Love, Lust, and Zombies

by Mitzi Szereto

  He sees me. My heart gallops and I feel dizzy as he looks right into my eyes. There are severe lines of pain etched into his handsome face. We are close now and I spot the gaping bloody wound on his left shin; I can’t help but wince. I yearn to speak to him, to learn how much he still comprehends, but then I would completely give the game away, so I keep my lips tightly shut. I try and communicate with my eyes; I attempt to show him that I am friend, not foe.

  He raises his hand and moves toward me. My stomach is in knots. His outstretched fingers curve, he wipes away my tears. It is such a momentous event that fresh tears appear immediately; his hand tries to catch them. I raise my arm and stand before him. I see his body flinch and I shake my head, hoping that he understands that I will cause him no harm. He closes his eyes as my fingers brush over his long fair eyelashes. His mouth is set in a frown; he has forgotten how to smile. I realize that we’re not so different. Human, zombie, alive, dead, or half-alive as he seems to be, we’ve all forgotten how to smile. None of us feel pleasure. Only pain.

  I step away, ever so slightly, allowing him a little time to compose himself, for whatever ounce of working brain there is left to piece together what just happened. He opens his eyes and he looks more collected than before. He starts to tug at his leather jacket, struggling to remove it. I tentatively step back toward him. I help him pull his right arm out of the sleeve. I move to his back and assist him; his jacket drops to the ground.

  He turns around to face me, in a tight black T-shirt; some blood obscures what I think is the name of a long-gone rock band emblazoned across the front. I gasp at the hint of the tight abs underneath, at the part where sleeve meets flesh as I notice his incredibly strong muscles there. I wish that I had met him before all of this. I’d have been all over that body; I’d have made sure of it. I bite my lip as he struggles to lift up his right sleeve; every extra inch of him makes me want him that bit more.

  But then I see it; I understand what he is trying to show me. He wants me to look at his tattoo. I lower my head and examine the pretty picture, a red rose in full bloom. I read the letters underneath: ALICE. I turn to face him at once. Alice. He misses Alice. A picture forms in my mind; he used to push Alice on the swings. I know his pain, and perhaps shame; it’s an all-too-familiar feeling. He couldn’t save her. I think of my sister coming down the slide. He starts to push the swing again; the torment distorts his face. He’s a few years older than me, perhaps he’s thirty or so; I expect that Alice was his daughter. Just imagining the tragedy and intensity of grief of such a tremendous loss makes me shiver; I feel cold all over. His eyes scan the ground; he dips to the ground to reclaim his jacket. He hands it to me. He knows that I am not like him, that I feel the cold, and he is trying to protect me.

  Huge sobs catch in my throat as I put it on. By remembering Alice, he is keeping a vital human part of him alive. I get ahead of myself; I have just witnessed a miracle and my arms clasp around his body, pulling him toward me. His arms linger awkwardly at his sides and I desperately want them to embrace me. I withdraw, feeling ridiculous and unhinged. His eyes are still sad, possibly apologetic. I drop my gaze to the ground, unsure of what to do next. What the hell am I doing? I remove his jacket and hand it back to him, still unable to make eye contact.

  I walk away, not worrying about my pace now; what’s the point? I sense that he is following me, which makes the situation complicated. I can’t very well lead him back to the house. I feel no threat or danger from him but the others wouldn’t understand; they would be irate just to see him. They would throw me out. It’s what they did to Miriam at the old house when she’d been followed. They discarded her, they left her out there, alone, afraid, abandoned. We all heard her screams. We moved on the next day. As I think about this, I realize that there is more humanity in my new zombie friend than in all the members of that house added together. They’ve become cold, hard and resilient. They cork their sorrow, turn it into rage and call it survival. We humans have really lost our way.

  I continue walking and wade back into the woods. I hear him following; our feet crunch on the bracken. I haven’t got a clue where I am heading. I don’t want to venture too far; it won’t be long until sunset and I certainly don’t wish to be creeping around here in the darkness. I am confident about my sense of direction during daylight but that doesn’t remotely apply to dusk.

  I stop dead. I still hear his footsteps padding behind me, but I also seem to hear another set of footsteps from somewhere ahead. I look amongst the trees but I can’t see anyone. I can definitely hear it though, the slow-paced rambling. I keep as still as I can and I turn around to face him. I beckon for him to stop but he ignores me and keeps on coming. I shake my head to try and halt him. I need quiet, I need to listen. Between the two sets of footsteps, my ears and brain are confused.

  I see pain splash across his face. I don’t know which memory of Alice has riddled his mind but this is just not the time. He mimics me, shaking his head too, telling me no. No, what? His speed picks up. He tries to talk, to use his voice but all that comes out is a howl, a yelp of panic and terror.

  And then I feel strong arms around my neck, dragging me into the trees. I snag my leg on a thick fallen branch and it hurts; my skin is burning. I try not to scream; I’m scared of alerting yet more of them. I see my new friend coming after me. His nose wrinkles, most probably at the scent of my fresh blood. For a moment I think he is lost to me. But the clouds in his eyes roll on by and clarity returns; I see it. He picks up the branch that cut my leg and he lumbers toward whoever the hell currently has me in a vise-like grip. I can’t see him as he moves out of my view but I hear him hitting at someone and I urge him to succeed or I’ll be either choked or eaten within seconds. I begin to cry as I hear the branch piercing skin. I can’t tell who is hurt until I hear a sickening splutter and the hold around my neck slackens enough for me to finally struggle free. I fall to the ground, my sobs making it difficult for me to get my breath back. I stand, but scrunch my eyes shut. I don’t want to see.

  I jump as I feel hands covering my eyes but it is a soft touch, gentle, not tight. I know that my new companion won this bloody battle and that he covers my eyes so that I don’t have to behold a disturbing scene. A gush of relief and appreciation makes me tremble. He lets go of my eyes and spins me around to face him. I feel the leather jacket adorn my shoulders again and I dare to look at him.

  A crashing wave of love rushes over me. All I can do is stare at him in awe and wonder. He takes off his T-shirt; I attempt to gulp away the intoxicating arousal. He rips the fabric into strips with his strong hands and he wraps some around my leg wound. I am astounded by his rare capacity to care, how thoughtful and focused he can be.

  I can’t help but ogle his naked upper torso and I can’t disguise the lust in my eyes. I want to touch him. My fingers reach out and lightly stroke his skin. It’s still so soft and human; the hue is a little gray but I don’t care. He is the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. His breaths come faster. I search his eyes for consent. I need to know that it’s okay for me to touch him like this. Parts of me awake that have been dormant for some time. A series of barely familiar electrical jolts fire up my body and throb between my legs.

  He mirrors me; his hand snakes up my top and rests on my midriff. He strokes me in exactly the same way as I touch him. It’s slow and sensual and I am lost in this moment; all my senses are sharper. It dawns on me that he is copying my actions, and I wonder how far I dare to go. My head pleads with me to stop but my body wants more. My body wants all of his body. Does he feel like I feel? Is he capable of desire? I would guess not but he has surprised me so many times already, how can I be sure? I feel a strong urge to test this theory.

  He takes my hand and leads me away. I’m initially crushed until I remember the gruesomeness behind us and I know that he’s right. I don’t want to see it, I’ve seen enough to last me a thousand lifetimes. We walk around the back of the park and find a footpath. I’ve never been this
way before. I hope that we don’t run into any more trouble, though I now feel considerably safer with him.

  We emerge from the woods and come out at a gate that leads to a row of houses. Birds call out overhead but otherwise it’s very quiet here. I follow him up the path of the first house and we go through the back garden. There is a trampoline and a pretty pink bike with flowers on the basket and stabilizers. As we approach the back door, he points to the right pocket of his jacket. I pull out a bunch of keys that he takes from me. He struggles with the lock so I gently nudge him aside and open the door.

  I can’t believe that we’re at his home, that he remembers where he lives, that he manages to hold on to his keys. I feel odd stepping into the kitchen. It is clean and everything seems to have an exact place. There is no sign of an intruder or tragic occurrence; I guess that whatever happened to Alice did not happen here. I ponder over how he can stand to stay here, amongst her toys and so many memories. I could never return to my family home, not ever. He is far braver than I am.

  He squeezes my hand and closes the door behind us, making sure that it is locked, and he ushers me into the lounge. I see the photograph on the wall, pride of place. Looking at it is to feel stabbed in the stomach. Before any of this craziness, he was so happy; his easy contented smile is framed for me to see. Such a gorgeous smile, beaming warmth; I mourn the loss of it. He’s hugging his daughter, Alice; she looks so much like him. They have the same color hair, the same almond-shaped eyes, the same magical smile. She only looks about four or five. He points to his tattoo, confirming this is Alice, his precious girl.

  There are other photographs dotted around the room; all except one feature Alice. In the other picture, he kisses the large expectant abdomen of an attractive, laughing, pregnant woman; there don’t seem to be any more photos of her after this. I suppose that she died having Alice. It’s so sad that I can barely take it. I grieve for them now, despite never knowing them, and I love him a little bit more.

  I nod toward the door and he lets me lead the way, even though I don’t know where I’m going. We make the ascent up the stairs and then loiter on the landing. I see a big sign: ALICE’S ROOM. I can’t face going in there. We walk past the bathroom, leaving just one more room: his bedroom.

  I face him with my hungry eyes again, needing some sort of permission. He points to the door. I hurry through; the room is plain and functional. There’s a large bed on the right, blue duvets and pillows, the usual wooden furniture, quite unremarkable. I would like to make it remarkable, no longer merely a space in which to sleep and dream haunted dreams.

  I perch on the end of his bed; my hand pats the empty space beside me. He joins me and looks at me as though he is awaiting my next instruction. I touch him again, just as I did in the woods, and I am overwhelmed by his physique. Like my own reflection, he strokes me back.

  I want to test how much, if at all, he is affected by my touch. I pull my hands away from him; it’s interesting that his remain. I shrug off his jacket and pull my top off over my head. I unhook my bra and toss it to the floor. It feels fairer now; we’re the same. His eyes move to my chest; he looks at my breasts. I can’t tell what he is thinking. I let my hands run through his hair. His hand rises to stroke my head. Every small caress is perfect. I touch his lips with my fingertips; he has such a sexy mouth, full, soft and kissable, irresistible. His fingers run around the shape of my mouth and I’m melting.

  I have a growing urge to slip one of my fingers inside his mouth but I am fearful. I saw him lose himself, albeit just momentarily, in the woods when I cut my leg. But, I tell myself, I also saw him compose himself; it is far too late now for me to start questioning trust. I’m in his house, in his bedroom; what will be, will be.

  I can’t stop myself; I need to know. I slide the tip of my finger inside. I squirm as it feels delicious, hot and wet. Straight away, his finger pops through my lips and touches my tongue. I lick and suck at it, waiting for the delectable second that he is lapping at mine. He copies and although it’s just my finger in his mouth, it is the most erotic sensation of my life. The bizarre situation more than adds to the intensity; this is a massive risk and I know it.

  I am soaking wet; I feel the telltale drip between my legs, and it seeps through the denim of my shorts. I want to forget about how insane I am being and totally surrender myself. I want to give myself to him. The nagging knowledge that he could take my life doesn’t leave me. I try to remember that he saved me and that if he chooses to take life from me, it’s probably his to take.

  I move closer; my face almost touches his. I remove my finger from his mouth and my hand cups his cheek; his stubble tickles my palm. I position his face at such an angle that our lips brush. It’s cautious and apprehensive, but my mouth finds his. I close my eyes as I start to kiss him; at first it’s openmouthed and slow, teasing. I feel like I’m on fire; my body aches, searching and hoping for more from him, worried that I won’t find it.

  At last, proof and confirmation: he kisses me back, and not like before; he isn’t copying my movements. His fingers run through my hair with urgency; he pulls me nearer and speeds up our kiss. It’s fast and animalistic and it’s all his doing; he is in control and sets the pace. His tongue darts in and I am rapidly losing my mind, I am so turned on.

  I feel greedy. I want everything at the same time. My head is swimming. Why hadn’t I found him before all the madness? My hand touches his chest, right where I want him to touch me. I don’t feel patient so I drag his head down to touch my excited nipples. His hardness pokes at my leg; he’s erect. I can’t help it, I have to touch it, and I’m full of pure joy that he wants me too.

  There’s no stopping me now. I press his head against me, telling him with actions, yes, kiss me there. He’s so ardent that the fear pricks at my mind again. What if he bites me? His teeth graze my nipples and my entire body convulses; fear and sexual stimulation is a heady mix. I peer down at him; he has his eyes closed and looks perfectly serene and content.

  His hand wanders down and tugs at the button of my shorts. I am desperate for him to touch me; I need him to help put out the fire down there. I stand to unfasten the damn button and wriggle free. My hands seek his jeans; they are tight and I can clearly see the outline of his large bulge through the taut denim. I help him to undress, being careful not to aggravate his wound, which I vow to dress later, once my bursting mind has stopped imagining all the things that I long to do with the rest of him.

  I quickly strip him of his boxer shorts and then I just stare, my mouth agape. Men like him belong in a blockbuster movie, on the center pages of a glossy magazine, on a poster of a teenage girl’s bedroom wall. I want him so much. I grab him and he shudders. I run my palm up and down the length of him. I rub it against me and already feel the tingles and growing pressure of my own orgasm beginning. His fingers play and tease, stroking my starved clitoris and then slipping down to dip inside me. He licks a finger, savoring my personal taste. I know what he wants to do and I want him to do it, although the prospect leaves me fretful. He pleads with me with those dark doe eyes; he tries to reassure me that I am safe.

  He sinks to his knees and buries his face in my lap; his hungry tongue licks at me, causing my knees to buckle. I sit on the end of the bed and watch him enjoying me. As his tongue slides up and down, I’m about to erupt. The pressure builds and builds until it almost can’t be stopped. But he pulls away. His chin glistens; he kisses me and I smell and taste myself on his lips. I pull him on top of me and eagerly await the explosive moment. I want it more than anything.

  He’s inside me, loving me softly, clearly afraid of hurting me. I wrap my legs around his body, pulling him closer, forcing him deeper and deeper inside. His hand reaches down to caress me, and it’s all too much. I want this to last forever; the pleasure is incomparable to anything I have ever experienced, but I can’t take it. One look at those biceps and his hand coaxing my release and it’s over. Sweet wave after wave hits me. I cling to his arms and groan out
loud; the powerful orgasm rages through my body, all the way down to my curled toes. As it begins to fade, I am left whimpering as his begins. He shouts out at the top of his voice, no words, a primal sound, and I feel every last spasm.

  He flops limp and exhausted back onto the bed beside me. I study his face and smile; I see the amusement in his eyes, and also a tenderness. I embrace him for a while, planting kisses upon his Alice tattoo.

  I realize that I must have fallen asleep as I see that it is dark outside. I imagine the others, back at the house, watching the clock, smiling smugly at one another from behind their rationed mug of cocoa. It finally happened, they will think, the stupid girl bit off more than she could chew. I roll my eyes as I play out the scene in my head. They couldn’t be more wrong. I celebrate the fact that I see things differently than they do. I would hate myself if I was so narrow-minded and callous.

  My arms reach out for him on the bed but he isn’t there. I find my clothes, dress and timidly walk down the stairs. He stands in the middle of the room, still naked, with his back to me. I don’t understand what he’s doing. I walk over and stand beside him; he’s looking at his reflection in the mirror over the fireplace. And he smiles.

  DEAD FROM THE WAIST DOWN

  August Kert

  Getting a needle in the arm has to be my least favorite part of the day. But I have to suck it up. After all, the shot does keep my flesh from rotting off my bones.