by Lori Perkins
Hungry for Your Love: An Anthology of Zombie Romance
Perkins
Hungry For Your Love: An Anthology of Zombie Romance
A Ravenous Romance™ Original Publication
Edited by Lori Perkins
A Ravenous Romance™ Original Publication
www.ravenousromance.com
Copyright © 2009 by Ravenous Romance
Ravenous Romance™
100 Cummings Center
Suite 123A
Beverly, MA
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in whole or in part without written permission from the publisher, except by reviewers who may quote brief excerpts in connection with a review.
ISBN-13: 978-1-60777-308-5
This book is a work of fiction, and any resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental.
Dedication
For the boy and girl zombies of Camp Necon
who said it couldn’t be done
And double dog dared me
Table of Contents
Introduction by Lori Perkins
Romance Ain’t Dead by Jeremy Wagner
Revanants Anonymous by Francesca Lia Block I Heart Brains by Jaime Saare
Everyone I Love is Dead by Elizabeth Coldwell Through Death to Love by S.M. Cross
Eye of the Beholder by Stacey Graham
First Love Never Dies by Jan Kozlowski
My Partner the Zombie by R.G. Hart
Undying Love by Regina Riley
Captive Hearts by Brian Keene
Apocalypse as Foreplay by Gina McQueen
Julia Brainchild by Lois Gresh
Kicking the Habit by Steven Saus
Zombified by Isabel Roman
White Knight, Black Horse by Mercy Loomis
Inhuman Resources by Jeanine McAdam
The Magician’s Apprentice by Stacy Brown
Last Times at Ridgemont High by Kilt Kilpatrick Some New Blood by Vanessa Vaugh
First Date by Dana Fredsti
Later by Michael Marshall Smith
Introduction
They said it couldn’t be done.
And like the undead, I rose to the challenge.
This anthology was born in July 2009 at the 29th Northeastern Writer’s Conference, affectionately known by its regular participants as “Camp Necon.” Every year since its inception, Necon has what we also affectionately call “that damn vampire panel.” But this year, we had a zombie panel instead. The revolution had begun.
As soon as the panel opened, someone brought up the question of whether or not the zombie mythos could possibly have the staying power of the vampire appeal in American pop culture.
And I said yes.
As soon as the words had left my mouth, the audience responded, “but you can’t have zombie romance.”
And I said yes, you could.
As soon as I got back to the Ravenous Romance office, I informed my colleagues that we would be doing a zombie romance anthology. They were emphatically skeptical.
We posted the thesis on Facebook and hundreds of readers said they couldn’t imagine romance with rotting corpses.
Oh, ye of little faith.
The zombie mythos is the perfect metaphor for the end of an era, for a society beset with change it doesn’t understand but knows is here.
Vampires were the cultural embodiment of the end of the millennium: seductive immortals with (literally) cutthroat greed. Then came the recession and the end of the Bush boom, and with it came the realization that we were all worker drones paying off our bloated mortgages, bloodsucking corporations and even each other.
We are the dead.
So, in these pages you will find zombie tales that span the possibilities and boggle the brain. Jeremy Wagner’s Love Ain’t Dead and Michael Marshall Smith’s Later are two of the most romantic stories of lost love you will ever read. Dating the undead? Try I Heart Brains by Jaime Saare and Elizabeth Coldwell’s zombie threesome in Everyone I Love is Dead. Love among the dead? Take notes from Francesca Lia Block’s Revenants Anonymous or S.M. Cross’s Through Death to Love.
And what about undead exes? Gina McQueen’s Apocalypse as Foreplay gives you one take you’ll never forget; then there’s Jan Kozlowski’s First Love Never Dies.
And leave it to zombie master Brian Keene to show us how we can find love and revenge in the time of the zombie apocalypse in Captive Hearts.
But it’s not all George Romero’s zombie hordes in these pages. Old-fashioned voodoo zombies make their presence known in Isabel Roman’s Zombified and Mercy Loomis’s White Knight, Black Horse.
There’s even a tale of zombie noir in R.G. Hart’s My Partner the Zombie, and some classic paranormal romance in Regina Riley’s Undying Love. And if Lois Gresh’s Julia Brainchild doesn’t make you laugh, well, then you are a zombie.
And just because this is a Ravenous Romance title, we have some zombie smut for you from two of our favorite RR authors. Dana Fredsti lets you know just how hot and bothered you can get from zombie hunting in First Date and Kilt Kilpatrick gives us the unforgettable erotic zombie escapades of a high school senior in Las Times at Ridgemont High.
There’s something for everyone.
Enjoy.
Lori Perkins
October
Romance Ain’t Dead
by Jeremy Wagner
I love my dead wife. Wait, let me re-phrase that. I love my zombie wife. She’s not dead or alive. She’s reanimated, brought back from death after drowning in Lake Michigan this past summer.
I’d better explain.
My wife Sheri and I have been married for twenty years. We’re in our late forties and live in Winnetka on Chicago’s North Shore. We’re quite wealthy. I owe my fortune to major successes in real estate while Sheri’s fortune comes from her deceased parents’
multibillion-dollar medical supply company. Sheri’s an only child and her trust-fund releases and six-figure dividend earnings blast into our joint bank account every quarter.
Needless to say, we don’t work day jobs. We enjoy our marriage full time.
I’ve never been in such love with a woman. We met in college. By chance, Sheri happened to be at a bar my friends and I frequented. When I first saw Sheri, I was sucker-punched by Eros. She was amazing to me: short and curly blond hair, toned body with all the right curves, green eyes from another world. I’m eating my heart out just thinking about the first moment we met. When I first saw her, she stood out in vivid, living color while the world around her turned to grayscale. I’ve never seen anyone the same way.
Since then, I’ve forgotten every woman I met before her and I’ve never looked back.
Sheri’s my proof of love at first sight. Also, we’ve proven love ain’t dead, even if my better half is considered dearly departed.
Sheri’s demise and return to the world of the living started when we went to the Ravinia Festival in Highland Park. We hunkered down on the grass on a beautiful summer evening with a basket full of cheeses and prosciutto paired with bottles of Laeticia Pinot. We became tipsy while watching and dancing to Tony Bennett. It was a blast.
We returned home at midnight and Sheri wanted to stroll down to the sand of our beachfront property. When we reached the beach, she got the idea to go skinny-dipping. I declined because Lake Michigan is ice-cold year round. Even on the hottest days, this Great Lake is freezing.
Sheri said, “You’re a freaking wimp, Bruce.” She kicked off her heels and her blue Escada dress and undergarments. I laughed and sat on the sand with another bottle of red wine, admiring her sweet backside running toward the wa
ter. She squealed and dove under. She came up wet and smiling in the moonlight. She said the chilly dip sobered her up. I waved the bottle of wine at her.
I watched Sheri backstroke farther away from the beach. Then I heard the sound of an engine. Sheri asked me what the sound was and I wasn’t sure.
Minutes later, the sound grew louder and I made out the shape of a yellow speedboat with its lights off, hauling ass in the moonlight. Before I could yell and summon Sheri back toward shore, the boat roared past our beach and nailed my wife in the head. The boat never stopped.
I dropped the wine bottle and ran to the water. I dove in and swam out to Sheri. I found her floating facedown in the water, bleeding from her head. I turned her over, screamed her name, but she never responded. I towed her back to shore and began mouth-to-mouth resuscitation. She was DOA.
Sheri looked calm and restful in my arms. She didn’t breathe and I couldn’t hear her heartbeat. I assumed the boat killed her on impact or she drowned. Maybe a combo of both did it. Moments later, I rose and picked Sheri up in my arms. I carried her back to our mansion, remembering how I once carried her into our honeymoon suite. The memory was enough to break my heart to pieces.
Inside the dark house, I set Sheri down on a large Westchester leather sofa and covered her with a blanket. The room filled with moonlight. I walked in shock to retrieve my cell phone from the kitchen. I was about to call the cops when I heard the doorbell ring. I glanced at my watch and wondered who was at my front door at this hour. Soaking wet and shaking with cold and loss, I went to the door and flicked on the outside house lights.
To my surprise, I found my next-door neighbor, Doctor Wyclef Moliare, waiting for me. “Wyclef, what’s going on? It’s late.”
“I heard screaming from your beach, Mister Bruce. Everything okay here, mon?”
I studied Wyclef. He wore khaki cargo pants with a bright white T-shirt emblazoned with artwork for a Chicago 5K Run, and no shoes. I always considered him a cool guy. A tall, mahogany-colored man with short dreads and about my age, Wyclef was a purebred Haitian. I remembered him as a real success story, coming to Illinois straight from Port-au-Prince as a teenager, later going to college and becoming a leading brain surgeon.
“Sheri’s dead.” I began crying. I hung my head, helpless to aid my beloved Sheri and helpless to stop sobbing.
“Take it easy, mon.” Wyclef gave me a comforting hug before moving farther into my house with no regard to invite. Without looking at me, he said, “Where’s your wife?”
I sniffled and wiped strings of snot from my cold nose. “She’s…she’s in the living room. On the sofa.”
I watched Wyclef dash for the living room. His speed and attitude alarmed me and I ran after him. In the living room, I found him kneeling next to my wife’s body, checking her pulse and vitals. I felt an odd prickle when he threw the blanket off of her naked corpse. “Hey, Doc. Now, wait—”
“What happened?” Wyclef continued his appraisal of Sheri’s body.
“She got hit by a boat. She was taking a midnight dip and some fucker in a speedboat nailed her.”
“You get the numbers, make of da boat?”
“No.” The thought of the asshole getting away made me crazy. “Whoever it was, was driving fast with lights off and just kept on truckin’. Probably didn’t realize…”
I started crying again, releasing big lost-love sobs as the weight of my soulmate’s death crushed me. Through my tears, I saw Doctor Wyclef nodding and studying Sheri without looking at me. His physical inspection of my dead and nude wife unnerved me. I was thankful when he put the blanket back over her, tucking it around Sheri with a caring touch.
He got to his feet and looked at me. “How long ago this happen? When I hear the screams?”
I nodded and after a minute of wrestling with my overwhelming grief, I mustered coherent words. “Yeah. That was me screaming out there. Tried mouth-to-mouth, but she was gone.”
“You call the police? Ambulance comin’?”
“No. You rang the doorbell before I got to my cell phone.”
Wyclef looked down at me and grabbed my shoulders with his large hands giving me a tight squeeze. His dark brown eyes were wide and serious. “You love your wife, mon?”
“Of course. Christ, Wyclef. What kinda question is that?”
“Forget da hospital and police. They ain’t gonna help this one. You want her back?”
I looked into those fierce Haitian eyes and wondered what the hell he was getting at. “I want her back more than anything. What are you saying?”
“I’m saying, my friend, I got ways to bring your loving wife back from da other side.”
Losing Sheri and hearing my neighbor talk of reviving her from the grave was too much. I felt my legs weaken and Wyclef grabbed me and helped me to a leather chair. I hunched over and put my hands to my face. I breathed deep and regained control. “What in the name of Johnny Freaking Appleseed are you telling me? You sound like a goddamn nut.”
Wyclef stood over me and laughed. It wasn’t a malicious laugh, but it boomed and sounded scary even though the tone was lighthearted. He spoke in an assuring and baritone voice. “I can get her back. But we have to act quick and you got to believe. You believe in Vodou? You know, you call it Voodoo.”
I wasn’t sure how to answer this. Sheri and I are Jewish and never subscribed to any other religions or beliefs. To even consider anything related to witchcraft or being satanic was laughable and absurd to me. “No, Wyclef. I don’t believe in that crap and I’m baffled as to why you’re asking this. Sheri’s dead and with God. I think it’s time to call the cops and find out who the killed her.”
“Wait, mon. Listen.” Wyclef maintained his deep and calm voice. “Before I came to da States, I was a teenage bokor. A witch doctor. That’s what got me interested in medicine and led me down my path as a doctor and surgeon.
“A witch doctor?” I found this funny. I always respected Wyclef. He received hundreds of awards in medicine, escalating his reputation and accolades as one of the nation’s most brilliant brain surgeons. Plus, the guy possessed great taste in food and music. I just couldn’t see him dancing naked around a fire in Haiti, making zombies and shrunken heads. “You gotta be kidding me.”
“I learned many old secrets growing up in Haiti. I learned secrets of the dead. I saw medical science coupled with the spirit world. I’ve made zombies and I’ve raised zombies from dead bodies whose souls have moved on to da other places.”
Again, I couldn’t imagine this. “You’ve got one of the most reputable practices in Chicago. What would happen if your clients or the press knew you practiced black magic?”
Wyclef smiled wide and revealed his large white teeth and the significant gap between his incisors. He didn’t answer my question but said, “Did you know Chicago was founded by a Haitian-born black slave in the early 1700s?”
I shook my head.
“Ya. It’s true, mon. Voodoo is nothing new to da North Shore. Though it’s funny you won’t find as many blacks living in the North Shore today as we once did in the 1700s. Ironic, no?”
I shrugged my shoulders, knowing wealth has a lot to do with the racial diversity being nil in the North Shore communities. I felt compelled to mention Lake Forest was chock full of ebony players in the Bulls and Bears, but I held my tongue.
“I go to my house and come back with what I need.” Wyclef looked serious now.
“You let me do my ‘ting and you’ll see, Mr. Bruce.”
I thought about it. I had nothing to lose. Either his absurd claim to bring my wife back would happen or it wouldn’t. Then I’d call the cops and start making funeral arrangements. “All right. Get whatever you need. I’m a skeptical man, Wyclef. I’ll try it your way and then I’m calling nine-one-one.”
“I be right back.” Wyclef’s long legs carried him away.
I turned and looked down at Sheri. She looked at peace. With her relaxed features and her damp blond hair, she remained beautiful. I
kissed her cold cheek. I told her how much I loved her. I told her how much she meant to me and how the world and my life would never be right without her. I began crying again and held her small body close to mine.
I was still holding Sheri when Wyclef returned. In one of his big arms, he carried a large cardboard box. In his opposite hand, he clutched a wooden cage with a clucking chicken in it. I thought of how the village of Winnetka didn’t allow people to keep farm animals. I wondered where Wyclef got the chicken and where he kept it. Were there others? “Looks like you got your hands full.”
Wyclef set the box and the cage down on the living room floor. He stepped away from his belongings and moved furniture and rugs until part of the hardwood floor was uncovered and bare.
“What’re we doing?” I shivered, trying to imagine what we’d be doing on the floor. “You need anything?”
“Let’s get Sheri on to da floor here.” I laid Sheri down on the couch and stood up.
Wyclef said, “I’ll grab her feet and you take her by her top.”
I walked around, knelt and eased my arms under Sheri and grabbed her by her armpits. At the count of three, Wyclef and I lifted my wife from the couch. She was light and easy to move. To my dismay, the blanket fell off her in the move and we placed her naked body on the floor. I was going to grab the blanket for her when Wyclef said,
“Leave da blanket be, Mr. Bruce. She gotta be naked to da world right now.”
“Does your wife know where the fuck you are right now?” I blurted this without thinking, not meaning to inject such a hard tone in my delivery.
Wyclef smiled and placed his reassuring hands on my shoulders. “Mister Bruce, my wife knows where I be. She praying for Sheri. She sends good vibes here to help your wife come back.”
I dropped my head, feeling bad and sad about all of this. “Sorry.”
“No worries, mon.”
He walked over to his box of tricks and his pet chicken. I watched him dig through his box. He returned with several large black candles and a mason jar full of dead flower petals. He set these items down and moved Sheri around on the floor, spreading her arms and legs wide, splaying her out on her back. I no longer felt weird or overprotective about what he was doing.
