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

by James K. Evans

  Something’s going on near Michelle’s house. I heard what sounded like screams and gunshots. I’m going to check it out.

  Later—

  I checked the window facing her house. It looked like a house was burning a few blocks over. Smoke filled the sky and washed over the neighborhood, but I heard no sirens and saw no fire engines go by. While I was watching, the electricity went out.

  I didn’t see any activity in or around Michelle’s house, so I did what may have been a stupid thing—I got a piece of paper and wrote ARE YOU OKAY?, then taped it on the window under the plastic so she might see it. I prowled around the house, peeking out other windows, and every few minutes checked back. After about thirty minutes, I could see her pacing back and forth in her bedroom, and when she glanced toward my window I took down some of the paper and waved to her.

  She looked very upset, like she was barely holding it together. I thought for a couple of seconds and made a decision I hope I don’t come to regret. I wrote MY SIDE DOOR on another piece of paper and held it up. Then I pantomimed pointing at my watch and held up two fingers. I pointed down the gate in her fence between our yards. From her door to mine it’s only forty feet or so. She made the okay sign with her thumb and fingers. I waved and blocked the window again.

  It’s 1:50 now. I hope she’s smart enough to make sure no one’s around when she runs between our houses. I don’t know what I’ll be able to do for her. I don’t know why she’s so agitated. I don’t know what she needs. I don’t know anything. I’m tense, and I’m entering uncharted waters. Heaven help me, I pray I haven’t made a huge mistake by reaching out to her. When will I learn not to be a rescuer?

  October 17th

  She’s here now, uneasily sleeping in my bed. She keeps tossing and turning. I’m trying to stay awake in case she has a nightmare or sleep walks or something. How should I know what her sleeping habits are?

  Yesterday ended up being quite an ordeal. I had initially figured someone tried to break into her house, or maybe she’d seen the house next door get broken into and was freaking out. But it turned out to be much worse. At 2:00, just as planned, I went to the side door and unbolted it. I then looked out the peep hole. Within about thirty seconds, I saw her fence gate open and she sprinted to my door. By the time I got it open, she was in a state of near panic.

  She looked at me, her face pale, eyes wide. She lunged into the room and immediately began to whisper hoarsely “Close the door! Close it!!” While I was doing just that, she threw her body against it, causing it to slam shut. She even drew the bottom deadbolt while I locked the upper ones.

  “It’s okay, Michelle, you’re safe now. They can’t get to you,” I said, still thinking she’d been threatened by an armed group of thugs.

  “Did you see them too?!”

  I didn’t know what she was talking about.

  “I saw the guys break into a house down the street and I saw a group of guys walk by,” I said, holding on to my naiveté for an extra moment.

  She was breathing so hard and fast I thought she was going to hyperventilate. She stared at me as if she didn’t know how to respond. Then she shook her head as if trying to clear it and said, “Please, we have to get away from the door! I don’t want them to hear us! We have to hide!” I still had no idea what was going on, but agreed it was a good idea to get downstairs where it was safe. I raised the trap door and she scooted under my arm and practically ran down the steps. “Hurry! Hurry up!” she pleaded. I closed and locked the door behind me, then hurried down the stairs.

  She’s the first person to see my basement since I finished it, and I don’t think she even knew where she was. She sat in one of the arm chairs, nearly in a fetal position, her hands over her face, her whole body shaking. It looked and sounded like she was having a panic attack.

  “Michelle. Michelle!” I said. She was unresponsive to me. It crossed my mind that she might be in shock. I went to her and open-palm slapped her. Okay, I didn’t really, but that’s what they do in the movies. Instead, I went into the storeroom, opened one of the bottles of bourbon, poured a small glass and, bottle in hand, went back into the living room. She hadn’t moved, and but had started whispering what sounded like “I don’t . . .” over and over.

  “Here Michelle, drink this!” I said, gently prying her hands away from her face. She took the glass from me without looking at it and swallowed a huge gulp, then immediately started choking and coughing. “What . . . what . . .” she gasped.

  “It’s bourbon,” I said, “I thought you could use a drink. Would you rather have some water?”

  She looked at the glass as if trying to comprehend what bourbon was, then choked down the rest. I took the glass from her and half filled it with more bourbon. She took the glass and emptied it, then looked up at me.

  Her eyes had that shattered look I’ve only seen a couple of times before, once at the scene of a car wreck, and once at the funeral home when a friend’s husband died. Michelle had the same look in her eyes, the look of fear, the look of I’ve completely lost my moorings and don’t even know who I am.

  I took the glass from her and filled it with water. While I was doing that, she started pacing back and forth. When I handed her the glass, touching her on the shoulder, she jumped as if she hadn’t even known I was there. I could see the light come into her eyes when she came back from the dark place her mind had taken her. She ignored the glass of water, and instead fell into my arms. I know it sounds cliché, but it’s true—I could feel her whole body shaking.

  I could smell the bourbon on her breath, too. Normally I like the smell of bourbon on a woman’s breath, but in this case the smell was mixed with another scent, perhaps fear. It seemed to emanate from her very pores. When she fell against me, I dropped the glass, water splattering against my jeans.

  Michelle continued to cry while I held her, and in the back of my mind I thought I can feel her breasts! I ignored this and started trying to comfort her, stroking her hair while I led her back to the chair she’d been sitting in, softly saying, “It’s okay, you’re safe. You’re safe, it’s okay . . .” I sat her down in the chair, kneeling beside her while she still had her arms wrapped around me. “Take deep breaths,” I told her, wondering if maybe she was a little crazy. She completely filled her lungs, her breasts pushing against me even more, then another deep breath and another.

  I could feel her muscles begin to relax as more of the bourbon entered her blood stream. I sat there with her for I don’t know how long—a few minutes? ten? anxiously wondering what was wrong with her, what I was going to do with her, and what had terrified her. She was physically okay—what was going on?

  “Michelle, talk to me,” I said softly into her ear.

  She took another deep breath, and stared at a spot on the carpet. Then she started talking.

  “I was in my house, trying to keep quiet and keeping an eye on the street through a corner of the closed blinds. I’d seen some guys pass by earlier and it scared me. Groups of riled up guys are something women generally try to avoid. They passed by, but I knew if they came back I could be in trouble. But they didn’t come back. Instead I saw . . .” She stopped again, then looked back into my eyes, the shattered look starting to return.

  “What did you see? You can tell me. It’s okay. You’re safe inside. With me.” I said, trying to reassure her.

  “I saw two of them walking down the street,” she whispered. I wasn’t sure who she meant. “They acted kind of strange, walking slow and shuffling. One had a bunch of blood on his sweatshirt. The other guy was dressed nice, but he had a huge rip in his slacks. They were stained with blood. One of his shoes was gone. They were still about a half block away. I thought they were sick or in shock.”

  “Mrs. Erickson opened her door and quietly called out are you okay? Do you need help? Should I call the police? As soon as they heard her they turned and began stumbling toward her. I don’t have any money, but I can feed you if you’re hungry, she said as the first
guy got close to her. Suddenly I saw him lunge at her, and before she could close the door, he grabbed her hair, and then . . .”

  She stopped again. I pulled away, picked up the fallen glass, and refilled it with water. She never took her eyes off me, as if she was afraid I’d disappear. When I handed her the glass, she was shaking so badly some of the water spilled out before it reached her lips.

  “I saw the other guy grab her too. Then he fell on her with his mouth open. He was making this horrible sound, like he was a rabid dog or something. One guy was biting her arm and the other guy was biting the back of her neck as she fought them, screaming the whole time. Mr. Erickson must have been in the other room, because he suddenly appeared with a shot gun. He shot the man! Right in the chest! It didn’t even slow him down. He kept on biting her as Mr. Erickson tried to pull her away. The guys’ faces were covered in blood and they just kept biting and biting!

  “Mrs. Erickson was still moving, but that . . . thing must have torn her throat out, because there was so much blood everywhere, and she wasn’t screaming anymore. I’ve never seen so much blood!”

  And she’s a nurse! I thought.

  By now Michelle was talking in a monotone and her eyes were glazed over— another sign of shock. Good God, what am I supposed to do with a woman in shock? It crossed my mind she might be crazy—but I’d heard the news over the past few days and had seen the videos. What she described matched exactly the reports and videos of zombie attacks.

  Zombies? Here? No way, I thought.

  She paused to finish the glass of water. Even when the glass empty, she held on to it very tightly, her knuckles white.

  “She was barely moving when Mr. Erickson finally pulled one of the guys off her and shot him point-blank in the head. He fell over and didn’t move. Then he shot the other guy in the chest—again! The force of the gunshot made Mr. Erickson stumble back, and then he slipped on all of the blood and fell down on top of Mrs. Erickson. The guy he’d just shot grabbed him by the foot, stretched his neck out and started biting his leg!”

  “Mr. Erickson was shouting, Leave me alone! Get off me!! Then he started screaming. No matter how hard he tried he couldn’t get away from the guy. I saw that . . . man . . . keep biting—tearing huge stringy chunks of flesh then chewing and swallowing! He was actually eating Mr. Erickson! Then he must have hit the fibular artery because I saw a lot of blood come pouring out of the man’s mouth and spray their front door. He was still making that horrible noise, and he didn’t stop. Kevin, that thing didn’t even slow down! It was like an animal!”

  “I saw Mr. Erickson try to get up again but fall, and then the man started eating his midsection. Mr. Erickson started screaming again, then suddenly stopped. I don’t know what happened because I’d dropped away from the window and was hiding against the wall. I don’t know how long I stayed there. I might have fainted or something. When I peeked out the window, the guy who was shot in the head was still there, and Mr. and Mrs. Erickson were lying there, dead in their own blood. The other guy was gone. It looked like the man kept eating them even after they were dead. Blood dripped down the steps and onto the sidewalk. There was even a bloody handprint on the front door under the splash of blood. It was bloody and smeared. I saw bloody footprints in the grass, leading toward my house.”

  “I was afraid that crazy man might be somewhere outside my house, so I went around on tiptoe, peeking out. That’s when I saw your sign in the window.” She paused and looked down into her hands, which were holding the empty glass so tight I thought she might break it. Thank God it’s plastic! I didn’t know what to say, so I just reached out and touched her hand. She dropped the glass, grabbed me and squeezed my hand with both of hers so tight it still hurts. We sat there for a minute before she took a deep breath and said, “I read your sign and waited to come over. Kevin, tell me I’m not crazy! No, I take it back, tell me I am crazy and imagined it all! Those guys weren’t acting human! Are those the zombies they talked about on the news? What are we going to do?!”

  We talked things over for a few hours. She told me the story over and over. I continued to give her water and bourbon. By early evening I knew she’d had enough to make me drunk, so I knew she must be very intoxicated, as if her slurred words weren’t enough to tell me. Her eyes had lost their shattered look, but now were kind of unfocused. Even so, she seemed tipsy, not drunk.

  After that much bourbon?!

  “Look,” I said to her, “why don’t you take it easy for a few minutes? I promise I won’t go anywhere. We’ll figure out what to do.” I’m not sure if she heard me, but when I stood up, I pulled her up too. She was mumbling by then, something about Mrs. Erickson’s floor getting stained with all the blood, and I led her into the bedroom. I don’t think she knew where she was at that point. I took her shoulders and gently pushed her down onto the bed, and then onto her back. I took off her shoes and pulled a blanket over her. I pulled up the wooden chair and sat next to the bed. She had been asleep for a couple of hours when she jerked upright and whispered “Kevin! Where are you!”

  “I’m right here,” I said, touching her on the arm. I had turned the lights off, but the glowing walls still allowed me to dimly see her.

  In the middle of the night she mumbled “’ts’hot in here!” and pulled her blouse up over her head then dropped it onto the floor. She lay back down and closed her eyes. I gently pulled the blanket up over her again, pausing to admire her breasts in the dim light. They were in a pretty bra—blue or black—with lace on top. I could just make out her nipples.

  I wished I’d put a second coat of phosphorescent paint on the walls.

  So now she sleeps. I’m wondering what to make of her story. Part of me thinks she must have seen a couple of zombies, but the skeptic in me simply won’t believe it. I hadn’t heard reports of the disease in Ann Arbor. Detroit, yeah, but Ann Arbor? Nah. Zombies are just in the big cities, if they really are zombies.

  I’m tempted to sneak outside and go over to the Erickson’s house, but it’s already dark outside and I’m no fool. Besides, she might wake up. I don’t know how she’d react if she woke up and couldn’t find me.

  October 18th

  Michelle slept through the night, although she woke up twice and I had to calm her down. I slept on the sofa when I wasn’t sitting in the chair, thinking and writing.

  This morning I took her some coffee. It’s strange to be living in a world without any visual clues about time other than the clock. No dawn light creeping through the blinds, no sound of birds or traffic.

  Anyway, I took Michelle some coffee. She awoke with a start.

  “Good morning,” I said. “How do you feel?”

  “Ohh, my head hurts . . . what am I doing here?” she asked, sitting up.

  “You were pretty upset last night. I gave you some bourbon to calm you down. You drank quite a bit and got pretty tipsy. I would have taken you home, but, well, all things considered . . .”

  She looked blank for a minute before her eyes opened wide and a look of horror dawned upon her face. “The Ericksons! Oh, my God . . .”

  “I made you some coffee,” I said, handing her the mug. “Hope you like it black. And here’s some ibuprofen.”

  As she took the cup from me, she said “You have coffee?! God bless you!” After she swallowed the ibuprofen she started sipping her mug, gazing at nothing. She hadn’t noticed the blankets had fallen away from her, revealing a substantial—and lovely—bosom. Ample cleavage. I could smell a distinctly feminine scent coming from her, too. I love the smell of cleavage in the morning. It smells like . . . victory.

  “Did I . . . I mean, was . . . do you think I saw a zombie? Do you think I made it up?”

  “Well, to be honest, I was hoping you made it up as a clever excuse to get into my bed,” I told her, trying to keep things light. Evidently she didn’t care for my humor because she gave me one of those stares women are so good at. Or at least they’re good at with me. “Seriously, though, I don’t know wh
at you saw. But I know you were extremely shaken up. And in case you’re wondering, I slept on the sofa last night.” I saw her glance down, then chastely pull the blanket high enough to cover her cleavage. Damn. “In the middle of the night, I heard you say it was hot and I guess you took your blouse off. It was dark.” I said, feeling sheepish. She glanced at me and I’m sure she noticed my blushing. I’m glad she didn’t take her jeans off too, or she might have thought I’d assaulted her.

  She cleared her throat and said, “You slept on the couch?”

  “Look at the other side of the bed. It’s still made.”

  She glanced over, then took another sip of coffee, and when she looked up at me again I saw a different look in her eyes. It was indecipherable, but it wasn’t a defensive or accusatory look. Maybe less guarded?

  “Do you think it’s safe for me to go back home?” she finally asked.

  “We’ll have to check. How secure is your house?”

  “Every door has deadbolts and I’ve locked the garage door. It’s very heavy, I doubt anyone could open it alone.”

  “Are you sure all the doors are locked?”

  “I checked them yesterday.”

  “How about the windows?”

  “I keep the windows locked everywhere I live, ever since I had a break in about ten years ago.”

  “In that case, if there’s no one outside watching us . . . no one or no thing, we could check the doors and windows to make sure they’re all still secure. If none of the windows are broken and the doors haven’t been forced, we’ll know no one’s been in your house.”