The first question was not about the source of the sex zombies. It was not about reassuring potential clients that innocent living girls were not being abducted and transformed into zombies for sexual purposes. It was not about reassuring husbands and fathers that their loved ones would not be remade into someone else’s fantasy.
Potential follow-up piece to the article: Men, are you protecting your ladies from all the aftershocks of the zombie threat?
The padded floor whispers under my bare feet as I retreat to the condom bucket in the far corner.
The loudspeaker says, “Their eyesight is poor. You may want to make some noise to attract her attention.”
The girl looks upward towards the sound. She waves her arms, catching air. Every one of her fingernails has been removed. I see her naked reflection in the two-way mirror of the observation window, and despite my disgust at this exploitation of the undead, I can’t help but admire the curve of her dark back.
The first question was not about safety. Later questions and answers detailed the precautions taken to prevent the spread of the zombie contagion—the medical supervision, the careful cleaning after each use, the innovative solutions to prevent bites and scratches.
Except for the sunglasses and mouth guard, the girl shuffling towards me is completely naked. Her legs lack cellulite, her waist lacks rolls, and her breasts are perfect, the size of Florida oranges with round, purple nipples like eraser tips pointing in my direction, a little larger than the first breasts I ever felt and a little smaller than my wife’s. Between her legs, her thick, dark patch has been shaped into the form of a star.
No, the first few questions and answers on that info ad read:
Are there visible signs of their death? Holes, teeth marks, etc. that would make them unattractive?
Only the most eye-pleasing, least damaged zombie victims are used at Anchor Playhouse. You will not notice any physical damage from their cause of infection.
The scent of roses fills my nose as the dark-skinned zombie reaches towards my neck. Raspy moans escape through her mouth guard. The moans like my wife makes when I sneak out of bed in the morning to read the paper.
Is it true their skin is grey?
Our girls are kept in top condition. Our patented intravenous solution provides the necessary vitamins and nutrients to keep the skin looking lifelike long after it has become undead. However, if grey skin is your thing, your desires can be
easily accommodated.
I move around the raised rectangle, and the coffee-colored zombie girl reaches out like she’s searching for a doorknob in a dark room. I hear the sticky sound of her oiled feet sliding along the floor.
A bell rings, the door to the left opens, and two more zombie girls enter. Both have pointy breasts. One of them, a blonde about four feet tall with an attractive athletic build, shares the mouth guard and sunglasses look. The other wears a giant mouse head with cartoon eyes, like a mascot mask or character at Disneyland. Her entire body has been painted a brownish red, and she drags a long tail. I move around the raised platform for a better view. The tail is attached above her large jiggling ass and swishes back and forth as she walks. The short one shuffles twice as fast to keep pace.
I wish I paid extra for a spy watch with video.
The voice from above announces, “Welcome to the Maximum Variety part of your package. The first girl we send in is usually as close to her state of change as possible. But now it’s time to experience the miracles of science.”
After the appearance questions and before the safety questions in the pamphlet my editor showed me, there read what might make another good follow-up article to the straightforward exposé:
Why come to the Anchor Playhouse when there are so many other brothel options available with living girls?
The first zombie girl released reaches for my arm, and I raise it away. Above me I see three naked zombies reaching
towards my fleeing self and the fingers on my hand outstretched to their reflection.
“Five more? Your call, champ,” the loudspeaker says.
“Whoops,” I say and yank down my hand.
The bell rings, and the door to the left opens, revealing a brunette at least six feet tall with long, droopy breasts like socks on a clothesline. She shuffles in beside a girl with short blue hair and her entire body painted in hippie flower pastel designs. Yellow suns circle her sharp nipples. A black girl with a shaved head and covered in tribal tattoos everywhere except on her plum-sized breasts follows. The door shuts as two more stagger in, a pale-skinned girl with red hairs covering her long, freckled legs like a pair of pants and breasts like two large loaves of bread and a completely painted lavender-colored child.
Maximum Variety, Maximum Amount is breaking my heart. None of the pamphlets mentioned a child option. The apple vinegar taste of vomit collects in the back of my throat.
“You better get to work if you want to get in any of these lovely ladies,” the loudspeaker suggests, “or are you waiting for the suffocating frottage action as these honeys cover and love you with the blanket of affection you so rightly deserve?”
Three naked zombies fumble over each other near one of the red dispensers on the wall. The child shuffles alone, pawing one of the raised shapes. The giraffe, the hair pants, the hippie, and the mouse stumble towards me as I slip across the drain grate.
I run around a raised oval. The gathering mass of naked, oiled undead follows as I yell, “Where were these girls infected?”
The bell rings, the door to the left opens, and two more girls enter. The newcomers are bald everywhere and wear angel wings on their backs. Their outstretched hands display peacock feather gloves, making their fingers seem to stretch out twice the length of their shapely legs. Except for the mouse and myself, everyone in here is wearing a pair of sunglasses and a matching mouth guard. When they get close, I can see liquid collecting under their chins.
Note for the article: Zombies drool.
The loudspeaker says, “The first touch can be a little shocking, but come on! Make your move! You’re spending good money to experience the kind of free-for-all orgy that no girlfriend or wife will ever willingly give. Perhaps some mood music will help.”
And adding to the overwhelming smell of rose oil and the constant noise of sliding footsteps, moans, and air conditioner whir, a soulful rendition of Gershwin’s “Summertime” blends with the increasingly aggressive suggestions from the loudspeaker.
The tall one grabs my wrist. Its finger catches on my watch and tears with a squelching sound as I lunge onto a square to escape.
“There goes your deposit,” the loudspeaker announces.
I shake my arm and fling the finger across the room. My watch flies off and slides along the floor, landing near the drain grate beside the feet of a group of the oiled and naked undead. I dive in. My fingers slip past cold, slimy ankles and the rough steel of the grate before grasping onto my watchband. A few more inches and my recordings would have fallen into the drain.
Before I can rise, cool, oiled, and soft skulls press against my neck and back. Weak fingers pull at my arms, my legs, my hair, and my ears. The sound of moaning drowns out the music. Flesh of different textures and firmness slides across my torso as I twist and turn, trying to break free. Slimy hands grip my dick. Hair tickles my exposed skin. With a forceful thrust, I shove the naked, slippery undead off my chest and pull myself from their clutching fingernail-less hands.
I climb on top of the oval, and their reaching hands leave oily smears near my feet.
“Seriously?” the speaker says. “Most men love that squished-under-tits-and-cooch feeling.”
I raise both hands to signify I want out and recoil as a loud screech fills the room. The piercing wail disorients the girls, who stumble and flail in every direction.
“Was that feedback?” the loudspeaker asks. “Are you wearing a wire?”
The bell rings, the door to the left opens, and four more zombies enter.
The voice says, “A
re you a cop?”
The bell rings, the door to the left opens, and six more zombies enter.
Around my ankles, oiled hands clutch for a hold. The squeezing scent of roses disorients my thoughts. A variety of breasts, a pair for every fruit in the produce section, taunts me with the possibility of kicking each one open.
Hopping on one foot to evade their reach, I shout, “I’m not a cop! That wasn’t me!”
The loudspeaker says, “You want to play undercover hero, we’ll help put you under.”
The laughter of the second doctor fills the playroom.
One of the hands reaching for my ankle is missing a finger. My microphone watch is covered in oil. The bell rings, the door to the left opens, and eight more zombies enter. In a moment, they’ll be able to climb over one another and onto the raised oval.
“You’re making a mistake,” I say. “I’m no cop! I want to fuck a zombie!”
Profuse sweat begins to rinse the liquid mix of rose oil and zombie drool from my glistening limbs and chest.
The bell rings, the door to the left opens, and before I can count how many zombies enter, three hands seize my leg and pull me into the mass of the naked living dead.
“Here’s your chance to prove it, officer,” the loudspeaker says.
I lose the reflection of the window under crowding wet chins. Everything is dark. It’s difficult to breathe. I struggle against the pressing puzzle of zombie breasts, legs, and thighs. Against my bare skin, slippery nipples and the hard plastic of the mouth guards become indistinguishable from the increasing weight of the pressing undead.
Note for the article: There is no oxygen to be found under a pile of over twenty slippery naked zombies.
Also: Zombies taste like burnt fried potatoes.
I pray my editor is smart enough to drop the story. I pray there is enough of me for my wife to identify wherever they drop my body. I pray that when this place is exposed my name is remembered as the brave soul who sought to uncover truth for the betterment of mankind.
Success requires sacrifice.
I’m crushed, dizzy, and drowning when a surprisingly firm and warm hand seizes my arm and yanks me towards the light. Through the roar of the moans, a female voice says, “Outside the gold door is another long hallway where several doctors will easily catch and kill you if that watch really is a wire. Are you actually a cop?”
As I emerge from the pile of crushing, naked, oiled zombies, my rescuer stands over me wearing a pair of movie star sunglasses and a mouth guard. She’s the four-foot athletic blonde who came out with the mouse.
“Help me,” I say, grasping her arms. My grip slips as the naked undead tug at my legs.
The blonde pulls me up and pushes her mouth guard into my neck. She says, “I’m undercover to expose this blight on humanity. You won’t believe the award-winning story I’ve got.”
Note for the article: Even heavily rose-scented air is
refreshing after emerging from a near flesh drowning.
I smile at my salvation and say, “Your name wouldn’t
happen to be Nellie, would it?”
She lunges at my neck. “Don’t be an idiot. Through the door the girls come through are cages of zombies, most of which are now in the room. If we can make it through, there’s a vent that leads out to where I parked my van. It’s too high for me to reach alone, but with your help we can get out of here. And with your captured audio, I’ll have credibility for my exposé.”
She says, “Until then, treat me like I’m a zombie, you know, either push and run or give me a slight spanking, but don’t get too far ahead until we’re close enough to the door to make our escape. Then you can call your backup and I can call my editor.”
I nod and toss her over the mass of undead so she lands on the rectangle near the slope. Sunglasses litter the floor near where I was rescued. The zombies stare as I jump over their outstretched oiled arms. Their dead glassy eyes seemingly imploring me to write about this injustice, expose this horror, get this award-winning story, and be the hero whose journalistic courage saves all the innocent women of the world from this outrageous fate.
The bell rings, the door to the left opens, and five more zombies enter. In the reflection of the observation window, the entire room is filled with naked and oiled zombie women, swirling around the geometric shapes.
The blonde and I stand alone on the rectangle island at the edge of the playroom. She lurches toward me, acting the part, her hands outstretched. I hold her head back and notice she’s missing all her fingernails.
“Hey, pig, you got the goods. Can you use them?” the loudspeaker says. “I see you’re finally cocked and loaded, so to speak.”
The bell rings, the door to the left opens, and the blonde says, “Now may be our only chance before they realize we’re faking and the door shuts. Hop over the crowd, and run through that door.”
She starts her move, and I grab her wrist.
“Are you insane? I can only save your life once.”
Holding her struggling arm, I feign a cough and pull my watch’s memory card out with my teeth and toss the watch into the grate. It slides between a crack and disappears into the drain.
“I’m not so sure,” I say, twisting her around and pushing down her head so her butt, like two small watermelons, faces me.
“What are you doing?” she says. “Stop!”
“I think there’s another way for me to get out of here,” I say.
I hold the memory card under my tongue. Her moans are louder than the others.
“That’s my guy,” says the loudspeaker. Laughter echoes through the room. “Force it! No rubbers! No lube! Like a
true man!”
The loudspeaker says, “Sometimes a guy just needs a little adrenaline rush to get his priorities straight. Next time don’t wear a damn watch in the playroom.”
Her sand-colored hair violently brushes the padded top of the elevated rectangle as several strong men in doctor’s coats come through the door on the right with large net poles and begin ushering some of the mass of naked, oiled undead out of the playroom. She tries and fails to scratch me. Tears slip past her sunglasses to splatter on the surface as she whispers something I cannot hear over the moans.
Outside, I know I’ll never buy my wife roses again.
Biographies
Daniel W. Broallt graduated from Southern Methodist University with a BA in creative writing in 2001. After graduation, he pursued a series of short-term job adventures, including AmeriCorps and Peace Corps. He currently lives with his wife in a residence hall near Washington, D.C., and assists college students in making wise life choices.
Keith Buie lives in Cleveland, Ohio. His work has appeared in Eleven Eleven, The MacGuffin, Natural Bridge, Quiddity International Literary Journal, Rio Grande Review, Willard & Maple, and Metal Scratches. Keith recently finished his first novel, and he is represented by Elizabeth Winick Rubinstein of McIntosh & Otis, Inc. Literary Agency. Keith is currently working on his second novel.
Chris Lewis Carter has been featured in over two dozen publications from high school textbooks to award-winning magazines and podcasts, including Nelson Literacy 8, Word Riot, Solarcide, Cast of Wonders, Niteblade, and Pseudopod. He is a member of Kontrabida, an independent video game studio, and the creator of Camp Myth, a young adult book series with a supplementary tabletop role-playing game. Find out more at www.chrislewiscarter.com.
Michael De Vito, Jr. began writing while attending the University of Maryland as a US Marine sergeant stationed in Okinawa, Japan. Finding an affinity for the recitation of poetry and short stories, he helped found the Eat Write Cafe/Traveling Poets’ Society, where service members and civilians congregated weekly for spoken word expressions of original and classic works. Following eleven years on the Asian island, he moved back to his hometown of Staten Island, New York, and started working with a nonprofit foundation serving at-risk NYC high school students. Today he serves as program director for his borough office a
nd is completing his certification to teach English in NYC public schools. Michael resides in Staten Island with his wife and daughter. He has penned dozens of poems and several short stories. This is his first published work.
Born in Croydon, South London, Terence James Eeles is an ’80s child, underdog appreciator, library slut, and ex-window monkey. He has worked mostly in retail purgatory for his sins. In 2011 he was commended and short-listed in the Manchester Fiction and Bridport Short Story Prizes for his subversive, lyrical, and motif-driven fiction and in 2012 completed his MA in creative writing at Birkbeck, University of London. His piece “The Trojan Horse Mixtape” is the opening story in issue 9 of The Mechanics’ Institute Review. He is currently developing several novel-in-stories collections (including a music festival coming-of-age disaster and a neo-noirmance), as well as drafting “Lemming” into a longer body of work. “Like” his author page www.facebook.com/terence.james.eeles for fiction updates.
Matt Egan is thirty-one and lives near Cambridge, England.
Jason M. Fylan is a college instructor in English and speech communications who resides in Oxford, Michigan, with his wife, Amanda. He earned his bachelor of arts in English at Siena Heights University and master of arts in English/literature at the University of Dayton. He is currently working on several writing projects, including short stories, novels, and screenplays.
Amanda Gowin lives in the foothills of Appalachia with her husband and son. She is currently completing her first novel, Boxing Day. Her first collection, Radium Girls (Thunderdome Press), is now available. She was guest fiction editor for the Spring 2013 issue of Menacing Hedge, did a run of unusual author interviews at Curiouser and Curiouser, and coedited the Cipher Sisters anthology from Thunderdome Press. Find her at lookatmissohio.wordpress.com. She has always written and always will.
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