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

by James K. Evans

  She led me through the dim light into the kitchen, which was indeed much brighter.

  “How do you see to get around at night? I’ve learned my lesson—you’re not an idiot and didn’t walk around with a flashlight or anything that could be seen,” I said, hoping to regain some ground I lost by implying she wasn’t very bright.

  “I mostly feel my way around once it gets dark. Now I know how blind people do it. I know where everything is even when I can’t see it. I’m also going to bed earlier, since there’s nothing else to do. Can’t read, can’t make a fire, can’t cook . . . it’s miserable really.”

  “Too bad it’s not safe for you to come visit me now and then,” I said, “I have lights on 18 hours a day. No way any light can possibly leak out. I can cook, and I can watch DVDs, I can even read at night.”

  “How can you do all that? The electricity’s been out for weeks!” she asked me.

  “I started reading a bunch of end-of-the-world books. I was in an apocalyptic mood. I also read books about tough characters in rough situations. I even went back and read Jack London’s books. It was fascinating to see what the characters would do to survive. A lot of the current books involve survivalists. I took a look around and realized how fragile my lifestyle was. One catastrophe—a pandemic, an electromagnetic pulse bomb, a terrorist attack, a severe climate disruption a hundred times worse than global warming—and I could lose everything and die a horrible death. If the grid went down, life as I knew it would disappear . . . it scared the hell out of me. I started stocking up on food and water, but the more I thought about it, the more I realized food and water wouldn’t do any good if I wasn’t safe and warm. On my roof are several banks of solar panels which charge the batteries downstairs, enough for me to run my LED lights for the plants and keep myself mildly entertained. I have a pretty good set up. I never dreamed I’d have to rely on it this soon.”

  I admit it—I was bragging. But I hadn’t been able to brag to anyone else about it, and I am proud of what I accomplished. “I also had professionals come in and renovate the unfinished basement. Took a huge chunk of change, but I had money left from Tammy’s life insurance, plus my 401k. Hah, my 401k. I guess that’s gone forever. Wish I’d spent it all! Everything is VERY energy efficient. What with the hydroponics, the stored goods, the liquor, and the books—“

  “And the porn!” She interrupted with the flash of a grin.

  “- and the DVDs, I’m set for quite a while. I don’t just have porn, you know. I have a huge movie collection.”

  We started talking about movies. It was refreshing to talk with someone, anyone, and I completely enjoyed it. I don’t know if it was just because I was starved for company or if I would have enjoyed her conversation just as much in different circumstances, but it was great.

  At one point she said something funny—I think she was talking about a scene from Date Night—and I started laughing my head off. “Shhhh!!” she shushed me with a look of alarm in her eyes, “you’re being too loud! They’ll hear you!!”

  We heard a noise out front. We jumped up from her kitchen table—we’d been there for a while—and bolted to the living room window. Apparently she was right—there was a zombie scratching at her front door, and several zombies ambling toward her house.

  “Shit!” she whispered.

  I immediately felt guilty and a little scared. “I’m sorry,” I whispered back, “I wasn’t thinking.”

  “It wasn’t your fault. I was having a good time, too,” she said, touching me on the arm. “I think we’re safe. No way they can get in, and if we’re quiet, maybe they’ll go away.”

  I didn’t feel safe, not like I would in my own home. Knowing they were just outside was quite unnerving.

  We sat down on the carpet near the window so we could keep an eye on them. Between it being so dim and us having to talk in near whispers, I felt like a kid again, staying up late at a friend’s house. I even said something about it. She agreed and said it felt like we were sneaking around.

  “Don’t worry, my parents aren’t expected home for a long time,” I said. “We can do whatever we want. Except make noise. Or build a fire. Or go outside. Or order a pizza. Or watch a movie.”

  As we fell silent, a fantasy leapt to my mind of her responding Or watch porn . . . but wait, we can! Or you can. So far I haven’t been invited to the party, with a pouting come-hither look. Now stop it! another part of me said, You know you don’t want to go there. There be dragons. I tried to refocus.

  We started quietly talking again. Compared notes on how this came about. Wondering about our friends. Wondering what was going to happen next. Soon we were having an intimate conversation about how we were responding to the horrible mess. She confessed she was stressed out and depressed. I admitted I sometimes wondered what the point was of trying so hard to survive when things were so grim. I admitted it made me miss my wife, and life hadn’t been so great since she died. We fell silent again. And yet, it was a companionable silence. Better than solitary silence.

  Eventually the zombies wandered off, since there wasn’t anything else to see or hear. I decided it was time to leave while the coast was clear, and told her so. As I headed for the door, a thought struck me: I had two sets of wireless baby monitors. I planned to keep one upstairs as a cheap security system, so if someone tried to break in, I’d hear them. The other set was a backup in case the first one quit working.

  The monitors have two components—a transmitter and a receiver. The part you leave in the baby’s room transmits but doesn’t receive and the one you keep with you receives but doesn’t transmit. Since I had two sets, I could give Michelle the receiver from one kit and the transmitter from the other kit, and we could keep in touch with each other. Since the sets are on different frequencies, anyone listening in would only hear one side of the conversation.

  Is it possible anyone’s monitoring the radio frequencies? Or should I say, is it probable?

  Michelle thought the idea was great. I think she’s been much lonelier than she lets on, and I can tell she’s losing weight. She’s still a big girl, but her clothes are looser. I hope she doesn’t lose weight up top.

  She’s looking pale. She must be trying to conserve food. At least if we had someone to talk to we wouldn’t go quite as stir crazy, and it adds another layer of security as well. She can watch my back. I can watch her front. Heh.

  She even suggested we set up checkers or backgammon, and play over the radio. That sounds like fun, but we’d have to have the honor system for rolling dice.

  Tomorrow if the coast is clear, I’ll take the radios over. I have fresh batteries and they should last a couple of weeks before they need to be recharged, which is no problem with my solar battery chargers.

  November 3rd

  The plans for yesterday didn’t work out for a couple of reasons, the biggest one being the number of zombies milling around. I don’t know if they somehow smell live humans, or sense us in some other way, or if there’s some residual memory of hearing us yesterday, but there are definitely more wandering around today than there were a couple of days ago. Even though they’re pretty slow, I didn’t dare try to take the radios over. I’ll try again tomorrow.

  I finally bottled the beer I’ve been neglecting in the carboy. Actually I bottled half of it, and kegged the other half. I sampled it, and even though it was warm and uncarbonated, I could tell it turned out mighty fine. I can pretty much guarantee it’s the best fresh homebrew in town. Unless there’s some Jolly Pumpkin in storage somewhere. Tomorrow or the next day it should be ready to drink. I wonder if Michelle likes beer? Maybe she’s more of a wine kind of gal.

  I wonder what it’s like at the Jolly Pumpkin brewpub downtown. Probably not so jolly.

  November 5th

  Another day with lots of zombies. But I learned something interesting last night. My camera has a nightshot mode which essentially is infrared—meaning you can see in the dark. Looking through the viewfinder, I could see well enough
to spot zombies. Apparently they either can’t see in the dark, or somehow they respond to the light/dark cycle, because all of the ones I saw were just standing there, barely moving. I say barely, because they weren’t completely still, and now and then one would walk few random steps. I think if they had sensed me they would have moved my way.

  Of course, I was watching them through the window. If I had been outside, things would have been different.

  At one point they must have heard a deer or dog across the street, because they all slowly turned their heads the same direction. No effort was made to move toward the sound, however.

  I’m thinking if the need arises for me to visit Michelle, I should do it at night when it’s safer.

  I’m going to write a note and stick it on the window to let her know I’ll try to go over at 10 p.m. She doesn’t know my camera lets me see in the dark, so it might make her worry some, but I’m anxious to get this communication gear operating.

  November 7th

  The last two days have been a roller coaster. Two nights ago, my plan worked, but it nearly cost me my life.

  At 10 p.m., conditions were perfect. It was completely dark and raining. I figured the rainfall would cover any sound I made.

  Just before 10:00 I put the radios and a bar of dark chocolate (yes, I stocked up on it too) in my backpack, grabbed my camera and went upstairs. I quietly unbolted and opened the door. I had already checked—the side of the house was free of zombies.

  I made my way to Michelle’s back deck and didn’t have to knock on the door before she opened it. She didn’t say “Come in!” of course—that would be foolish—but as soon as I was in, she quietly closed the door, then squared her shoulders and told me either I was crazy, had a death wish, or both. She was actually angry!

  The room was completely dark. Not dark like it is in the city—I mean pitch black dark. I kind of laughed, then turned the camera around and showed her how it helped me see. I also told her about the zombies and noise. She seemed to accept my behavior as perhaps not being quite as foolhardy as she’d thought.

  It was strange, standing in the dark, talking to her so quietly. I felt sure the rain would completely muffle the sound of our voices, but even so, we were both practically whispering.

  As it got late, I didn’t want to overstay my welcome and said I’d better get home.

  “Why don’t you stay?” she said.

  Did she mean for a while longer or overnight?!

  Between my having been outside among zombies and it being completely dark inside, I was a bit unnerved.

  I told her, “Thanks for the offer, but to tell you the truth, I’m not used to the darkness like you are. And I’m sure I’ll bump into things and make a fool of myself. I think it’s safer if I go home.”

  I held out the plastic bag. “I’m holding out my arm,” I said, “I have a plastic bag with the radios inside.”

  She reached out and found my hand. But before she took the bag, she just stood there holding my hand. For a long moment.

  I don’t know why she did that—I guess she needed a human touch.

  When I cleared my throat she shook herself and said, “Sorry, I was lost in thought for a second,” and then took the bag from me.

  “Lost in thought?” I asked her.

  “I was thinking about my first boyfriend. I was remembering the first time he held my hand. For some reason I was just now reminded of that night. Maybe it’s the rain. I remember my heart was pounding so hard I was afraid he could hear it. Just remembering it made my heart start racing! Here, feel!”

  As she said this, she placed my hand—I kid you not—on her breast, over her heart. Not on the nipple, but closer to her collar bone. But even so—my hand was touching her breast!

  Damn.

  Her heart definitely was racing, and mine was too. As if I was eighteen again, I felt myself getting a woodie.

  I swallowed—loud enough for her to hear—and said, “Wow, it is beating hard!” Immediately I regretted my choice of words. “It must have been some night!” Actually, I tried saying it once and found my throat was all closed up, so I cleared my throat and started over.

  If I were a more aggressive guy, I might have lowered my hand and given her breast a squeeze, but like it or not, I’m just not that kind of guy. Most guys would say she was practically begging me to make the next move, but how could I know for sure? I didn’t want to make an assumption, act on it, and make her mad, or be accused of assault, for God’s sake. I liked her; I didn’t want to ruin a potentially good friendship.

  And even though I’m nobody’s fool, I feel pretty sure she was, indeed, flirting with me. I was glad it was dark—otherwise she’d have seen me blushing and would probably have noticed my hard-on.

  I stood there, my hand still on her breast, enjoying the feel of it and feeling her heartbeat, when I suddenly became quite self-conscious. I practically jerked my hand back.

  She answered my question with a sigh (what did I ask? Oh yeah, must have been some night!), and said, “Yes, it was. It was sweet. We were both so naive. We ended up making out—my first French kiss, too. It was disappointing, but to be honest, I’ve gotten used to disappointment with guys.” Was she talking about that night with her first boyfriend, or about tonight?!

  “Let’s turn the radios on at, what, 9:00 tomorrow morning?” I suggested. She liked the idea, and I said I’d better get back home. I opened the door, then turned my camera back on (it had timed out) and whispered, “Talk to you tomorrow!”

  “I’m really looking forward to it,” she whispered, “thank you so much!” Then I took off.

  One thing I hadn’t thought of was this: Yes, it was dark. Yes, my camera was infrared capable so I could see. But the camera LCD screen emitted plain old visible light, so it must have lit my face up earlier.

  When I went through her gate, a zombie was just on the other side of the fence. The stench hit me first—it’s a dead animal smell, mixed in with something else, something I can’t quite place. Sort of like rotted garlic.

  Before I could react, it grabbed me, snarling. I tried to lunge away, but its grip on me was very tight. Without my camera to help me see (I’d almost dropped it, but managed to hold on to the strap) I was blind and nearly gagging from the foul odor. I couldn’t tell where its face or mouth was, and when I tried to wrench my arm away, I slipped on the wet grass and fell to the ground. I involuntarily let out a series of shouts, which was a mistake. Immediately the zombie was on top of me, still snarling, bits of wet rotted flesh falling off its arms and landing on me. I could hear the sound of other zombies not too far away.

  Apparently light affects them like sound. They gravitate toward it. And when motivated, they do move at night.

  Without thinking—panicking, really—I swung the camera with all my might in the darkness. I connected with something—head? shoulder?—hard enough for the zombie to lose its hold on me. I jumped to my feet and ran in the direction I hoped was my house. I misjudged the distance, though, and ran smack into the side of my house and let out a shout of pain.

  Between the impact of my head and body hitting the side of the house and my shout, I’d made more noise. I could hear the zombie behind me, moving closer. I heard other snarling sounds much closer than they had been. I didn’t know it at the time, but I’d also done a number on my nose and was bleeding profusely. This was my first clue that zombies somehow sense fresh human blood and get excited, because the volume and intensity of the snarling was increasing. Stunned, I groped my way to the door.

  Just as I started to open it, either the same zombie or a different one grabbed my shoulder. The fingers were half rotten, and even with my nose messed up, the stench was overwhelming; I could even taste it.

  This time I lunged forward with all my might, got through the door, and tried to slam it shut. The zombie still held onto my shirt. I couldn’t close the door. I shoved with all my strength, pinning the arm inside. Keeping my weight on the door, I stripped off my shirt
, grabbed the half rotten arm, and managed to force it out, still clutching my shirt. Bits of dark, congealed and rotted flesh were smeared all over my hands.

  I finally got the door locked and bolted, but my shirt was now half in, half out of the door. I had a severe case of the willies, so I fled down a couple of steps, then hurriedly closed and bolted the trap door before heading downstairs.

  Once I got in the light, I saw blood dripping on my chest. I was afraid I’d been bitten, so I grabbed a lantern and headed into the bathroom. Looking in the mirror, I could see blood streaming from my nose. I gave myself a quick examination to check for bite wounds (thank God there were none!) then grabbed a towel and pressed it to my nose. Ouch.

  I started the shower and jumped in. I tipped my head back, letting the water rush over me. I held my hands in the stream to clean them. When I saw my hands were free of zombie flesh, I let the soaked towel drop to the floor, then reached up and pinched my nostrils shut. My heart was still pounding furiously. With my system so amped up with adrenalin, I probably bled even harder. But eventually, my heart slowed and I was able to let go of my nose without it bleeding again. By that time my breathing had slowed as well. I allowed myself the luxury of staying in the shower for a few minutes, trying to stop shaking.

  I finally got out, dried off with a fresh towel, then went for the bottle of bourbon I’d opened when I gave Michelle a drink. I poured myself a stiff one.

  My hands were still shaking very badly. I downed the drink and had another. Even swallowing hurt. That’s how much my face was swelling. I sat there, dazed, a myriad of thoughts swirling around my head. The zombie. It had almost bitten me. My hand on Michelle’s breast. The zombie. The stench. Her voice. My hard-on. My camera. My camera!

  I got up and retrieved it from the floor where I’d practically dropped it. The lens was ruined. But the power came on. So maybe only the lens was trashed. I have other lenses, but damnit, it was my favorite. What an idiot I was. The zombies . . . now there are a bunch of them out there, and they know I’m in here. They smelled or sensed my blood.