’t even stand up. She fell back against the wall of the house. Pointing at my woodie, she gasped “You have a cherry dicksickle,” and collapsed in laughter.

I, however, was doing a good job of not laughing. The look of my fully-engorged bright pink cock in the pure white snow under the blue light of the moon was perhaps the most surreal thing I’ve ever seen.

Had there been zombies close by, my penis and testicles would have made a spicy meal for them. Spicy Kevin nuggets.

I continued shoveling snow onto my crotch until the burn subsided a bit. I assume my body released endorphins in response to the pain. The rest of my body was freezing—literally. It’s not a good idea to go straight from the shower into the winter air in Michigan.

I finally stood up. Michelle was still grinning like the Cheshire cat. I threw a snowball and hit her right in the forehead. She just started laughing again.

“Snowballs,” she gasped, “you have snowballs!!” and she fell down again, laughing. I marched past her and locked the door behind me. She started pounding on the door.

“Kevin, let me in! I’m cold! There are zombies out here! And coyotes! And women selling Amway!” I ignored her and marched straight downstairs.

Within minutes, the endorphins had kicked in completely. I was feeling an endorphin high chile-heads only dream about. I lay on the bed, still standing at attention, and just let the waves of bliss wash over me. I was going to give Michelle another minute before letting her back in.

Just then, she walked into the bedroom. “How the hell did you get in?” I asked.

“I have a key, remember? I hid it outside.”

Damn. I’d forgotten. She sat down on the bed. If not for the endorphins, I would have despised the grin she had.

“Feeling better?”

“It’s waning. But that was incredibly mean of you. I’ll never trust you again.”

“Revenge is a dish best served hot,” she replied, still grinning. “My stomach hurts from laughing so much!”

“I ought to throw you down on the bed and stick this inside you,” I said, grabbing myself and shaking it at her.

“There probably isn’t even any hot stuff left on it,” she said, then got a wicked gleam in her eyes. “One way to find out.”

She leaned over and engulfed me with her mouth. “Mmm, still a tad spicy,” she murmured when her mouth wasn’t full. She pulled back to admire my manhood. “Now there’s a hot pepper!” she said, “or should I say
hot pecker?!”

“I don’t care what you call it, just don’t stop!” I begged. Then her mouth gave me her full attention.

Between the endorphins, the Cialis, and the oral sex, it was the best damn orgasm I’ve ever had. I saw stars. Molecules. Universes. Gluons. I meant to ask her if my special sauce was spicier than usual, but drifted off to sleep.

February 11
th

We’ve been talking more to Doc. I think he’s lonely. Practically every night we’re on the radio with him. He likes to tell stories about his exploits as a doctor, and I think Michelle sees him as a surrogate father figure, since her own father was a doctor. She enjoys his stories and relays some of her father’s adventures.

She may be talking to someone else too. Yesterday when I went upstairs to check on the house and neighborhood, I came back earlier than I expected to and thought I heard her softly talking, but when I got downstairs I found her in the bedroom lying on the bed, reading a book—coincidentally close to the radio I’d left on the nightstand.

Am I inventing this in my head? Did I really hear her talking to someone, or was she just clearing her throat? Who could she be talking to besides Doc, and why would she hide it from me? She said she’d marry me but the way she’s acting now I’m not sure where things are going. Could it be she’s found another survivor and hasn’t told me? Is there any way in hell it could be Wayne? If it’s neither of those, why is she being secretive? There’s no reason to talk to Doc behind my back, unless she thinks there’s something wrong with me but doesn’t want me to know. Have I changed since the axe bit me? Have I turned into a zombie and don’t know it? As far as I know I’m acting normal; I eat the same food, drink the same bourbon, have the same libido. To the best of my knowledge, we’re both doing well—healthy and free of sickness.