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

by James K. Evans

  And in the middle of this maelstrom of horror, pain, misery, and death, I was getting a hard-on, looking at a pretty woman in front of me, naked beneath her bathrobe, skin warm and flushed from a hot shower. I kept wishing the bathrobe would fall open.

  Just then Michelle said, “Kevin, I think I’m going to . . .” Before she could finish, she got a strange look on her face, one of alarm and disgust, and quickly capped her hand over her mouth as she began to gag. She sat down for a minute before she removed her hand from her mouth.

  “Ugh,” she said, “that smell came back into my head for a second. I scrubbed and scrubbed, but I can still smell it.”

  There’s nothing quite like a beautiful, sexy woman gagging in your face to break the mood. I got a bucket from the grow room and placed it at her feet. Just in case.

  “I never even saw it coming,” she said. “I didn’t know it was there.”

  “She,” I said.

  “She?”

  “It was a woman. She had long hair and breasts. She sort of had on a bra.”

  “Kevin. They’re zombies. They aren’t men and women any more. Not male or female. They’re just zombies.”

  She was right. Suddenly she burst out laughing.

  “You should have seen yourself holding the revolver,” she laughed, “you had this uncomfortable look on your face, like you were holding a tampon.”

  I started laughing as well. “That’s how it felt! Like it was something I had no business holding!” We were both laughing now. “But what did you expect? The last trigger I pulled was on a squirt gun!”

  At my use of the words ‘squirt guns’ she started laughing even harder.

  “You should have seen the look on your face!” I laughed, turning the tables on her. “You looked so mad I think you would have shot me instead of the zombie if I’d given you the gun! And when I finally shot her—I mean it—and the zombie splattered all over you, you looked so disgusted I thought you were going to hurl right then and there! It was like a guy giving a girl an unexpected and unwelcomed facial!”

  I was still laughing, thinking my analogy was clever, when Michelle got a funny look on her face, then quickly grabbed the bucket and gagged into it. I filled her glass with fresh water.

  When I handed it back to her, she glared at me, her head still poised above the bucket, and said, “That was not funny. It was rude. I can’t believe you even said that.” But moments later, she started laughing again. “Truth be told, I’d rather have that kind of facial than a zombie facial.”

  I started laughing again, mainly out of relief that she didn’t stay pissed for long. But of course, even in the midst of laughing, I had an interesting visual of her getting a facial.

  “Oh my,” she said, wiping tears from her eyes, “that was so disgusting . . . I’ll never forget how it felt when it splattered all over my face . . .”

  “That’s what she said,” I added.

  Michelle suppressed a giggle, then said, “We are two of a kind, Kevin. Just a while ago we were grappling with a zombie and having guts splattered all over us, and now we’re laughing about it.”

  “It’s pure stress relief,” I said, “it’s how our bodies purge those fight or flight chemicals.”

  “I’m feeling a bit loopy right now,” she said, “do you mind if I just sit for a few minutes?” As she said this, I noticed her robe had loosened, and a bit more cleavage was showing. It must have been all the laughter that did it.

  I tore my eyes away. “You sit here as long as you want,” I said.

  We sat there for a few minutes, going over what happened and how close we came to calamity. Then her face scrunched up.

  “Kevin,” she said tensely, “do you think I’m infected?”

  “I have no idea. I doubt it, but I’m not sure. When the TV and internet still worked, the reports were all about getting infected by zombie bites. You didn’t get bit. You don’t have any open sores or anything. I’m pretty sure you’re okay. Let’s try not to obsess about it. I know I’m not going to—I think you’re fine. Let’s think about something else. Come help me with the plants.”

  I left the living room and went into the grow room. My spinach seeds had sprouted, so I transferred the peat pellets into neti pots, then added them to a raft in my seedling reservoir. I had been working for about ten minutes, and was about halfway done, when I saw Michelle standing in the doorway, sipping her glass of water.

  “So how does all this work? Don’t you need dirt?”

  I finished putting the sprout I was handling into the raft, then went to stand near her.

  “See the tub of water where I put the plant? I use a floating raft technique, where a sheet of foam floats on top of the water. The plants sit in holes in the foam. I’ve added fertilizer to the water and an air pump puts oxygen in the water—like in a fish tank. The plant gets everything it needs – water, light, and nutrients. It’s an easy way to grow simple crops like lettuce and herbs.”

  “So why do you have so many different containers? Why not just one big one?” She asked.

  “The table closest to us is for seedlings. See how close the lights are to the baby plants? The water has a very weak solution of fertilizer—it’s for the youngest plants. Once the seedlings have matured, they go onto the second table, which contains a stronger nutrient solution and uses LED lights instead of fluorescent. See those red and blue lights above the plants on the second table? Those are LED lights. The plants stay there the longest. When they’re about ready to harvest, I put them on the third table, which is mainly water and a few ‘sweetening’ agents. The water flushes any remaining nutrients out of the plants, because those nutrients don’t taste good. And the sweetening agents help improve the taste as well.” I was deliberately giving her ample information to distract her from her worries.

  “So the plants actually grow under those red and blue lights?” she asked. “They don’t seem bright enough.”

  “The light they emit is custom designed for plants. The light spectrum is just what the plants need. A lot of the visible light we see isn’t used by plants. LED lights are extremely energy efficient, last a long time, and put out very little heat. Heat equals wasted energy. I wouldn’t be able to grow nearly as many plants if I just used fluorescent, or if I used a 400 watt or 1000 watt metal halide light. Those blue lights are especially made for plants you don’t want to flower—like lettuce and spinach. See the one with a mix of red and blue? It’s over the tomato plants and peppers. See the little cherry tomatoes? That’s because the red lights encourage flowering, which you need for fruiting plants like tomatoes and peppers.”

  “And your solar panels provide enough power for all this?”

  “This, plus the coffee maker, the water heater and everything else.” I said.

  “Where is the water heater? I didn’t see a tank,” Michelle asked.

  “I use a tankless heater. It only heats the water you need, not a whole tank full. That’s why I had to tell you to get out of the shower. You were using enough hot water to drain the batteries. The solar panels charge the batteries during the day, so at night I can still have power. All the electronics I have are very energy efficient. Oh, and get this,” I said, going into the bedroom to get the fluorescent lantern I’d placed in there. “Come in here, I want to show you something.”

  Michelle smirked. “Like I haven’t heard that line before.” She joined me despite her protests.

  I showed her the bedroom—the full sized bed, the dresser, the closet. Nothing special. I held up the fluorescent lantern so she could see the whole room.

  “Now watch!” I said, and I turned off the lantern. With the lights off, she could see the walls were glowing. Not a lot—they hadn’t had much time to charge—but enough for her to get the idea.

  “I painted the walls with phosphorescent paint, so if I read before I turn the lights off, the walls glow for a while. The glow slowly fades out, just like a sunset. In fact, with this paint, the walls never go completely dark
. I used a new kind of glow in the dark paint that lasts much longer than the old stuff.”

  “Kevin, this is so cool!” Michelle exclaimed. “What a smart thing to do! In a really geeky kind of way. And I’d have never known it by the color, although I must admit I thought it was a bit drab.”

  “Let me show you something,” I said, “Go stand against the wall with your arms held out.” Michelle did as I asked. “Now stay there for about thirty seconds,” I said, turning the lantern back on. She stood still as I counted out loud. When I reached thirty, I turned off the lantern. “Now look!”

  Michelle looked back and gasped. Where she had been standing, the light had cast a shadow on the wall. When she moved away, the entire wall glowed except where she’d been standing. You could see a dark silhouette where she had been. The detail was amazing.

  “Now that’s pretty neat, I must admit,” she said. “I’ll bet it could be romantic, too, in the right circumstances.” I’d never thought of it like that.

  “Hmm . . .” I said. “I guess so. I did it as another way to save energy, and to make this place seem less like a dark, dingy cave. I haven’t done the other rooms, but I have plenty of paint if we decide to. But for now, it’s starting to get late. How about a beer while I make dinner? Then we should probably call it an early night. It’s been a rough day.”

  Michelle nodded her head in agreement, and I led her back into the living room. “Do you really have beer?” she asked.

  “Yes, I brew my own. I couldn’t imagine going without beer for months at a time. Why, do you like beer?”

  “I like some beer. I’m not crazy about it or anything though,” she said. “I prefer wine.”

  “You’re out of luck as far as wine goes. I don’t have a single bottle.”

  “I have a case of wine in my garage,” she said, “I didn’t think to grab it. Maybe if things settle down outside we can go get it. In the meantime, I’ll try one of your beers.”

  I poured us both a pint from the kegerator, handed it to her, and busied myself in the kitchen. I was cutting up lettuce, spinach and cilantro, adding some croutons and cashews. Michelle slowly sipped the beer.

  “This beer is pretty good,” she said. “It has a lot of flavor. Kind of bitter, but in a good way.”

  “That’s the hops,” I explained. “Some people say it helps stop the beer from going bad. It also adds aroma and flavor.”

  I opened a can of tuna and added it to the salad and we sat down to eat in the living room. I noticed Michelle kind of picked at her tuna salad.

  “Four hours ago I would have been thrilled to have a fresh salad,” she said, “but now I’ve lost my appetite. I’m still freaked out and I’m trying not to let myself dwell on whether or not I’m infected.”

  I repeated that I didn’t think it was likely as all the news reports I’d seen and read said a zombie bite is what infects you. She didn’t have any open wounds either, and she’d scrubbed herself, so I told her I thought she was safe. That seemed to make her feel better. She started eating the salad.

  “This is delicious!” She said, “And you’re right! The lettuce is so sweet!”

  “When’s the last time you ate?” I asked.

  “I had some peanuts yesterday,” she said, “I was trying to conserve my food. I didn’t know how long I’d have to make it last.” She finished her beer and asked if she could have another.

  “Sure!” I said, pleased she liked it. I poured her another and topped off mine, and sat down to finish my salad.

  “Daughter of a doctor, eh?” I said, “So I guess you grew up pretty well-off.”

  Michelle told me a bit about her family and about growing up in Indiana. She continued to drink her beer, and the longer she talked the more I noticed her words getting slurred. From two beers?! I thought. Then I realized she’d had the Xanax as well. I suspected the combination would put her to sleep in no time. I finished up my salad, put the dirty dishes in the sink, and suggested we set up the inflatable mattress.

  “Don’t you mean inflatable doll?” she smirked. “I guess I am a bit tired. And tipsy! Those beers are strong!”

  As I got the mattress out of the box, I reminded her about the Xanax. She hit herself on the forehead with the heel of her hand. “I should have thought of that!” she said, “Xanax and alcohol don’t mix!”

  I spread the mattress out near the sofa, then started the pump. Within a couple of minutes, the mattress was inflated and firm enough to sleep on. While I was getting it situated, Michelle helped herself to another beer and then found some sheets and a blanket among the things she’d brought over. Together we made the bed.

  As we finished she said, “I’m gonna get in my pajamas,” pulling out some pink camouflage flannel pajamas from her things. She went into the bathroom and quickly changed.

  When she came back, I had a hard time not staring. The pj’s were not the least bit provocative—they were flannel after all—but she filled them out very nicely. The top framed her breasts wonderfully, accentuating their fullness. The top two buttons were undone, giving me more than a glimpse of The Great Divide. Have I mentioned how nice and large her breasts are? I could see she didn’t have a bra on, either, as her nipples were slightly poking out. Come to think of it, I guess women don’t wear bras to bed. Do they?

  The bottoms were not tight, but they made her ass look great. With an ass like hers, I could easily switch from a boob man to an ass man. I could feel myself getting hard again.

  “Wow, those beers are really hitting me,” she said, raising her arms and running her fingers through her pretty auburn hair. The effect, of course, was to lift her breasts even higher, and her nipples poked out even more. I couldn’t help but look. They were wonderful. When I glanced up she was looking at me.

  “What’re you looking at, Kevin?” she asked slyly.

  “Your pj’s,” I ad-libbed. “I’ve never seen pink camo before.”

  Michelle dropped her arms to her sides with a sigh then giggled. I could tell she was feeling pretty woozy. “Says the guy whose radio has yellow bunnies and pink kitties on it,”

  “Hey, those are baby monitors! I didn’t choose how they looked!”

  She was a tad unsteady on her feet as she walked over to me. “I’m gonna get in bed, but would you stay here an’ talk t’me for a few minutes?” As she said this, she sidled up next to me and put her arm around me, pressing her breasts against me. “I don’t wanna have bad dreams tonight. I wanna have sweet dreams.” Her voice now a whisper, she raised up on her tiptoes and brushed her lips against my cheek.

  “Michelle . . .” I said, trying my best to protest.

  Ignoring me, Michelle whispered, “I wanna dream ‘bout you.” She put her finger tips on my chin and turned my head to face her. Her lips met mine. I gave in. Our lips parted and I felt her tongue slip in. Hesitatingly, my tongue met hers. I pulled her body close, relishing the feeling of her breasts and hard nipples, holding her abdomen against mine. My hardness pressed against her body. We kissed for a few seconds before she abruptly pulled away.

  “I’m sorry, Kevin,” she said drunkenly. “Sometimes alcohol make s’me forget my social grazes.” She was making an attempt to articulate, but it was obvious she was struggling.

  She giggled and ungraciously plunked down on the air mattress. “Whoopsie! I lost my balance!” I helped her as she tried to get under the sheet and blanket, then pulled them over her. Essentially, I tucked her in. Her eyes were drooping. She was fading fast.

  “Thanks, Kev-Kev,” she mumbled, “I think you are so . . . so . . .” And that was the end of that. She was fast asleep.

  It was still somewhat early, probably about 9:00, but I decided to call it a night. I went into the bedroom, turned off the light, and in the newly-discovered romantic glow of the bedroom walls, lay miserably frustrated, staring at the ceiling while the walls slowly faded.

  November 25th

  It’s been a couple of days since she moved in. I woke up early the next mo
rning and just lay there in the dark, puzzling over what had happened. I know she was intoxicated, but even so, she came on to me big time. I get the feeling that had I wanted to (and she hadn’t fallen asleep), I could have had sex with her. Obviously I don’t have much resistance. Who would? She’s a beautiful, smart, engaging woman with large breasts. If she had gone so far as to undo one more button on her pajama top, I would have been unable to resist.

  But as I lay there, staring at the ceiling I couldn’t see and the very faintly glowing walls, the events of the night started to bother me. I agreed she could move in as a way to ensure security for both of us and as a helper for me. I didn’t sign up to have a girlfriend, or even a friend with benefits. I’ve been around long enough to know that sex usually creates more problems than it solves. Lovers break up. Lovers have huge fights. Lovers don’t last. Friends do. If I were to allow myself to get into a casual sexual relationship with her, it could ruin everything. It would certainly change everything. Even if she said, Hey, no strings attached, room-mates with benefits, you know?! I don’t think I’d believe her. I’ve been in that situation before. You have needs, I have needs . . . let’s meet each other’s needs. We don’t need to be in love. That’s what they say. But in no time, it turns into Why don’t you ever say you love me? Ugh. The whole situation brings up bad memories of inadvisable decisions.

  Those were my thoughts as I lay there, wondering how to proceed. I must have dozed off, because I awoke to the sound of dishes rattling in the kitchen. I got dressed and went into the living room. Michelle must have been up for a while—the bed was already deflated and I could smell fresh coffee. The dishes were washed and in the drying rack. As I walked into the kitchen, she looked up with a big sunny smile.

  “Good morning! I hope you don’t mind me making coffee!”

  “Absolutely not! I’m just glad to see you’re none the worse for wear! The combo of Xanax and beer really did a number on you!” I said, making every attempt to keep my eyes above her neck. She was still wearing the pink camo pj’s, and the top two buttons were still undone.