Hungry for Your Love: An Anthology of Zombie Romance

by Lori Perkins

  Wyclef placed the candles in specific spots all around Sheri’s body. He lit the candles and soon the moonlit room filled with candlelight. I watched the doctor open the jar and sprinkle dead flower petals all over Sheri’s naked body. He placed the empty jar on the floor and turned to me. “Mister Bruce, I want you to sit and hold her head in your hands.”

  Before I could ask why, he turned away to retrieve his caged chicken. I did as instructed and sat between two candles with my legs crossed and looked down at the top of Sheri’s head and her upside-down face. With a loving touch, I cupped the back and sides of Sheri’s head with my hands and stroked her beautiful face with my thumbs.

  Wyclef returned and set the cage on the floor next to me. The chicken inside clucked away, cocking its head in every direction. I watched him remove his shirt. His ripped upper torso shined in the candlelight. He opened the cage and removed the chicken. Then he said something to the bird in a foreign language. I watched with disgust as he gripped the chicken’s neck with his large fist before snapping his arm and decapitating it.

  “Jesus Christ, Doc. What the hell are you doing?”

  Wyclef ignored me. He seemed to be in his own world.

  I continued holding Sheri’s head while watching Wyclef with morbid curiosity.

  He dropped the chicken head to the hard wood floor and held the chicken’s body as it jerked in his grip. I watched him chant and pour chicken blood on his face and down his chest and stomach. Then he squatted down, chanting away while moving Sheri’s body and the candles around like a crab. He set the now-motionless chicken carcass on the floor and picked up the head. Before I could object, he dabbed Sheri’s forehead, cheeks and lips with blood from the torn chicken neck. He raked her bare belly with chicken claws before dabbing his own face with chicken blood.

  “Start saying Sheri’s name, Mister Bruce. I want you to say her name again and again like a mantra.” Wyclef pulled out two sticks of incense and lit them on a candle flame. He held a stick in each hand, waving them back and forth as he continued squatting over my wife. “Here we go, mon.”

  My mind filled with a few questions. What are we doing here? Are we going to jail after this? I already knew what we were doing and why. I began speaking Sheri’s name out loud over and over again.

  Wyclef continued to squat and crab-shuffle over Sheri’s dead body while waving incense smoke and chanting in some foreign tongue. I continued the mantra of my beloved’s name while watching everything. Wyclef’s eyes rolled back and his baritone voice grew louder while his movements became more wild and intense. He stomped with heavy feet and started yelling. He made it hard for me to concentrate on my repetitive speaking. The volume and dark tone of Wyclef’s voice mixed with strange words he shouted and enforced with violent and frenzied motions. It felt most unsettling.

  Wyclef reached a vocal crescendo and uttered, “Jumbie…nzambi…da Bantu!”

  On his last word, I was looking down into Sheri’s face while caressing it and speaking her name. Her chest gave an unexpected heave and her eyelids flew open to reveal milky white eyeballs staring straight into my own. Then all the candles blew out from an unseen blast of netherworld wind and left us in the dark.

  “Wyclef! She’s moving!” I knew I sounded hysterical. I was creeped out, sitting in the dark living room with my deceased better half squirming beneath me. “What’s going on, Doc?”

  “Relax, mon.”

  My eyes focused in the dark. I watched Wyclef sit on Sheri’s stomach. He fumbled for something, then lit up what looked like a hellacious-sized doobie. He locked his lips on Sheri’s mouth and blew a giant puff of smoke into her.

  “Shit!” I jumped when Sheri began coughing and making odd gurgling sounds.

  “What did you do?”

  “She’s back, Mister Bruce. I blew spirit protection into her so’s no udder folk try hitching a ride with her from da udder side.”

  I raised an eyebrow at this spooky little comment. “Uh, right. I’m not worried about ghosts. You heard her. She coughed. It’s a goddamn miracle.” I felt an immediate need to got to a local synagogue to pray and give thanks.

  “She coughed, but dat was just da release of spirit smoke. It kick-started her animation. She’s not breathing, Mister Bruce. She never will again.”

  This was something I didn’t want to hear. I felt an urgency to see. I didn’t like being in the dark. “Can we get some real light in here? We gotta see what’s going on.”

  Wyclef got to his feet and pulled my wife with him. I remained seated, watching with unbelieving eyes as Sheri stood on her own, naked and in the dwindling moonlight of the living room. She looked beautiful.

  “Get the lights, mon.”

  I jumped to my feet and flicked on the living room lights. Wyclef helped Sheri to the couch, sat her down and wrapped the blanket around her once again. I took a seat on the other side of her and hugged her tight.

  My new mantra was, “I love you, baby.” I said this nonstop, wanting Sheri to know I was here. I began weeping again. I rocked my wife and kept bawling her name, but she offered no verbal response. I looked at her with tears flowing down my face and was startled at what I saw.

  “Hey, Doc.” I spoke and my voice hitched with cracking words. “What’s wrong with her eyes?”

  I looked into Sheri’s blank and pale face. Her features were slack and wooden.

  She didn’t look like she was breathing but I knew she was on this side of the grave because she sat up with her eyes open. Her eyes troubled me the most—they moved but were lifeless. They held no light and no twinkle. The once-beautiful green was replaced by the ghostlike, milky-gray color of a ripe corpse.

  “Sheri’s zombified, Mister Bruce. When she departed from dis place she go to da udder place. When she comes back to you, she lose part of her spirit and some of da mortal traits she once had.”

  “Well, what the fuck, Doc?” I felt anger and distress at this bit of news. “I wanted Sheri back. I wanted my wife back one hundred percent. That’s why I went through with this crazy Voodoo shit. I didn’t want a zombie.”

  “Guess we shoulda talked about dis.”

  “Shoulda? What in the name of Johnny Freaking Appleseed were you thinking?

  You asked if I wanted my wife back. I said yes. Now Sheri’s a vegetable. I love my wife, but I woulda left her dead if I knew this would happen.”

  “Let me tell ya about zombies, Mister Bruce. Sometimes dey come around with some qualities dey once had. Sometimes dey recognize you.” Wyclef offered a smile but lost it to a frown. “I won’t lie. Sheri’s not gonna be da same like before. She won’t be talking or. She’s a zombie, mon, and she got part of a soul but no real life in her. She just here to be with you and that’s it.”

  These new facts brought many questions to my mind. “How does she stay animated?”

  “She doesn’t need food. Some zombies, dey try and eat human flesh, but those are da ones who come from the bad side. Ones who go away too long and get corrupted, dey from a horror movie, mon. You don’t want one coming back.”

  “So, she can’t breathe and doesn’t need food. Hopefully won’t eat me. What else should I know?”

  “Her periods are over for good.”

  “Guess she won’t need a gynecologist.” I stared at Sheri and felt my heart pang. I didn’t want my baby to be a lost soul. Mixed feelings filled me as I considered a future with a zombie wife. “She’s got nothing to say about any of this, Wyclef. Maybe she doesn’t want to be like this. She’s not gonna live a normal life.”

  “She’s not living a life, Mister Bruce. She’s dead.”

  “Thanks, I needed that.”

  “Mister Bruce, my neighbor, I consider you a friend. I can tell you’re finding this hard to accept. All of dis. But you trust me, no?”

  I thought about it. I wondered if maybe I jumped the gun in my panic and traumatized sadness when I allowed Wyclef to do his black magic on Sheri. Though a real consultation would have been nice, I trus
ted the man. I guess you don’t get second opinions with witch doctors. “I trust you, Doc. I’m sure this ain’t your first rodeo.”

  “That’s right, mon. I grew up in Haiti with Voodoo being a normal part of life.

  Have faith in my words when I tell you dat even though Sheri’s reanimated and zombified, she can feel your love, and she can take comfort in your company. Your wife can keep you company for the rest of your life. It’s all about love and how much her companionship means to you.”

  I felt doubt at this. Though I accepted the implausible fact of Sheri dying and returning from the dead, I couldn’t choke down how a walking corpse felt any emotions.

  “You sure? How do you know?”

  “I’ve seen zombies absorb true love into their stock-still hearts, mon. I’ve seen zombies reach out and grab a lover’s hand and even embrace another.” Wyclef turned grim. “Then again, I seen a zombie bite the cheek off of her husband in Haiti. But dat was one of da bad ones, Mister Bruce.”

  “I’m not getting a warm fuzzy feeling. What bothers me is that Sheri’s personality is gone. We won’t be sharing ideas about movies or music. She won’t tell me she wants to go to a museum or a farmer’s market. Her spark is gone. I basically have a Real Doll on my hands. I should just get a dog to talk to and play with.”

  Wyclef remained grim. “Don’t go getting pets, Mister Bruce. Dogs and cats go crazy around zombies. Dey know when someone’s dead and walking and dey don’t like it.”

  “Great. Parks and nice neighborhood walks with my zombie wife are out of the question.”

  “Don’t let this bother you a bit.” Wyclef smiled. “You gonna have plenty to do together.”

  “What about the long term?” I wondered what would happen to Sheri if I died and she remained on Earth. “If I pass on and she’s still a zombie, then what’s gonna happen to her? Our retirement funds ain’t gonna do her any good.”

  Wyclef began laughing and slapped me on the shoulder. “Mister Bruce, you gave her mouth-to-mouth, no?”

  “That’s right.”

  “You blew your mortal breath into her, mon. She’s got a piece of your life inside her. She gonna die with you when you go to the udder side. That’s how it works.”

  This idea made me smile. I found it…romantic. Sheri expiring at the moment of my own death reminded me a bit of the tragic Romeo and Juliet, though Sheri and I were never “star-cross’d” lovers, but rather soulmates meant to be together—even under zombified circumstances.

  “I go now.” Wyclef picked up his candles and chicken parts and boxed them up.

  “Where’s your cleaning supplies? I’ll get this blood and feathers off da floor.”

  “Don’t worry, I’ll handle it. Just get home to your wife. Please shower first.”

  Wyclef let loose a booming laugh. “Okay, Mister Bruce. I’ll do dat.”

  Questions filled my head again. I looked at Sheri and I loved her more than ever now. I turned to my neighbor as he collected his things. “One last question, Doc.”

  Wyclef wiped chicken blood of his face and torso with his shirt and threw it in the box with his other items. “Yes?”

  “What about rot? I mean—”

  “Don’t worry. She gonna stay fresh. But you need to wash her, Mister Bruce.

  Don’t let her get too nappy.”

  “Right.” I thought tending to Sheri like an invalid, but I pushed the negatives away. I watched Wyclef with box in hand heading for the door. “Need a hand?”

  “No.” He reached the door and opened it. He turned and said, “You gonna be fine, Mister Bruce. You got lots on da brain and you be thinking how unnatural all dis is. But don’t despair, it all works out and you’ll find your way. I seen dis many times.”

  “Okay.” I breathed easier though my chest and heart felt heavy. “What am I gonna tell people?”

  “Don’t worry, mon. It’ll work out. Plus, I got your back.”

  Wyclef blasted me with one last smile and was out the door. I turned to my beautiful Sheri, my zombie wife and kissed her cold cheek. “Let’s go to bed, love.”

  Sure enough, Wyclef had my back. He assisted and gave Sheri an official Doctor Wyclef Moliare physical and mental evaluation. He provided substantial paperwork supporting his diagnosis that my wife suffered massive head trauma and remained catatonic. Catatonia: another word for zombie, I guessed.

  In the following months, there was much explaining to do and a lot of changes made in my marriage.

  My parents came up from Arkansas and saw Sheri once since her return to the living. I explained how she experienced a debilitating head injury and how her speech and motor skills were impaired. My parents believed me. They comforted me, hugged and kissed Sheri and conveyed their sympathies and advised me to be strong.

  Sheri’s few friends were told about her accident with the boat and I reiterated how she’d suffered a terrible head injury and would never be the same. I used Wyclef’s medical records and word to endorse all the bullshit I told everyone.

  After the first six months passed, I didn’t hear from Sheri’s friends outside of holiday cards and an occasional e-mail wishing us well.

  Despite my reservations, Wyclef assured me I could be intimate with Sheri without being a deviant or doing anything illegal since my wife was “technically” alive in an animated state. But this was the same guy who said she was dead and a zombie. The words dead or zombie doesn’t help my libido any, but I got past it and I make love to Sheri often.

  Sheri’s been wrapping her arms around me on her own. She once nibbled on my ear and I jumped, thinking it was Dawn of the Dead time. It turned out to be innocent and unexpected in a delightful, yet macabre way. Perhaps she has a flicker of loving inside her? I don’t know, but I hope.

  I’ve taken the liberty of placing green contacts into her eyes in order to lose the undead gray and bring back the sweet color of her gaze. I bathe Sheri every day in her favorite bubble bath and scrub her with her favorite body wash while whispering sweet nothings to her. I also dress her in her favorite outfits, spray her with her favorite perfume, and I play her favorite bands on the iPod dock every day just to give her a sense of herself and the things she left behind when I lost her in Lake Michigan.

  That’s true love in my book.

  I love my dead wife. Again, let me re-phrase that. I love my zombie wife. I love Sheri more than anything in the world and we’re together and living life—well, one of us is. I wouldn’t trade it for anything. She’s my soulmate, the love of my life and she owns my heart. I believe our love will outlast time itself, even after the physical marriage is dust.

  ‘Til death do us part? It didn’t work out that way.

  Revenants Anonymous

  by Francesca Lia Block

  I saw him at the Revenants Anonymous meeting I had started attending. I heard he was going to be the speaker the following week so that night I managed to pull myself together enough to put on a cute outfit of tight black jeans, high-heeled black boots, and a white shirt that still smelled faintly of bleach. I had even put on makeup so I wouldn’t look so pale, and flat-ironed my black bob. Around my neck I wore a giant silver heart-shaped watch on a thick silver chain, as if to imitate what I no longer had inside my chest.

  I was pretending to be un-dead (meaning not dead, rather than one of the undead) because my sponsor, Rachel, had told me to act “as if.” It had worked for her. She was now successfully employed and had a nice, if somewhat clumsy, boyfriend who took her on vacations and told her she was beautiful and that he cherished her. I, on the other hand, couldn’t sell a story to save my life (pun intended), in spite of having won the big screenwriting contest just out of college, and I hadn’t kissed anyone for two years since Brian left.

  When the guy walked in to the church basement where the meeting took place, I grabbed the heart locket and held on tight. The guy was very tall and wore his (dyed?) black hair in a low pompadour with thick sideburns. His eyes were strikingly blue with long eyelashes
that made him look a little stunned. He had large, masculine features, a high forehead with some frown lines carved into it, high cheekbones, and a full mouth. I had heard on a talk show once that very masculine-looking men have extra testosterone that can make them more likely to behave like players. I wonder if that applied to revenants as well, since we really didn’t have testosterone. He was wearing black jeans, a white shirt, black motorcycle boots, and a white T-shirt. Twins, I thought. (To be fair, he had worn the same thing the week before and I was imitating him.) His eyes slid over me briefly and he went to take a seat. We said the Serenity Prayer and then he began.

  “I’m Ed and I’m a revenant,” he said.

  “Hi,

  Ed,”

  everyone

  droned.

  “I’ve been coming to these meetings for ten years now. When I first came, I literally had pieces of flesh hanging off my body. You could see the bones poking through here,” he pulled down the neck of his T-shirt to reveal his clavicle, “and here.”

  He pulled up his T-shirt to reveal a prominent hipbone above the line of his jeans. There was black hair on his chest and stomach.

  “The way it started, I’d given up on my music. I was working the bar at a strip club and doing it with every sally I could find and getting drunk off my ass every night.

  Then I met this one girl, this stripper. She treated me like shit. I couldn’t get enough of her. I had to go out of town for a few weeks to visit my dad who was dying and when I came back she had broken up with me. So I just went ape shit. I followed her around begging her to come back. I drank twice as much and started snorting blow. I served alcohol to one too many drunks and he had a car crash that night and died.”

  The audience grimaced collectively, sympathetically. Ed went on.

  “I went back home to see my dad. He had cancer and it was eating away at him from the inside out. I sat at his bedside but I really didn’t feel that much and I didn’t understand why. When he finally died, I didn’t feel anything. Then I started having these dreams where he was touching me. Then I stopped dreaming at all. By then I was officially one of us.”