Married with Zombies: Book 1 of Living with the Dead

by Jesse Petersen

  David: We come from Seattle, yes, and you reporters tell us that the zombies escaped from a lab at the University of Washington, so I guess you could tell people more about that. As for where we were, that’s really none of your damned business.

  Zanderson: You’re so defensive, David. Is that because you two were in a marriage counseling session when you first encountered zombies?

  Sarah: How the hell does he know that? How the hell do you know that?

  Zanderson: A reporter does his homework and the people have a right to know!

  Sarah: Look, jagoff, yeah. We were in marriage counseling, okay?

  David: Shit, Sarah, just spill your guts. Do you want to tell him about our sex life, too?

  Zanderson: You could.

  Sarah: Maybe another time, you are kind of cute, you silver fox.

  David: Sarah!

  Sarah: Um, I saw you look at the tits on the zombie strippers we killed. Cut me some slack. The point is, the way we found out about the apocalypse is because we caught our marriage counselor eating the people who had the appointment before ours. We killed her, end of subject.

  Zanderson: You don’t seem to feel very badly about it.

  David: She was ripping us off. Our marriage did a lot better once she was dead.

  Sarah: Oh, don’t say that. I mean, some of her advice did come in very useful when we were getting out of the city. We used a lot of what she told us, as well as what we read in books about saving our marriage, so it wasn’t a complete waste.… We did have to kill her, though. These things happen.

  Zanderson: So you used marriage counseling to survive the zombie outbreak, but you also claim to have used zombie movies as a way to stay alive. Any movies in particular my readers should check out?

  Sarah: Sure. In order to survive a zombie apocalypse, fill up your Netflix queue with some of the following: Shaun of the Dead, Zombieland, Dawn of the Dead, anything with Resident Evil in the title, um…

  David: Don’t forget Scooby-Doo on Zombie Island.

  Sarah: What?

  Zanderson: What???

  David: Um, it was helpful.

  Sarah: They do drive a van. A van is a great vehicle for zombie highways. Plus they had snacks and I’m pretty sure Shaggy was doing medical marijuana, which I bet would be useful to have in this situation. I guess you’re right.

  Zanderson: Are you two done? We’re getting off topic here.

  David: I don’t think so. You’re trying to tell people how to survive a zombie attack. That’s how you do it. Creative thinking, marriage counseling, and movies.

  Sarah: It’s a trifecta.

  Zanderson: How does killing friends and family play into that trifecta?

  Sarah: You’re cute, but you’re kind of an asshole.

  David: I still don’t see cute. He’s got white hair, for God’s sake. Are you an albino?

  Zanderson: Answer the question.

  David: Sure, we killed a lot of people we know. Therapists…

  Sarah: Friends.

  David: Family, which really sucks. But when the going gets zombie, the tough get to using their shotguns. If they don’t, they die.

  Sarah: Speaking of which, Zanderson, it’s more than your hair that’s gray. You wouldn’t happen to be a zombie, would you?

  Zanderson: Er, I think this interview is over.

  Sarah: That’s what I thought. We’re off to massacre some zombies. Later.

  introducing

  If you enjoyed MARRIED WITH ZOMBIES,

  look out for

  FLIP THIS ZOMBIE

  Book 2 of Living with the Dead

  by Jesse Petersen

  When the zombie plague struck, I was just an office schlub. You know the type. I was a coffee-fetching, doing-the-work-and-getting-no-credit, screamed-at-by-suits kind of girl who hated every damn second of her dead-end job. Well, I still have a dead-end job… undead end, I guess is more accurate. And instead of working for the man, I work for myself. So I guess the lesson is that if you find work that’s meaningful, that you love, you can start your own business and make it successful.

  So what’s my job?

  Zombiebusters Extermination, Inc. at your service. My husband David suggested we add the “Inc.” to make it seem more professional. I guess in the old days we would have had a website and all that, too, but now none of that exists anymore, at least not in the badlands where the zombies still roam free.

  I have to say, I liked being in business for myself and I liked working with my husband as my partner. The zombie apocalypse had been great for our marriage, and since we’d escaped Seattle a few months before, we’d been doing great.

  But that isn’t to say the whole “not working for the man” thing didn’t have its disadvantages. Which is something we were discussing as we drove down a lonely stretch of dusty highway in Arizona. Why Arizona? Well, it was November and fucking freezing anywhere else. So we did what old people did and snowbirded our asses down south. I figured when the weather got better up North, we’d figure out what to do next.

  “Why did we take another job from Jimmy?” Dave asked with annoyance lacing his voice.

  I looked up from the business book I was reading. We’d looted it and about twenty more from a bookstore a few weeks back. I was all about making this work, you see. Someday, I would be the Donald Trump or Bill Gates of zombie killing.

  “Um, we took a job from Jimmy because he pays,” I said.

  Dave shot me a side glance that was filled with incredulity. “Not well. Last time I think he gave us a six-pack, and we killed three zombies for his chicken-ass.”

  I laughed. “Hey, that’s two brews per zombie.”

  Dave didn’t even smile. “He has a lot of stockpile in his basement, I know he does. This time before we start, we should tell that asshole we want payment up front. Medical supplies and some canned goods.”

  I tossed my book in the back of the van. Oh, didn’t I mention it? We drive a van. Dave likes to call it the Mystery Machine because it’s totally circa 1975, but it runs like a gem and is heavy enough to do some push work when needed. Plus, I had way too much fun painting “Zombiebusters Exterminators, Inc.” on the side and “Who Ya Gonna Call?” on the back.

  That one always gets a chuckle since there’s no way to call anyone anymore. If people want us, they have to post notes in the survivor camps and we go looking for them. Trust me, sometimes by the time we’ve gotten to a job, there hasn’t been anyone left to pay us. I always feel kind of badly about that, but seriously, if you haven’t figured out how to protect yourself after three months of zombie hell… well, you sort of deserve what you get.

  “Look, you’re the muscle in this operation,” I said as I settled back in my seat and slung my booted feet onto the dash. As I flicked a little piece of brains left over from our last job from the toe, I continued, “If you want to strong-arm the guy up front, be my guest.”

  We were approaching our destination now and Dave slowly maneuvered the vehicle off the highway into the area of what was once southern Phoenix. There were signs of zombie activity everywhere here, both from the initial outbreak in the city and recently. Black sludge pooled in the gutters and blood streaked the walls of buildings. It was all so commonplace to us, we didn’t really see it anymore. Nor did we flinch when a single zombie stepped into a crosswalk ahead of us.

  He lurched forward, his right hand missing and his arm on the same side waving in a disconnected way as he moved. He had fresh blood on his chin and he grunted and groaned loudly enough that we could hear him even with the windows partly up.

  We watched him make his slow cross for a bit, both of us staring with bored disinterest. Then Dave gunned the engine.

  The sound made the zombie turn and he stared at us with blank, dead, red eyes that never quite focused. Still, he recognized the potential for food and he let out a roar.

  Dave floored the van at the same time the zombie started a half-assed jog toward us. We collided mid-intersection and the zombi
e, gooey and rotting, took the brunt of the impact. His skin split, sending gore and guts flying from the seams of his torn clothing. He lay half-wrapped around our bumper, staring up at us as he squealed and clawed, even though his lower body was probably gone.

  “Want me to take care of that?” I asked as I reached in the back for an axe.

  “Naw,” Dave said. He changed gears and rolled back in reverse. The zombie fell backward and disappeared from view until my husband got far enough away. Sure enough, his lower half was gone, split off from the initial impact.

  Dave lined up the wheel of the van and rolled forward again. He didn’t stop until we felt the satisfying rock of hitting the zombie skull and popping it like a melon.

  Once that was done, Dave put the van in neutral and looked at me. “So if I’m the muscle of the operation,” he said, returning to our earlier conversation, “what does that make you?”

  “Silly,” I laughed. “I’m the brains, of course. And the beauty.”

  I fluffed my hair and he laughed as he threw the van in gear and we roared toward our first job of the week.