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

by James K. Evans

  Within minutes, the endorphins had kicked in completely. I was feeling an endorphin high chile-heads only dream about. I lay on the bed, still standing at attention, and just let the waves of bliss wash over me. I was going to give Michelle another minute before letting her back in.

  Just then, she walked into the bedroom. “How the hell did you get in?” I asked.

  “I have a key, remember? I hid it outside.”

  Damn. I’d forgotten. She sat down on the bed. If not for the endorphins, I would have despised the grin she had.

  “Feeling better?”

  “It’s waning. But that was incredibly mean of you. I’ll never trust you again.”

  “Revenge is a dish best served hot,” she replied, still grinning. “My stomach hurts from laughing so much!”

  “I ought to throw you down on the bed and stick this inside you,” I said, grabbing myself and shaking it at her.

  “There probably isn’t even any hot stuff left on it,” she said, then got a wicked gleam in her eyes. “One way to find out.”

  She leaned over and engulfed me with her mouth. “Mmm, still a tad spicy,” she murmured when her mouth wasn’t full. She pulled back to admire my manhood. “Now there’s a hot pepper!” she said, “or should I say hot pecker?!”

  “I don’t care what you call it, just don’t stop!” I begged. Then her mouth gave me her full attention.

  Between the endorphins, the Cialis, and the oral sex, it was the best damn orgasm I’ve ever had. I saw stars. Molecules. Universes. Gluons. I meant to ask her if my special sauce was spicier than usual, but drifted off to sleep.

  February 11th

  We’ve been talking more to Doc. I think he’s lonely. Practically every night we’re on the radio with him. He likes to tell stories about his exploits as a doctor, and I think Michelle sees him as a surrogate father figure, since her own father was a doctor. She enjoys his stories and relays some of her father’s adventures.

  She may be talking to someone else too. Yesterday when I went upstairs to check on the house and neighborhood, I came back earlier than I expected to and thought I heard her softly talking, but when I got downstairs I found her in the bedroom lying on the bed, reading a book—coincidentally close to the radio I’d left on the nightstand.

  Am I inventing this in my head? Did I really hear her talking to someone, or was she just clearing her throat? Who could she be talking to besides Doc, and why would she hide it from me? She said she’d marry me but the way she’s acting now I’m not sure where things are going. Could it be she’s found another survivor and hasn’t told me? Is there any way in hell it could be Wayne? If it’s neither of those, why is she being secretive? There’s no reason to talk to Doc behind my back, unless she thinks there’s something wrong with me but doesn’t want me to know. Have I changed since the axe bit me? Have I turned into a zombie and don’t know it? As far as I know I’m acting normal; I eat the same food, drink the same bourbon, have the same libido. To the best of my knowledge, we’re both doing well—healthy and free of sickness.

  Other times she seems almost manic, and absolutely crazy about me. The past three days she’s had to have me seven times. Her shifting moods keep me constantly guessing what’s going on with her. So I try to surreptitiously watch her, gauge her emotions, check her body language. I’m observing her.

  I hate to keep my eye on her. I hate to check up on her. I hate to doubt her. But what can I do when she’s acting so odd? I’ve known her for five months and have never seen her like this. There has to be a reason for her change in behavior. Unless I managed to fall in love with someone who has cyclic mood changes, and she’s entering a dark phase. If that’s true, I can deal with it. I just want to know how to prepare myself.

  These thoughts are akin to the feelings I had when I freaked out about Wayne, and they’re putting me in a bad mood—which puts her in a bad mood. We’re not exactly fighting, but we’re not quite the bosom buddies we were not so long ago. We still have sex but sometimes days go by without no interest on her part. She also seems to be getting more self-conscious, not letting me see her naked. She keeps her top on during sex unless it’s completely dark. Is she slipping back into her old habit of being ashamed of her body? Doesn’t she know I love her the way she is? She keeps saying her nipples are super sensitive and doesn’t want me to touch her breasts. For a guy like me, that’s very frustrating. Why are they so sensitive? It’s not from me playing with them! Is she using nipple sensitivity as an excuse to hide her body from me? So she’s gained a few pounds. We’re stuck in a basement during winter with very little exercise. It doesn’t bother me. If that’s not it, what is it? Once again I wonder if somehow there’s a real or imaginary guy she’s thinking about and bothered by. I’m paranoid that when she’s in bed with me, she’s thinking of him—whomever ‘him’ is. Maybe she’s saving her breasts for him.

  In the old days I could have followed her, or checked her cell phone records, or rigged up a key logger. Now I can’t do anything but suspect, and suspicion makes my stomach hurt. Which puts me in a bad mood. Which puts her in a bad mood. Which makes me wonder why she’s in a bad mood. Sigh.

  February 18th

  When I went to bed last night, it was raining. Overnight the temperatures dropped to just below freezing, and I awoke to a full-fledged ice storm. A layer of ice about a quarter inch thick covered everything. The trees, bushes, mailboxes, cars . . . and zombies. A few had wandered near during the recent warm spell and we hadn’t gotten around to clearing them.

  One was particularly close, just at the end of the driveway. It used to be a man, somewhere between thirty and seventy. Its skin is so sallow it’s hard to tell the age; much of his hair is missing, especially on one side. What hair remained was matted down, stiff with ice and wet with the continuing drizzle. Ice had encased the eyes in their sockets. Icicles had formed and were dripping off its nose, chin and ears. Just like all the other zombies, its body was completely encased in ice. The mouth gaped open obscenely, but even it was iced over, the glazed and frozen tongue protruding from one side of the jaw.

  Being incased in ice made them look more like statues than ever. And it appeared to stop them from moving, as they stood stock still for hours. Occasionally one would manage to move slightly, and the ice encasing it would fall off and shatter as it hit the ground, the shards scattering across the surface of the snow for many feet. It made an odd rattling sound every time it happened. I saw two of them move slightly and then fall over as the ice on one side of their bodies fell off.

  I took advantage of the situation to eliminate as many as I could. Between the physical exertion, the cold, and the rain, I was exhausted when I finished. It’s harder to chop their necks or heads through the layer of ice. When I was finished, I stood by the door, breathing hard, looking up and down the street. There were no more standing. But the rain was mixed with snow as the temperatures began a slow decline, and over the next couple of hours the rain slowly transitioned completely to snow. One of those heavy snows where nearby Blue Spruce trees, obscured by falling snow, turn the very lightest shade of bluish-gray against a slightly lighter shade of gray.

  There was very little wind, so the snow fell nearly straight down. By dusk, I’d say three inches had fallen, enough to cover everything completely, including fallen zombies. Then the snowstorm blew past us to the east and the western sky cleared to a brilliant blue just after sunset. The waning colors of dusk bathed the land in shades of blue and salmon against the white of the snow. All the while, snowflakes were still falling from the cloudbank to the east. I headed downstairs and talked Michelle into joining me outside. When we exited the house and turned to look at the surrounding landscape, Michelle gasped. It was impossibly beautiful. It looked like a Thomas Kinkade painting. All the world was covered in a three-inch blanket of snow reflecting the colors of the sky. It looked pure, clean, virginal. It felt innocent. Sparkles gleamed from the ice just underneath the white of the snow. As we stood looking,
a tree branch across the street ripped free of the trunk and went crashing to the ground in a muffled thump!

  Looking at Michelle, seeing all the colors of the landscape reflected in her eyes while her auburn hair became flecked with snowflakes, caused me to be momentarily free of my paranoia, and the unfamiliar freedom brought a rushing euphoric release of emotion. With a laugh I abruptly ran and jumped into the yard. I jumped through the layer of snow and onto the ice where I promptly fell over. It was nearly impossible to walk, and when I slipped and fell the second time, I learned the crusty layer of snow just above the ice is sharp! I broke my fall with my right hand, which of course went through the snow and then through the layer of crusty ice, getting bloodied in the process. Nothing serious, of course, but I never enjoy seeing crimson red against virginal white. Not when it’s my blood.

  I made my way back to her and together we stood near the door for a few minutes, looking at the trees dripping icicles and covered with snow. For the first time in quite a while, we could hear noise in the distance—in this case, the sound of trees falling over and branches breaking under the weight of the ice and snow. There would be a snap and then a rumble as the heavy branches thumped to the ground. I packed some snow around my hand to slow or stop the bleeding.

  Michelle looked lovely, in a way I never thought I’d describe someone: beatific. She was stunning. It wasn’t her clothes or the way she’d fixed her hair or her make-up. It was her face. Her cheeks were all rosy from the chill February air. Her skin was relaxed and healthy. Seeing her brought to mind another cliché I’d never actually applied to someone: peaches and cream. I couldn’t stop looking at her. Her beauty surpassed that of the gorgeous sunset. A thought occurred to me; I turned to her and said “Stay still.” Then I proceeded to unzip her coat and remove it before I unbuttoned her blouse, starting with the top button. She rarely wears a bra these days, so when I opened her blouse I was treated to the lovely sight of her breasts and hardening nipples.

  “Kevin, what are you doing?!” she asked me with a slight edge in her voice.

  “Making art,” I replied, “stay here for a minute. Please.”

  She sighed and said okay, so I rushed down stairs to get my camera. When I came back outside, I snapped a few shots of her upper torso, white flakes of snow landing on her open dark blue blouse. The snow landing on her breasts melted, droplets forming in their place. I took a few photos of the flakes of snow, then reached over and took her blouse off entirely. Maybe it was the snow, maybe my state of arousal, maybe the time of month—but her breasts looked larger than I remembered. I didn’t mind that at all! “Kevin! It’s freezing out here!” she complained.

  “It’s just for a minute,” I begged, then circled her, snapping as many photos as I could. The snow in the background, now barely hued as dusk fell, brought out the warm color of her flesh, and made her dark areola stand out even more. I took a few shots highlighting her face, but my favorite shots were the few I captured of her nipples just as flakes landed on them. The close-ups look spectacular. I don’t believe I’ve ever seen a photo of nipples with snowflakes on them, and the ephemeral nature of the images made the photos even more wonderful.

  I took a few dozen quick shots before Michelle said, “Okay, mister, enough’s enough. I’m freezing!” She grabbed her clothes and headed back into the house. Naturally, I followed the beautiful topless woman like a puppy with his tail wagging. Watching her tail wagging. Once we got back downstairs, I showed her some of the photos and she had to admit she liked them too. Looking at the photos together was arousing for both of us. We spent the next hour in bed, although she wouldn’t let me touch her breasts much, saying they’re too sore.

  Snowflakes on Nipples

  The snow falls

  in the cold December air

  I open her blouse

  to reveal her breasts

  her nipples harden

  unmolested

  until

  a flake

  and another,

  and then again

  lands on her breast

  hesitates

  then melts into a small

  droplet

  resting on her areola.

  They say

  no two are alike

  February 25th

  We were snuggling on the sofa, in the midst of post-oral sex bliss. Or at least I was, since I was the sole recipient this time. I was very content, in a half-stoned, half-energized bliss only Michelle has ever evoked in me simply through the use of her mouth.

  She was topless—I like her topless when she goes down on me, it makes it even more exciting—and she leaned her head against my chest. I had a shirt on, but it was unbuttoned and she was running her fingers through my chest hair. I’m glad she likes my chest hair—if she was one of those girls who only liked men whose chests were bald it’d be a pain.

  My leg was propped up on a pillow. Every now and then it aches, especially if I’ve been outside in the cold too long. I try to keep it elevated when I’m not on my feet.

  I thought Michelle was also in a state of bliss until I felt something warm and wet drip onto my chest. About the same time, I heard her sniffle. In my ignorance, or bliss, or whatever, I thought, She’s so happy, she’s crying! This illusion was shattered when I put my hand under her chin and pulled it up to look in her eyes. What I saw in her eyes was far from bliss.

  “What are you crying about?” I asked, feeling the stirring of alarm.

  She looked away from my eyes. Hmm.

  “I’m kind of afraid to tell you,” she replied after a minute.

  My paranoia kicked in big time. Here it comes, I thought, she’s going to admit she’s been talking with Wayne and thinks about him all the time. That’s why she hid his photos upstairs. Or she’s going to tell me she found someone else via the radio.

  Despite the instant ache in my heart and the painful way my stomach lurched, I managed to calmly say, “C’mon, Hon, you know you can tell me anything. No secrets, right?”

  She sighed and said, “It’s not like I could keep this from you anyway.” She sat up on the couch with a resigned look on her face.

  My paranoid heart said, See, what’d I tell you. Here it comes.

  “Keep what from me?” I managed to say. And, being the knucklehead I am, I blundered forward, straight into yet another quagmire caused by my own insecurities or scars or well-earned lessons in abandonment. “Are you going to tell me why you hid the photos of Wayne upstairs?”

  She sat up straight and said, “What?”

  “The photos. The ones of you and Wayne. I found them upstairs. You didn’t hide them very well.”

  Michelle moved back on the sofa, away from me.

  “Kevin, please. I really don’t need this right now. You’re not making it any easier.”

  Oh, so I’m supposed to make it easier for her to tell me she loves someone else? I thought. I was cognitively aware I was slipping once again into thought patterns bound to cause problems, but I wasn’t able to control them. So I did the next best thing; I kept my fool mouth shut. After a few minutes, I said, “I’m sorry, please tell me what you’re crying about.”

  Michelle looked away from me again and said, “I’m so afraid to tell you. I mean, you get jealous of stupid stuff, like those photos of me and Wayne. I didn’t hide them from you. That was an ugly accusation. I put them in the dishwasher because that’s where we put trash.”

  My paranoid delusion had no response. It was true. The sane part of me just said, See?

  “I’m afraid to tell you because I don’t know how you’re going to react. The last time I had this talk, things didn’t exactly work out.”

  “What didn’t work out?”

  “Do you remember when I told you about Wayne getting a job offer and walking out on me? That was true, but it wasn’t the whole truth. I was afraid to tell you everything.”

  “What are you talking about?” I asked. Now I was confused and concerned. Part of me was completely flummo
xed, the other part was prepared for the worst. She was about to change everything.

  “He did walk out on me. But it wasn’t because of the job offer. He walked out on me because he didn’t want to be a father.”

  “Why would he walk out on you because of that? I don’t understand.”

  She was crying a lot now, wiping her nose with the back of her hand, sniffling, and while giving the appearance of control she still wouldn’t look at me. When she spoke, there was a slight edge of anger or exasperation in her voice. “Sometimes men are such blockheads. He walked out on me because he didn’t want to be a father. And I had just told him he was going to be one.”

  She was right. Sometimes men are blockheads. I was still confused, still didn’t get it. What was her point? “So what are you saying? That you and Wayne had a baby? That you’re a mom? Or what?”

  She looked at me, and with absolutely no humor in her red-rimmed eyes, she said, “You can really be such a dope. If I didn’t love you so much, I’d run away. If there was someplace to go. No, I didn’t have his baby.” She looked down. Her eyes had dark circles under them, and her face was flushed and swollen from crying. Her hands were in her lap, and they were fidgeting with each other. “I’m afraid to tell you because I’m afraid you’ll react like Wayne did. And I don’t know what I’d do.”

  Suddenly I figured it out. It was like a blindfold being taken off.

  “Michelle, are you trying to tell me . . . that . . .”

  Tears streaming down her cheeks, with a look of stress, fear, and angst she glanced into my eyes and blurted out, “Wayne walked out on me because I told him I was pregnant. He tried to talk me into an abortion, but I said no. I wanted the baby, and I wanted Wayne to want it too, but he didn’t. We fought about it and he left. He didn’t come home that night.”

  “I was upset, and ended up driving to my folks’ house the next day. They weren’t expecting me, and even though they could tell something was up, they didn’t ask. I spent most of a week with them. My dad seemed especially worried about me, and made sure to keep me company much of the time. But I wasn’t able to talk about it for a few days. They finally sat me down and made me talk. I told them everything. They didn’t know I was living with Wayne, so I had to tell them. Then I told them I was pregnant and he walked out on me. They hugged me and we all cried and for a few hours things felt better. But then after I went to bed, I heard them arguing. My mom was very upset and Dad was trying to reason with her.”