My Zombie Honeymoon: Love in the Age of Zombies Book One (2 page)

“My back is so sore from moving all these boxes!” she said, “I thought I was in better shape than this!”

As we walked back through her house, I asked if she needed help with the rest of her stuff. She said the mattress was practically the last thing on the truck. Her garage was full of boxes, and I told her I sympathized with her. Moving is such a pain. We made a bit of small talk—she’s from Indiana, moving here to finish her nursing degree. I didn’t ask about a husband or kids, as she wore no wedding ring and I saw no toys, sporting goods, or anything else to indicate she has a family. What if she’s a lesbian? Not that it would bother me. But so many lesbians I’ve met are outright hostile to men, it would be a shame to feel uncomfortable with someone I share crabgrass with. Can’t we all just get a lawn?

I helped her unload the few remaining boxes and one bookshelf, accepted a bottle of water she offered, and again welcomed her to the neighborhood.

“It’s a quiet street,” I said, “several of the houses are owned by retirees. The house next door is owned by the Ericksons. They’re a nice couple. He has a great garden every year. Grows hybrid tomatoes and always has plenty of squash and zucchini. The soil and climate are great for summer crops. The neighbors are all pretty nice. Things are kind of weird right now, though. People aren’t being friendly.”

She glanced at her watch and said, “I’d love to chat, but the truck’s due back to the dealer in twenty minutes. I never could have done it without your help! I owe you a big one!” Me, with my filthy mind, thought,
That should be easy—you have
two
big ones!

Since she basically told me thanks but get lost, I said “No problem, I understand. If you need more help, just holler.” I grabbed the bike and walked back to the house. I needed to work on the basement anyway.

September 28
th

Much has happened in the past week. I’ve had little time to write. I’ve spent nearly all my free time trying to finish the basement. Why do my projects always take five times longer to finish than I estimate and cost three times as much? Sheet rock, walls, carpet, painting—I even painted the bedroom walls with phosphorescent paint to make them seem less like a cave. It looks pretty cool. I may add a second coat so they glow brighter and longer.

I paid an electrician to wire the basement according to code. I bought a sofa and set up the grow room with tables and trays for my hydroponic garden. Once the lights come in, I’ll be in business.

The disease I mentioned in my last entry is now front page news. It’s been spreading across the world at an unbelievable rate, and the way it affects humans is, frankly, mind boggling. According to news reports, once you get the virus, you start running a fever which escalates rapidly to 105° or higher. This alone causes many people to die, but in addition people start vomiting and losing blood from every orifice. Antibiotics don’t do a thing. Neither do antivirals. The fatality rate is 100%. But then things get very weird.

Although the media and the public (myself included) were understandably skeptical at first, reports insisted that a few hours after death, the bodies began moving again. No heartbeat, no breathing, and yet these people not only began to move around, but began to act aggressively toward any person near them. When I say “aggressively” I mean they attack any person—anyone, even former loved ones—and begin to bite them and actually ingest their flesh. Once anyone is bitten, they begin to show signs of infection within 48 hours, and the cycle continues.

The infected people do not attack other animals—dogs, cats, horses—just humans.

Scientists say the organism—virus, bacteria, whatever—takes over the central nervous system, including the brain, and suggest its singular goal was survival—continuation of the species.

While I’m just a layman, I can’t help but wonder if the scientists aren’t going after the wrong target. Perhaps a fungus is responsible for the disease, and merely mimics a virus as it takes over the body. If this is true, antibiotics and antivirals are useless. After all, there’s precedent in nature; one type of fungus grows into the brain of a particular species of ant, causing it to relocate to an environment deadly to ants but beneficial to the fungus. When this happens they’re called Zombie Ants.

Can you imagine? What if the crazy, supposedly reanimated people have had their brains taken over by a fungus? What if these infected people are releasing spores when they bite other people? Maybe that’s the only way they can reproduce, by biting uninfected people and turning them into the human equivalent of the Zombie Ant.

October 1
st

There are now reports of the disease in the US—New York and Los Angeles were the first. Much of South America is infected and some cities are overrun. Video clips on YouTube show huge groups of these reanimated people shuffling around. Many of them show signs of horrific injuries—blood all over them, broken bones sticking out—that sort of thing.

Several clips show them attacking uninfected people. They are not for the squeamish. The videos with sound are the worst, as you can hear the uninfected people screaming as they try to fight off their attacker. Usually they’re unsuccessful. Once one latches on to you, the others swarm.

The videos do not stay up long. YouTube removes them as fast as they’re posted.

Until the scientists find a way to cure, prevent or contain the disease it’s only a matter of time before it reaches Michigan. That’s what the bloggers say. I hope to God it isn’t true.

A lot of people—me included—are using vacation time to stay home from work. Some people have headed out of town for more remote areas. They seem to believe the disease is hiding in the shadows, ready to jump out at them.

I keep the news on in the background while I continue working. I’m not panicking; but it sure as hell keeps me motivated.

Of course, all the news channels are milking the story for all it’s worth. One has regular updates of what they call
CRISIS: PANDEMIC
. Even in the face of a health crisis, they’re worried about ratings. I detest watching broadcast tv but feel I need to keep on top of things. I wish there was a news channel without news anchors or commercials. Just raw footage. Don’t interpret it for me; let me decide for myself.

While the public is nervous, it’s mainly the survivalists who are taking any real action. By “real” I mean doing more than stocking up on beer and milk. According to the news, many web sites specializing in survivalist supplies have begun selling out.

October 5
th
             

I purchased a gun today, a .22 caliber revolver. I think the .22 part refers to the size of the bullets but felt stupid asking. The guy behind the counter was friendly and eager to offer advice even though the store was very busy.

I told him I wanted a simple weapon for personal protection. He recommended a few in the mid-price range along with lots of technical information I didn’t understand about barrel length and trigger pull.

I decided on a revolver, not a pistol. I didn’t even know the difference when I walked in, but he explained how a revolver has the bullets stored in a revolving chamber so you don’t have to reload between every shot. He seemed to approve of my choice, and made the comment “This isn’t the best selection for protection gear, but hey, it’s a start!”

I bought way more ammunition than I believe I’ll ever need, but they had a special deal for customers buying guns. When deciding how much to get, I remembered when Jason was born. After we got home from the hospital I was sent out for supplies. I came home from the grocery store with a package of ninety-six diapers, and I said, “We won’t need to buy any of these for a couple of months!” Only to buy just as many only two weeks later. So I figured it made sense to buy more than I thought I would ever need. Lord knows I hope I won’t need it.

I went by the liquor store and purchased two cases each of Maker’s Mark, vodka, and tequila. I tried to buy more, but they told me there was a two case limit for each customer. Even with the case discount they gave me, it set me back quite a bit. The store was busy like the gun store, and some people looked at me like I was crazy, buying so much, but I didn’t care—and I wasn’t the only one buying in bulk.

Come hell or high water, at least I’ll have some good bourbon to drink. I also bought ten cases of soft drinks.

Most of the basement is finished, and the storeroom is nearly complete. I have maybe a hundred cases of nonperishable goods, bottled water, and rechargeable batteries with solar battery chargers. I have a decent first aid kit, boxes of used books and DVDs I bought in bulk, and an embarrassingly large collection of used porn which I also bought used in bulk from a guy on Craigslist. I hope the porn isn’t God-awful. I know next to nothing about porn, and was too embarrassed to stand there scrutinizing the discs. Of course, there was no one I could call and ask—
Hey, this is Kevin. Can you help me pick out some good porn?—s
o I just bought the whole case of DVDs. I haven’t had time to look through them.

Deliveries are still coming in, but my Amazon Prime membership no longer guarantees two-day delivery. Now I’m afraid to order anything if it won’t be delivered for a week or two, because I can’t begin to predict what will be going on by then. Will everything be back to normal so I won’t feel compelled to order (for example) the infrared, motion-sensing video system to see what’s going on outside, or will I desperately wish I’d ordered it sooner?

October 7
th

I’ve spent a little more time with my neighbor, Michelle. I harvested a bunch of basil and had more than I can use, so I thought I’d offer some to her. As I stepped outside the house, I saw her sweeping her back deck. She waved and we chatted over her privacy fence. She seemed delighted to get the basil—fresh organic homegrown basil in October!

It was a warm afternoon, and she offered me a beer. I hesitated for a moment, then thought
why not?!
She opened the gate of the fence and as we walked toward her deck she put the basil to her nose and breathed in deeply. She said she loves the smell of fresh basil.

She went inside with the basil and returned with a bottle of Bud Light. She was drinking wine from a stemmed glass. I took a long draught of the beer and was surprised to relearn how refreshing an American pilsner can be on a sunny afternoon.

When she asked how I was able to grow basil this time of year, I told her I grow it hydroponically. She seemed quite impressed, and I ended up going back home and grabbing some lettuce to give her as well, even though I’d been saving it for myself. She asked if my wife minded me giving away the basil and lettuce, and I told her Tammy died ten years ago. We made some slightly strained small talk for a few minutes. I felt a little awkward, but at the same time couldn’t help but notice how pretty she was. And how nicely the late afternoon sun fell on her body, accentuating her curves and bringing out the texture of the teal sweater she wore. She told me she’s a Nurse Practitioner at St. Joseph’s.

I still had a lot to do, so I finished the beer, told her I had to get going, and came back home. I wonder why she asked about my wife? Surely she could tell no woman lives in this house. The outside especially is lacking a feminine touch. I haven’t changed anything about it since Tammy died and most of the bushes have gotten too large.

Then again, I do still wear my wedding ring. I miss you, Tammy. I wish you were here with me.

October 9
th

I saw Michelle’s naked breasts last night.

It was a happy accident, I swear. After I finished writing, I went upstairs and walked through all the rooms, looking out the windows to see if anything was going on. When I looked out the window facing Michelle’s house, she was in her bedroom, taking off her sweatshirt. The room was well lit. She wasn’t wearing a bra.

She had marvelously full breasts, riding high despite her age. Areolas the size of silver dollars, a wonderful dusty rose color, not dramatically darker than her skin. Her nipples were even erect. Her auburn hair cascaded over her shoulders. As she walked across the room, her breasts swayed. She looked mighty fine, let me tell you. She never looked out the window, and if she had, I doubt she would have seen me. She put on a bathrobe and turned off the light as she left the room. I breathed out a sigh—I hadn’t even realized I was holding my breath—and went to bed. Like the old Tom Waits song says, I felt like I was “sharing this apartment with a telephone pole!”

I can’t remember the last time I saw a real woman’s breasts. In person. The intensity of the arousal was surprising. I was tempted to watch some porn, but honestly I didn’t have it in me. I was just too tired. I had a restless night and woke up with outrageous morning wood.

I can’t drum up the energy to feel guilty. I wasn’t spying. I didn’t do it on purpose. She’s the one who left her shades open and lights on. I can’t help but wonder if she did it intentionally. Or, to rephrase that, I can’t help but
wish
she did it intentionally, although I know a beautiful, big breasted woman like her has no desire to titillate an old geezer like me. If she knew I’d seen her, she’d probably call me a
dirty
old geezer.

Now it’s time to get up, no pun intended, and face another day. I need to make some coffee and turn on the news.