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

by James K. Evans

  “But what if someone has broken in? What if they’re still inside?”

  “If we see a door or window has been forced, we’ll come back here and figure out what to do. I don’t want to start speculating. First we need facts.” I said.

  Now that we had a plan, she acted more stable. “Listen, why don’t you take a few minutes to finish your coffee? I have some plant work I have to take care of, “ I told her, “I have to check the water level of my hydroponic system, check the pH, look for pests, blah blah blah. It shouldn’t take me long; I don’t have any serious work to do. I should be ready in about 15 minutes.”

  She nodded her assent and I left her sitting up, sipping her coffee. As I worked in the grow room, I heard her get out of bed and perhaps just imagined hearing her pull her blouse back on. Even if it was just my imagination, I liked the images it brought to mind.

  After I’d finished my chores, I came back to find her in the living room, blouse on, kneeling down and looking into one of the boxes I’d left unpacked—mainly boxes of books and DVDs.

  “Feeling better?”

  “I don’t feel great but the headache isn’t as bad,” she said and then paused. “I don’t mean to get personal,” said the lady who twenty minutes ago was sleeping in my bed, “but are you into . . . I mean, you seem to have some strange . . . tastes.” I had no idea what she was talking about until I noticed she was looking through the porn DVDs. I never got the chance to go through them.

  I could feel myself blushing as I told her “No, no, I’m not some creep! I don’t have any weird fetishes or anything. I’ll be honest with you, when I began to suspect I was going to be holed up in here—alone—I bought a that box of used porn.”

  “You bought used porn?!” she asked incredulously.

  I ignored her. “I don’t even know what’s in the box, honestly! I haven’t had time to look through it! I’m pretty much just a guy who likes . . . well, who’s normal!”

  “Whatever normal is,” she said, “After reading Fifty Shades of Gray, I’m not sure anymore,” she blurted out. Then it was her turn to blush.

  She read Fifty Shades of Gray? I thought. “Yeah, I knew the book had gone mainstream when I saw it for sale at Sam’s Club,” I answered. “But really, I don’t know what kind of stuff is in the box. I’m hoping it’s not all disgusting, cheap trash. I don’t know much about porn—hell, you couldn’t even buy it around here not too many years ago. I know there’s good porn and bad porn, but I’m not sure how to tell.

  She went back to rooting through the box. “Here’s one,” she said, pulling a case out of the box, “it’s called She’s a Milker. She turned the case so I could see it—it showed a topless, lactating woman with milk squirting out of her nipple. Michelle had a funny smile on her face, but I could tell she was watching to see how I’d react.

  “Okay, okay, I get the point,” I said. “Why would anyone find that a turn on? Please, put it back, you’re embarrassing me. We have things to take care of,” I practically begged.

  I swear, she had a smirk on her face. In the middle of all this she was somehow playing me?!

  “If you’re ready, let’s sneak upstairs to see what’s going on.” She agreed, and we quietly made our way upstairs. Before opening the trap door, we stopped and listened. We didn’t hear anything from above, so we climbed out of the basement into the kitchen.

  “All the windows are blocked, but a window on every side of the house has a small peep hole,” I explained to her. “I’ll check this side of the house, you check the back yard and side yard.” I wanted to make sure I was the one to check the street, not knowing how she’d react if she saw something gross. I didn’t see anything when I first looked out, but then farther up the block on the other side of the street I saw what looked like an injured woman shuffling off in the opposite direction from my house. I didn’t know if she was a zombie or not and frankly, I wasn’t going to find out. I also saw a dog nosing around a few houses in front of her, but he ran off in a hurry when he heard her.

  When I was sure there was no other movement anywhere, I went and found Michelle. She was still peering outside. “Do you see anything?” I asked her.

  “I see a lot of smoke in the neighborhood, but that’s about it,” she said, “no people or anything. How about you?”

  That must have been smoke from the house fire I saw yesterday.

  “There’s a woman walking down the street, but she didn’t seem right. She should be out of sight by now. Let’s take a minute and plan the best way to do this. You have your keys, right?” I asked. She nodded and pulled them out of her pocket. “How about you go through the gate into the back yard and check the door and windows there, and I’ll check the front of the house,” I suggested. She nodded her head in agreement.

  “Then, assuming I don’t see anything to be concerned about, we can get inside through the back door. Then we’ll go through the house—together—and make sure it’s safe. Oh! I almost forgot!” I said. “I’ll be right back!” I ran back down into the basement and found my gun. I nearly forgot to get the ammunition for it. I had an instant image of me as Barney Fife.

  “You have a gun?!” She exclaimed with a skeptical look in her eyes. “Do you know how to use it? You don’t exactly look like the gun type”

  “What does the ‘gun type’ look like?”

  “For one thing, he looks like he knows how to handle a gun,” she said. “Right now it’s pointed at me. Is it loaded?”

  I pointed the revolver at the floor. “No, it’s not loaded. To tell the truth, I’ve never even shot it,” I admitted.

  “You mean fired it. You don’t shoot a gun, you shoot bullets. You fire a gun. Maybe you should give it to me. I used to go hunting with my dad all the time,” she said. I handed it over, feeling like I’d symbolically just handed her my testicles. The guy is supposed to carry the gun. But this was not the time to slip into some gender identity role that no longer mattered. I shrugged it off. I’m comfortable with my manhood.

  “Okay, let’s go. Remember, be as quiet as possible. If those things are out there, we don’t want them to hear us,” I reminded her. I quietly undid the three deadbolts and we poked our heads out, checking all around. Seeing the coast was clear, we stepped out. I almost forgot to close the door behind me, reminding me I wasn’t very good at this security and stealth kind of thing.

  By the time I turned around, she was nearly at the gate to her back yard. I saw her open the gate quietly and creep inside, the gun cradled against her shoulder. Reminds me of Agent Scully, I thought, Except Michelle has much nicer breasts! I mentally smacked myself on the head as soon as the thought passed through my mind. Focus, you idiot!

  I checked all the windows, the front door and the garage door as quickly as I could. I was trying to be stealthy and not attract any attention. Everything was secure. I took a glance at the Erickson’s house, then abruptly stood up, staring. There was a dead body lying in the grass with most of his head splattered around him. There was an arc of dark red dripping down the front door, along with a smeared handprint. I saw a lot of blood but no other bodies. Strange, I thought, where are the bodies? I hurried around the back. She was standing on her deck, looking around. “Everything’s fine back here,” she said, “except for all the smoke. That’s probably not a good sign, is it? And I hear a lot of noise. Sirens and what sounds like gunfire. That’s not a good sign!”

  Looking at the sky, I saw a single jet trail. Usually I could see several at any given time, Ann Arbor being situated in the flight path between Chicago and Detroit.

  Not waiting or needing a response from me, she unlocked the door and we quickly stepped inside. It was dimly lit and as quiet as a graveyard. Ooh, bad metaphor. Together we checked every room—every closet, every alcove, behind furniture. It was exhausting. Not only was I having to peer into dark rooms where zombies could be lurking, I also had to act like I wasn’t scared out of my fucking mind. Inwardly I cringed at practically every step. All of my se
nses were on full alert, and I didn’t like the feeling. She’ll never know how relieved I was when we agreed the house was empty and safe.

  She had a decent amount of food in her pantry, and her deadbolts looked pretty substantial. Her décor was a bit too decorative for my tastes—you could tell a woman lived here without a man—but she had good taste. Some of her framed art looked to be originals. She leaned toward art deco.

  We stood in the living room, still looking around. “Seems secure,” she said, “what do you think?”

  “I think you’re good. You have food to last a while. The water still works. How are you set for heat?”

  “I have a natural gas stove and a fireplace.”

  “You’re using a fireplace?!” I said. I suppose I sounded almost accusatory. “You can’t—“

  She interrupted me, saying, “Kevin, do you see any blonde roots in my hair? Give me some credit, willya? I’m not stupid. I’m not talking about a wood fire. People would see the smoke coming from my chimney and know someone was inside. Duh. I have natural gas logs. I’ll keep plenty warm.”

  “Sorry, I didn’t mean to imply that you were stupid. Although you might look nice as a blonde,” I said, tilting my head and squinting my eyes as if mentally replacing her auburn hair with blonde hair.

  “Yeah, you too, if you actually had any hair,” she shot back. “I think you can go back home. I’ve had a very rough day, my head still hurts, and I have to pee.”

  “Okay, but make sure you lock the door behind me,” I said as I headed toward the door. I saw her roll her eyes, as if to say, There he goes again. I’m not an idiot.

  With the door cracked, I took a look around to make sure it was safe. While I was doing so, I heard her say behind me, “Thanks for everything. You were there for me and I appreciate everything you did, being so neighborly and all. Hopefully I can return the favor sometime.”

  “Hopefully you’ll never need to,” I responded, then quickly crossed the distance between my house and her house. As I opened the door I glanced back. She gave a weak wave as I nodded my head and went inside.

  So now I’m sitting here, processing the last twenty four hours. She says she saw a zombie. I saw a woman in the street who looked and acted weird, and she sure scared the dog away. I saw a dead body in the Erickson’s front yard, and a lot of blood.

  I also had a woman sleep in my bed. I can’t recall the last time that happened. I’m in bed now, having spent the rest of the day taking care of things around here—working with the plants and unpacking those damn porn DVDs she happened to find. How embarrassing. She was right, there were some very strange titles in there, but there were also some that looked, um, entertaining. Even when living in the land of zombies, a guy has urges. I started to put the box of DVDs in closet, but then thought, Hell, there’s no one going to be dropping in. I might as well put them with my other DVDs. So I added a bunch of them to my movie collection. I only wish I’d unpacked the box before she was here. And wouldn’t you know, she’d pick out one of the stranger fetish DVDs. She probably really does think I’m a pervert.

  I don’t know if she wears perfume. I have no idea what kind of soap or laundry detergent she uses. But somehow I still catch a whiff of feminine scent in my bed. Maybe it’s just pheromones.

  It sure was weird having a practical stranger spend the night in my bed. Neighborly, she called it. Hmm.

  October 19th

  We had frost last night. The first of the season. It made me wonder: what happens to zombies when it gets seriously cold . . . ? Do they freeze? Do they stop moving and never move again? Do they just move slower? I’ll know within the next two months.

  October 20th

  I saw one. One of them. There is no doubt. I was standing in the side door, taking a look around. The trees are at their peak. The maple in Michelle’s yard has leaves of golden red on the outside, but the inner leaves are greenish-gold. It’s a gorgeous layered effect. The weathered gray wood of the back fence is interspersed with brilliant vermillion from poison ivy. It’s beautiful. Reminds me of some women I’ve known.

  The air is getting cooler by the day. Looking around, I began to wonder if Lake Michigan was still warm enough to wade in. It’s probably too cold for swimming unless you’re a polar bear.

  In years past, September and October have been my favorite times to go to the beach. The fudgies are gone, the kids are back in school. I’ve had extremely warm and pleasant days when I had the beach to myself. Once or twice, the water was warm enough in early October for me to skinny dip. I’ve also found some of my best Petoskey stones in October.

  It’s a whole different experience, looking for beach stones in the fall. Facing north, the view towards Frankfort is spectacular. The slant of light is different than during summer, and at their peak the trees on the dunes are radiant, especially close to sunset when surrounded by darker evergreens and pines. Offshore, the color of the water is darker, and few recreational watercraft dot the surface. No paragliding this time of year. And maybe it’s just my imagination, but the water sounds like fall. Less celebratory, more resigned.

  It’s almost sacred, being surrounded by such transient beauty while getting distracted by the search for pretty fossils of coral that lived millions of years ago. The brief and the seemingly eternal both impressing themselves upon my consciousness.

  So I was daydreaming about the Lake when I heard a scraping/crunching sound. It took me a minute to place it—it was the sound of fallen leaves being walked on. I couldn’t tell exactly where it came from, so I quietly crept to the front corner of the house to look around, being careful not to step on any leaves myself. As I peered around the corner, I saw a man. Or what used to be a man. He was sort of staggering around, aimlessly walking through my yard just shy of the street. I kept out of sight and watched him.

  He looked to be in his late fifties, but that’s just a guess. It was hard to tell. He wore what used to be a white V-neck t-shirt. Only now it was filthy, ripped, and stained with dried blood. The whole left side of his face was a dried up, unhealed wound. I could even see some of his sinus cavities. It looked like most of his hair on the other side had been burnt off. Gore had dripped down onto his shoulder, and the left arm hung limply at a strange angle.

  It moved forward down the street, occasionally jerking its head this way and that. I can only guess it was looking for flesh. I crept back inside and locked the door, then watched it until it was out of sight. I was nauseated and shaking. What used to be simply a concept for me has now become a reality. I’ve seen a zombie. They are real.

  “We have met the enemy and he is us.”—Walt Kelly (Pogo)

  November 1st

  The last ten days have been pretty quiet, if you call hiding in the basement of my house while more and more zombies mill about quiet. After my last entry, I started to see one or two a day, then I started seeing more . . . four or five, sometimes six. Sometimes two or three at a time. Yesterday I counted 12.

  It feels strange to lurk around my house, listening to the silence. Except for them. Everywhere they go, they make that snarling, rasping noise. When several of them get together, it sounds like a horrible, monstrous Barbershop quartet.

  I saw Michelle yesterday. I happened to be upstairs, peeking out the window (no, not toward her bedroom) when a huge explosion rocked the house. If I have my bearings straight, I think it came from the airport. But who knows, surely it wasn’t the Marathon refinery—it’s over twenty miles from here! Wherever it was, the explosion was huge, and like I said, it shook the house. It didn’t seem to frighten the zombies, but they all turned and started gravitating toward the sound. Evidently sound attracts them—which is good to know. Soon most of them were out of sight. I unbolted the side door and sprinted to Michelle’s house. I knocked quietly on the door, nervously looking around. She immediately opened the door and motioned me in. As soon as she closed and bolted the door behind me, she said, “Holy crap, Kevin, you scared the bejesus out of me!”

&nbs
p; “Sorry,” I said, “but I wanted to check on you. What do you think that explosion was?”

  “I was wondering the same thing. It might have been a gas station. It wasn’t the gas lines—I checked and the natural gas is still on,” she said.

  “You holding up okay over here?”

  “I’m not fishing for an invitation, but being alone is wearing on me. I feel like I’m in solitary or something. Don’t take that as a hint—I know it’s not safe to go traipsing back and forth between your place and mine. Have you noticed there are more and more of those things out there?!”

  “I had noticed. I guess they’re coming from downtown or the university. Who knows, maybe even Detroit. How are you on food and water?”

  “To be honest with you, I’ll be glad when this is over. I try to keep a stocked pantry, but I never planned on being stuck inside for weeks at a time. I sure hope things get back to normal soon,” she said ruefully.

  I thought, Back to normal? I’m afraid this is normal. The old normal may be gone forever. I also wondered who she thought would get control soon—the police? From what I saw on the net before it went down, the chain of command had fallen apart. There are no more police, or none on duty. I haven’t seen a patrol car in weeks.

  But I didn’t say it—instead, all I said was “Okay, I just wanted to check on you. Being neighborly and all that.” Parroting her earlier words, of course.

  “You don’t have to leave! I could use some company. And we should at least check the, shall we say, traffic before you open the door.”

  “True, I need to start remembering that.” I noticed she’d covered her windows with aluminum foil. “You have foil on all your windows?” I said.

  “Yep, every window is sealed tight. I did leave a small gap at the top of each window to let light in, otherwise it would be nearly dark in here”

  “Nearly?”

  “I have a skylight in the kitchen. I spend most of my time either there or by the fireplace, since it gives off light when the fire is lit. Who knows how long the gas will stay on. C’mon, I’ll show you the kitchen.“