My Zombie Honeymoon: Love in the Age of Zombies Book One (25 page)

It’s been a long, exhausting day. I’m all done in.

December 20
th

Dear Tammy,

After Michelle fell asleep tonight I poured myself a generous glass of bourbon and headed upstairs. It was nearly dark; I stood in the kitchen for a few minutes while my eyes adjusted and ended up going into the living room, sitting in an easy chair you had picked out at the furniture store. Diffused moonlight provided a little light, enough to see the basic shapes and shades of the living room. It was still decorated the way you left it; in the dim light I could see the art and pictures you hung, although really all I saw were dark rectangles of the art against a the lighter shade of slate gray walls.  I could see the furniture you bought and the lamps. Even the old tube-TV was where you left it. I placed the laptop on the coffee table and started this letter.

After you died, I didn’t come in this room much. I turned one of the bedrooms upstairs into a home theatre and the other into an office. I made my home upstairs and hardly even came in here. Back then, sitting alone in this empty room felt uncomfortable, the room where we’d had parties and watched movies and made love and talked about our day. Coming in here was dangerous. As dangerous as looking at old photos. This room was permeated with you, and I ached for you so badly I had to avoid this room. The bedroom was different; it felt empty of you, not haunted by you like the living room. Sitting in this room now I don’t feel the same kind of ache; the hurt didn’t go away, it just changed. In the beginning, if I can use sound as an analogy, the hurt was a shrill and shrieking violin; now it’s a soft and quiet cello. It’s joined forces with my old friend Andy Pression. They play the same melody, the same composition, just a different arrangement. Being in this room tonight makes me feel closer to you, and Tammy, I need to talk to a friend.

I can’t reconcile my emotions and thoughts. My heart believes Michelle has betrayed me; my mind knows that’s impossible. I try to reason it out. All I did was find some love notes from an old boyfriend, someone who broke her heart. I have love notes and other items from you; I treasure them. My having kept your love notes is no more a betrayal of Michelle than Michelle having kept Wayne’s notes is a betrayal of me. And yet I feel betrayed.

The feelings of betrayal—they’re only part of the problem. The other problem is how I’m responding to those feelings despite knowing they’re poisonous, knowing they’re the feelings of a lunatic. They’re making me behave in a way I don’t care for. By checking up on her, second guessing her behavior, not quite believing what she says—I’m being a person I don’t want to be. I’m being a jealous, suspicious, unreasonable lover. 

I analyze my strong emotional reaction. Michelle has never treated me badly, never had an occasion to lie to me, never betrayed me in any sense. I haven’t known her very long, so I don’t know everything about her, but she’s always been genuine. I have no rational reason to believe she’s been even emotionally unfaithful to me. How is it that my hot buttons are being pushed when I didn’t even know I had hot buttons? I have no history of women cheating on me. So if this isn’t old baggage, what is it?

I stopped writing for about a half hour just now and took another few swallows of bourbon while I thought it over. So here’s what I think, Tammy; you weren’t unfaithful to me, but I sure as hell felt betrayed when you died. Jason betrayed me by dying as well. The two people in my life I loved more than I thought possible betrayed me and left. It wounded me deeply. Had Jason lived and had you not died of cancer, I believe I would have become a different man, a better version of the man I am now. Kevin version 2.0. More accomplished and fulfilled. A man who could look back on his life with satisfaction, a man with the resting assurance of having worked hard and made good choices. A man whose parents would be proud. Whose wife and children would love and respect him. He would be quietly satisfied with his accomplishments, including the accomplishment of having raised children of character. That does not describe my life over the past ten years. My life has either been a long series of misfortunes or an object lesson for what not to do.

In hydroponic gardening, it’s inevitable you’re going to screw up at some point. Maybe forget to check the pH. Maybe over-fertilize. At some point, you’re going to do something wrong or neglectful and you’ll see your plants suffer because of it. Many times the plants never completely recover. Maybe you’ll still get some tomatoes, but not the huge bounty you were anticipating. Or maybe the plant will stay stunted and never really thrive. Or maybe you’ll have a tomato plant that grows like crazy—big, bushy, green and blooming—but the fruit withers and dies on the vine. Anyone who has gardened long, hydroponic or soil, has likely seen it.

That’s how my life has been, like a house plant that suffered some misfortune and never recovered. Sunscalding. Overwatering. Bitten by frost when left outside too late in the season. Nothing fatal, but enough to change how well it grew.

I’ve seen plants hit by frost that reacted as if they had been pruned. They came back stronger than ever. And I’ve seen plants get hit by frost and never recover. An agave plant of mine got bit by frost in October but wasn’t completely dead until April. Indoors over the winter it died a slow death, first the outer leaves turning brown while the inner leaves stayed green, then finally the inner leaves browning and withering as well. Maybe I was doing that; slowly fading, turning dry and withered, a living ghost.

It’s not like I crawled into a hole and never came out. I still had my job, still had friends I saw. But as time went on, I saw those friends less and less often, choosing to stay home instead of getting together with the SHIT (Sure Happy It’s Thursday) gang for Mexican food and margaritas. I quit the bike club, stopped going to the homebrewing club meetings. I still brewed beer and spent many a night overindulging in my own ale. I quit caring much about work—I still showed up and did a good job, but I felt no pride or satisfaction. There were no new challenges, no accomplishments that won me accolades. My drive was gone. The days were slipping past, one after the other, changing from late summer to fall to early winter. An early winter evening, cloudy and gray.

Suddenly this fossilized winter of a heart felt the spring thaw. I met Michelle and liked what I saw. Then all hell broke loose with the Collapse, and circumstances forced us to spend time together. The seeds of companionship began sprouting and became a living, growing thing. I started to care. In all the years since you and Jason died, I’ve never let anyone get this close. It doesn’t feel safe. My plans did not include letting Michelle or anybody else get this close. Apocalypse and zombies are notorious for interfering with plans.

I care deeply for her and believe she feels affection for me, which is like salve to my wounds. But it also feels like sticking my arm into the whirling propeller of a boat on Lake Michigan. I find myself in a situation I don’t know how to deal with. Allowing myself to care about her feels like committing suicide.
How can you be so stupid as to let this happen again?!
a part of me asks. The past consequence of caring for someone were so severe I honestly don’t know if I could survive it again. But what is my alternative? Hell, what are my choices? She lives with me. She sleeps in my bed. She needs me to survive, and I probably need her as well. I need to let go of my fear and anxiety, need to shut up the voices of alarm in my head, need to learn to accept and enjoy any smidgen of good that comes my way and revel in it. When the few good things about today are a thing of the past, I will ache for them. But only if I allow the good to happen in the first place.

And in the midst of all this reasoning, a very small part of me is near panic. When I focus on that part of me, when I give it a voice, it is completely irrational, and yet sings such a beautiful and tantalizingly horrific song I feel myself swayed. It is the sweet song of a siren, calling me to taste a little more of my addiction. My heart starts to pound and my breath quickens. I start picturing scenarios that could not possibly come true. I argue with myself. Yet for every rational argument against these crazy thoughts there is a counter-argument.

She couldn’t still be in love with Wayne, and even if she was, there’s no way she could secretly be in contact with him. The odds are astronomical against his being alive, and even more astronomical that she somehow got in touch with him. But just because it’s improbable doesn’t mean it’s impossible. If I were in her place I would figure out a way to make secret contact. I’m tenacious enough to find a way. If I’m capable of it, she’s capable of it. She’s a very bright girl. But in order for her to behave that way, I’d have to have completely misjudged her all these months. She would have to be deviously clever to have fooled me so completely. She’s never given any inkling of being devious or beguiling. But just because I haven’t caught her doesn’t mean she isn’t guilty. Now that’s the thought of a crazy person, believing someone is guilty, they’ve just been too clever to leave evidence. But if I keep on my toes, I could catch her when she slips up. I’d have my proof. But to feel that way, I’d have to be emotionally unstable if not downright crazy. It’s paranoia. But just because you’re paranoid doesn’t mean you’re not right. Those are the thoughts endlessly circling me when I shallowly give in to the siren’s song of suspicion. No rational thought can allay the suppositions of my paranoia. But eventually reason reasserts itself and I once again see through rational eyes. Yet deep inside, the siren song goes on, tempting me to come.  

Are you listening, subconscious? My fear, my instinctive reaction to falling in love, is making my life worse. Loving and being loved is a good thing. Loving Michelle and being loved by her is a good thing. This insane reaction I’ve been having, this compulsion to see if she slips up and reveals some kind of deceit, it’s only hurting us. I could be basking in warmth of truly devoted love, and instead I’m pouring cold water on the embers.

I’m scared, Tammy. I know I’ll never have again what I had with you—you never step in the same river twice—but with Michelle I could have something just as good but different. I could have the kind of love that men and women alike long for. But I could also find myself at the mercy of love, desperately wanting to hold onto something even as it slips away. Opening my heart to the wonder of love is opening my heart to the possibility of devastating loss. 

After ten years, I still miss you so much it hurts. I hate you for that.

Kevin

PS. I love you

Rescue

Every night

you rescue me

Half-thought accusations

and delusions of betrayal

are silenced

with the waterfall of your laughter

the feel of your shoulder

and the slope of your breasts

Until you

I never knew I could

feel a lover smile

in the dark.

In bed,

while your hand strokes

my graying chest hair

you quietly murmur expressions of love,

and, healed once again,

I abandon my insanity

and I believe,

I believe,

I believe.

December 21
st

I woke up early again and made coffee. It’s become a routine.

Thoughts from last night were still bouncing around inside my head. Thoughts about Michelle. Thoughts about other survivors. I powered up the shortwave and tried to find someone talking, but all I found were the same stations broadcasting a repeating loop. I wonder how they still have power. I made Michelle a cup of coffee and took it to her. I made it stronger than I usually do—she likes it dark. When I went into the bedroom she was already awake, staring at the ceiling.

“Good morning,” I said. “You doing okay?”

“Yes, I’m fine. I’m just thinking about yesterday.”

“Michelle, I’m so sorry. I don’t know where—“

“Kevin, you don’t need to apologize. I realized some things about you yesterday, and some things about us, and some things about me, too. I’ll be honest, yesterday was tough. It scared me. But you’ve never acted like that before, so I figure there’s a lot going on under the surface. I’m just sorry I triggered it.”

“Please, Michelle, you don’t have anything to be sorry for.”

“I’m sorry you felt so bad. It makes me sad. But it also made me realize how much I love you. I want to be with you. I choose to be with you, even if you’re a psycho nut case.”

I reached out and took her hand. “Last night I went upstairs for awhile after you fell asleep. I sat in the living room and wrote Tammy a letter. I needed her help sorting things out. I admitted how much I care about you and how much I’m afraid I’ll lose you somehow like I lost her. But in the end, I decided it was worth it. I know I might pay the price later, but for now I choose to let myself feel wonderful. To feel love. And to be loved.” As my arm drew her to me, I leaned down to kiss her. Before now I never knew a kiss could heal.

As we continued to kiss I started getting aroused, and was going to ignore it, when she reached between my legs and gave me a light squeeze. Soon we were naked. I won’t take the time to go into detail about what happened. But for the first time in my life, while having sex with a woman I felt a mix of shame, pride and relief. I felt privileged to have sex with her.

No, that’s not right. I wasn’t having sex with her. I was making love with her. Even though I hadn’t overtly told her I love her.

When we were finished, I felt like a warm Ann Arbor spring day after an afternoon shower. Everything was new and fresh.

We lay there for a minute, then with a sigh she told me she was going to wash clothes. I got dressed, put my Petoskey stone in my pocket, then carried the hamper of clothes into the bathroom. For breakfast I made some powdered scrambled eggs. Usually they’re kind of nasty, but today I liked them. We ate them with a comfortable silence between us. Or mostly comfortable. I’m still uncomfortable about what I saw. I have a niggle of paranoia and suspicion.

Then I took care of the plants. I feel like I’ve been neglecting them. I’m behind schedule on germinating seeds, and I’m worried about getting an aphid infestation, so I have to check them over very carefully. This is usually about the time I start seeing them. At the sight of the first aphid, I’ll have to start aggressively spraying with Neem oil.

Several more of my hot peppers were ripe. I carefully harvested them, trying not to handle them too much. By the time I was finished adding water to the reservoirs, adding fertilizer, checking and adjusting the pH, getting rid of dead leaves, and moving some of the mature seedlings into the young plant section, it was time for lunch. Michelle had put a bunch of lettuce in the root cellar to crisp up, so I decided to make us both a salad. I took a knife and cut one of the Ghost peppers into tiny slivers and added a very few to my salad, then sliced up the lettuce. I should have realized that slicing the peppers first would get some capsaicin on the lettuce, but it never occurred to me. When I was done making the salad, I thoroughly washed my hands to make sure no pepper oil remained on them.

I called her to come join me, and she walked into the kitchen, wiping her hands and arms dry with a dishtowel.

“I picked some hot peppers for our salad,” I said. “Want some?” I knew she’d say no. Which she did.

“Are you crazy? It’s a wonder you have any taste buds left!” She added croutons, raisins, and dressing to her salad and began eating.

I took a big bite and was surprised at how hot it was. The ghost peppers were living up to their reputation! Youch! The heat was pushing the boundaries of my tolerance! I paused, considering whether to remove the rest of the peppers from my salad.

While eating, Michelle began suggesting we come up a better way to wash the clothes. In mid-chew her eyes opened wide. “
Kevin! You jerk! You put hot peppers on my salad!!”
She grabbed a glass of water, and I tried to warn her, but it was too late. Water only makes the heat worse. “
Aaagh
! My mouth’s on fire!” she shrieked.

I know it was mean, but I couldn’t help but laugh. I handed her some crackers and said, “Eat these. It works a lot better than water. You don’t have to swallow them—just suck on them.”

“That’s the
only
thing I’ll be sucking on!” she mumbled with her mouth full, shooting darts at me with her eyes. “That was
so
mean!”

“I wasn’t trying to be mean. I just didn’t think it through! I used the same knife to slice the lettuce that I used to slice my hot peppers,” I said. “I’m really sorry, honest!” She might have accepted my apology if I hadn’t been grinning.

“That was
not
nice. I’ll never be able to trust you again,” she said, still sucking on the crackers and taking long drinks of cool water.

“At least not with peppers, you mean.” I got up and made her a new salad, tearing the lettuce instead of cutting it this time.

“Listen here, Mister, I’ll tell you one thing: You ever try to go down on me after eating a hot pepper and the only action you’ll get for a month will be with your own right hand!”

“Okay, okay!” I laughed. “I’ll take that threat seriously! I’ll be very careful from now on!”

“That’s better,” she said as she took a bite of her new salad. “Except my lips are numb! Maybe I should rub some peppers all over your hand and then have you stroke yourself. That’d teach you!”

I shuddered at the thought, remembering the one time I’d harvested hot peppers and forgotten to wash my hands before using the bathroom. I decided I’d have to watch her for a while. I wouldn’t put it past her to seek revenge. We finished eating and I wandered upstairs again. I know I’ve been going up there too much, but I keep checking on the zombies and looking for more signs of trouble. I keep wondering about other survivors. I looked outside—it was snowing pretty heavily. There were a few zombies out there, not many, and again they looked ridiculous with snow covering their heads and shoulders. I didn’t see anything besides them, no tire tracks, and no footprints. After a while I headed back downstairs, then rigged up a better antennae for the radio. I drilled a small hole through the ceiling in the northwest corner and ran the antennae through the hole and onto the ground floor. Then I repeated the process until I was upstairs, then finally into the attic where I secured the wires to the roof of the attic.

A few hours later, she helped me fix dinner. No type of meat this time, just beans and rice. Of course, I used a liberal amount of hot sauce on mine. Michelle eyed the bottle warily.

When nightfall finally came, I turned on the shortwave and hoped to hear from Doctor Steve, the guy from up north near Atlanta. We’re already in the habit of calling him Doc at his request.

“W8D10C coming online. Anyone broadcasting tonight?”

“Hey, Doc. This is Kevin. Am I supposed to say some kind of numbers or call sign?” As I spoke, I was fingering the Petoskey stone buried in my pocket.

“Hi, Kevin. I guess I don’t really need to use the call signs anymore, but old habits die hard. You’re coming in loud and clear. How’s Ann Arbor?”

Michelle had come into the living room and was listening in. She had on a button-down blouse with the top four buttons undone. I could see ample cleavage. I tried not to let it distract me.

“We’re getting some snow, but things are quiet. How about you? Is everything still okay?” I asked.

“Oh, I’m fine, although it gets pretty lonely up here. I realized the other day that I haven’t seen another human being in months. But I haven’t seen any non-human beings either, if you get me. How about you? Are there any survivors in your area?

“The only survivors we’ve seen were some thugs who tried to break in and rob us. I’m here with my girlfriend.” Michelle smiled, looking at me as she undid another button.

She wasn’t wearing a bra.

“Did they get much or did you run them off?”

“One guy got a bullet through the head for his trouble, one of the other guys got eaten by zombies, and the third guy . . . we’re not sure what happened to him. I took a bullet in the shoulder, but it’s pretty much healed up now. Michelle has some nursing experience, so she was able to take care of me. Other than those guys, I haven’t seen any signs of people. It’s been pretty quiet.”

“How about zombies? Are you having any trouble with them?

“We’ve seen our share, but they move very slowly when it gets below freezing. We go outside and eliminate most of the ones we can find. Like shooting fish in a barrel.”

“Is that right?” the Doc said. “I was wondering about the cold. What else have you learned?”

“They can’t see much in the dark, but they can still hear. I have a camera with night vision, so I’ve been able to avoid them at night a few times.”

“I guess that’s good to know, although it doesn’t help me much.”

“Do you broadcast on a regular schedule? It’s really good to hear another human voice.” While I was talking, Michelle undid another button and slightly parted her blouse. I was getting aroused again. I tore my eyes away, trying to concentrate on the conversation.

“The radio has been a lifesaver. It helps when the loneliness starts to get to me. I’ve always been okay being alone, but this isn’t the same. Knowing I’m one of the few breathing human beings left puts things in a whole different light.” Doc sounded lonely to me.

“Have you had a lot of contact with people? My radio can’t usually pick up long-distance signals,” I said.

“No, not a lot. Maybe a couple of dozen world-wide. I figure not many people had shortwave radios, and of those, not a lot had backup generators. How are you able to broadcast?”

“I saw the end coming and had some solar panels installed. Even here in Michigan they provide enough power for me to get by.”

“That’s a great idea. I wish I’d done that. I have a generator and a five-thousand gallon fuel tank, but when it runs out, I’m S.O.L. I’ve used about a quarter of the tank already. I’m hoping to use less once we get through the winter.”

“So you don’t have anyone with you?”

“Nope, just me. I used to come up with my Irish Setter, Buddy, but he died a few years ago and I didn’t have the heart to replace him. He was a good companion. So far, of all the people I’ve been in contact with, you’re the closest. How far do you reckon it is from your place to mine? I’m north of Atlanta—do you know where Atlanta is? It’s west of Alpena toward Gaylord.”

“Let me check. Hold on.” I booted the laptop and pulled up the map software. “Looks like you’re two hundred or so miles from here,” I said. “In the old days, it would have been about, what, three or four hours away? But now, with no gas stations, it would take weeks or months.”

“You thinking about heading my way?” Doc asked.

“No, just thinking out loud. I figure eventually, we survivors will need to come together for our own common good.”

“Bear in mind the highways are probably closed down. From what I heard before the bottom dropped out, people were leaving the cities in a panic and taking to the highways. Eventually there were pile-ups, and then the creatures discovered their own roadside buffet line. I wouldn’t plan on using the highways. Maybe some of the back roads. But without a four-wheel drive to get around the major snarls, or major groups of creatures, it’d be mighty risky.”

“You called them
creatures
” I said. “What do you think happened? What’s your medical opinion? How did dead people start coming back and eating us?”

“I’ve thought long and hard about the subject. Before everything fell apart, I was trying to keep up with the reports posted on medical blogs, and was keeping up with other doctors and nurses. But the bottom line is, no one knows exactly what happened. This isn’t a virus—if it was, our antiviral meds would have had an effect. It doesn’t act like bacteria, either. It doesn’t act like anything. If I was a spiritual man, I’d say God had finally lost patience with us. How else can you explain dead people with no organs, no real intelligence, no mind directing their actions, walking around and eating people?”

“We’ve seen some of them with injuries that would kill a normal person, completely ignoring their broken bones and missing organs. How can any creature with a broken leg keep walking around?”

“That’s the thing, Kevin. This goes against everything I was taught in med school. I have no explanation. There were some theories being bandied about, but they were all quite a stretch. And now, with probably 99.9% of the population being dead, there’s no one left to do the research to try and find a cure or make a vaccine. The best we can do is destroy them before they destroy us.”