My Zombie Honeymoon: Love in the Age of Zombies Book One (15 page)

She took exception to my remark. “Pressured you?!
Pressured you?!
I made a business proposal. You accepted it. There was no pressure! Don’t you dare go making me out to be some freeloading vixen!” she exclaimed. The flashing of her eyes only made her even more attractive. 

I burst out laughing. Michelle’s eyes were hard with anger, but as I continued to laugh, they softened up and she began to smile. “What are you laughing at?” she asked.

“I got you again! I
invited
you to move in. You didn’t pressure me. I do wonder though, how many newly-shacked up college couples have had this same conversation. ‘
You pressured me into moving in, I didn’t really want to!’
‘That’s not true! It was your idea!’
” I continued to laugh and this time she joined in. “Michelle, I don’t think of you as a freeloading vixen. I think of you as a freeloading vixen with a great rack and a shortwave radio,” I said, feeling bold enough to reference her beautiful breasts. I wonder if she knows I’m a breast man? “Speaking of the shortwave radio, could I have a look?”

“There you go again, changing the subject,” she said, “but fine, let’s take a look at it.” She rustled around in her stuff and pulled out a small box.

“This is a shortwave radio? It’s so small!”

“What did you expect?”

“The last time I saw a shortwave radio was when I was about five years old,” I explained. “My grandfather had one. It was about the size of a small microwave, with tubes and knobs . . .”

“Geez, Kevin, welcome to the 21
st
century!”

I realized how dumb I must have sounded, talking about huge radios and tubes. I should have known shortwave radios had gone digital and compact just like every other electronic device.

“Have you used this?” I asked her.

“No, I never really had a reason to. It used to belong to my boyfriend, but he left it behind when we broke up. I’ve never even taken it out of the box.”

I read the information on the box—it had features that hadn’t even been dreamed of when my grandfather was alive. I took it out and looked it over. It had over twenty buttons, a digital display, a hand-held microphone, and a small speaker. The antenna didn’t look like much, but I knew I could rig up a better one if I had to without much trouble. I plugged it in and began fiddling with it. First I set it on scan.

Within a minute or two, I heard the sound of someone talking and excitedly called Michelle over. We both looked at the radio as a calm woman said "We interrupt this program. This is a national emergency. The President of the United States or his designated representative will make an announcement over the Emergency Broadcast Network at 1200 hours GMT, 0700 hours Eastern Standard time.” After a brief pause,  I heard that weird sound I’ve only heard when they’re testing the system; that attention-getting signal. Then her voice repeated the message. It was obviously a looped recording. I felt a cold lump in my stomach. I thought we’d heard a survivor.

Seven o’clock tomorrow morning I might finally learn something. Maybe the President will tell us what was going on. Maybe things aren’t as bad as I fear. Maybe order is being restored, but it just hasn’t made it to my neighborhood yet. Of course I will be up at seven o’clock to listen to the broadcast.

In the meantime, I had work to do and Michelle was sitting there waiting for me. I really wanted to surf the airwaves more, but decided it could wait. Survival here was the most important, and for now that meant taking care of business.

I needed some time to think as well—Michelle said I was “sexy as hell.” But “like an old stuffed sofa.” She also said she thought we should make out. She said she was joking, but behind every joke there’s a kernel of truth. I wonder how she’d respond if I took her in my arms and kissed her? Do I have the nerve?

I couldn’t believe I was struggling with this. I am a fifty-year-old man. I’ve had my share of lovers. I’ve been married and fathered a child. But it was all so very long ago . . . the very idea of making out made me giddy and nervous.

“Let’s go check the pH,” I said, “and then we’ll check on what you called ‘the herd’.”

“And then?” she asked.

“I’m sure we’ll figure something out.” I responded. We checked the pH of not only the new reservoir, but the other six as well. I explained  how pH can fluctuate over time, sometimes simply by the plants absorbing the nutrients and changing the composition of the water. She was surprised to see how much the sprouts have grown in the past couple days.

I told her one advantage of a hydroponic system is that you’re giving the plants exactly the nutrients they need to do their best, and in my climate controlled grow room they don’t suffer any effects from high or low air temperatures. She appeared to be fascinated, and seemed to be taking to the idea quite well. I may turn her thumb from brown to green yet!

Once we were finished, we went upstairs to check on the herd. Initially when I looked out the window toward the street, everything looked about the same. Zombies were milling about, seeming to congregate more around my house than anywhere else, and I could see a few of them wandering up and down the street. But something didn’t look right. It took me a minute to notice that some of the zombies were on the ground. They looked freshly injured—broken legs and even broken spines prevented them from getting up. The few that were immobile had horrific head injuries. They looked as though they’d been attacked.
What the hell?
I thought. And I realized: zombies don’t attack each other. And other animals don’t attack them either.

Only people attack zombies. This means we’re not the only two people left alive in Ann Arbor! My first spontaneous reaction was one of elation—maybe the authorities
were
getting things under control.

But my second reaction was one of fear and caution. Someone was out there. There was no way to know if he or she was a friend or foe, but if it was someone struggling to survive, and if they found out I had food, booze, drugs, electricity, and a woman—they could take them from me. And the simplest way to do that would be to kill me. Once I was incapacitated, they could do what they wanted with Michelle. The idea of someone breaking into my house, killing me, and raping or killing Michelle was horrifying.

Michelle had been looking through the other windows, but when she glanced at me she could tell something was wrong. “Kevin, what’s going on? You look like you’ve seen a ghost!”

“I’d rather see a ghost, to tell you the truth!” I said. I showed her the zombies on the ground and how it looked like they’d been attacked.

“So someone is out there killing zombies in the street. Good for them. Maybe it’s the authorities. What’s the problem?” she asked.

“Let’s go downstairs and talk.” Suddenly I didn’t feel safe. As we headed downstairs I thought about what she said and decided it was unlikely for any authorities to have caused the damage I saw, and I told her so when were safely in the living room with the trap door closed behind us. “If it was the authorities, they wouldn’t kill or injure a few and quietly move on. They’d be knocking on houses, looking for survivors. Whoever it is, I doubt they’re going around killing zombies just for fun. It’s not a sport, and it’s far too dangerous to do on a lark. The only sane reason would be for survival, maybe to get the zombies out of the way so they could scavenge some food. I wouldn’t be surprised if they’re systematically breaking into all the houses on this street and taking anything they can use. And think about it, Michelle—what would happen if they went into a house and found living people?”

“I suppose they’d try to take their stuff, no matter how. Survival of the fittest and all that.”

“Exactly. And if these aren’t good guys but are bad guys, what do you think they
might
do if they found a woman?”

Michelle’s eyes grew dark. “I hadn’t thought about that.”

“Well I had. The thought of someone figuring out we’re in here, then breaking in and either stealing our stuff or finding you . . . I can’t allow that to happen.”

“So you’re worried about me and want to protect me, is that what you’re saying? Like I’m some poor defenseless woman, a member of the weaker sex?”

“I know better. You’re a hell of a lot better with a gun than I am, and I suspect you can take care of yourself just fine. But we’re a team now. We watch each other’s back. I watch your back, you watch mine. We’re partners. I hope you feel the same. And of course I’m concerned about protecting you. I admit it. You’re the only friend I have in the whole world. If something happened to you . . . I don’t know what I’d do. Let’s just say I’ve grown accustomed to your face.”

Michelle stood there, thinking about it. Even in the midst of this new concern, I couldn’t help but notice again how lovely she was in the light coming from the grow room.

We talked it over and agreed that there wasn’t much we could do—we were already being very careful. But we did decide to keep the gun close at hand so either of us could get to it almost immediately. We also decided we should take turns watching the street through the window for a few days to see if we could ascertain who was out there.

“Do we have to do it alone?” she asked. “I don’t want to be a wuss, but I don’t relish the idea of being up there alone, looking out the window at zombies.”

“We can do it together then,” I said, “and don’t forget we have the radio in case one of us has to be alone for a few minutes.”

So that’s where things stand today. It’s already dark out, and we’ve come back downstairs. But for the next few days, I’m going to be uptight until I have more information. How many there are, whether they’re armed . . . I need to know what I’m dealing with.

We played a few games of backgammon later, but my heart wasn’t in it, so I went to bed early again.

November 28
th

I got up a few minutes before seven o’clock as planned and turned on the radio. Michelle was still on the inflatable mattress, but she was awake and watched me in silence. We were disappointed when all we heard was the same repeating message we heard the day before. We decided to leave the radio turned on for a few hours in case I had the time mixed up. Or maybe the live broadcast got delayed.

We went through the motions of pretending it was just another day. Worked with the plants. Finally put Michelle’s stuff away—some of it went in storage, her clothes went into an empty closet, some of her personal belongings she kept in an overnight bag. It would do for now.

We went up and watched the street. One of us would watch while the other person sat in a chair nearby. We made small talk. Got to know each other a little better. Neither of us did any flirting—personally I’m not in the mood to flirt, much less make an attempt at levity. My heart rate is up, as is my blood pressure, I imagine.

Michelle told me about her family, how they were strict church-goers throughout her childhood, and how much she loved her father. Women don’t always say this about their dads, and it was touching. She didn’t say much about her mom.

In turn, I told her about my family, my childhood memories of picking cherries in July and apples in October. I told her about Dad’s garden that I didn’t pay the least bit of attention to, and now wish I had. I’m sure I could have learned a lot from him. I told her about our vacations near the dunes. She’s never seen Lake Michigan and wondered what the big deal is. I wanted to explain it . . . but I shrugged and told her she’d have to experience it herself. I offered to take her once we get out of this mess.

When it got dark, we went downstairs and had some dinner. She read while I fiddled with the shortwave. I heard one transmission, but it faded out before I could get a handle on what they were saying. It was in English—I don’t know if this radio can pick up transmissions from very far away—being in the basement doesn’t help. I’ll need to figure out a way to rig a better antennae.

After a while, we called it a night and went our separate ways.

December 1
st

The past few days have been a repeat of the entry above. Except we had our first snowfall. Only a couple of inches.

It’s strange how in the midst of horror, we still find things to laugh about. After we’d done our chores (including harvesting some of the herbs and laying them out to dry), we went upstairs to take a look around.

When we exited the basement, I noticed there wasn’t much light. Peeking out the window I saw an overcast sky and falling snow. It must not be very cold, because the snow isn’t sticking to the road or the yard. Then I called Michelle over and asked her what she saw.

“I see the neighborhood, falling snow, and zombies,” she replied.

“Take a closer look at the zombies.”

Michelle stood looking for a moment, then said, “That’s strange. The snow seems to be sticking to them. Why would it stick to them and not anything else?”

“I guess for the same reason a bridge will freeze before the road. The zombies cool down faster than the ground.”

Michelle started laughing. “There should be signs posted, ‘Caution: zombie freezes before road’!”

I laughed out loud. I thought it was hilarious. I was tempted to make a sign and go hang it around one of their necks, but decided against it. We chuckled for a few more minutes, then went back downstairs.