Pregnancy has done wonders for her. Her breasts are getting bigger (yay!), and her areolas have doubled in size. It’s very sexy, as is her baby bump. She’s let me take a lot of photos. Sometimes after she falls asleep I get up and look at the photos. Her pregnant body is an unexpected turn on! Unfortunately, her sex drive has waned. Initially, she couldn’t get enough, but now we only have sex three or four times a week. That’s okay, I can deal with it. In fact, it’s hard to feel sorry for myself when I recall friends complaining about their wives only wanting sex three or four times a year. Plus, when she’s in the mood she still enjoys using her mouth on me. She’s an oral artist.
Michelle’s calling. I’d better run. She might need me to empty her barf bucket.
Life’s a dream.
April 2nd
Michelle is starting to show. She has a cute little baby bump. She still has morning sickness, too—I was hoping it would wear off. Strangely enough, she’s gotten over her nausea from coffee. Now she drinks half a cup along with me, although we’re trying to limit how much caffeine she gets.
I’ve been revisiting houses in the neighborhood, emptying them of anything we can use. Tools, weapons, even some art objects I liked. Plus diapers and formula. In one house I found a shoebox of Petoskey stones. I felt like I’d hit the jackpot.
I’m worried about Doc. I haven’t heard from him for a few days. That’s not like him. I keep the radio turned on all the time, hoping he’ll call, but he hasn’t. A lot of scenarios run through my head. Zombies, of course, but he could have been hurt in some kind of accident, or he could have gotten the flu, or maybe somebody broke in and attacked him. The problem is, something may have happened and I’ll never know.
Michelle doesn’t seem as worried about it as me. She says he probably went on a hunting trip or something. I sure hope he’s okay. He’s my only friend besides Michelle.
April 5th
Still haven’t heard from Doc. Could he still be hunting? Do people hunt in March? What would they hunt for? I know most hunting seasons are in the fall—or were in the fall, but now I suppose it doesn’t matter. Or maybe he’s fishing. Maybe he loaded a canoe with camping gear and fishing equipment and is having a good time. Or, hell, maybe his radio broke somehow, or he ran out of fuel and has no power.
I had a frightening encounter today while scavenging. I go alone now, I don’t let Michelle go with me. The further I get from our house, the more zombies I see. I avoid most of them.
I have to do everything I can to be ready for the baby. I need diapers—not just newborn diapers, but diapers to last until the baby’s potty trained. That’s two years or more! Geez, I have one hell of a lot of diapers to stock up on.
Which brings up another point: What on earth will we do with the dirty diapers? During warm weather I can bury them, but what about during the winter? Stack them up in a frozen mound outside? That’s not very appealing. I guess I can toss them into the zombie dump.
We’ve had a warm spell for the past week. Highs in the fifties, lows in the forties. The zombies are moving a bit faster. I don’t believe it’s an early spring—it’s way too early. I recall plenty of snowstorms in May.
When I go scavenging, I take along a small glass cutter left from my feeble attempt to create stained glass windows years ago. I use the glass cutter to make a small hole in a window, just large enough for me to reach my hand in and unlock the window (or door, if it’s a storm door or sliding glass door). There’s no point in causing any more damage than I have to, plus it’s much quieter than smashing a window or forcing a door.
Earlier today I was on my bike, towing a small wagon I use to haul stuff. I crossed over into Dicken, a neighborhood nearby. I’d say the houses sold in the $200,000 range and up. They’re fancier, the lots are larger, and hopefully their pantries are larger.
I was being as stealthy as I could. That’s not easy—the ice storm brought a lot of branches down and even some trees. I can’t avoid them all, no matter how careful I am, and they break and snap when I ride over them. When zombies hear me they start moving in my direction, but they’re slow enough to avoid as long as I don’t stay in one spot too long.
I pulled down a side street and went around the back of the first house. It was a two story brick house, nicely maintained. When I got to the back door, I saw it had been forced open, perhaps recently. It looked like someone used a crow bar. I entered cautiously—whoever had broken in could still be here. I stood still just inside the door, listening, looking, sniffing. I couldn’t smell the stench of zombie. I couldn’t see anything amiss. I didn’t hear any sound. It was very cold in the house—probably in the mid-30s, which confirmed no survivors lived there. The door I entered led into the kitchen. There were a few dishes on the counter and in the sink. A bouquet of dead flowers was on the kitchen table, along with some mail and a newspaper, the Sunday edition of the Ann Arbor news. The headline read: DISEASE CONFIRMED IN ANN ARBOR. It was from mid-September, about the time I rode my bike out past Dexter.
The cabinet doors were open and most cabinets were empty. Checking around, I found nothing I could use. No food, no drugs, no alcohol or weapons. Usually I can find something I can use, but this time I struck out. Someone beat me to the punch.
This bothered me for several reasons. One, it indicated there were other scavengers. Two, if they were going house to house like I was, they would eventually get to our neighborhood. And to our house. That could be serious bad news. Three, by beating me to the punch, they are taking things I need.
According to my way of thinking, canned goods, dry goods, alcohol—once they’re gone, there will be no more. Maybe ever. What’s easy pickings now will end up being impossible to find later.
Not knowing if the person or people were still around, and feeling nervous about it, I decided to head back home. I was walking the bike back to the front when I noticed movement out of the corner of my eye.
I immediately flattened myself against the wall. Peering around the corner, I could see a man across the street a couple doors down, loading a bunch of cans into a grocery cart near the front door. He had a German Shepherd with him. When he finished loading the cans, he went back in the house and a few minutes later came back with more stuff.
I noticed he had a pistol tucked into his jeans. I decided it would be best to avoid him.
I grabbed my bike and quietly began to move toward the back yard. I had only moved a few feet when I stepped on a stick that broke with a loud snap!
Immediately the dog started snarling, and it sounded like it was running my way. At the rear of the yard was a chain link fence—I ran toward it, threw my bike and my wagon over, then vaulted over. Of course, the bike and wagon crashing to the ground made even more noise.
I left the wagon where it landed, but grabbed my bike and ran behind a tool shed. Just as I rounded it, I heard the dog come racing into the yard, barking and growling.
As it continued barking, I heard a male voice say, “Sic ‘em, Matey!” The dog bounded over to the fence and continued barking. Thank God there was a fence between us, because his bark alone scared the shit out of me. The dog kept barking, racing along the side of the fence. I stood pressed against the shed, wondering what the man was doing. I felt like I stood there for a half hour. I tried to breathe as quietly as possible, and my heart pounded in my chest.
“Matey, come,” I finally heard him say. The dog gave a few last barks, then retreated, following his master back toward the front. At least I hoped so.
I didn’t dare move until I was sure the man and dog were gone. After about five minutes of silence, I dropped to the ground and inched my way along the shed to peer around the corner.
No sign of man or beast. Thank God. I was about to get my butt home as fast as I could—this was the first survivor I’d seen, and it unnerved me—but then started reconsidering.
What if this man wasn’t a bad guy? What if he was like me? Maybe we could help each other.
How was he surviving?
Were there others with him?
Was he a threat?
Plus, knowing he could come scavenging in our neighborhood—it didn’t sit well with me. I decided I had to at least try to find out something about him. I left the wagon and bike and jumped a few side fences until I was a half-block or so away. Then I cautiously made my way between two houses and crawled along some bushes in front of one of the homes. From there I watched the man make a couple more trips into the house and load the shopping cart.
He began to wheel the cart down the street, the dog warily following along. When they got a decent distance in front of me, I skirted to the next house, then the next, following them discreetly.
He took a few side streets, and after about a half mile I saw him approach a large building. As I got closer, I could tell it was a school. He opened one of the side doors with a key, then the man, dog, and cart all disappeared. The door closed with a clang!
I took a look at the grounds and saw a playground and basketball goals. An elementary school. As I thought about it, I realized it was a pretty smart place to hunker down. Schools have a lot of security features. The doors were solid metal, the classroom windows were very small and barred, and there was a lot of open space around the buildings. Good for surveillance. Looking closer, I could see security cameras. I wondered if he had electricity.
The school would be equipped with a large kitchen, limited medical supplies, showers, and probably with a large pantry filled with enough food to feed hundreds of kids.
He had a good setup. I didn’t begrudge him. I still didn’t know if he was alone or not—for all I knew, there could be hundreds of people inside. Or there could be just one man. And a dog. Keeping all this in mind, I headed back to my bike. I decided it was time to get home. Being outside like this made me suddenly feel very vulnerable.
I also realized it would be as easy for someone to follow me as it had been for me to follow him. So I took a circuitous route, at first deliberately heading the wrong direction, took a bunch of side streets, dodging zombies in the street, and when I felt safe, I rode as fast as I could without upsetting the wagon, hoping to shake anyone who might still be trailing me.
Just because you’re paranoid doesn’t mean you’re wrong.
April 7th
Today started out a fairly typical day. We tended the plants and harvested some spinach and some herbs and tomatoes. The tomato plants are starting to play out. We added fertilizer, adjusted the pH, etc.
We’ve had a cold snap (lows in the thirties, highs in the forties) and another few inches of snow fell, so we took advantage of our current relative safety to get rid of the trash we’d accumulated during the warm spell. There was a time when I would have complained about the smell, but compared to rotting zombies, stinky trash is almost pleasant.
We also emptied out the water we couldn’t recycle—the water from boiling noodles and vegetables, the water I drained from the hydroponic reservoirs when the TDS meter showed a significant salt buildup, urine, etc.
I started a lot of tomato and pepper plants. A month from now I’ll be putting my garden in. And this time, it won’t be just for the delight of fresh vegetables; now I need the food to survive. I usually buy my garden plants at the nursery, but those days are long gone, like most of the things I took for granted.
After I hauled the trash outside, I loaded it onto a large piece of cardboard we use for hauling over the snow, and headed for our current trash dump. I also wanted to check for more zombies in the neighborhood and to check the zombie bodies in the burned-out house. It doesn’t look like the zombies’ bodies have been disturbed. Apparently, even coyotes don’t like dead zombies.
I dumped the trash, then began scouting the maze of streets, sort of on patrol. My own neighborhood watch. I was looking for any sign of survivors, and also trying to figure out which houses I hadn’t explored yet.
I had crossed back over into Dicken, the neighborhood close by. As soon as I got beyond the area we’d cleared, I found a lot more zombies. They were slow with the cold. I had my axe with me, so I chopped the heads off a dozen. A dozen is about all I can handle when they’re frozen, then my shoulder starts aching again.
I finally decided to head home. When I crossed the side street where I’d seen the man and his dog, I saw footprints in the snow. The trail led from north to south. I looked around, puzzled. I was sure I hadn’t gone down that street, but the trail seemed to be leading in the direction of the house. That’s when it hit me: I hadn’t made those prints. Which meant only one thing!
I started running back to the house. Running through snow while carrying an axe isn’t easy. I let go of the cardboard and kept running. I tripped over hidden stuff under the snow a couple of times and bloodied up my left hand. I was mentally castigating myself, cursing my stupidity with every step. What an idiot I had been! Every time I went outside in the snow, I’d left a trail leading right to our house! Any bad guy, any thief, any rapist or murderer could easily find us.
When I finally opened the door to our house, I could hear a man’s voice. My worst fear realized! Maybe it was the guy I saw with the dog. Maybe he’d followed me. I took the steps three at a time. I could smell freshly brewed coffee. I heard Johnny Cash singing I’ll Take You Home Again, Kathleen. Time slowed down. I felt a burst of adrenalin energy. I rushed into the living room, my axe at the ready, anxious to dispatch whoever was threatening Michelle. Then I stopped cold in my tracks.
Michelle was there. So was a man I’d never seen. He had a revolver strapped to his chest. It wasn’t the man with the dog.
The crazy, paranoid part of me briefly reared his ugly head, and I thought Is that Wayne? Michelle’s eyes grew wide as I burst into the room. I must have looked like a complete lunatic.
“Leave us the hell alone!” I shouted, raising the axe up to my shoulders. “I’ve gotten pretty good at cutting off heads!”
The man approached me, smiling, empty hands out to his side. “Easy there, Kevin. You don’t want to put an axe through the head of a friend.”
“Kevin! No!!” Michelle cried out.
The man continued approaching me, and at the last minute stuck out his hand. “I’m Steve. Doctor Steve. Doc.”
Epilogue
It was a simple ceremony.
We asked Doc if he would officiate even though he’s not an ordained minister. You can imagine our surprise when he told us we were wrong.
“I became a legally ordained minister about fifteen years ago,” he explained, “mainly to piss off my ex. I was an early user of MySpace, and I posted a scan of my ordination certificate because I knew she secretly visited my page.”
I asked him if he went to seminary, and he laughed. “No, not me. I used one of those internet sites that ordains you for free with no requirements. It is a legally binding ordination, there just isn’t any religious affiliation, education, or training involved.”
So we had a bride, a groom, and a minister.
That morning, Michelle made me go upstairs while she got dressed. I thought she was being silly, but I’m no fool—on a woman’s wedding day, you don’t argue with her. Besides, I had to go upstairs to get my dust-covered tuxedo from the closet.
Doc went back and forth between us, playing gopher, and generally amusing himself with our nervousness. When Michelle was finally ready (a full forty-five minutes after our agreed upon ceremony time), Doc had me come downstairs and go into the bathroom with the door closed, while Michelle went up the stairs. Our stairwell is the closest thing we have to an aisle, and Doc insisted on a grand entrance for the beautiful bride.
We didn’t have a copy of Chopin’s Wedding March, so instead we played Spring from Vivaldi’s Four Seasons. I was standing in the living room with Doc standing next to me.
When Michelle descended the staircase, I couldn’t take my eyes off her. She was wearing a beautiful dark blue dress she’d retrieved from her house, and had even made some kind of veil. Her baby bump was adorable. In her arms she held a bouq
uet of flowers. Her face was radiant as she came forward to join me—the smile on her face practically lit up the room. I must have been standing there with my jaw agape, because she giggled and put her hand under my chin to lift it, forcing my mouth closed. That made me blush a little, and Doc laughed.
Doc’s ceremony was short and sweet. He told us we were gathered here before God and each other to join our lives together, then turned to me and said, “Kevin, do you take Michelle to be your wife, to love, protect and nurture, til death do you part?”
“I do.”
He turned to Michelle. “Michelle, do you take Kevin to be your husband, to love, protect and nurture til death do you part?”
“I do.”
He turned back to me. “Kevin, do you have a ring signifying your love for Michelle? If so, please place it on her finger.”
I dug the ring out of my pocket and laughed nervously when I saw my hands shaking while putting the ring on her finger.
He turned to Michelle. “Michelle, do you have a ring signifying your love for Kevin? If so, please place it on his finger.” Michelle cradled the bouquet in the crook of her arm while she reached over and pulled the ring off her right hand where she’d kept it, then placed it on my finger. Our eyes met, and we were both smiling—and yet we were tearing up at the same time.
“I do charge you by oath to faithfully terminate the life of your beloved should he or she become infected by a zombie, as a sure sign of your love and loyalty to each other, and ask you to signify your fealty to this oath by saying ‘I do’.”
“I do,” we replied in unison.
“By the power vested in me by the Universal Life Church and the state of Michigan, I now pronounce you husband and wife. Kevin, you may kiss your bride.”
I pulled her to me and gave her what started out to be a tender kiss, but soon blossomed into a longer, passionate kiss.
Love in the Age of Zombies (Book 1): My Zombie Honeymoon Page 29
