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

by James K. Evans

"Michelle, wake up! You’re having a bad dream! It's okay, I'm right here!" I said. She looked around, eyes wide, and I could tell she was disoriented. She buried her face in my chest and began to cry. I put my arms around her and stroked her hair. She cried for probably ten minutes, then the sobs died down.

  Her voice thick with emotion, she said "That woman! She . . . what kind of man would do that to another person? How could they be so horrible? How could they do that to her? They’re worse than the zombies! They know what they’re doing!" She looked at me with pleading eyes.

  "I don't know. Those men were probably raiding houses and found her. They probably used her and tortured her until they got tired of her. Throwing her to the zombies was their form of entertainment. These are the same people who hate guys for being queer, or hate black people and call them niggers. Give them a chance and they’ll act on their hate, as long as they can do it in secret. They’re sick bastards. There’s a defect in their character."

  "That could have been me!" she choked, "If I had been in my house, they might have raped and beaten me and thrown me to the zombies! Kevin, how can we possibly protect ourselves from guys like that?"

  "Michelle, listen to me. What could have happened doesn’t matter. It didn’t happen. You’re safe. Even if they break into the house, they won't be able to find us. When I had this part of the basement renovated, I left the other part unfinished. There's a door in the kitchen leading down to that side of the basement. Anyone searching the house would go down there and find it empty. I’ll show you next time we’re up.

  “Our trap door is hidden. No light escapes the basement. We'd have to be making a hell of a lot of noise for anyone to hear us. We have the radio upstairs. If they do break in, we'll hear them. If somehow they do find out we’re here, by the time they break through the trap door we’ll have escaped out the root cellar."

  Michelle was still trembling, badly shaken by what she saw. Truthfully, so was I. I knew I was up against human monsters far worse than the zombies. It will be difficult to truly relax again, knowing they’re out there.

  After a few minutes, I lifted Michelle’s chin toward mine, wiped the tears from her cheeks, and said, “Michelle, what we saw was horrible, more horrible than I can believe. But it didn’t happen to us. We’re still alive, we’re hidden well, and we have each other. That’s probably more than anyone else can say in these days and times.”

  I then bent down and kissed her softly on the cheek. “Let’s keep doing things the way we have been, and let’s continue getting to know each other. Like it or not, we’re stuck with each other, so let’s make the best of it.

  “Let’s resolve right now to watch out for each other. To protect each other. And to be smart. We’re clever people. We can get through this as long as we’re with each other. What was it you read in the Bible?

  Two are better than one: if either of them falls down, the other can help them up. But pity anyone who falls and has no one to help them up,’ I paraphrased.

  She looked up at me, put her arm around my neck, and pulled me to her. She kissed me on the lips, then put her head back on my chest.

  We sat in silence for a few minutes, and I started replaying the afternoon. I found myself getting tense and anxious again. I stood up and said, “Let’s find something to do. We need to distract ourselves.”

  “What should we do?”

  “I was thinking maybe we should paint the rest of the walls with my glow in the dark paint. When the grow lights go off, it’s so dark in here it’s almost freaky.”

  Michelle agreed. I went into the storeroom to get the paint and supplies. While I was in there, I poured myself a slug of bourbon and quaffed it.

  When I came back into the living room, she was already pulling stuff out from the wall—the sofa, the book/cd shelves, the boxes of stuff I hadn’t found a place for. I put everything down and went back for a drop cloth. We spread the drop cloth without saying much. Neither of us felt like talking.

  I opened the can of paint and while stirring it with the paint stick I became aware of Michelle staring at me. I looked up and tried to smile, but it felt forced and she could probably tell. She continued to look at me, and I let myself look back at her. We held the gaze for probably ten or fifteen seconds. I don’t know what she saw in my eyes, but in her eyes I saw a mixture of things: vulnerability, grief, fear. I could have sworn I also saw a hint of affection.

  Looking into her eyes, I also became aware of my affection for her. It made me uncomfortable.

  I realized I’d stopped stirring. I looked down at the paint, breaking the moment. We stayed silent for a few more minutes. Then she said “Kevin, about painting the walls . . . I don’t do very well with paint fumes. I know they’re not toxic, but they sometimes make me sick to my stomach.”

  Without thinking it through, I offered to let her sleep upstairs.

  “I can sleep upstairs?! Are you crazy? I mean, seriously, are you suggesting that I sleep upstairs, alone, after what I saw today? Those guys are still out there.” She looked at me incredulously. Any hint of affection was gone.

  “You’re right, that was stupid. We could both sleep upstairs.”

  “Where would we sleep?”

  Suddenly I felt like I was walking in a mine field. If I said we could share the bed she might think I was using our situation as a ruse to get in her pants. But if I said one of us could have the sofa, the other the bed, and she was hoping for something more, she might feel rejected. She might think I don’t find her attractive—which is patently untrue. I thought for a moment and decided to take the safer of the two options.

  “Since I sleep on the bed down here, I’ll let you sleep in the bed upstairs. It’ll be fine.” I watched her closely to see her reaction. She didn’t say anything but looked thoughtful for a minute. “I suppose everything’s covered in dust, but I can’t think of a way to fix that. We can’t exactly put the sheets in the dryer, and we obviously can’t go outside to shake them. We can’t shake them down here either. We’ll swap out the bedding with fresh sets from the linen closet,” I suggested.

  “Why do you only have one bedroom?” she asked, “When you have room for three?”

  “After five years or so of having no guests, I decided it was a waste of space, so I made one bedroom into an office and made the other into a TV/media room. I didn’t spend much time downstairs, other than in the kitchen. Most of my time was spent upstairs.”

  The paint was stirred, everything was moved to the middle of the room, the drop cloth was spread out. We began to paint, first with two rollers, and then after about an hour we worked out a system. I used the rollers while she did the detail work. I had to admit that I’m lousy at doing the detail work.

  Despite everything, I found myself enjoying watching her. Her back was to me most of the time, which gave me a good view of her ass. She was wearing jeans today, not too tight, not too loose.

  Keeping busy was good for us. We started talking more, and I even made her laugh a few times. After about three hours, we were nearly finished. I was, anyway. I should have noticed the paint fumes, but it didn’t cross my mind.

  I offered to make us some dinner while she finished up, and made vegetarian shepherd’s pie. It wasn’t as good as the real thing, but I seriously did not want to eat meat, and doubted she did either. I didn’t want to make anything with tomatoes either—I wanted nothing to remind us of blood or flesh.

  I opened a bottle of grape juice and added some vodka. Michelle was wiping her hands on a towel, having just washed up. As I handed her the drink, I said “We used to call this a Purple Cow. Back when I was in school, this is what college boys used to get a girl in bed. Or tried to.”

  “Is that what you’re doing, trying to get me in your bed?”

  “It appears I don’t need to, since you’re already sleeping in my bed tonight.”

  She sipped the drink, then she smiled and said, “I’ve never seen a purple cow I never hope to see one, but I can tell you this for s
ure, I’d rather see than be one.”

  I smiled back. “The guy who wrote the ‘Purple Cow’ poem got so tired of people quoting it to him he wrote a sequel: “Ah yes, I wrote the Purple Cow, I’m sorry now I wrote it. But I can tell you this for sure, I’ll kill you if you quote it!”

  Michelle laughed and accused me of making it up, but I held up two fingers and said, “Scout’s honor, you can look it up yourself.” She asked if I was really a Boy Scout and I admitted I wasn’t. Then she pointed out that she couldn’t really look it up.

  I opened a box of crackers to go along with the shepherd’s pie. Usually I like some good crusty bread. Usually I like going to the store and buying what I need. Sigh.

  As we grabbed our plates, I suggested we sit on my bed and eat. “Just don’t get cracker crumbs in my bed!” I told her. The living room was in such disarray there was nowhere else to sit.

  Heading into the bedroom, she said “You’re going to kick me out of bed for leaving crumbs in the sheets? If you made your bed, that wouldn’t be possible.”

  I placed my plate on the nightstand then quickly smoothed out the sheets and blanket. We sat down and began eating.

  Michelle was looking around my bedroom. “Not much for decorating, are you?” she asked.

  “I planned on doing more decorating, but things happened too fast and I wasn’t able to,” I said lamely. “Maybe we can do that sometime. You had some nice art in your house. You should hang some of it.”

  As we finished our dinner and drinks, Michelle said, “I hate to be a pain, but I’m getting a headache from the paint fumes. Can we go upstairs soon?”

  I’d forgotten about the paint fumes. I told her of course we could, so we washed up and headed upstairs. Michelle brought along her pillow.

  “I have more linens and pillows upstairs,” I offered.

  “And I’ll bet they’re as outdated as all your other décor and appliances,” she teased, “but I don’t mind stuff that’s old, as long as it gets the job done.”

  “Is that right,” I intoned. I’m pretty sure I saw her stifle a laugh.

  We were particularly quiet as we made our way up the stairs and into the house. Once in the kitchen, we left the trap door open to help the basement air out.

  It was nearly dark, but enough light remained for us to find our way around. I took Michelle’s hand and led her into the master bedroom. She stripped the mattress while I found fresher linens and together we made the bed. I gave her a hug and retreated to the sofa in the TV room.

  “Could you come and sit with me for a few minutes?” she softly called out.

  I didn’t mind in the least. I made my way into the bedroom and lay sideways across the foot of the bed, just like old times. I kicked off my shoes and they landed with a thump on the floor, a sound I’d heard countless times before.

  After talking quietly for a few minutes, I started getting sleepy. I yawned and told her goodnight.

  However, when I tried to get comfortable on the sofa, I became aware of a new problem. In the basement, the walls are underground and are essentially soundproof. But upstairs it’s a different story. I could hear the zombies outside, rasping, shuffling their feet. There were many more than usual outside our house, having been drawn by . . . I made myself stop thinking about it.

  It’s just the Michigan wind rustling the leaves, I tried to convince myself.

  But I heard things, things I wasn’t used to hearing. It was unnerving. It wasn’t pleasant. It was downright awful. No matter what I did—pillow over my head, fingers stuck in my ears, deliberately trying not to hear—it didn’t work. The sound was relentless. I tried some breathing exercises but wasn’t having any luck. I sighed loudly.

  Michelle must have heard me. “Kevin!” I heard her whisper, “Are you awake?” I got to my feet and made my way to the bedroom once again.

  “Everything okay?” I whispered.

  She sighed, then said louder, “I can’t sleep. I keep hearing things, and keep thinking about that woman today. Those things . . . the noises they made . . . It’s horrible and scares me, even though I know we’re safe!”

  I told her I felt exactly the same way.

  “Is there any way you can sleep in here tonight? I’m sleeping in my clothes, just like you, so it’s not like I’m trying to seduce you or anything,” she volunteered.

  I thought it over for a few seconds—not long—and said, “I wouldn’t mind. The sofa isn’t as comfortable as I remember. So yes, I’ll sleep with you, but on one condition.”

  “Y-e-s-s-s?” She asked warily.

  “I want to sleep on the side of the bed nearest the door. I’ve always slept on that side, even after Tammy died.”

  “Oh, is that all? No problem,” she said, and I heard her sliding over and making room.

  I quietly crawled into bed beside her, careful not to make contact. It was very strange. I hadn’t had a woman in this bed since Tammy. It didn’t feel wrong, but it felt . . . weird. I lay facing the ceiling, watching the shapeless, shifting patterns of light I see with my eyes closed. I could hear Michelle breathing next to me, and could tell she wasn’t sleeping either.

  “Thank you for taking care of me earlier,” she very quietly said. “I felt like I was about to lose it. You helped me. Again.” She reached over and touched my arm, then clasped my hand in hers. “I’m very grateful for all you’ve done for me and all you’re doing, and I hope I’m not too much of a pain in the ass. I really am trying not to be an imposition.”

  “I’m glad to have the companionship,” I replied. “I think if you weren’t here, I’d have gotten very depressed. When I was getting all the work done on the house and basement, and buying all the food and stuff, I sometimes had to ask myself why I was doing it. Why did I care if I survived? It’s not like my life has been one big happy party. I’ve wanted to give up many times, even before all hell broke loose.”

  “Why did you want to give up? What was going on to make you feel that way? Was this after Tammy died?”

  “I was seriously depressed before Tammy got sick, stayed depressed while she was dying, and even more after she died. Before Tammy there was Jason.”

  “Who’s Jason?”

  I paused, bracing myself to go on. I hadn’t spoken about this in a very long time, and saying the words was going to reopen a wound that will never completely heal.

  “Jason was our son. Tammy got pregnant after we’d been married a few years. I’ve always wanted a son. Or a daughter. His birth was amazing. I cut his umbilical cord. I looked at my little baby boy and whispered, ‘Happy Birthday, Jason!’ I wasn’t just a guy anymore, wasn’t just a husband and a friend. I was also a father. I felt like it was a privilege to be his dad. I still feel that way.” I paused again, and said more to myself than to her, “It was a privilege. I like to think he would have turned out to be a good man.”

  “Like his father,” Michelle whispered, then waited for me to go on.

  Our conversation now made things even more bizarre. I was lying in bed with a beautiful woman, in my own house, hearing zombies outside, and having a conversation with her that was many times more intimate than sex. Outside civilization had fallen apart, and I was having a confessional about things that happened over a dozen years ago. I was talking about things I’d not talked about to anyone but Tammy. I felt naked and embarrassed.

  “I loved being a dad, and I was great at it. I fed him. I changed him. I walked the floor with him when he wouldn’t sleep. I remember one night when Tammy went out with some friends, I fell asleep right here in this bed with him sleeping on my chest. It was the best time of my life. Jason made me want to be a better man. I wanted him to be proud of his dad.”

  I paused to take a few breaths. These memories were precious, but they brought back feelings I’d denied for years. I felt a familiar and profound sense of loss. I felt my eyes grow moist, and my sudden emotions took me by surprise.

  “When he was seven months old, Jason died. Sudden Infant Death Synd
rome. I entered a very dark place and lived there for a long time. I was finally coming out of it when Tammy was diagnosed with cancer.”

  “Oh, Kevin, I am so, so sorry!” she whispered, squeezing my hand. She could have said more. She didn’t need to.

  “You know, I used to be religious. I used to believe that God answers our prayers. I used to believe in miracles. I can’t believe those things anymore.”

  “I believe in God.” she said, “I believe in Jesus. I go to church.”

  “I still believe in God,” I said. “I still believe everything in the Apostle’s Creed. I believe Jesus was who he said he was. I believe God loves me. But I don’t talk to him anymore. I’m mad at him. If he’s really God, he understands why. During my darkest period, I started drinking. I wasn’t a drunk—I never drank before work or during the day unless it was the weekend. But at night, I’d hit the bottle hard. I was self-medicating. I could tell Tammy was worried about me, but she was going through her own stages of grief, and we didn’t have a lot of emotion left over for each other. She never brought it up and neither did I. We weren’t talking much. We still loved each other, but where our hearts used to be there were nothing but smoldering cinders. I read once that many couples split up after the death of a child. At one point, I almost had an affair. There was this woman at the office and . . . well, you know how the story goes. We were attracted to each other and not only was she receptive, she was the aggressor. But even though I was tempted, and she was obviously willing, I couldn’t go through with it. I’d even made arrangements to meet her at a hotel. But in the back of my mind, I still wanted to be the kind of man Jason would have been proud to call Dad. Cheating on his mom wasn’t part of the picture. I drove to the hotel and sat there in the parking lot, wanting so bad to go inside and feel something, anything besides this empty ache. But I didn’t go inside. I drove to the liquor store, bought some Jack Daniels and a cigar, went home and got drunk.”

  “I didn’t know you smoked,” she interrupted.

  “I don’t unless I’m desperately wanting to get drunk,” I replied. “That night I felt the lowest I’ve ever felt. Looking back, I realize I’d already turned a corner. I’d chosen to do the right thing. I hoped God would reward me somehow. A month later, Tammy was diagnosed with cancer. Instead of being rewarded for making the right choice, God was punishing me for being tempted. That’s how it felt. Those first few weeks are nothing but a blur to me—I took a lot of time off from work under the guise of taking care of Tammy, but really I was drinking myself into a stupor. The rug had been ripped out from under me. I wasn’t a father, I wasn’t much of a husband, and I wasn’t much of a friend. I wasn’t much of a man. I was a black hole of self-loathing.”