Love in the Age of Zombies (Book 2): Zombies in Paradise

by James K. Evans

  He rode the bike down the path to the beach, barely able to make out the shore and water under the canopy of brilliant stars and rising moon. The surf didn’t sound overly rough, but wasn’t placid, either. Even with his eyes fully adjusted to the dark, he could barely make out the dunes around him. He heard nothing other than the surf and the wind. He rode the bike to the water’s edge and headed north, his shirttails flapping in the lake wind.

  He’d never ridden a bike on this or any beach in the dark. The shoreline was somewhat scalloped, slowing him down. Twice he wrecked the bike as he ran into various obstacles: driftwood, what may have been a chunk of fiberglass plate, and one foul-smelling lump that was either a zombie or a dead person. Fortunately he didn’t land on (or in) it when he fell!

  As he scrambled to get up, a wave washed over his right leg. The water was freezing! It was much, much colder than the water in Lake Menekaunee. He scrambled onto his bike and pushed on. He debated what to do as he pedaled along, using the surf to guide him. Should he hide behind one of the small dunes and wait until daylight to move on? How would he know if a zombie was hidden in the dunes?

  He knew he couldn’t go all the way to Frankfort in the dark. That would be idiotic. But . . . on the other side of the lake outlet, the land forms a very long, fairly narrow forested peninsula, and likely would be secure. However, there could easily be several zombies on either side of the outlet, clustering as they seem to do on river and creek banks.

  There were small dunes overlooking the channel of water, and southeast was a bowl-shaped are filled with scrub brush and trees rising to the top of a dune. It was unlikely any of the creatures would be back there. Even so, Kevin decided against riding to the outlet, not knowing what to expect. He decided to hide on the other side of the first line of dunes, before the tree line. It had to have been around midnight. He was cold, he was tired, and he was still shaking from the adrenalin surge he’d had when he was nearly bitten by the zombie on the raft, and again when he turned on the fog lights.

  He set his backpack down and walked about ten feet away, afraid to go further lest he lose his gear in the dark. He urinated into the sand, then headed back to lie down, using the backpack as a pillow. As he tried to relax, he desperately missed Michelle and Doc. He remembered what it was like to spoon in bed, nice and warm under the covers. At that moment he would have given anything to hold Michelle in his arms, or to share a glass of bourbon with Doc.

  It was a long, cold, miserable night. He must have dozed off at some point, but not much. Most of the time he lay there, shivering, listening to the cold sound of dark waves falling onto the beach. Every other sound he heard or imagined was a zombie. Or a ghost.

  Around the beach fires all those years ago, he’d heard the outlet was haunted. One couple told the story of being at the outlet near midnight, making out, when they saw the faint image of an oddly dressed woman walking through the outlet and then standing on the beach, audibly weeping as she looked out over the water. Then she faded away. They realized after the fact that she made no splashing sounds as she crossed the outlet, and her feet made no noise walking on the sand. They were freaked out and headed back to the inn. The next morning they laughingly told the story at breakfast, and an older man at a nearby table overheard them. He said he’d been on the wait staff forty years ago, and he’d seen the same thing. The man told the same story as theirs, except he was standing near the lake and the apparition stood only ten feet away, facing the water and weeping despondently until she faded away. Just before she disappeared, she turned and looked into his eyes. They were the loveliest eyes he had ever seen, but so incredibly sad that they broke his heart.

  One early history of the lake reported newlyweds who tried to cross the frozen outlet while driving along the beach in winter. At that time the outlet was dredged deep and wide enough to float logs from Lake Menekaunee to Lake Michigan for transport. The car broke through the ice, drowning the couple. There were reports of haunted tire tracks in the snow nearly every year, tracks which lead to one side of the frozen outlet and disappeared. They didn’t come out the other side. Kevin used to suspect it was just four-wheelers having fun on the frozen beach. Shivering on the cold, dark beach, he wasn’t so sure anymore.

  There were also numerous shipwrecks off the shore with substantial loss of life. And before that, there were very old stories of the Ojibwa and Chippewa natives who lived and died there. One legend was about a native Ojibwa maiden who waited at the outlet to elope with her lover. She waited through the day and into dusk and was relieved when she finally saw his canoe come floating down the outlet. Then she realized it was empty. An hour later, the paddle slowly drifted downstream. The groom never showed up. Supposedly the apparition of an empty canoe floating down the outlet makes an appearance from time to time.

  So there was definitely ghost potential. Enough to keep anyone on edge, especially when they’re exhausted, it’s dark, it’s cold, and they’re on the alert for flesh-eating zombies.

  Before the night was over, Kevin had taken the few items of clothing out of his backpack and used them as a makeshift blanket. It was only marginally better than nothing. Finally, he discerned some faint lightening of the sky in the east. Over the next hour, night transitioned to day, although the sky had clouded over again and there was no real sunrise. When it was light enough for him to give up even pretending to sleep, he sat up, stretched, and rubbed his neck. The combination of the cold and his sleeping position had left him with a stiff neck, and the sand proved to be a very lumpy bed. It was impossible to get comfortable.

  He stood up and tried to work the kinks out of his neck, then looked around. He thought of an old Laurie Anderson quote, Paradise is exactly like where you are right now . . . only much, much better. While still picturesque, this was not paradise. The mostly-cloudy sky turned the cold water a gunmetal gray. There was a stiff, cool wind blowing off the lake. All the colors were desaturated. No sapphire blue sky, puffy cotton-ball clouds, or Caribbean blue water.

  The color of the water and sky was reflected in his mood as well. He was exhausted, hungry, thirsty, and he had to piss again. He finished what was left of the bottle of water, walked to the water’s edge and urinated. Then he stuffed his clothes back in the backpack, strapped it on, and headed north. He stared ahead, looking for any kind of movement. He only took a quick glance at the Big Lake, since he knew it didn’t hold any danger.

  After a few minutes he reached the outlet. There were no zombies in sight. True to his memory, the stream swirled and murmured over the shallow rocks. He got off the bike, lifted it to his shoulder, and waded across.

  The water flowing from Lake Menekaunee was noticeably warmer than Lake Michigan, but it was still cold. The depth of the outlet increased as Kevin crossed it, but at no point was it more than knee-high. He climbed the shallow bank, then walked to the Big Lake’s edge where the sand was more firmly packed and mounted his bike.

  He had a much easier time navigating now. The sand made a faint ringing tone as he rode over and through it. He’d heard the Singing Sand, as he remembered it being called, plenty of times. But never on a bike.

  Most of the time, the beach sloped gradually to the water line. Other times, Marram grass and other vegetation kept the sand together until it dropped off abruptly near the water. Waves surged right up to the wall, and occasionally small sections crumbled and fell apart. Sometimes Kevin tried to avoid the water by riding higher on the shore, but the softer sand, vegetation, driftwood, and boulders of various sizes made it too frustrating.

  The stiff breeze off the lake was cold and wet. He was soon shivering again in the wind. Gone were any illusions of a pleasant bike ride on a warm, sunny beach. It was a miserably cold, wet, windy trek.

  Not quite a mile later, he stopped to take refuge in a blowout he’d explored years ago. He curled up in a bowl-shaped break in the dune vegetation, a mostly barren depression; little besides beach grass or reeds grew there. It stretched back maybe an eighth
of a mile until it was swallowed up in the encroaching woods.

  The sky was beginning to clear and the sun warmed him when it broke through the clouds. The blowout gave him some relief from the wind and water spray. He slowly thawed out, staring at the lake and keeping an eye on the shoreline both north and south. For a few minutes he was almost content.

  Suddenly he sat bolt upright. Far out on the water—a sailboat! Survivors! He jumped to his feet and started leaping up and down, waving and shouting to get their attention. The sailboat was maybe a half-mile off shore and headed south, probably coming from Frankfort. Kevin was elated! He continued jumping up and down, shouting and waving, until it was so far south it was obvious nobody had seen him. Even so, this was proof of survivors nearby, renewing his hope for what he would find in Frankfort. He prayed it was a sanctuary for survivors, complete with doctors and a working hospital!

  Warmed by the sun and filled with renewed enthusiasm, he got back on the bike and headed north on the beach. About fifteen minutes later he saw a big grey house just off the beach. He’d seen the house for years, as it interrupted the otherwise undeveloped view of the beachscape. The shoreline from Arcadia to Frankfort is one of the few undeveloped shorelines on all of Lake Michigan, with few manmade structures to be seen for nearly ten miles. Much of it was forever preserved from development by the Grand Traverse Nature Conservancy. This house spoiled the pristine view of the undeveloped beach. Lake Menekaunee guests used to express their disdain at having the seemingly virgin shorescape spoiled by insensitive homeowners.

  On his way past this house in years gone by, Kevin had noticed a lot of kids and teens playing volleyball, running around or swimming in the lake. Was this some kind of camp, or retreat? A family summer vacation home with big reunions? A home where the grandparents welcomed the frenetic enthusiasm of their kids and grandkids?

  Any place that large, with that many energetic guys and gals to entertain, was bound to have something useful hanging around. Food, bottled water, tools, weapons . . .

  He angled up the beach until he came across a wood-slatted boardwalk leading to the house. It too showed signs of disuse—leaves were piling up, and in some areas the boardwalk was partially buried in sand. No evidence of humans, alive or otherwise. He biked up the walk. As he got closer to the house, he slowed down and listened intently, turning his head this way and that, trying to hear anything beyond nature. Nothing. Approaching the back deck, he stopped.

  What was the best way to proceed? Should he call out so anyone alive would know he wasn’t a zombie? Or would his voice attract the attention of unseen zombies? He decided to be stealthy and hope he wouldn’t get shot by some survivor thinking Kevin was already dead.

  He lay the bike down before quietly walking across the deck. He noticed the sliding glass door leading into the house had been forced open, the metal frame pried apart and the lock broken. Since it was aluminum he couldn’t tell whether it had happened months ago or last week.

  He quietly pulled the door open, still hearing nothing. It looked like some kids, or maybe some scavengers, had spent some time here. There was a lot of trash—empty beer bottles, bowls filled with cigarette butts, piles of empty canned goods. Someone had used the fireplace, too, as there was a good layer of ash on the fireplace floor. He gingerly walked across the room and held his palms over the ashes. No heat. It hadn’t been used recently.

  He began to walk through the dimly lit house. The place wasn’t a disaster—it wasn’t like someone had broken in with intention of destroying the place. There was trash around, but no real damage.

  He surveyed the kitchen to see if there was anything he could use, but it was so gloomy he couldn’t see much. The kitchen had already been cleaned out. No food was found anywhere.

  He went down the hall, glancing into the darkened doorways. One was a bathroom. On impulse he turned on his flashlight and ducked into the room to piss into the dry toilet. The familiarity felt good. He zipped up and, looking around, spotted a closet. He cautiously opened it and spied some toilet paper and some unused tubes of toothpaste among other bathroom items. He grabbed the toothpaste and a few bars of soap, but left the rest—he could only carry so much, and this was not a scavenging trip. He grabbed a roll of toilet paper as an afterthought.

  He moved on to the next room, a home office of sorts. There was a computer on the desk, a printer, and some speakers. A fair number of books lined wooden bookshelves. Nothing useful.

  He tried the next door; it was locked. Locked?! Bedroom doors usually lock from the inside, which means someone—dead, alive, or in between—was in there. The thought hit him like a brick.

  He involuntarily stepped back against the wall. Was someone or something behind the door, listening to him? Maybe pointing a gun at the door? Or maybe there was a formerly dead person, now a twisted perverted imitation of a man, waiting to attack him the moment he opened the door.

  He stood stock-still and tried to hear any sounds over the pounding of his heart. He still heard nothing. Curious, he headed outside and walked around the perimeter of the house until he found the bedroom window. The curtains were drawn, but one section was pulled away from the window.

  He peered in, not knowing what he hoped to find. What he saw was none too pretty. There were two bodies on the bed, both showing signs of advanced decay. It wasn’t at all neat and clean—in the process of decay, with hundreds of pounds of bodily fluids and rotting tissue, the mattress and linens had grown dark, soggy and moldy. There were signs of infestation as well—animal and insect.

  He couldn’t see the entire room, but wondered if these were owners who decided to die on their own terms? Simultaneous suicide, or murder-suicide? What did it matter? One or both of them had despaired and this was the result.

  Feeling a bit less wary, he crept back into the interior of the house when he stopped short. He heard a noise coming from the garage. He hadn’t looked there earlier. It was a kind of scratching sound. Shining his flashlight quickly around the kitchen, he grabbed a large knife from the knife block and headed to the door. A knife would do him little good unless he was engaged in hand-to-hand combat, something he hoped to avoid at all costs.

  He stood at the door leading into the garage, listening. The scratching continued, but it sounded like it was coming from the other side of the garage. He slowly turned the doorknob, then eased the door open a crack. Light filtered in from the windows atop the garage door; otherwise, the interior was dim. He could see no zombies. Muscles tensed, his fight-or-flight mode fully engaged, he opened the door further. Kevin heard a curious thwick-thwick-thwick followed by the sound of a small creature scampering away over the dry leaves outside. After a second he realized the thwick was the sound of a swinging pet door.

  Feeling bolder now, he stepped into the garage. There was a Range Rover and a lot of outdoor sporting equipment—a Sea-Doo on a trailer, a bin full of volleyball equipment . . . and a couple of very nice canoes resting in a canoe rack along with several kayaks. One canoe looked to be an old restored wooden canoe in beautiful condition; the other was a modern brand, Mad River.

  Kevin went back into the house, again looking for anything he could use. The living room had a picture window overlooking a patio with Lake Michigan behind it. The patio looked charming, and he walked through the patio doors to check it out. An s-curved trail of large boulders formed a perimeter around the area. In the center was a dry fountain. It was surrounded by a circular rock garden, now mostly obscured by leaves. One stone caught his eye and he bent down to take a closer look.

  It was a large Petoskey stone, about the size of a tennis ball—a great specimen! He picked it up to take a closer look. Wow! Nice definition! Good color, too, and the—

  Something grabbed his shoulder! He jumped to the side, barely pulling his arm away in time to avoid being bitten. It was a zombie, wearing a torn and bloody faded green sweater. One ear and one eye were completely missing, as were several teeth. Its tongue was crawling with maggots. It
leapt for him, snatching his arm with decayed hands. Several fingers were mere stumps. Without thinking Kevin raised the Petoskey stone over his head and smashed the zombie’s head with all his might. It stumbled and fell, grabbing Kevin’s leg on the way down. As it reached out to bite Kevin’s leg, he slammed the Petoskey down on its skull again, feeling more than hearing the crunch of bone. In a rage, he hit it again and again, beating it down onto the rock garden, breaking through the bone. Still he didn’t stop. He kept beating the broken skull, scattering wet and decomposed brain matter everywhere. He didn’t stop until long after the zombie quit moving.

  As the fog of rage lifted, Kevin realized that once again he was covered in zombie guts. The disgusting odor caused him to gag and he tried not to vomit. Still holding the Petoskey stone, now covered with putrefied tissue, he jumped over the boulder perimeter and sprinted through the beach grass. Within several seconds he was at the water’s edge, no longer concerned with the cold, only wanting to wash the black, decayed flesh, bone, and brain off him and the Petoskey stone. He yanked off his shoes and socks, peeled off his shirt, and stumbled out of his pants and boxers before leaping into the frigid water, immersing himself in the first wave that came ashore. He gasped at the cold, washed the fossil and tossed it ashore, then vigorously scrubbed any part of his body that showed signs of zombie flesh. His testicles went into hiding, but they had no zombie tissue on them. He scrubbed at his empty scrotum anyway, afraid to leave any part of his skin unwashed. He ducked his head under the water and ran his fingers roughly through his thin hair. He picked up handfuls of sand and scrubbed his face and arms that had gotten the worst of the spray, desperate to wash off every molecule of death. After a few minutes he felt clean enough to stumble out of the water, his breath coming out in great blusters. Feeling the cold breeze blowing over his naked body, he grabbed his spare clothes from the backpack and pulled them on, then dropped the Petoskey stone into his pocket. He dashed back to the house, his arms briskly rubbing each other.