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

by James K. Evans

  Once we were finished, we went upstairs to check on the herd. Initially when I looked out the window toward the street, everything looked about the same. Zombies were milling about, seeming to congregate more around my house than anywhere else, and I could see a few of them wandering up and down the street. But something didn’t look right. It took me a minute to notice that some of the zombies were on the ground. They looked freshly injured—broken legs and even broken spines prevented them from getting up. The few that were immobile had horrific head injuries. They looked as though they’d been attacked. What the hell? I thought. And I realized: zombies don’t attack each other. And other animals don’t attack them either.

  Only people attack zombies. This means we’re not the only two people left alive in Ann Arbor! My first spontaneous reaction was one of elation—maybe the authorities were getting things under control.

  But my second reaction was one of fear and caution. Someone was out there. There was no way to know if he or she was a friend or foe, but if it was someone struggling to survive, and if they found out I had food, booze, drugs, electricity, and a woman—they could take them from me. And the simplest way to do that would be to kill me. Once I was incapacitated, they could do what they wanted with Michelle. The idea of someone breaking into my house, killing me, and raping or killing Michelle was horrifying.

  Michelle had been looking through the other windows, but when she glanced at me she could tell something was wrong. “Kevin, what’s going on? You look like you’ve seen a ghost!”

  “I’d rather see a ghost, to tell you the truth!” I said. I showed her the zombies on the ground and how it looked like they’d been attacked.

  “So someone is out there killing zombies in the street. Good for them. Maybe it’s the authorities. What’s the problem?” she asked.

  “Let’s go downstairs and talk.” Suddenly I didn’t feel safe. As we headed downstairs I thought about what she said and decided it was unlikely for any authorities to have caused the damage I saw, and I told her so when were safely in the living room with the trap door closed behind us. “If it was the authorities, they wouldn’t kill or injure a few and quietly move on. They’d be knocking on houses, looking for survivors. Whoever it is, I doubt they’re going around killing zombies just for fun. It’s not a sport, and it’s far too dangerous to do on a lark. The only sane reason would be for survival, maybe to get the zombies out of the way so they could scavenge some food. I wouldn’t be surprised if they’re systematically breaking into all the houses on this street and taking anything they can use. And think about it, Michelle—what would happen if they went into a house and found living people?”

  “I suppose they’d try to take their stuff, no matter how. Survival of the fittest and all that.”

  “Exactly. And if these aren’t good guys but are bad guys, what do you think they might do if they found a woman?”

  Michelle’s eyes grew dark. “I hadn’t thought about that.”

  “Well I had. The thought of someone figuring out we’re in here, then breaking in and either stealing our stuff or finding you . . . I can’t allow that to happen.”

  “So you’re worried about me and want to protect me, is that what you’re saying? Like I’m some poor defenseless woman, a member of the weaker sex?”

  “I know better. You’re a hell of a lot better with a gun than I am, and I suspect you can take care of yourself just fine. But we’re a team now. We watch each other’s back. I watch your back, you watch mine. We’re partners. I hope you feel the same. And of course I’m concerned about protecting you. I admit it. You’re the only friend I have in the whole world. If something happened to you . . . I don’t know what I’d do. Let’s just say I’ve grown accustomed to your face.”

  Michelle stood there, thinking about it. Even in the midst of this new concern, I couldn’t help but notice again how lovely she was in the light coming from the grow room.

  We talked it over and agreed that there wasn’t much we could do—we were already being very careful. But we did decide to keep the gun close at hand so either of us could get to it almost immediately. We also decided we should take turns watching the street through the window for a few days to see if we could ascertain who was out there.

  “Do we have to do it alone?” she asked. “I don’t want to be a wuss, but I don’t relish the idea of being up there alone, looking out the window at zombies.”

  “We can do it together then,” I said, “and don’t forget we have the radio in case one of us has to be alone for a few minutes.”

  So that’s where things stand today. It’s already dark out, and we’ve come back downstairs. But for the next few days, I’m going to be uptight until I have more information. How many there are, whether they’re armed . . . I need to know what I’m dealing with.

  We played a few games of backgammon later, but my heart wasn’t in it, so I went to bed early again.

  November 28th

  I got up a few minutes before seven o’clock as planned and turned on the radio. Michelle was still on the inflatable mattress, but she was awake and watched me in silence. We were disappointed when all we heard was the same repeating message we heard the day before. We decided to leave the radio turned on for a few hours in case I had the time mixed up. Or maybe the live broadcast got delayed.

  We went through the motions of pretending it was just another day. Worked with the plants. Finally put Michelle’s stuff away—some of it went in storage, her clothes went into an empty closet, some of her personal belongings she kept in an overnight bag. It would do for now.

  We went up and watched the street. One of us would watch while the other person sat in a chair nearby. We made small talk. Got to know each other a little better. Neither of us did any flirting—personally I’m not in the mood to flirt, much less make an attempt at levity. My heart rate is up, as is my blood pressure, I imagine.

  Michelle told me about her family, how they were strict church-goers throughout her childhood, and how much she loved her father. Women don’t always say this about their dads, and it was touching. She didn’t say much about her mom.

  In turn, I told her about my family, my childhood memories of picking cherries in July and apples in October. I told her about Dad’s garden that I didn’t pay the least bit of attention to, and now wish I had. I’m sure I could have learned a lot from him. I told her about our vacations near the dunes. She’s never seen Lake Michigan and wondered what the big deal is. I wanted to explain it . . . but I shrugged and told her she’d have to experience it herself. I offered to take her once we get out of this mess.

  When it got dark, we went downstairs and had some dinner. She read while I fiddled with the shortwave. I heard one transmission, but it faded out before I could get a handle on what they were saying. It was in English—I don’t know if this radio can pick up transmissions from very far away—being in the basement doesn’t help. I’ll need to figure out a way to rig a better antennae.

  After a while, we called it a night and went our separate ways.

  December 1st

  The past few days have been a repeat of the entry above. Except we had our first snowfall. Only a couple of inches.

  It’s strange how in the midst of horror, we still find things to laugh about. After we’d done our chores (including harvesting some of the herbs and laying them out to dry), we went upstairs to take a look around.

  When we exited the basement, I noticed there wasn’t much light. Peeking out the window I saw an overcast sky and falling snow. It must not be very cold, because the snow isn’t sticking to the road or the yard. Then I called Michelle over and asked her what she saw.

  “I see the neighborhood, falling snow, and zombies,” she replied.

  “Take a closer look at the zombies.”

  Michelle stood looking for a moment, then said, “That’s strange. The snow seems to be sticking to them. Why would it stick to them and not anything else?”

  “I guess for the same reaso
n a bridge will freeze before the road. The zombies cool down faster than the ground.”

  Michelle started laughing. “There should be signs posted, ‘Caution: zombie freezes before road’!”

  I laughed out loud. I thought it was hilarious. I was tempted to make a sign and go hang it around one of their necks, but decided against it. We chuckled for a few more minutes, then went back downstairs.

  I don’t think I’ve ever laughed—really laughed—with anyone more than I have with Michelle. Anyone since Tammy.

  My earlier observation about the zombies moving slower in the cold was confirmed. I wonder what will happen when the temperatures drop to near zero, and we have a heavy snowfall? What would happen if we got hit by an ice storm? Would the zombies be rendered immobile? Are they like fish who freeze in the ice but are fine when the ice thaws? Maybe I’ll find out soon.

  December 3rd

  It’s incomprehensible what we saw. After chores yesterday morning, we went upstairs to check the traffic, so to speak. It was my turn to watch, so I stood at the window, watching the street. The snow a few days ago didn’t stick, but the sky was gray and overcast. Zombies milled about, slowly shuffling along. Things were uneventful for about ninety minutes until I saw movement with my peripheral vision.

  I turned my head and couldn’t believe my eyes: I saw the garage door opening on a house about half a block down the street. What looked like a modified delivery truck backed out. Steel panels had been welded onto the side, metal grating covered the windows, and a huge plow-like device (I think they used to call them cowcatchers) was mounted on the front. I thought it was a snow plow until the truck headed our way.

  Zombies were slowly congregating toward it, attracted to the noise and movement. The truck drove straight toward them, and the impact of the truck hitting the first zombie flung the creature onto the sidewalk, one dismembered leg flying into the grass beyond. Bone and tissue flew in all directions.

  The zombies continued to move toward the truck, and it simply mowed them down. The truck was making no attempt to avoid them—in fact, it swerved to hit them.

  Zombies with major head trauma quit moving. The rest would get knocked aside or run over and try to get back up. The ones unable to get to their feet began to crawl toward the truck.

  The truck raced down the road past my house. The driver looked like he was enjoying himself. His window was open and he held a cigarette and bottle of beer. The passenger appeared to be laughing. Steering with one hand, the driver brought his left hand to his mouth to take a drag from his cigarette and a swig of beer, then tossed the bottle out the window. It hit a zombie in the shoulder then fell to the pavement and shattered.

  When a zombie became snagged by the cowcatcher, the driver screeched to a stop, flinging the zombie onto the pavement ahead, then roared back into motion, running it over. Apparently the driver didn’t think he’d done a good enough job, because he backed up and ran over it again. As the rear tire ran over the zombie’s head, it exploded with a wet pop. They both thought it was hilarious.

  Michelle was sitting on the carpet, leaning against the wall. She heard me gasp and rushed to the other window as the truck moved on down the street. Apparently there weren’t as many zombies to have sport with further down, because the truck turned around and came roaring back down the street, mowing down more zombies. Zombies were still appearing, coming from around the sides of houses and sometimes from within houses whose front doors were open. The truck was honking its horn, too, which I couldn’t understand—were they trying to attract the zombies? Did these guys have a death wish? Were they trying to draw a crowd? That’s insane!

  I was wrong when I said no one killed zombies for fun. I should have said no normal person kills a zombie for fun. Once the street was practically clogged with zombies, it happened. It makes me sick to even recall what I saw.

  The truck screeched to a stop a few doors past us. After a brief pause, a roll up door on the back of the truck opened. Metal sheets were welded to the frame around the bottom half, blocking the zombies from reaching inside.

  As the door rose, three men became visible. One guy, who was probably fifty years old and grossly overweight, may have been the driver. The other two were younger and skinnier—maybe in their late twenties. They all wore dirty jeans and soiled shirts. One had a garish tattoo on his left bicep, although I couldn’t tell what it was. The third guy must have been in the back of the truck.

  As we watched, the two skinny guys reached down to pick something up. It was a naked woman. Her head was covered with a pillowcase or cloth bag, stained with blood. Her hands and ankles were bound with duct tape. There were bruises across much of her body, as well as cuts and abrasions. Her entire back side—including her back, ass, and legs—had lateral bruise stripes. In several places were small scabbed over wounds.

  She was limp as a dishrag and looked like she might be dead. A trail of smeared dried blood ran from her crotch down her left leg. She was gaunt and pale.

  The men carried her to the edge of the door frame, causing the zombies to start their rasping sounds, mouths open, hands and arms scrabbling against the sheet metal as they tried to reach her. I heard Michelle gasp as the woman weakly struggled, apparently roused by the sound of the zombies. She desperately tried to get loose, squirming and twisting, but it was hopeless.

  The big man reached over and pulled the sack off her head. One of her eyes was purple and nearly black, swollen shut. The look of panic on her beaten face when she saw the mass of zombies reaching for her, teeth gnashing, clawing at the metal plates, will haunt me all my days.

  With the bag off her head, I could tell she was maybe thirty years old with bloodied and matted blond hair. Her struggling increased, but despite her desperation it was no use—between the duct tape and the guys’ hold on her, she had no chance of escape.

  The men held her out over the mass of zombies. She evidently lost control of her bowels. Liquid spewed over the zombies below her. The big guy spit a wad of phlegm onto her face. The zombies seemed to be getting more agitated. They were practically rioting. The throng pushed harder and harder at each other to get to her flesh. They began trying to climb over each other to get to the woman, trampling each other in the process.

  As zombies fell, other zombies climbed on top of them, reaching for the woman. The two guys held her just out of reach, and when the mass of zombies grew too high, the fat man jumped back in the driver’s seat and pulled forward about ten feet. The pile of zombies collapsed and then began to reconstitute at the back of the truck.

  As Michelle and I watched in stunned silence, the fat man came back and ripped the duct tape off her mouth—taking some of the skin with it as she began screaming. Her lips and mouth started bleeding freely. The zombies went into a frenzy as the woman screamed wordlessly.

  The two men heaved the woman into the horde.

  With a tumult of rasping, the zombies swarmed her as her horrifying screams echoed through the neighborhood.

  Michelle and I locked eyes. Hers were hard and dark, filled with terror, disbelief, and emptiness. Mine must have looked the same.

  Michelle sank down on the carpet. I turned back to the window and saw the guy with the tattoo laughing. The other skinny guy watched with a smirk.

  The screaming woman sank into the crowd of clawing, ripping, rasping creatures. A zombie party with a live human piñata.

  As the woman’s screams died out, the big guy unzipped his pants, pulled out his pecker, and began to piss into the crowd where the woman had landed. Steam rose from the swarm of feeding zombies.

  While he was doing this, one of the other guys came up with two fresh bottles of beer, one of which he handed to the skinny guy while saying something that made them both laugh.

  The zombies had swarmed the woman. I couldn’t see her, thank God. All I saw was the occasional raised zombie head as it chewed a ripped and bloody piece of the woman’s flesh, blood dripping off its chin.

  When the man fi
nished pissing, the three of them continued looking down into the fray, laughing and joking. The skinny guy chugged his beer and hurled the empty bottle into the crowd, then gave the zombies the finger. Now that the zombies were preoccupied with eating, the truck sped back to the house it had come from. The garage door opened and the truck pulled in. The garage door closed behind them.

  The neighborhood no longer looked like the quiet street I have lived on for so many years. Sure, the houses were still there, complete with mailboxes lining the street. Cars were parked in a few driveways.

  But there was a mass of rotting, broken flesh clotting the street, looking for all the world like a tumor. A writhing, bloody tumor, infecting the neighborhood with cancer. These creatures were no more human than maggots, or like vultures scrabbling over road kill.

  Michelle and I were speechless, trying to come to grips with what we had witnessed. I felt nauseated and tasted bile in the back of my throat.

  I crossed the room and held out my hand. She just looked at it blankly for a moment before reaching out. I pulled her to her feet, put my arm around her, and helped her downstairs and to the sofa. While she sat there, I found the bottle of Xanax and handed her a tablet. I swallowed one as well.

  We sat in silence until I noticed she was shivering. I got a blanket, draped it over us, and began to talk, telling her not to worry, that we were safe, no one would find us, I'd take care of her, I'd protect her. I don’t know if I believed my own words, but I repeated them over and over, and after a long time I felt her body—which had been utterly tense and stiff—start to relax. Her breathing got deeper, and as I looked down at her, I saw her eyes were closed. She had fallen asleep. I wanted to get up; my bladder was full and I wanted some bourbon. But I didn't want to wake her, so I sat there, feeling her warm body relax into mine. I started getting sleepy myself when Michelle’s body started jerking and she began making whimpering sounds.