Sex in the Time of Zombies

by William Todd Rose

  With his ear pressed against the door, Washington studied the hinges on either side. All of them looked fairly new. Shouldn’t be any issues with them creaking.

  He placed one hand on the stock of his pistol and the other on one of the door handles. Holding his breath, he depressed the little lever with his thumb slowly. The bolt slid out of the catch as silently as a cat in the darkness, without even a soft click to announce that the doors could now be thrown wide open.

  Washington opened the door as if in slow motion. Every muscle in his body had tensed and his heart hammered within his chest so hard that he was surprised his dog tags didn’t jingle in response.

  Finally, there was a crack just large enough to allow him to peek through. Squinting one eye, he leaned his head forward and peered into the room that had so captured his imagination.

  For a moment, he felt as though he had nodded off and slipped into some kind of dream.

  Moonlight streamed through the skylights and he could see tables and folding chairs in the room, most of them overturned on the plush carpet amid scattered pamphlets, books, and papers. Broken glass seemed to be everywhere and the toile wallpaper was streaked with what had to be blood. All of this, though, had been expected; what caused all of his thoughts to stop as abruptly as a car slamming into a brick wall were the occupants of the room.

  There had to be between thirty to forty of them stumbling about the convention hall. They bumped into one another like bit actors in some silent comedy, tripped over their own feet, and shuffled aimlessly back and forth. But these didn’t appear to be people. No, they were all… animals?

  Six foot tall rabbits with glossy, plastic eyes brushed against bushy tailed skunks; what appeared to be a Panda ran its paws over the far wall as if it could somehow scratch its way through the other side while a red fox lost its footing on some loose paper and tumbled to the floor. Squirrels, dogs, and even what looked to be a giant jack-a-lope, of all things: all walking upright, all seeming confused and lost. Most of them had fur matted with blood and large, dark gashes around their necks and stomachs.

  It was like catching a glimpse of cartoon Hell.

  On the far side of the room, a woman in a form-fitting, leopard print leotard pushed her way through the crowd. Round, furry ears peeked out through a tangle of dark hair and a long tail hung limply from her hind side. Unlike the others, her face looked as if it had been painted to resemble the features of a jungle cat: the tip of her nose was as dark as coal and a thin line connected it to lips that, even in death, looked full and pouty against the dark spots that covered her face. Washington knew that red smears on her chin, however, had not been part of the original costume.

  For some reason, he found it nearly impossible to take his eyes off this woman. Maybe it was the way the tights clung to the shape of her body, perfectly contouring to the swells of her breasts and the soft curves of her hips and ass. She had to be completely naked beneath them, as there wasn’t even the slightest hint of pantyline around her camel toe.

  This time it was his mother’s face that shrieked through his imagination.

  “Julius Tyrone Washington! You dirty, dirty little boy!”

  His face and chest grew warm and he suddenly no longer felt like a highly trained and efficient soldier; he was twelve years old again and withering beneath his mother’s caustic glare. Tears clouded his vision and he wanted to shrink into himself, to simply curl into a ball so small and tight that he simply winked out of existence.

  Her words echoed through his memory, gathering strength with each shameful repetition.

  …disgusting little pervert.

  His stomach churned with bitter acids and he was trembling now as images of the clothespin snapping shut flashed through his mind.

  …doesn’t feel so good now, does it, you sick little bastard?

  Perhaps he whimpered. Or maybe he choked back the sob that felt like a bubble rising through his chest. Whatever the cause, the end result was the same: every plush head in the convention hall snapped toward the door simultaneously, as if connected by some invisible rod.

  “Son of a bitch.”

  Most of the human-animal hybrids were slow and lumbering, as could be expected. The leopard woman, however, was surprisingly quick. Maybe the tightness of her costume had somehow slowed down deterioration, for she moved almost as quickly as the freshly dead. She shouldered her way past her fellow occupants with no regard for decorum, breaking into a slow run as she extended her arms as if she could somehow magically extend their reach.

  Even though twenty or more feet still separated them, he could see the long, black nails that tipped each finger and they clawed at the air as she ran like the animal she was pretending to be.

  For a moment, all of Washington’s training went AWOL. He stumbled backward as his hand fumbled for his weapon, struggling to remove the pistol from a holster that now seemed more complicated than it had the right to be.

  Before the others had crossed even half the distance, Leopard Woman had burst through the double doors. She was close enough now that Washington could see a film of dust on the green contacts that made it look as though her pupils were dark slivers of almonds. Those unblinking eyes were focused entirely on him as she rushed across the few feet that still separated them, her teeth already gnashing at the air in hopes of finding flesh.

  His holster finally gave up its prize and he brought the barrel up as his finger squeezed off a round. The shot echoed through the lobby as if it had been fired from a weapon of much higher caliber, seeming to be three times as loud as it would have been out in the open. At that exact moment, Leopard Woman’s feet rolled over the rod that had previously barred the door.

  Her body pitched backwards and Washington’s bullet ripped through the fabric of her prosthetic ear, exploding it into a shower of fluff and stuffing.

  She landed on her back with her legs spread wide but no sooner than her head had cracked against the stone floor, it snapped up again, eyes still fixated on her prey.

  A second shot caused a spray of dark blood and pink gristle to explode like a geyser from the back of her head. Bits of bone peppered the wall behind her and her lithe body went limp as the sulfuric cloud of smoke released from the gun dissipated like a soul that had found release.

  The rest of the anthropomorphic crowd hadn’t made it close enough to the doors yet to be an issue; however, Washington knew that if he took the time to try and re-secure the door he’d be pushing his luck. Instead he bolted for the stairs, taking them three at a time and diving for cover once he’d reached the second floor landing. He pressed his back flat against the wall and concentrated on his breathing, trying to ensure that he was as silent as humanly possible; at the same time, he fished a small, rectangular mirror from his shirt pocket and angled it around the wall so he would be able to monitor their movements without revealing his position to the enemy down below.

  In the reflection, he could see that the giant animals had just begun filing through the open door. Some of them walked across the now-still body of Leopard Woman as if she were nothing more than a bulky rug while others seemed to skirt around her. However, none of them seemed to be heading for the stairs. A more intelligent hunter would have looked around and tried to pick up the trail of their prey through any means necessary; with the living dead, however, it was a different story. As long as he remained completely silent, as long as he stayed hidden from view, Washington simply did not exist. Chances were they’d already forgotten the brief glimpse they’d caught of him.

  He wasn’t sure exactly how long he sat like that, watching these things mill about the lobby like confused tourists. Long enough for the muscles in his legs to begin to cramp and for his eyelids to feel as if someone had glued pennies to them; long enough for the shame of memory to burrow deep within his soul and simmer on the coals of guilt.

  And here I thought you was a good little boy. You think good little boys do that?

  Finally, he saw a blood-drenched gophe
r stagger out the broken window as if it were the entrance to a burrow and disappear into the streets beyond. The lobby was silent and he finally allowed himself to stretch.

  Now, to find that room and get so much needed R&R….

  The hotel room was much nicer than any of the ones Washington had ever stayed in.

  Rather than having carpet so threadbare that it felt like walking on sandpaper, the plush shag seemed to billow around his bare feet. He sat on the edge of the bed and flexed his toes as he looked around. The far wall was dominated by a large window and he’d quickly pulled the thick, taupe drapes over the flimsier curtains behind them when first entering the room. In front of the window were a pair of overstuffed chairs with a round table sitting between them. There was a television, a writing desk nestled into an alcove, a wardrobe and dresser, and a few lamps scattered about. But there was also a small, black refrigerator with a glass door; through this door, he could see these little bottles of alcohol staring back and soon after stripping off his unirform he’d carried a fistful to the bed and downed them in rapid succession.

  The empty bottles now clustered about his feet, collateral damage in the war against memories that refused to be put down. He’d spent his entire adult life pushing these thoughts into the furthest recesses of his mind and, for the most part, had been successful. If you didn’t think about it, his reasoning went, then it was almost like it had never happened. But those damn freaks in the animal costumes had ruined all that, hadn’t they? They had to bring everything back, to make his past come charging toward the front like an insurgent hellbent on emotional jihad.

  The voice of his mother still echoed through his head like a moment looped in time. The contempt in her clipped tone jabbed fiery bayonets into his gut and the part of his anatomy the old bitch had always called his dirty worm ached with the phantom memories of pain.

  “Fuck you, woman. Fuck… you.”

  He twisted the cap off the final bottle of Absolut, tilted his head back, and allowed the liquid to gurgle into his throat. The vodka left a trail of napalm down his esophagus and spread like the fires of a Molotov when it hit his stomach.

  Normally, Washington could hold his liquor with the best of them. But he’d had so little to eat over the past few days, that the alcohol had quickly dulled his tired mind even further. By the time the bottle had joined its comrades on the hotel’s floor, it felt as though he’d somehow stumbled into an out of focus photograph that was just beginning to show the effects of age.

  Everything seemed fuzzy and indistinct: the sharp edges of the writing desk and wardrobe blurred into hazy patches of reality and the bed looked like it were a mere prop. The down comforter, the crisp white sheets, and carefully fluffed pillows… none of these things looked like they were ever meant to be actually used. They were too ethereal for that, too perfect for a world that seemed as if it were about to careen off into the furthest reaches of space. And, on top of all of this, everything had a grainy quality as well. Like one of the old black and white films he’d watched as a kid when….

  Washington squeezed his eyes shut and massaged his temples with the tips of his fingers.

  It was better not to think about childhood, to continue dredging up all those memories. Maybe if he could somehow just manage to focus on the here and now, the room would stop this crazy carousel spin; maybe he could simply let go and be free.

  But with his eyes closed, it all come rushing back. So clear that it could have been yesterday.

  He was twelve again and had only recently begun to realize that girls weren’t exactly the nuisance he’d always assumed. In fact, they’d begun to awake something within him.

  Something that was like a tingling just above his dirty worm; but, at the same time, it also gave him the same sensation that riding The Big Dipper did when the cars finally plummeted down the other side of the largest hill; for a brief second, he could see the entire park stretched out around him. There was that sense of exhilaration, of being at the summit of the world, only to it feel as though his stomach had been left near the top of the coaster once he began the plunge.

  Except for his little sister, Brittany. She was annoying as ever with her whining and the way she was always taking his action figures and making them do ridiculous things. Like shopping. G.I. Joe wouldn’t be caught dead in the Dream Car. He’d be out, saving the world from COBRA and keeping democracy safe. Not chatting away with Barbie about how pretty her dress was. Luckily, he was four years older than she; Brittany had already been put to bed for the night and he didn’t have to worry about the little brat bursting through his bedroom door with all of her stupid little questions.

  He could hear the television through his bedroom door and occasionally his mother’s muffled laugh. Which was good. As long as he could hear her, he knew where she was. Still, he couldn’t help but to steal glances at the door every few seconds. As if half-expecting to see the knob turning slowly.

  Part of him felt this guilty excitement. It was like that time Ronny had dared him to steal the Hot Wheels from old man Pendleton’s store. He’d known it was wrong, that he would be in so much trouble if he got caught. But there was also this little thrill that made his breathing feel funny and caused him to border on dizziness. It felt like he was trembling from the inside out and was a confusing mash of good and bad wrapped in the same package.

  He licked his dry lips and looked at the raccoon sitting on his lap. It was wearing this yellow t-shirt that said Molly and its button eyes were dull and scratched; one ear was ravaged from the time Bowser had decided Molly should be his new chew toy and in places its synthetic fur was matted with dried glue.

  For nearly six months, Brittany had taken this stuffed animal everywhere with her. At all hours of the day, she would squeeze its stomach and, from somewhere within all that cloth and stuffing, this little voice would giggle. A second squeeze and it would exclaim Let’s play! Yet another and this girly voice would shyly say I want you to be me friend.

  Brittany’s obsession, however, had ended shortly after she’d tried to take Molly into the bath with her. From that point on, it was almost as if the raccoon had suffered minor brain damage after a near drowning experience. Almost it’s entire vocabulary had been wiped out and forgotten; only three words remained in Molly’s repertoire and she would repeat them over and over as long as pressure was continually applied.

  Those three words were the reason JT had snuck into the hallway closet the night before and secreted the animal away. They were the reason he now felt as if everything inside him had turned to warm mush. And the reason he’d taken his pocket knife and sliced a small gash between the toy’s legs and then pushed some of the stuffing aside with the tip of his finger.

  He lay naked on his bed with Molly The Raccoon on his lap. His right hand squeezed the hard lump of the voice activator like the nurse at school working a blood pressure bulb. And Molly responded, time and time again, with the exact same phrase.

  I want you…

  I want you…

  I want you…

  Flash forward: crying in the bathroom, Mama looming over him, her face red and angry, while Brittany banged on the bathroom door, demanding to know what was going on. Still naked, he’d tried to cover himself but Mama kept smacking his hands away with hard raps from the backside of a hairbrush.

  “You ashamed? You should be, you dirty little boy. You filthy little pervert!”

  He felt smaller than he ever had in his life and wished he could just hop into the bathtub and disappear down the drain. His entire body trembled, this time with fear, and he kept his gaze pointed toward the floor, far from the angry glare of Mama’s eyes.

  “God hates perverts, Julius! God hates you right now, too… you hear me? God hates you!”

  Even over his sobbing and the way his heart seemed to pound within his eardrums, he heard the rattle of the clothespin bag as Mama took it down from the hook on the back of the door. Her footsteps thundered across the linoleum and he heard a sh
arp snapping sound as she the clothespin opened and closed within her hand.

  “Perverts get VD! Perverts get disease! You know what VD feels like, you dirty little boy?”

  He’d rapidly shook his head, slinging snot and tears from his face in the same way Bowser flung water after a bath.

  “I’ll show you what VD feels like.”

  The clack of the clothespin punctuated every word.

  “I’ll show you what it does to your dirty worm!”

  He must have passed out at some point for he was sprawled across the bed in his boxers.

  For a moment, he wasn’t sure where he was. In the darkness, everything about the hotel room looked strange and foreign… like some alien landscape he’d been plopped into the middle of after a late night abduction.

  “Wha’s that?”

  Washington’s voice sounded slurred, even to his own ears, and it took a moment for the world to catch up with him when he sat up. He felt slightly nauseous but stumbled out of bed anyway, banging his shin on the bedside table with a curse.

  “Who… what….”

  He could hear something. Like a soft rubbing sound, furtive and distant.

  He spun in a slow circle, surveying the shadows.

  “Wha’s that?”

  Nothing. He was entirely alone in the room… but he still heard the sound. Almost like scratching. Only smoother. Slow and rhythmic, like something being drug through sand. Or wood. Yeah, like something that was being pulled across wood.

  There was a loud thump and rattle, so unexpected that he jumped slightly as his head snapped toward the source of the sound. It was followed by a moment of silence and then that soft rubbing sound again.

  It was the door.

  The noise was coming from the door.

  Washington weaved across the room, trailing one hand over the wall to keep from tripping over his own feet.