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

by James K. Evans

  I was still sketching the brighter stars when Michelle wandered out of the bedroom and went directly to the coffeemaker. Her hair was a mess, and it delighted me. Me, Kevin, watching a girl wearing nothing except one of my button down shirts—unbuttoned—fixing herself a cup of coffee. With bed hair. I couldn’t believe my luck. She came into the living room and delicately folded one leg under her body as she carefully eased down onto the sofa. “How are you feeling?” I inquired.

  “Mmmm . . .” she said, sipping her coffee. “It pleases me to no end to tell you I’m sore.”

  “Sore?” I asked, then immediately knew what she meant. “Oh. Gotcha. It was my pleasure, ma’am.”

  “Mmm-mmm-mmm, mine too,” she responded. “What are you working on so early? I figured you’d sleep in.”

  “I feel like a new man,” I said, “I woke up feeling creative. But you’ll have to help. There’s something I want to do.”

  “Well . . . okay, but remember, I’m sore!”

  “I don’t need that kind of help . . . yet. I could use some help painting.”

  “What are you going to paint? We already did the walls. Do they need a second coat?”

  “No, this time I’m painting the ceiling,” I said, “but not with a solid coat. I’m going to paint spots on it.” She thought for a minute, then figured it out.

  “Stars. You’re going to paint stars on the ceiling.”

  “That’s right. You said you really missed seeing the stars, so I’m going to give them to you.”

  She tossed back her head and laughed. “Are you kidding? You made me see stars several times yesterday!”

  “That’s right—first I took you to heaven, now I’m going to give you the heavens.”

  I explained to how I’d like to mimic the true night sky at the height of summer, complete with constellations. I got the phosphorescent paint out, stirred for a few minutes, then told her I’d like to paint the constellations and she could paint background stars everywhere else. Standing on the stepstool (her) and a crate (me), we dabbed our small brushes in the paint and began. It took quite a while—we could only do a couple of feet at a time before having to step down, move the ladder or box, and step back up.

  I went back and retraced my progress, giving the constellation stars a second coat to make them brighter. Then I helped her with the background stars. After we were finished, we used splatter brushes to add the myriad of far-distant stars seen on a good, cold, clear night. It was hard to tell, but I thought the Milky Way was going to look great.

  It was early afternoon before we finished up. Michelle had started to anticipate how it would look, and wanted to turn the lights out. But I told her we had to wait until it was dark outside so it’d feel more natural. I really wanted to build up some anticipation.

  We spent the remainder of the day doing our usual chores. One chore I hadn’t thought through was the trash. Even though we were fairly self-sufficient, every time we opened a can of vegetables, or trimmed dead leaves, or opened a protein bar, we were creating trash. I knew I couldn’t store trash down here—eventually it would either cause odor problems, or even worse, attract some kind of pest. We decided to take it upstairs.

  I was nervous about being up there with those crazy bastards on the loose. But I knew it had to be done—and I had a couple of things to take care of while we were up there. I wanted to change the batteries in the radio and check on the number of zombies. If there were substantially less, it gave me hope they were dying off—if that’s what you can call it—in the cold. Since their bodies are in various states of decay, I hoped they would eventually deteriorate to the point where they wouldn’t be able to move anymore. Unless the disease prevented this.

  I was also aware that I could be, ahem, dead wrong. Their being able to move at all made no sense. Maybe they won’t ever decay. Maybe their tissue will just turn into some kind of organic polymer and they’ll still be able to walk, move—and eat. But I wanted to check anyway.

  We took two bags of trash upstairs, then debated where to keep it. My house doesn’t have a garage, only an open car-port, and I didn’t think putting the trash outside was a good idea. Putting it outside could attract the zombies’ attention—or anyone watching the house.

  We decided to put the trash inside the dishwasher. It’s self-contained, it seals, and you can’t see inside it without opening the door. It should also help keep down the odors, although probably not for an extended period of time.

  We removed the top and bottom dish racks, compressed the trash as much as we could and put the bag inside, closing and latching the door. We have to minimize how much trash we throw away. We can rinse cans out and keep them in the basement.

  We made a circuit of the house, checking outside. What we saw was alarming. The number of zombies had not only increased—there were now close to a hundred milling about—but the air was full of smoke. Taking a look out the back window, we could see smoke from several fires burning in the distance. Should those fires spread, we would be in serious danger. I’m hoping they’re on the other side of the river. I’m pessimistic about the chances should the house catch on fire.

  I wasn’t so much afraid of our getting trapped—with the root cellar escape hatch, we could get out of the house. But then what? Escape a burning house just to face a horde of zombies? No thanks. But what choice would we have? There is no fire department. Even if we saw the fire approaching, we wouldn’t be able to do anything about it.

  I presume if our house burns down, the whole neighborhood will be on fire as well, so we can’t expect to escape. For now, though, I’m not going to let myself obsess over it.

  For dinner tonight I tried to make some tuna and pasta, but it was terrible, so I splurged and made one of the chicken and dumpling boxed meals I stocked up on. I don’t know why these don’t make many of the survivalists’ “foods to buy” lists. They’re a bit expensive, but they come complete with meat, taste good, and I only had to add water. I wish I’d bought more of them.

  It would have tasted fine eating it by myself. Eating it with Michelle made it delicious!

  We did a little bit of laundry—we don’t have a washing machine, which means washing by hand using buckets. We don’t wash very often—it being winter, we’re not going outside and soiling our clothes—but of course we have to wash our underclothes, and being sexually active I guess we’ll have to wash our sheets now and then. Or maybe every day, I thought with an internal wink.

  So we washed the few clothes and hung them to dry above the gas heater—it’s the only way for things to dry out without going sour. I wish we could take them upstairs to dry, but that would be a sure sign to any intruder that the house was occupied.

  The plant lights turn off automatically at midnight, so about 11:30 we began getting ready for the unveiling of the stars. I remembered to turn on the black light. Phosphorescent pigment responds quickly to black light, and even with the plant lights still on the stars were bright.

  Michelle insisted we make an event out of it, so she popped some microwave popcorn, I made some drinks, and we brought my small mattress into the living room. I turned the black light off with just a couple minutes to spare.

  Michelle started oohing and ahhing as soon as the lights switched off. The whole room was instantly transformed. Sure, it was kind of kitchsy but it was also somewhat artistic. We were both proud of it and pleased.

  It looked so cool. The walls had a nice, soft glow, and the stars stood out brilliantly. It might not have been the real thing, but it looked great. The stars were barely visible with the lights on, it was more natural somehow.

  Knowing I paid attention and responded to what she said was quite touching for Michelle. We lay there for a while, holding hands, talking and looking at the stars. I pointed out the constellations I had painted.

  What I hadn’t expected was how romantic it would be. The walls slowly faded out like the night sky after sunset. At first all the stars seemed equally bright, but after twenty
minutes the ones I had double painted stood out from the more faded ones. It looked pretty damn natural.

  We started kissing, and soon were wound up. We had a kind of fun argument about who had to be on top—whoever it was wouldn’t be able to see the stars. In the end I acquiesced and let Michelle be on the bottom. But before I climaxed (and after she had, thank God!), she wanted to be on top, so I got to enjoy the nightscape as well. I can’t describe how cool it was. I couldn’t see her at all, just her faint silhouette against the walls and stars as she straddled me. When we finished we lay panting in each other’s arms.

  She started yawning and was about to fall asleep, so I suggested she go on to bed. I turned on an LED lantern so she could see, and she made her way to bed.

  That’s the way things are now. She’s in bed, softly snoring. It’s taken me a long time to write this entry by light of the lantern, and I’m very sleepy, so I’m calling it a night.

  December 9th

  We have much to be thankful for today. Mainly for our lives.

  We were still in bed this morning around seven o’clock (but we weren’t sleeping, heh-heh!) when we heard a thump! from upstairs. Then another. We instantly stopped in our tracks and listened. I hurried out of bed and turned on the radio, which somehow had been turned off.

  We heard another thump! come from above, and over the radio we heard breaking glass. Then we heard muffled voices.

  We were both freaked out. Was it the guys who had tortured that poor woman? Sitting in silence, all we could do was listen.

  Soon the voices got louder. Someone with a southern drawl said “I took a quick look around. The place looks empty.”

  “Help me pull the ladder in, damnit!” a second, gruffer voice hollered.

  “Aah, shut your trap, you know those things can’t climb ladders,” a third voice replied.

  We heard the familiar clanging sound of an extension ladder as it fell to the floor, but the sound only came over the radio, not through the ceiling. They must be on the second floor.

  A few seconds later we heard “Seems deserted. Let’s get this over with. I’m cold.”

  Our hearts were racing, but we were calm. There’s no way they could tell we’re down here. We hoped. The voices were muffled as they took a quick glance around upstairs, then we heard voices in the kitchen and the sound of cabinet doors being opened and closed. I’d left a few things—mostly food I don’t like and knew I wouldn’t eat, like anchovies and some potted meat I got somewhere. There was also about a case of cheap beer I’ve had for a long time and never bothered to drink.

  “Potted meat!” the southern guy exclaimed. Figures, I thought. Nobody intelligent could possibly eat that stuff.

  “That ain’t food,” the gruff guy said, “unless you’re a cat.”

  “Hell yeah!” the southern guy said, “A case of beer! Sure isn’t much here otherwise. Looks like they bugged out a long time ago.”

  We heard the snic! of a can being opened, then the third voice said “Didn’t find much in the medicine—hey, what’s that?!”

  That’s when the trouble started.

  Their voices got very loud and clear as they evidently picked up the radio. “Looks like some kind of toy radio.”

  “I know what it is! My ex had one when our kid was born. You put it in the baby’s room so you can hear them if they wake up.”

  “You think someone is listening to—” the voice cut off in mid-sentence.

  What an idiot I was. The radio’s power light shone like a beacon in the dim light of the kitchen. By not thinking to put tape over the light, I had clued them in that someone was in the house and listening. They knew we were somewhere close.

  We could hear their footsteps as they quickly walked around the first floor. It sounded like they were rooting through the house, trying to find us and/or more stuff. Then the sound receded—I suppose they went upstairs to look for us. We couldn’t hear much at all for a while, then we heard them come back downstairs. We barely heard their muffled voices.

  “What will we do if they find us?” Michelle whispered, her eyes wide with fear.

  “We’ll use the root cellar. And we have a gun. You keep it, you know how to shoot. I’ll get something to hit them with,” I whispered back. Michelle scurried to get the gun. She quietly checked to make sure it was loaded.

  One of them found the door to the old basement, and we heard them start down the stairs. Realizing they might be able to hear the bubblers and fan in the plant room, I quickly and quietly turned the power off to the room.

  “There ain’t nothin’ down here but junk,” the southern guy said. The walls down here are pretty thin, so we could hear them.

  “Well they got to be somewhere. There’s no way that baby thing would still have power after four months.”

  “Would you guys shut up and let me think?” the gruff guy shouted. All was quiet for a minute or two.

  “Someone must have put new batteries in it. And those things don’t transmit far, so they must be close. Let’s grab the shit we found and . . .” the voice trailed off as they started back upstairs. We heard their footsteps in the kitchen, then recede again as they went up to the second floor, presumably with their loot.

  Without the radio we couldn’t hear anything else. We didn’t know if they were still in the house, hoping we’d come out from hiding, or if they’d climbed back down the ladder and run off.

  “I don’t know if they’re still here or not,” I whispered, “but just to be safe, let’s stay as quiet as we can.” I hated leaving the lights off in the plant room. Plants don’t like it when their period of light is interrupted.

  We crept around the house for about an hour when we were startled to hear the sound of someone quietly walking around the house. So someone had stayed behind, hoping to surprise us! Thank God we hadn’t made any noise! We heard the footfalls quietly move into the kitchen and then a lengthy pause. Another ten minutes went by without a sound, then the familiar thump! sound again. We heard the footsteps—still in the kitchen—cross over to the staircase and then fade out.

  “I think they’re leaving,” I whispered.

  “Holy shit, Kevin! That scared the crap out of me!”

  “Me too. I’m glad I disguised the trap door as well as I did, otherwise we’d have been toast.”

  As a few hours passed, so did our unease. Evidently they think we’re no longer in the house, so we’re safe for now.

  I’m going to put a couple of liters of coke in the root cellar along with some booze. I wouldn’t mind a couple of drinks tonight, and it’s cold enough in there to chill them down quite a bit.

  December 11th

  Kevin asked me to write down what happened while the memory is still fresh. He’s resting comfortably, but won’t be able to write for a while.

  I’m not as good at writing as he is, but I’ll give it a shot.

  We were in bed when we heard them start to smash open the trap door. Kevin said to run to the root cellar. I reached out in the dark and found the gun I’d placed on the nightstand. I guess Kevin picked up a piece of a two-by-four. We ran into the living room and he was reaching to open the root cellar when they broke through. We could see lights from a flashlight bouncing off the steps.

  Kevin whispered fiercely to hide in the bedroom and then shoved me that direction.

  They yelled for us to come on out. Kevin must have hit one guy in the legs as they came down the stairs. I heard the sound of his two-by-four hit something, someone yelled, and then some scuffling.

  Don’t shoot, don’t shoot! Kevin said.

  The big guy shouted who else is in here with you. Kevin said why should I tell you anything, it’s none of your business. Then I heard a pause and he said I live here alone, my wife died months ago.

  I’m glad we didn’t have any bras or panties hung up to dry over the heater.

  Kevin asked what the guys wanted and told them to take it and get out. I heard another scuffle and I guess one of the guys punched h
im. Kevin was groaning. Then I heard them kick him. They grunted with each kick. One or two guys. I heard someone laughing and Kevin was gasping for breath.

  Kevin groaned and tried to ask them again what they wanted. One guy said what do you got. Another guy said we want everything. Kevin said this is my stuff and my house and you don’t have the right to take it. They all laughed. One guy said there’s no such thing as rights only more. It’s dog eat dog, and you just got ate. They all laughed again.

  Kevin said nobody has to get hurt we could work something out. Someone said there wasn’t anything to work out, they wanted our stuff and were taking it.

  One guy told Kevin to show them where the food is. I don’t know if Kevin pointed to the storage room or what. I was hiding on the far side of the bed with the gun in my hand.

  I heard one guy go into the storeroom. Another guy shined his flashlight in the bedroom but not on me. Before he could look around much the guy in the storeroom started shouting for the other guys to come look. He said there’s booze, food, drinks, everything. I heard a struggle in the living room as Kevin must have tried to get up to fight or something, but it sounded like he was punched again and he got quiet.

  They started grabbing boxes and carrying them into the living area. I peeked over the bed to look.

  One guy was bigger than the other two. These were the same guys who killed that poor woman. The big guy said hold on a minute, why should we move all this stuff, we should just move in.

  The skinny guy took a big drink from one of our bottles of booze and they passed it around. He said what about this guy. The big guy said let’s have some fun with him. I heard more fighting then I guess they had him by both arms.

  The guy who wasn’t skinny and wasn’t fat said he wasn’t going to have no fun with no guy. The big guy said his cock couldn’t tell the difference between a girl’s mouth and a guy’s mouth. He asked Kevin if he’d ever swallowed a guy’s come. Kevin said no. He said today was Kevin’s lucky day. He told Kevin he had to suck his dick or have his head blown off. Kevin said no fucking way.