by TW Brown
“Now,” said Thomas with the air of someone who has just finished fortifying a castle or organized a wedding, “the armoire should keep them at bay long enough for us to climb out the window and down this rope.” He held up a string of bedsheets from one of the other rooms tied together. “But just in case they get through, I’ve laid a trip wire, which, again, should hold them up long enough for us to escape. Oh, and this is for you.” Thomas held a glass of water out to her; in his other hand he had one for himself. Jo took it from him, but didn’t drink, instead she stared down into the bottom of the glass. “I know,” Thomas said, sitting next to her, “it’s tap water, but you have to risk it. That one bottle of water from the gas station wasn’t enough, and if we don’t stay hydrated, we’re never going to make it to England.”
Jo didn’t say anything for a moment. She looked down at the water as if she didn’t want to drink it, but was too tired and thirsty and miserable to resist the impulse for much longer. She flicked her eyes up to meet Thomas’s without moving her head.
“Cheers,” she said, holding out her glass.
“Cheers!” Thomas brought his glass to meet hers, and they clunked together, the water sloshing over the lip of Jo’s glass, just a little. Thomas tipped his head back and drank the entire thing in one go. “Mmm, delish,” he said, looking thoughtfully at the empty glass.
Jo was looking at Thomas. When he turned away from the glass and back to her, she looked away quickly. She silently hoped that he hadn’t noticed her watching him, but he’d seen her turn away. Her hair hung down hiding her face. She sniffled.
“Hey,” Thomas said, putting his glass down on the carpet, “what’s wrong?”
“Nothing, it’s just allergies,” Jo said, her hand disappearing under her dark curtain of hair to rub at her nose. Thomas scooted closer to her and wrapped an arm around her shoulder, his hand dangling by her collarbone.
“Are you sure?” he asked.
“Positive, I just get—” Jo whipped her head to look at him, and was surprised at how close his face was to her own.
“You just get…?” Thomas prompted her. He didn’t seem aware of their proximity, or, if he was, he wasn’t bothered by it.
“The sniffles,” Jo finished, quietly.
Thomas threw back his head and let out a short laugh. “Josephine Walker, zombie-hunter, gets the sniffles,” he said, amused.
Jo smiled. “I know,” she said, “It isn’t very bad-ass of me.”
“No, indeed, it is not,” said Thomas.
They sat in silence for a moment, Jo taking a sip of her water, and Thomas lost in thought. Then Jo cleared her throat.
“Thank you,” she said quietly. Thomas turned to face her, his eyes coming back into focus from some far off place. He knew he could have said “For what?” and made her tell him all the things for which she was thanking him, but he knew what they were, and making her list them would only hurt her already crippled pride.
Instead, he leaned down so that his forehead was resting on hers, the hand that was on her shoulder slid up to her neck and pulled her closer to him, the other rested on her hands. “You’re welcome,” he whispered. After a moment he leaned back, kissed her on the forehead, and stood up, saying, “You should probably get some sleep. I’ll take first watch.”
***
Thomas had never known anyone who had died. All four of his grandparents were still alive, and he’d been lucky enough to be part of a family of people with ironclad immune systems. He remembered the week in third grade when a kid in his class, Bobby McMillan, hadn’t come to school because his mom died in a car crash. The teacher had talked to them about being sensitive to Bobby’s feelings, and about how they should all make Bobby feel comforted when he returned to school on Monday. But Thomas also remembered that when Monday morning rolled around, Bobby didn’t look like he wanted to be comforted. To Thomas, he looked like he’d been hollowed out. His eyes were empty like a jack-o-lantern’s, and something strange and angry burned in the space left behind. Thomas couldn’t figure out what was wrong with him.
***
The next morning dawned bright and cool, mist floated above the grass outside. Thomas woke and stretched; trying to make those few moments of early morning bliss last as long as possible. Jo was sitting in a chair next to the window, looking out over the field below.
“Good morning, sunshine,” Thomas said, poking a little fun at her.
For a moment she didn’t respond. She didn’t look at him or acknowledge him and then, in a rasping, quiet voice she said, “Thomas, look.”
Thomas hurried to her side and squinted against the sun breaking over the trees, trying to see what Jo was seeing. It wasn’t hard. Out in the field, three zombies stood in a line, staring back at them. Staring straight into the window out of which Jo and Thomas were watching them. Thomas didn’t breathe again for a few seconds.
“Three, there are three of them together,” he said. Jo gave a slow nod. “We’ve never seen more than two together,” he continued. “And what are they doing? They’re not attacking, they’re not moving. This doesn’t make any sense!”
“They’re waiting,” Jo whispered. Thomas, standing behind her, looked down at her, suddenly worried.
“What—what are they waiting for?” he asked quietly. Jo slowly turned her head to the side, trying to look back at him, her bangs hanging in her eyes.
“Me,” Jo said, and her eyes flicked up to meet Thomas’s. Her irises were fading to grey, her pupils small and beady. Thomas staggered away from the chair, his feet backpedaling of their own accord. He continued to stumble away from her until he hit the dresser against the opposite wall. The jewelry and photos on the dresser jingled and fell over as he bumped against it, grasping the edge for support.
“Jo, dear God.” Thomas said. Jo didn’t move, but tears slid out of her terrifying eyes and down her cheeks.
“I think it was the water. I think the rumors were true,” she said haltingly. “I was already weak, I didn’t stand a chance.” She turned to face out the window again. “They can smell it.” A slow sob, almost like a wail, squeezed out of Jo. “I’m so scared, Thomas.”
Slowly, Thomas inched towards her, cautious and without any sudden movements. Her head whipped around to look over her shoulder again. Thomas froze. “And you’re scared, too,” she said, looking him in the eyes. “Just like the zombies outside can smell it on me, I can smell it on you.” She shuddered, and her head fell forward onto her chest. “Don’t worry, my arms and legs are frozen. I—I don’t know exactly but I think it might be some sort of viral degenerative disease, my body is shutting down from the bottom up, it has been all night.”
Thomas carefully moved to her side, careful not to touch her or get within arm’s length.
“Stay back,” she said. “If this is viral, you shouldn’t get too close to me or you’ll get infected.”
“If it’s viral then I’m already infected, I drank the water, too, remember?” he said.
“Your immune system is still strong, you still have a chance,” she said. Sweat was running down her forehead and she was shaking gently.
“I won’t let you go this way,” Thomas said softly. He waited a moment with baited breath, and when she didn’t make a grab for him or lash out, he reached out a hand, hesitated, and then grasped hers.
“You have to,” she said, tears rolling down her face, her breath coming in fits and gasps, “I’m dying and once I’m dead, I’ll try and kill you.”
“Then we’ll be zombies together,” Thomas said, gripping her hand between both of his now and holding it.
“No! You have to put me down. Do it,” she said, staring at him, never breaking eye contact. “Do it now.” She turned away from him to look at the side table where her .45 was resting ominously in its holster.
“No, no I can’t, Jo,” Thomas said. “Don’t ask me to.”
“I’m not asking you to,” Jo gasped. “I’m telling you to.”
***
> The zombies watched with animalistic cunning as the human man emerged onto the front porch of the house holding a bundle of sheets draped in his arms. He stared at them, his heavy brow casting his already dark eyes into deeper shadow. His axe was strapped to his back and his jaw was set. The zombies could smell his anger and the blood seeping into the sheets and they wanted it. Shrieking like perverse birds of prey, they plunged forward.
Stacey Longo's short stories have appeared in numerous anthologies and Shroud Magazine. She serves on the Board of Directors for the New England Horror Writers. When she isn't turning her family and friends in to shambling zombies in her works, she enjoys spending time with her husband Jason at their home in CT. Visit her website atwww.staceylongo.com.
Here’s a tasty morsel fresh from the chomping block. It’s served up just the way you like it, cold as a cadaver, ready for you to sink in your undead loving teeth, and always with a fresh helping of brains. Love Stinks by Stacey Longo is a tale of love that lingers long after death. It’s the kind of love that seeps into your rotting bones and festers like a fetid sore. The kind that reaches out like a putrid corpse, grabs hold of you, and doesn’t let go ‘til you’ve been utterly devoured. Ah, young love. Annie’s and Peter’s was a match made in heaven, or perhaps better suited for the morgue. Annie is just your average farm town girl…with a zombie shackled in her barn. Peter is just your average all American boyfriend, but with a taste for the…finer things in life. Peter’s hunger is insatiable, and Annie’s running low on cows…
Love Stinks
By Stacey B Longo
Peter had been one of the shambling undead for a little over a month now, and Annie was running out of cows. Her father had originally estimated their herd at sixty head, but she had quickly realized the first time she had to milk the cows by herself, that Dad had over-inflated that number. She had started out milking about forty-eight head, and with Peter eating one cow brain a day, she was down to just forteen Holsteins.
Annie knew it wasn’t an emergency yet—she still had the pigs, after all, and an assortment of barn cats—but she didn’t know what she was going to do come fall. She shook her head in frustration as she pulled on her work gloves and headed out to the milking barn. She couldn’t, after all, allow Peter to starve.
Could a zombie starve to death? Annie was unsure. After all, this plague of the undead had only started at the end of March, and while the newscasters had been clear that a good clean shot to the head would end a pesky zombie infestation, there was little information out yet on other methods of terminating one’s zombie predicament. Not that she had any intention of letting Peter waste away—dead or undead—he was still indisputably the love of her life, and she intended to take care of him until a cure could be found.
Annie struggled with the rusty latch that held the screen door to the barn shut. She could hear Peter groaning inside, and smiled. He’d made it through the night’s stifling heat just fine, and she greeted him with a sing-song “good moor-ning!” as she let herself in to the milking parlor. Peter shook the chains around his neck and arms in response, emitting a low “mrrr-rrr-rrr” in reply.
“It’s me, darling! It’s Annie! Can you say ‘Annie’? Come on, Peter, say my name. An-nie?” She leaned her face in close to the bars that confined Peter, close enough to smell the rot of his skin, but not so near that he could snake a bony claw through the bars and get a grip on her. Peter moaned, turning away. He shuffled to the corner furthest away from her, fixing his blank gaze on the gray cement wall.
Annie was worried about Peter; she suspected he might be depressed. When she had originally lured him in to the milking parlor and trapped him in one of the chutes built to hold the cows in place while they were being milked, he had been a frenzied, snarling mess. He’d howled and scrabbled at the clamp she’d swiftly fastened on his neck, foaming at the mouth in anger. These days, he could barely muster up enough energy to dribble a little drool. She was sure it was because he was locked up in the damp, dank barn 24/7. He probably missed the sunshine and fresh air.
Annie hummed to herself as she started preparing for milking. With Peter in one chute, this left only one side of the milking parlor open for milking, and she had to carefully herd the girls in to the right side of the barn. She slid the back door of the barn open to find her final fourteen cows standing around, lowing softly, waiting for the relief of having their bags emptied. Her father had been milking these cows for a few years, and they knew the routine. The cows began to mosey in to the parlor, lining themselves up with little direction from Annie. She squatted at the first station, and began the comforting rhythmic motions of milking.
The zombie plague had still been in its early stages when Peter had been bitten. He had gone to a party down at the reservoir that night, alone, as Annie was still worn out from the effects of the Lyme disease she’d contracted earlier that April. The antibiotics sapped her of all her energy, and she hadn’t been helping her father out with the farm as much as she normally did, leaving Dad short-handed. Her father had been out late, feeding the calves, while Annie and her mother watched a History Channel program on the curse of the Kennedy family that evening.
She and Peter had been dating for six months at that point, having met in the library of Manchester Community College, where they both attended school. She was studying to be a Certified Nursing Assistant, and Peter was working towards his Associate’s in Web Design and Development. She had spotted him on one of the computers while she was studying at a table, and when he had looked up at her and winked, her mouth had formed a perfect ‘O’ in surprise. Peter had immediately blushed, and he came over to apologize.
“I’m so sorry. I thought you were my sister. She’s short with long, blonde hair, too.”
“You wink at your sister often?” Annie had giggled.
“Yeah, why? Is that weird?”
“A little,” Annie had shrugged, and the two sat for a moment at the table, smiling goofily at each other. Peter had soft brown eyes and curly brown hair that hung just below his ears. He had a goatee that reminded her of Robert Downey Junior, which she didn’t consider a bad thing at all. He’d asked her if she wanted to go out for a drink sometime, and she had accepted with a wide grin.
They’d been dating ever since, and she had fallen head-over-heels in love, daydreaming about him in class, text messaging him while feeding the heifers their sileage on the farm. He was charming and handsome and humble and totally into her, and Annie was hooked. They’d started having sex two months into the relationship, and for the first time in her twenty-two years of life, she had actually gotten emotional about sex. Being a farm girl, she’d been very matter-of-fact about the birds and the bees and the cows and the bulls, but Peter had brought tears to her eyes.
“Let me just look at you,” he’d whispered, stroking her hair after they’d made love on an old mattress in the back of his pick-up truck. “You’re so beautiful.”
Annie had grown up pitching hay and hauling grain, and she knew she was lean and limber. She had dark blue eyes and pin-straight, blonde hair that hung halfway down her back, which she usually wore in a pony tail. She’d always thought she looked wholesome. But Peter made her feel like a sex kitten. She loved that rush of power, knowing she could turn him on with just a glance. She had no intention of letting him go any time soon.
When Peter had shown up that night at her parent’s house, she’d noticed something was off, but had chalked it up to too much beer at the party he’d been to. He’d been slurring his words a little, and he couldn’t seem to keep his eyes focused on her. He had joined Annie and her mother in the living room to watch the terrible story of Mary Jo Kopechne unfold on the television, but his groaning had been distracting. It was then that Annie had noticed the blood on Peter’s collar, and the gaping wound on his neck.
“Oh my God! Peter, what happened?” Peter had blinked at her stupidly, and Annie had jumped up. “Let me get some gauze and antibiotic. Peter, you might need stitches!�
�� Annie had hurried to the bathroom for Bactine and Band-Aids. It was when she returned to the living room and saw her boyfriend gnashing his teeth on her mother’s skull that she’d realized something was very, very wrong with Peter.
“Momma!” she’d screamed, but it was too late. Her mother’s eyes were glazed over, and Peter was scooping her brains out of her skull and gulping them down as if he hadn’t tasted a more delectable sweetmeat in his life. Annie had been horrified. Somewhere in her mind, she’d remembered that a craving for brains was one of the symptoms of the recent zombie epidemic, and this spurred her in to action. She’d run to her parent’s bedroom and grabbed her father’s pistol out of his closet. She’d chambered a round and walked back slowly to the living room, carefully taking aim.
It had been hard shooting her mother in the head, but Annie knew that if she didn’t, Momma would turn in to a zombie herself. She couldn’t let that happen to the funny, creative woman who had always made her daughter feel like she was a shining jewel. Momma deserved better.
Peter had looked up, startled when the head he was holding jolted between his hands. He had snarled at her, and Annie had been momentarily taken aback. Peter was supposed to love her. How dare he snarl at her!
Peter had dropped the remains of Momma’s head, wiped a piece of gray matter off his chin, and licked it off of his finger. Then he’d pushed himself off of the couch, slowly lumbering towards Annie. She had turned on her heel and ran to the back door, which she burst out of, running squarely into her father’s broad chest.
