My Zombie Honeymoon: Love in the Age of Zombies Book One (7 page)

I wonder what it’s like at the Jolly Pumpkin brewpub downtown. Probably not so jolly.

November 5
th
             

Another day with lots of zombies. But I learned something interesting last night. My camera has a nightshot mode which essentially is infrared—meaning you can see in the dark. Looking through the viewfinder, I could see well enough to spot zombies. Apparently they either can’t see in the dark, or somehow they respond to the light/dark cycle, because all of the ones I saw were just standing there, barely moving. I say barely, because they weren’t completely still, and now and then one would walk few random steps. I think if they had sensed me they would have moved my way.

Of course, I was watching them through the window. If I had been outside, things would have been different.

At one point they must have heard a deer or dog across the street, because they all slowly turned their heads the same direction. No effort was made to move toward the sound, however.

I’m thinking if the need arises for me to visit Michelle, I should do it at night when it’s safer.

I’m going to write a note and stick it on the window to let her know I’ll try to go over at 10 p.m. She doesn’t know my camera lets me see in the dark, so it might make her worry some, but I’m anxious to get this communication gear operating.

November 7
th
             

The last two days have been a roller coaster. Two nights ago, my plan worked, but it nearly cost me my life.

At 10 p.m., conditions were perfect. It was completely dark and raining. I figured the rainfall would cover any sound I made.

Just before 10:00 I put the radios and a bar of dark chocolate (yes, I stocked up on it too) in my backpack, grabbed my camera and went upstairs. I quietly unbolted and opened the door. I had already checked—the side of the house was free of zombies.

I made my way to Michelle’s back deck and didn’t have to knock on the door before she opened it. She didn’t say “Come in!” of course—that would be foolish—but as soon as I was in, she quietly closed the door, then squared her shoulders and told me either I was crazy, had a death wish, or both. She was actually angry!

The room was completely dark. Not dark like it is in the city—I mean pitch black dark. I kind of laughed, then turned the camera around and showed her how it helped me see. I also told her about the zombies and noise. She seemed to accept my behavior as perhaps not being quite as foolhardy as she’d thought.

It was strange, standing in the dark, talking to her so quietly. I felt sure the rain would completely muffle the sound of our voices, but even so, we were both practically whispering.

As it got late, I didn’t want to overstay my welcome and said I’d better get home.

“Why don’t you stay?” she said.

Did she mean for a while longer or overnight?!

Between my having been outside among zombies and it being completely dark inside, I was a bit unnerved.

I told her, “Thanks for the offer, but to tell you the truth, I’m not used to the darkness like you are. And I’m sure I’ll bump into things and make a fool of myself. I think it’s safer if I go home.”

I held out the plastic bag. “I’m holding out my arm,” I said, “I have a plastic bag with the radios inside.”

She reached out and found my hand. But before she took the bag, she just stood there holding my hand. For a long moment.

I don’t know why she did that—I guess she needed a human touch.

When I cleared my throat she shook herself and said, “Sorry, I was lost in thought for a second,” and then took the bag from me.

“Lost in thought?” I asked her.

“I was thinking about my first boyfriend. I was remembering the first time he held my hand. For some reason I was just now reminded of that night. Maybe it’s the rain. I remember my heart was pounding so hard I was afraid he could hear it. Just remembering it made my heart start racing! Here, feel!”

As she said this, she placed my hand—I kid you not—on her breast, over her heart. Not on the nipple, but closer to her collar bone. But even so—my hand was touching her breast!

Damn.

Her heart definitely
was
racing, and mine was too. As if I was eighteen again, I felt myself getting a woodie.

I swallowed—loud enough for her to hear—and said, “Wow, it is beating hard!” Immediately I regretted my choice of words. “It must have been some night!” Actually, I tried saying it once and found my throat was all closed up, so I cleared my throat and started over.

If I were a more aggressive guy, I might have lowered my hand and given her breast a squeeze, but like it or not, I’m just not that kind of guy. Most guys would say she was practically
begging
me to make the next move, but how could I know for sure? I didn’t want to make an assumption, act on it, and make her mad, or be accused of assault, for God’s sake. I liked her; I didn’t want to ruin a potentially good friendship.

And even though I’m nobody’s fool, I feel pretty sure she was, indeed, flirting with me. I was glad it was dark—otherwise she’d have seen me blushing and would probably have noticed my hard-on.

I stood there, my hand still on her breast, enjoying the feel of it and feeling her heartbeat, when I suddenly became quite self-conscious. I practically jerked my hand back.

She answered my question with a sigh (what did I ask? Oh yeah,
must have been some night!
), and said, “Yes, it was. It was sweet. We were both so naive. We ended up making out—my first French kiss, too. It was disappointing, but to be honest, I’ve gotten used to disappointment with guys.” Was she talking about that night with her first boyfriend, or about tonight?!

“Let’s turn the radios on at, what, 9:00 tomorrow morning?” I suggested. She liked the idea, and I said I’d better get back home. I opened the door, then turned my camera back on (it had timed out) and whispered, “Talk to you tomorrow!”

“I’m
really
looking forward to it,” she whispered, “thank you
so
much!” Then I took off.

One thing I hadn’t thought of was this: Yes, it was dark. Yes, my camera was infrared capable so I could see. But the camera LCD screen emitted plain old visible light, so it must have lit my face up earlier.

When I went through her gate, a zombie was just on the other side of the fence. The stench hit me first—it’s a dead animal smell, mixed in with something else, something I can’t quite place. Sort of like rotted garlic.

Before I could react, it grabbed me, snarling. I tried to lunge away, but its grip on me was very tight. Without my camera to help me see (I’d almost dropped it, but managed to hold on to the strap) I was blind and nearly gagging from the foul odor. I couldn’t tell where its face or mouth was, and when I tried to wrench my arm away, I slipped on the wet grass and fell to the ground. I involuntarily let out a series of shouts, which was a mistake. Immediately the zombie was on top of me, still snarling, bits of wet rotted flesh falling off its arms and landing on me. I could hear the sound of other zombies not too far away.

Apparently light affects them like sound. They gravitate toward it. And when motivated, they do move at night.

Without thinking—panicking, really—I swung the camera with all my might in the darkness. I connected with something—head? shoulder?—hard enough for the zombie to lose its hold on me. I jumped to my feet and ran in the direction I hoped was my house. I misjudged the distance, though, and ran smack into the side of my house and let out a shout of pain.

Between the impact of my head and body hitting the side of the house and my shout, I’d made more noise. I could hear the zombie behind me, moving closer. I heard other snarling sounds much closer than they had been. I didn’t know it at the time, but I’d also done a number on my nose and was bleeding profusely. This was my first clue that zombies somehow sense fresh human blood and get excited, because the volume and intensity of the snarling was increasing. Stunned, I groped my way to the door.

Just as I started to open it, either the same zombie or a different one grabbed my shoulder. The fingers were half rotten, and even with my nose messed up, the stench was overwhelming; I could even taste it.

This time I lunged forward with all my might, got through the door, and tried to slam it shut. The zombie still held onto my shirt. I couldn’t close the door. I shoved with all my strength, pinning the arm inside. Keeping my weight on the door, I stripped off my shirt, grabbed the half rotten arm, and managed to force it out, still clutching my shirt. Bits of dark, congealed and rotted flesh were smeared all over my hands.

I finally got the door locked and bolted, but my shirt was now half in, half out of the door. I had a severe case of the willies, so I fled down a couple of steps, then hurriedly closed and bolted the trap door before heading downstairs.

Once I got in the light, I saw blood dripping on my chest. I was afraid I’d been bitten, so I grabbed a lantern and headed into the bathroom. Looking in the mirror, I could see blood streaming from my nose. I gave myself a quick examination to check for bite wounds (thank God there were none!) then grabbed a towel and pressed it to my nose. Ouch.

I started the shower and jumped in. I tipped my head back, letting the water rush over me. I held my hands in the stream to clean them. When I saw my hands were free of zombie flesh, I let the soaked towel drop to the floor, then reached up and pinched my nostrils shut. My heart was still pounding furiously. With my system so amped up with adrenalin, I probably bled even harder. But eventually, my heart slowed and I was able to let go of my nose without it bleeding again. By that time my breathing had slowed as well. I allowed myself the luxury of staying in the shower for a few minutes, trying to stop shaking.

I finally got out, dried off with a fresh towel, then went for the bottle of bourbon I’d opened when I gave Michelle a drink. I poured myself a stiff one.

My hands were still shaking very badly. I downed the drink and had another. Even swallowing hurt. That’s how much my face was swelling. I sat there, dazed, a myriad of thoughts swirling around my head. The zombie. It had almost bitten me. My hand on Michelle’s breast. The zombie. The stench. Her voice. My hard-on. My camera.
My camera!

I got up and retrieved it from the floor where I’d practically dropped it. The lens was ruined. But the power came on. So maybe only the lens was trashed. I have other lenses, but damnit, it was my favorite. What an idiot I was. The zombies . . . now there are a bunch of them out there, and they know I’m in here. They smelled or sensed my blood.

All these thoughts were running around, getting mixed up, repeating themselves . . . After I felt some of the bourbon kick in, I quietly went back upstairs. My heart was pounding again.

I stood there in the dark, listening. Not only did I hear the sound of the rain, but I also heard the sounds of zombies. A lot of zombies. It sounded like twenty or more. They were scrabbling at the door, pawing at it, scratching at it . . . many were rasping and snarling.

As I stood there, they pulled my shirt the rest of the way through the door. For a moment the rasping increased, but when they realized they hadn’t found food, it died down again. Even when they weren’t as loud, it sounded horrific.

It scared the shit out of me, too, so I went back downstairs and locked up tight. I had a few more drinks and some melatonin, and eventually dozed off (or passed out).

When I woke up this morning, I had a pounding headache. The lights were on in the grow room, so I knew it was morning. When I looked at my watch, it said 9:23. 9:23?
Shit!
I got the radios and turned them on.

“Bichelle?” I said. I couldn’t breathe through my bruised and swollen nose and my voice sounded funny.

I heard an electronic crackle, and then “Kevin?!” she cried, “I thought you were dead!!”

“Whad are you dalking about?” I asked.

I heard Michelle sniff
(Is she crying?!)
, and with a lot of raw emotion in her voice, she said “Right after you left, I heard something happen outside. I heard zombies making all kinds of noise and I heard you yell. Then I heard more strange sounds, and then I heard
a lot
of zombies. It sounded like there were a thousand of them! Then this morning I saw one chewing a shirt that looked like the one you were wearing. It was bloody. I thought I’d never see you again, and when you didn’t come on at 9:00 like you said you would, I was
sure
you were dead.” She started sniffing more and I was sure she was crying. It made me feel bad.

“I’b so sorry,” I said, “you were close, but dankfully not quite--.”

“What’s wrong with your voice?” she interrupted.

“I’b dryink do dell you. A sombie god me righd oudside your kade. I god away, but dhen ran indo my house. I don’d mead I ran idside—I mead I collided with the side of the house. I mighd hab broke my nose. It’s all swolled and I cad’t breath. I god idside bud by shirt got ripped off.”

“I was pretty udset. I dradk sode bourbon . . . a
lod
of bourbon—to cald dowd, and fell asleep on the coudch. I djust woke up. I’b sorry, I did’t bead do scare you.”