My Zombie Honeymoon: Love in the Age of Zombies Book One (20 page)

As I said this, I climbed on top of the mattress and patted the spot next to me.

“So you don’t mind my being on the large side?”

“I prefer you being on the large side. Actually, I prefer you being on my left side,” I said as she crawled onto the foot of the bed and inched her way forward “. . . or my top side,” I said as she crawled toward me.

Michelle moved forward, bending over and kissing my mouth. Our tongues played with each other.

“I’m not asking this to be insulting, but I’m curious: are you taking any ‘male enhancement’ pills or anything?” She moved to my side as she spoke.

“No, why do you ask?”

“Because we’ve already made love twice in the past twenty-four hours and here you are, ready to go again. I thought older guys had performance issues.”

“My hand has been my date many, many times over the past ten years. But now I have a real, live, gorgeous and sexy woman who wants to make love with me. I don’t need any pills.” I was still squeezing and massaging her breast, rolling her nipple between my fingers and thumb. Her areola were a perfect shade of pink with a touch of brown, the color wonderfully feminine. I bent down to take a nipple in my mouth. For nearly ten minutes I used my mouth and tongue on her breasts, driving her crazy. Eventually my hand travelled down between her legs. I couldn’t believe how aroused she was. I could tell by her breathing and sighing how much she had enjoyed the attention to her nipples, but I wasn’t expecting her to be quite this aroused. As I continued using my teeth and tongue on her nipple, I lightly began to stroke her with my fingers. Within thirty seconds she was once again caught in the midst of a massive orgasm. Once she calmed down, I was ready for some serious sex. We positioned ourselves so I was behind her and I took my time to enter her. She responded enthusiastically, moaning louder. Of course, the advantage to having had sex twice already was my stamina—which was confirmed when she came not once, not twice, but three times before me. Finally I couldn’t hold back any more. The tension in my loins became unbearable and I had to let go. Every orgasm feels great, of course, but my third orgasm brought not just pleasure but a deeper sense of pride in coming multiple times in a fairly short period. It’s a stroke to my ego and makes me feel like maybe I’m not so old.

“Oh my
God
, Kevin,” she panted, “that was
sooo
good! You lasted forever!”

You done good,
I mentally congratulated my package.

I was spent. All of me, not just my sex. My body, my mind, and my passion—all spent. Intimacy can be revitalizing, but also exhausting. As I lay down beside her, I felt myself slipping into a stupor.

As if reading my thoughts, Michelle murmured, “Damn, I’m going to sleep good tonight!” We crawled under the comforter and sheet. I put my left arm around her shoulders and brought her head to my chest. Within minutes we fell asleep.

I don’t think we’ll be sleeping separately anymore.

—Later—

I’m sitting in the living room now, writing down yesterday’s events while Michelle sleeps. About an hour ago, I awoke from a puzzling dream. I rarely dream about Tammy any more, but tonight I dreamt we were walking along the shore of Lake Michigan, looking for Petoskey stones. We were holding hands and chatting as our bare feet were occasionally splashed by the calming surf. The sun was about to set; the day was fading into dusk; already the dusky eastern sky was fading into night with a few stars beginning to shine.

Tammy was dressed in a summery white dress. Some kind of gauzy material. It was lightweight and the sleeves fluttered in the Lake Michigan breeze. The colors of the sunset reflected off the material, and the folds and shadows picked up the blue of the darkening sky. With one hand she held the hem above her ankles, keeping the dress dry.

As the sun finally dipped below the horizon, we came upon a blanket near a beach fire. I recognized the blanket as being ours, and we sat down. Onto the foot of the blanket I spread my collection of beach treasures—a couple of decent Petoskeys, some Charlevoix stones, a piece of beach glass. From somewhere Tammy came up with a bottle of Merlot, which she handed to me along with a corkscrew. I pulled the cork from the bottle and filled our wine glasses. Gazing west out over the azure, darkening lake, which still reflected the waning glow of the day, we sipped our wine in silence.

I could vividly see the color of her hazel brown eyes as she turned toward me and toward the light of the fire. I could see the dancing highlights in her hair, reflecting the color of the flames. I noticed a mole on her left shoulder I had forgotten about. Her skin glowed in the firelight. She was healthy and alive. And beautiful.

I could smell smoke from our fire and, looking around, I could see perhaps a half-dozen more fires and could hear laughter of people nearby. I heard the murmur of adults talking as they watched fading colors of the sunset and welcomed the close of a splendid day. Slightly behind me and to the left, someone was artfully playing the guitar, singing
Waltzing
Mathilda
. In the distance I could hear Blue, the resident German Shepherd, barking at seagulls. I felt the heat from the fire on my right side.

All around me, friends and families were gathered around beach fires. I heard an occasional squeal of laughter from the children. The high-school guys and girls were doing their obligatory flirting and showing off.

My observations contained details far beyond those of a typical dream; the sense of reality was profound. Even in the midst of it, I knew this was a vision.

We stayed there for hours, talking, sipping the wine (which never seemed to run out), watching a father and his little boy making S’mores. Soon we lay back, stargazing, exclaiming every time we saw a shooting star or a satellite.

A full moon had gradually moved to the west, and its light illuminated the landscape in varying shades of gray, blue, and black. Looking south, I saw the faint western face of the dunes, the forest around them nearly black. The coast of the Big Lake swept toward me, the shoulders of the dunes receding. Beach grass swayed in the light breeze. To the right of me, the dunes once again lifted their faces to the west. The lights of Frankfort glowed with the promise of activity while the beam of the Frankfort Lighthouse swept ever clockwise.

One by one, the other campfires were extinguished as families went back to their cabins; the college kids headed to town for excitement and alcohol, and couples strolled back to their rooms for privacy. Soon ours was the only fire left and we had the beach to ourselves.

The moon was approaching the horizon now. The angel walk reflected various linear textures, silver against black, constantly changing as the moon dipped closer to the horizon. There was a feeling of worship in the air, of holiness. It was a sacred moment, begging my full attention.

Tammy turned to me, eyes gleaming, leaned into me and brushed her lips to mine. Into my ear she whispered, “I have to go now. But don’t be unhappy. No one ever
really
goes away, you know. They just aren’t where we remember them.”

She turned back toward the lake, still smiling, still holding my hand. The surf was quiet as it sometimes is in late summer nights, the small waves chuckling as they hiss themselves into the swash. Savoring the moment, I leaned my head back and willed myself to absorb it all. With eyes closed, I heard Tammy say, “Give her the stars.”

When I opened my eyes, I was awake in bed, Michelle sleeping quietly next to me. I felt a profound sense of loss, but also felt a lingering peace and joy from the dream. I quietly left the bed and came into the living room. The glow-in-the-dark paint made the walls faintly visible. I turned on a lantern and sat down. I sat still for a long time, trying to hold on to the dream even as I felt it slipping away. I opened my journal and chronicled the events of the day.

Michelle must have sensed I was gone, because she’s now standing behind me, looking over my shoulder, reading as I write.

She’s holding her hand out to me, beckoning me back to bed.

Thank you, Tammy, for your blessing. It took me a while to figure out what you meant, but now I think I understand.

Tomorrow I will give her the stars.

Outside/Inside

“He cried out, saying Father Abraham, have mercy on me, and send Lazarus, that he may dip the tip of his finger in water and cool my tongue; for I am tormented in this flame.” Luke 16:24

Outside

The creatures murmur and moan

against the night

inside

we tumble and moan

against the sighing darkness

In the heart of hell

you offer to moisten my tongue

with cool drops of water.

I cannot resist.

I will not even try.

December 6
th

In spite of all the events yesterday I woke up early and crept out of bed while Michelle still slept. In the kitchen I made a pot of coffee, then went to the laptop and booted up. I opened my astronomy program and changed the settings to Arcadia Michigan, June 21
st
, 2 a.m. The constellations were easily visible—the Big Dipper, the Little Dipper, Cassiopeia. I found a piece of paper, sketched the approximate measurements of the living room, then roughly penciled in the locations of the constellations. Knowing the room is on the north end of the basement, I made sure to align the drawing the same way.

I was still sketching the brighter stars when Michelle wandered out of the bedroom and went directly to the coffeemaker. Her hair was a mess, and it delighted me. Me, Kevin, watching a girl wearing nothing except one of my button down shirts—unbuttoned—fixing herself a cup of coffee. With bed hair. I couldn’t believe my luck. She came into the living room and delicately folded one leg under her body as she carefully eased down onto the sofa. “How are you feeling?” I inquired.

“Mmmm . . .” she said, sipping her coffee. “It pleases me to no end to tell you I’m sore.”

“Sore?” I asked, then immediately knew what she meant. “Oh. Gotcha. It was my pleasure, ma’am.”

“
Mmm-mmm-mmm
, mine too,” she responded. “What are you working on so early? I figured you’d sleep in.”

“I feel like a new man,” I said, “I woke up feeling creative. But you’ll have to help. There’s something I want to do.”

“Well . . . okay, but remember, I’m sore!”

“I don’t need that kind of help . . . yet. I could use some help painting.”

“What are you going to paint? We already did the walls. Do they need a second coat?”

“No, this time I’m painting the ceiling,” I said, “but not with a solid coat. I’m going to paint spots on it.” She thought for a minute, then figured it out.

“Stars. You’re going to paint stars on the ceiling.”

“That’s right. You said you really missed seeing the stars, so I’m going to give them to you.”

She tossed back her head and laughed. “Are you kidding? You made me see stars several times yesterday!”

“That’s right—first I
took
you to heaven, now I’m going to
give
you the heavens.”

I explained to how I’d like to mimic the true night sky at the height of summer, complete with constellations. I got the phosphorescent paint out, stirred for a few minutes, then told her I’d like to paint the constellations and she could paint background stars everywhere else. Standing on the stepstool (her) and a crate (me), we dabbed our small brushes in the paint and began. It took quite a while—we could only do a couple of feet at a time before having to step down, move the ladder or box, and step back up.

I went back and retraced my progress, giving the constellation stars a second coat to make them brighter. Then I helped her with the background stars. After we were finished, we used splatter brushes to add the myriad of far-distant stars seen on a good, cold, clear night. It was hard to tell, but I thought the Milky Way was going to look great.

It was early afternoon before we finished up. Michelle had started to anticipate how it would look, and wanted to turn the lights out. But I told her we had to wait until it was dark outside so it’d feel more natural. I really wanted to build up some anticipation.

We spent the remainder of the day doing our usual chores. One chore I hadn’t thought through was the trash. Even though we were fairly self-sufficient, every time we opened a can of vegetables, or trimmed dead leaves, or opened a protein bar, we were creating trash. I knew I couldn’t store trash down here—eventually it would either cause odor problems, or even worse, attract some kind of pest. We decided to take it upstairs.

I was nervous about being up there with those crazy bastards on the loose. But I knew it had to be done—and I had a couple of things to take care of while we were up there. I wanted to change the batteries in the radio and check on the number of zombies. If there were substantially less, it gave me hope they were dying off—if that’s what you can call it—in the cold. Since their bodies are in various states of decay, I hoped they would eventually deteriorate to the point where they wouldn’t be able to move anymore. Unless the disease prevented this.

I was also aware that I could be, ahem, dead wrong. Their being able to move at all made no sense. Maybe they won’t ever decay. Maybe their tissue will just turn into some kind of organic polymer and they’ll still be able to walk, move—and eat. But I wanted to check anyway.

We took two bags of trash upstairs, then debated where to keep it. My house doesn’t have a garage, only an open car-port, and I didn’t think putting the trash outside was a good idea. Putting it outside could attract the zombies’ attention—or anyone watching the house.

We decided to put the trash inside the dishwasher. It’s self-contained, it seals, and you can’t see inside it without opening the door. It should also help keep down the odors, although probably not for an extended period of time.

We removed the top and bottom dish racks, compressed the trash as much as we could and put the bag inside, closing and latching the door. We have to minimize how much trash we throw away. We can rinse cans out and keep them in the basement.

We made a circuit of the house, checking outside. What we saw was alarming. The number of zombies had not only increased—there were now close to a hundred milling about—but the air was full of smoke. Taking a look out the back window, we could see smoke from several fires burning in the distance. Should those fires spread, we would be in serious danger. I’m hoping they’re on the other side of the river. I’m pessimistic about the chances should the house catch on fire.

I wasn’t so much afraid of our getting trapped—with the root cellar escape hatch, we could get out of the house. But then what? Escape a burning house just to face a horde of zombies? No thanks. But what choice would we have? There is no fire department. Even if we saw the fire approaching, we wouldn’t be able to do anything about it.

I presume if our house burns down, the whole neighborhood will be on fire as well, so we can’t expect to escape. For now, though, I’m not going to let myself obsess over it.

For dinner tonight I tried to make some tuna and pasta, but it was terrible, so I splurged and made one of the chicken and dumpling boxed meals I stocked up on. I don’t know why these don’t make many of the survivalists’ “foods to buy” lists. They’re a bit expensive, but they come complete with meat, taste good, and I only had to add water. I wish I’d bought more of them.

It would have tasted fine eating it by myself. Eating it with Michelle made it delicious!

We did a little bit of laundry—we don’t have a washing machine, which means washing by hand using buckets. We don’t wash very often—it being winter, we’re not going outside and soiling our clothes—but of course we have to wash our underclothes, and being sexually active I guess we’ll have to wash our sheets now and then.
Or maybe every day,
I thought with an internal wink.

So we washed the few clothes and hung them to dry above the gas heater—it’s the only way for things to dry out without going sour. I wish we could take them upstairs to dry, but that would be a sure sign to any intruder that the house was occupied.

The plant lights turn off automatically at midnight, so about 11:30 we began getting ready for the unveiling of the stars. I remembered to turn on the black light. Phosphorescent pigment responds quickly to black light, and even with the plant lights still on the stars were bright.

Michelle insisted we make an event out of it, so she popped some microwave popcorn, I made some drinks, and we brought my small mattress into the living room. I turned the black light off with just a couple minutes to spare.

Michelle started oohing and ahhing as soon as the lights switched off. The whole room was instantly transformed. Sure, it was kind of kitchsy but it was also somewhat artistic. We were both proud of it and pleased.

It looked
so
cool. The walls had a nice, soft glow, and the stars stood out brilliantly. It might not have been the real thing, but it looked great. The stars were barely visible with the lights on, it was more natural somehow.

Knowing I paid attention and responded to what she said was quite touching for Michelle. We lay there for a while, holding hands, talking and looking at the stars. I pointed out the constellations I had painted.

What I hadn’t expected was how romantic it would be. The walls slowly faded out like the night sky after sunset. At first all the stars seemed equally bright, but after twenty minutes the ones I had double painted stood out from the more faded ones. It looked pretty damn natural.

We started kissing, and soon were wound up. We had a kind of fun argument about who had to be on top—whoever it was wouldn’t be able to see the stars. In the end I acquiesced and let Michelle be on the bottom. But before I climaxed (and after she had, thank God!), she wanted to be on top, so I got to enjoy the nightscape as well. I can’t describe how
cool
it was. I couldn’t see her at all, just her faint silhouette against the walls and stars as she straddled me. When we finished we lay panting in each other’s arms.

She started yawning and was about to fall asleep, so I suggested she go on to bed. I turned on an LED lantern so she could see, and she made her way to bed.

That’s the way things are now. She’s in bed, softly snoring. It’s taken me a long time to write this entry by light of the lantern, and I’m very sleepy, so I’m calling it a night.

December 9th

We have much to be thankful for today. Mainly for our lives.

We were still in bed this morning around seven o’clock (but we weren’t sleeping, heh-heh!) when we heard a
thump!
from upstairs. Then another. We instantly stopped in our tracks and listened. I hurried out of bed and turned on the radio, which somehow had been turned off.

We heard another
thump!
come from above, and over the radio we heard breaking glass. Then we heard muffled voices.

We were both freaked out. Was it the guys who had tortured that poor woman? Sitting in silence, all we could do was listen.

Soon the voices got louder. Someone with a southern drawl said “I took a quick look around. The place looks empty.”

“Help me pull the ladder in, damnit!” a second, gruffer voice hollered.

“Aah, shut your trap, you know those things can’t climb ladders,” a third voice replied.

We heard the familiar clanging sound of an extension ladder as it fell to the floor, but the sound only came over the radio, not through the ceiling. They must be on the second floor.

A few seconds later we heard “Seems deserted. Let’s get this over with. I’m cold.”

Our hearts were racing, but we were calm. There’s no way they could tell we’re down here. We hoped. The voices were muffled as they took a quick glance around upstairs, then we heard voices in the kitchen and the sound of cabinet doors being opened and closed. I’d left a few things—mostly food I don’t like and knew I wouldn’t eat, like anchovies and some potted meat I got somewhere. There was also about a case of cheap beer I’ve had for a long time and never bothered to drink.

“Potted meat!” the southern guy exclaimed.
Figures
, I thought.
Nobody intelligent could possibly eat that stuff.

“That ain’t food,” the gruff guy said, “unless you’re a cat.”

“Hell yeah!” the southern guy said, “A case of beer! Sure isn’t much here otherwise. Looks like they bugged out a long time ago.”

We heard the
snic!
of a can being opened, then the third voice said “Didn’t find much in the medicine—hey, what’s that?!”

That’s when the trouble started.

Their voices got very loud and clear as they evidently picked up the radio. “Looks like some kind of toy radio.”

“I know what it is! My ex had one when our kid was born. You put it in the baby’s room so you can hear them if they wake up.”

“You think someone is listening to—” the voice cut off in mid-sentence.

What an idiot I was. The radio’s power light shone like a beacon in the dim light of the kitchen. By not thinking to put tape over the light, I had clued them in that someone was in the house and listening. They knew we were somewhere close.

We could hear their footsteps as they quickly walked around the first floor. It sounded like they were rooting through the house, trying to find us and/or more stuff. Then the sound receded—I suppose they went upstairs to look for us. We couldn’t hear much at all for a while, then we heard them come back downstairs. We barely heard their muffled voices.

“What will we do if they find us?” Michelle whispered, her eyes wide with fear.

“We’ll use the root cellar. And we have a gun. You keep it, you know how to shoot. I’ll get something to hit them with,” I whispered back. Michelle scurried to get the gun. She quietly checked to make sure it was loaded.

One of them found the door to the old basement, and we heard them start down the stairs. Realizing they might be able to hear the bubblers and fan in the plant room, I quickly and quietly turned the power off to the room.