Love in the Age of Zombies (Book 1): My Zombie Honeymoon

by James K. Evans

  The infected people do not attack other animals—dogs, cats, horses—just humans.

  Scientists say the organism—virus, bacteria, whatever—takes over the central nervous system, including the brain, and suggest its singular goal was survival—continuation of the species.

  While I’m just a layman, I can’t help but wonder if the scientists aren’t going after the wrong target. Perhaps a fungus is responsible for the disease, and merely mimics a virus as it takes over the body. If this is true, antibiotics and antivirals are useless. After all, there’s precedent in nature; one type of fungus grows into the brain of a particular species of ant, causing it to relocate to an environment deadly to ants but beneficial to the fungus. When this happens they’re called Zombie Ants.

  Can you imagine? What if the crazy, supposedly reanimated people have had their brains taken over by a fungus? What if these infected people are releasing spores when they bite other people? Maybe that’s the only way they can reproduce, by biting uninfected people and turning them into the human equivalent of the Zombie Ant.

  October 1st

  There are now reports of the disease in the US—New York and Los Angeles were the first. Much of South America is infected and some cities are overrun. Video clips on YouTube show huge groups of these reanimated people shuffling around. Many of them show signs of horrific injuries—blood all over them, broken bones sticking out—that sort of thing.

  Several clips show them attacking uninfected people. They are not for the squeamish. The videos with sound are the worst, as you can hear the uninfected people screaming as they try to fight off their attacker. Usually they’re unsuccessful. Once one latches on to you, the others swarm.

  The videos do not stay up long. YouTube removes them as fast as they’re posted.

  Until the scientists find a way to cure, prevent or contain the disease it’s only a matter of time before it reaches Michigan. That’s what the bloggers say. I hope to God it isn’t true.

  A lot of people—me included—are using vacation time to stay home from work. Some people have headed out of town for more remote areas. They seem to believe the disease is hiding in the shadows, ready to jump out at them.

  I keep the news on in the background while I continue working. I’m not panicking; but it sure as hell keeps me motivated.

  Of course, all the news channels are milking the story for all it’s worth. One has regular updates of what they call CRISIS: PANDEMIC. Even in the face of a health crisis, they’re worried about ratings. I detest watching broadcast tv but feel I need to keep on top of things. I wish there was a news channel without news anchors or commercials. Just raw footage. Don’t interpret it for me; let me decide for myself.

  While the public is nervous, it’s mainly the survivalists who are taking any real action. By “real” I mean doing more than stocking up on beer and milk. According to the news, many web sites specializing in survivalist supplies have begun selling out.

  October 5th

  I purchased a gun today, a .22 caliber revolver. I think the .22 part refers to the size of the bullets but felt stupid asking. The guy behind the counter was friendly and eager to offer advice even though the store was very busy.

  I told him I wanted a simple weapon for personal protection. He recommended a few in the mid-price range along with lots of technical information I didn’t understand about barrel length and trigger pull.

  I decided on a revolver, not a pistol. I didn’t even know the difference when I walked in, but he explained how a revolver has the bullets stored in a revolving chamber so you don’t have to reload between every shot. He seemed to approve of my choice, and made the comment “This isn’t the best selection for protection gear, but hey, it’s a start!”

  I bought way more ammunition than I believe I’ll ever need, but they had a special deal for customers buying guns. When deciding how much to get, I remembered when Jason was born. After we got home from the hospital I was sent out for supplies. I came home from the grocery store with a package of ninety-six diapers, and I said, “We won’t need to buy any of these for a couple of months!” Only to buy just as many only two weeks later. So I figured it made sense to buy more than I thought I would ever need. Lord knows I hope I won’t need it.

  I went by the liquor store and purchased two cases each of Maker’s Mark, vodka, and tequila. I tried to buy more, but they told me there was a two case limit for each customer. Even with the case discount they gave me, it set me back quite a bit. The store was busy like the gun store, and some people looked at me like I was crazy, buying so much, but I didn’t care—and I wasn’t the only one buying in bulk.

  Come hell or high water, at least I’ll have some good bourbon to drink. I also bought ten cases of soft drinks.

  Most of the basement is finished, and the storeroom is nearly complete. I have maybe a hundred cases of nonperishable goods, bottled water, and rechargeable batteries with solar battery chargers. I have a decent first aid kit, boxes of used books and DVDs I bought in bulk, and an embarrassingly large collection of used porn which I also bought used in bulk from a guy on Craigslist. I hope the porn isn’t God-awful. I know next to nothing about porn, and was too embarrassed to stand there scrutinizing the discs. Of course, there was no one I could call and ask—Hey, this is Kevin. Can you help me pick out some good porn?—so I just bought the whole case of DVDs. I haven’t had time to look through them.

  Deliveries are still coming in, but my Amazon Prime membership no longer guarantees two-day delivery. Now I’m afraid to order anything if it won’t be delivered for a week or two, because I can’t begin to predict what will be going on by then. Will everything be back to normal so I won’t feel compelled to order (for example) the infrared, motion-sensing video system to see what’s going on outside, or will I desperately wish I’d ordered it sooner?

  October 7th

  I’ve spent a little more time with my neighbor, Michelle. I harvested a bunch of basil and had more than I can use, so I thought I’d offer some to her. As I stepped outside the house, I saw her sweeping her back deck. She waved and we chatted over her privacy fence. She seemed delighted to get the basil—fresh organic homegrown basil in October!

  It was a warm afternoon, and she offered me a beer. I hesitated for a moment, then thought why not?! She opened the gate of the fence and as we walked toward her deck she put the basil to her nose and breathed in deeply. She said she loves the smell of fresh basil.

  She went inside with the basil and returned with a bottle of Bud Light. She was drinking wine from a stemmed glass. I took a long draught of the beer and was surprised to relearn how refreshing an American pilsner can be on a sunny afternoon.

  When she asked how I was able to grow basil this time of year, I told her I grow it hydroponically. She seemed quite impressed, and I ended up going back home and grabbing some lettuce to give her as well, even though I’d been saving it for myself. She asked if my wife minded me giving away the basil and lettuce, and I told her Tammy died ten years ago. We made some slightly strained small talk for a few minutes. I felt a little awkward, but at the same time couldn’t help but notice how pretty she was. And how nicely the late afternoon sun fell on her body, accentuating her curves and bringing out the texture of the teal sweater she wore. She told me she’s a Nurse Practitioner at St. Joseph’s.

  I still had a lot to do, so I finished the beer, told her I had to get going, and came back home. I wonder why she asked about my wife? Surely she could tell no woman lives in this house. The outside especially is lacking a feminine touch. I haven’t changed anything about it since Tammy died and most of the bushes have gotten too large.

  Then again, I do still wear my wedding ring. I miss you, Tammy. I wish you were here with me.

  October 9th

  I saw Michelle’s naked breasts last night.

  It was a happy accident, I swear. After I finished writing, I went upstairs and walked through all the rooms, looking out the windows to see if anything was goi
ng on. When I looked out the window facing Michelle’s house, she was in her bedroom, taking off her sweatshirt. The room was well lit. She wasn’t wearing a bra.

  She had marvelously full breasts, riding high despite her age. Areolas the size of silver dollars, a wonderful dusty rose color, not dramatically darker than her skin. Her nipples were even erect. Her auburn hair cascaded over her shoulders. As she walked across the room, her breasts swayed. She looked mighty fine, let me tell you. She never looked out the window, and if she had, I doubt she would have seen me. She put on a bathrobe and turned off the light as she left the room. I breathed out a sigh—I hadn’t even realized I was holding my breath—and went to bed. Like the old Tom Waits song says, I felt like I was “sharing this apartment with a telephone pole!”

  I can’t remember the last time I saw a real woman’s breasts. In person. The intensity of the arousal was surprising. I was tempted to watch some porn, but honestly I didn’t have it in me. I was just too tired. I had a restless night and woke up with outrageous morning wood.

  I can’t drum up the energy to feel guilty. I wasn’t spying. I didn’t do it on purpose. She’s the one who left her shades open and lights on. I can’t help but wonder if she did it intentionally. Or, to rephrase that, I can’t help but wish she did it intentionally, although I know a beautiful, big breasted woman like her has no desire to titillate an old geezer like me. If she knew I’d seen her, she’d probably call me a dirty old geezer.

  Now it’s time to get up, no pun intended, and face another day. I need to make some coffee and turn on the news.

  Later—

  While I was in the midst of my hot blooded sexual reverie, the world was falling apart.

  The virus is now being reported in nearly every major metropolitan area. Atlanta. Phoenix. Miami. Chicago. New Orleans. Los Angeles. Overnight, the federal government shut down all the airports. Most of the major cities—and some minor ones—have declared martial law. No one is allowed outside after dark—and this time of year, dark comes pretty early. Blockades are being set up across major interstates to stop people from traveling.

  The President came on TV and did the usual effing political BS about staying calm, order will be restored, sacrifices have to be made, the situation is being dealt with, we will prevail, be patient, etc. I call bullshit.

  The media is doing the usual share of reporting based on emotion. Rather than spending time interviewing scientists and doctors, they’re focusing on the ‘matters of the heart’ aspect: interviewing sobbing mothers separated from their children, wives who can’t reach their husbands, that sort of reporting. Emotional drivel that doesn’t help anyone.

  People are attempting to bypass the blockades by taking back roads. Little-used country roads are sometimes bumper to bumper. And to make it worse, most of the gas stations are closed—the gas tankers have quit delivering. I wonder if Clone’s is still open.

  October 10th

  I don’t trust the TV stations. They don’t sound the same. And there are a lot fewer commercials. Like many, I’m convinced they’re under government control. The news outlets are all basically giving the same message: do not panic, stay inside and the government will get everything under control in a jiffy. But a cursory surf of the net shows otherwise. Facebook was either shut down a few hours ago, or their servers couldn’t handle the traffic. On YouTube people had been posting photos and videos of the traffic gridlock and footage of zombie attacks. That’s what everyone calls them. It was funny the first couple of times. It’s not so funny now.

  Detroit is infected. Detroit!—less than fifty miles from here. People are starting to panic, and the grocery stores are a madhouse but shelves are nearly empty. I’m glad I’m already stocked up.

  For years I’ve been spent reading dark, frightening and sometimes apocalyptic books. Books like Thirty Seconds Later, the Hot Zone (all the more frightening because it was non-fiction), the Doomsday Book, The Road, No Country for Old Men. Even though it was sometimes grisly reading, it caused me to evaluate my living situation and to ponder what I should do to prepare—just in case. Perhaps I was only looking for something to distract me from my grief, but if I hadn’t prepared, I’d be a whole lot more worried than I am. Without those books and my own depressed and pessimistic view of the world, I wouldn’t have spent the money on the solar panels, supplying the storeroom, turning this basement into a survival bunker or bomb shelter as they used to call them back during the Cold War. I had no idea anything was going to happen so soon, and can’t believe how lucky I am to have gotten as much done as I did before the bottom dropped out. The one thing I didn’t do was make this place radiation proof—funny how it’s not much of a worry these days.

  I saw the Seton family across the street pack up their SUV and screech out of their driveway. I don’t know where they’re headed, maybe to their lake house at Boyne Falls. Maybe somewhere even more remote. Maybe they have connections with a survivalist’s camp where they hope to be safe.

  About a half hour ago, a patrol car cruised slowly down the street. First one I’ve seen today. No one in the neighborhood is outside. I occasionally see slight movement of a curtain or a blind as someone looks out. For all I know, they see my curtain move when I look out. It’ll be dark in another hour or so and I think people are afraid something bad might happen, and don’t want anyone to know they’re home. I know it entered my mind.

  I’m going through the house, sealing off the windows with black plastic, hoping to prevent any light from leaking out. Using black makes the window look dark; using foil calls attention to the fact that you blocked out your windows. I have a moveable flap of overlapping plastic a couple inches wide on each window so I can (hopefully) go unnoticed as I peek outside to watch the neighborhood.

  I unplugged all the lamps just to make sure I don’t accidentally turn any lights on. I don’t watch the TV up here, I only watch it downstairs. I don’t want anyone to know I’m here. If the wrong people had any idea about the food and booze I have, they’d try to take it by force. Hell, I’ve watched Twilight Zone, I know how formerly good neighbors can suddenly turn into the wrong people. Now I understand the need for weapons. Not to attack, but to defend.

  I’ve scrutinized the trap door into the basement. Unless you know exactly where to look, you would never suspect it’s there. And I was very smart when I left the original entrance to the unfinished basement intact—anyone looking for a basement would go downstairs, only to find it cluttered and unfinished with an old, rusty washer and an empty chest freezer that’s not plugged in.

  I’m moving the last of my things into the basement. With the windows blacked out I can still come up into the house whenever I want, but once I start living there I’ll need to restrict how often I come up. I need to quit writing now so I can get more done. If my intuition is right, I’ll have plenty of time to write before long.

  October 13th

  Nearly all the stuff has been moved into the basement. I’ve checked and rechecked everything—the power, the gas, the water and composting toilet. The basement is quiet, a bit too quiet, but the fan in the grow room provides white noise so I should sleep okay.

  I watched the street from upstairs for a while. I’ve seen cars driving by, sometimes filled with people just gawking, like they’re hoping to see something horrible.

  I saw an SUV stop about a half-block up yesterday. Three guys got out and went into a deserted house (I think it’s deserted). A few minutes later they came back out, carrying stuff they loaded into the car. One guy wrestled a big TV into the trunk. What good is a TV when the power goes out?

  My first reaction was to pick up the phone and call the police, but the land line quit working a couple days ago and I’m no longer getting any signal on my cell. Where are the cops? Where is the National Guard?

  My second reaction was to head downstairs. It already feels safer.

  A few hours ago I saw a small knot of men walking down the street. I got the impression they were looking for
trouble. One guy carried a rifle. I stayed out of sight, although I do have my .22 in its holster, strapped to my hip. I feel stupid wearing it, like I’m nothing but a poser, which I guess I am. I don’t know if I could hold it steady enough to even aim. Were those guys looking for someone to mess with? Were they an ad hoc neighborhood watch?

  October 16th

  The leaves are rustling in the trees and falling in a colorful shower, the air is cool, the moon is three-quarters and waxing. By all rights, this should be a beautiful day for fudgies to drive north for color tours. But this year there are no fudgies, no art- or harvest-festivals, no color tours, no wine tastings.

  Perhaps the only upside is not having to endure political campaign commercials and mailings and ads stuck in my front door. Politics likely got us into this mess; it sure as hell didn’t get us out. To hear empty promises and spurious finger-pointing would be more than I could stomach.

  I haven’t made downstairs my permanent home yet. I slept down there a couple of nights, but I usually sleep in my bed. The nights I spent weren’t very restful—just being in a room with different acoustics is enough to throw off my sleep patterns.

  I think it might be time to make it a habit though. Things aren’t improving. It’s impossible to say when order will be restored, and when it will be safe to go out again.

  I’m upstairs. Satellite TV is out. The local broadcast channels are out as well. The internet is down. It feels very strange. I feel absolutely cut off. I was smart enough to start DVRing the news, so when I have time I’ll be able to see what the last few hours of news broadcasts were like. But current news is gone—no TV broadcasts, no ability to Youtube or Google—it’s only a mystery what’s happening across the world, much less in Ann Arbor. The only signals I pick up on the radio are looped broadcasts warning everyone to stay indoors, martial law is in effect, violators will be arrested, looters will be shot. Stay inside and wait for the authorities to restore order. I think if someone isn’t set up like I am, following that advice is lunacy. Doing nothing is what cows do on their way to the slaughter house. You’d be waiting to starve to death, or find a stranger pointing a gun at your head while he steals your food or rapes your wife or daughter. Or you.