Zoey - Not Quite A Zombie

by Unknown

  ZOEY:

  A ‘Not-Quite’ Zombie Love Story

  by

  Julia Mills

  “Things Aren’t Always As They Seem...

  Sometimes They’re Better.”

  Copyright © 2016 Julia Mills

  All Rights Reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the author except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  DISCLAIMER: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or used in a fictional manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  NOTICE: This is an adult erotic paranormal romance with love scenes and mature situations. It is only intended for adult readers over the age of 18.

  Acknowledgements

  Edited by Lisa Miller with Angel Editing Services

  Cover Designed by Linda Boulanger with Tell Tale Book Covers

  Formatted by Charlene Bauer with Wickedly Bold Creations

  Thank you so VERY much to the ladies of Julia’s Addicts!!! Y’all ROCK!!! I simply do not know what I would do without each and every one of you!!!!!!

  DEDICATION

  Dare to Dream! Find the Strength to Act! Never Look Back!

  Thank you, God.

  To my girls, Liz and Em, I Love You. Every day, every way, always.

  Zoey: A ‘Not-Quite’ Zombie Love Story

  New Years is the time for new beginnings, resolutions of things you’ll make better, hopes and dreams for an amazing three hundred and sixty-five days filled with one earth-shattering event after another. Unless, you’re a zombie. If you happen to be ‘lucky’ enough to be one of the undead, then at the stroke of midnight you put down the squirrel or raccoon or whatever vermin you happen to be munching on to keep from eating your mom, your dad, or your little brother Jimmie. You listen to the sounds of all the ‘living’ yelling “Happy New Year” and imagine them kissing their dates or slamming back flute after flute of champagne.

  Some even watch the sun come over the ridge and shine its glowing yellow warmth on a different day of the same ole’ shit. (Yes, I’m well aware that I said that backward…just go with it. I’m kinda undead, not stupid.) Others of our rambling, moaning, completely dissociative community remain blissfully unaware, and if I was being honest, which I am to a fault, I would have to tell you that I wish I was one of them.

  I guess I should give you a little backstory, kinda get you up to speed. Nine months ago some dumbass was digging a trench for the cable company and hit a pipe. Not wanting to lose his job, the dude–whom we shall now call Joe–covered up the pipe with the gaping hole and fluorescent orange slime oozing from it and drove away like nothing happened. To make matters worse, ‘Joe’ told his superiors the job was finished and slunk off to territories unknown.

  Several days later people began showing up in doctor’s offices and emergency rooms complaining of pounding headaches and severe pain all over their bodies. It wasn’t long before they began throwing up everything but their toes and their body temperatures rose to damn near boiling. (Yes, I know it wasn’t really boiling, but I’m telling a story here…poetic license and all that good shit.) The next stage was seizures and then, you guessed it…death.

  Only their stories didn’t end there. After being ‘bagged and tagged’ (I always wanted to say that) and awaiting autopsy, because we still had no idea what had killed them, these poor souls woke up! Literally, sat up and began strolling around like the days before had never happened. Unfortunately, there was one huge difference…they had a taste for anything living and were technically, still dead.

  It was one of the freakiest damn things I’ve ever witnessed and I know freaky. My name is Zoey and I’m an Emergency Room nurse.

  I guess I should say I was a nurse before I contracted what they charmingly call the ‘Corpse Contamination’ (catchy name, right?...*shiver*… UGH!) I turned into one of the not-quite-living-still-functioning-but-not-feeding-on-my-friends-undead. Upside...I’m not decomposing. I still have all my own teeth, skin, and hair…score! But I digress…

  I had always wanted to be a nurse; to follow in my mom’s and grandma’s footsteps, and with my dad serving as the Head of Orthopedics at the largest hospital in the region, it was a no-brainer. (Ha! No-brainer...get it. Zombies eat brains and I’m a…okay, okay. I’m moving on.)

  For a while things got better–we figured out how to deal with the outbreak. The ‘contaminated’ were caught and studied. The ones that didn’t rise, or died while being captured, became research cadavers. Doctors were confidant a cure was in sight. Of course, that was before the government got involved.

  No one knows who contacted the CDC, but someone did. The CDC in turn contacted the military, who in turn…well, you get where I’m going with this. In a matter of days, our little part of the world was invaded with men in armored cars wearing hazmat suits and issuing orders.

  The funny part was we had done a great job at containing the contamination. Hell, no one outside the population of Mammoth County even knew the contagion existed before the goon squad showed up. We’d done everything in our power to take care of our own and keep our business to ourselves. In other words…we were cleaning our own house. It was when the people that were supposed to know more than we did arrived that the proverbial shit hit the fan.

  It was actually comical to sit in the Town Hall and listen to the bureaucrats spout nonsense while watching the medical personnel in the room shake their heads. After the first such meeting my parents declined to attend anymore. My dad said, “Dammit, Zoey, they don’t know what the hell they’re doing. You need to be more careful. I know you feel you have to help, and I wish I was still able, but you have to take extra precautions. It would kill your mom if anything happened to you.”

  “Yeah, Dad, I know. I’m careful. Promise.” (Famous last words)

  I wasn’t entirely wrong. For a while it looked like everything would work out. The townspeople had learned to coexist with the government people. The government people learned to lighten up a little and even started eating at the diner without telling everyone the hazards of saturated fat. (As if! We’re southern, after all…isn’t bacon grease one of the food groups?) There was even a rumor that Tom from the hardware store was dating the little CDC lab tech Tabby with the horned-rimmed glasses. Things really were working out–except that the contagion kept spreading.

  No matter what we tried nothing stopped it; and since the government had taken over it had actually sped up. The ‘contaminated’ were growing at almost twice the rate anyone had predicted. It became necessary to convert the old airfield into a holding area enclosed with a twenty-foot steel-reinforced fence to keep the sick in until a cure was found. They were fed raw meat while we took sample after sample of everything from their hair to their toe nails, trying to at least keep the dead people dead and the alive people well…not contaminated.

  I guess I should make sure you understand….this was nothing like TV. Rick from the Walking Dead was not trying to save the world week after week only to have one of his crew get eaten alive. They were our families and our friends. The contaminated, or the ‘Life Challenged’ as the insurance companies were calling them, weren’t trying to hurt us as long as they were fed. The poor souls just walked around moaning all the time. Which, I can now say with all certainty, I feel like doing myself from time to time.

  Sorry, sometimes I get off track. I was just about to get to the good part. One of the bright spots of the CDC coming was that they brought support staff with them. One such person was Danny McBride, an EMT with spiky blonde h
air and crystal blue eyes that made my pulse jump every time he came through those big sliding glass doors. He was a little over six foot three, muscular without being bulky, and when I say he filled out a pair of Wranglers…I mean it. Luckily, the attraction was mutual. His second Friday on the job, Danny asked me out for a drink.

  After a night filled with longnecks and two-stepping, he kissed me good night and I saw stars. Honest to goodness stars. I swear my foot lifted off the ground just like you see in all those old movies. (Stop rolling your eyes, dammit! I was in lurve.) But as I have found, all good things must come to an end, and on the night of our six month anniversary, I met Woody….Woody the Raccoon. I have no idea why I named him that, but I did…so go with it. And here’s the rub…the furry bastard scratched my wrist when I was putting the lid on the garbage can.

  Now this may seem like a non-event to you, but it was, as they say, the beginning of my end. You see, my little buddy had just eaten out of a dumpster from behind the Mini Mart, which as it just so happens, contained a newly dead, apparently ‘Life Challenged’ person. I guess I never thought about the fact that raccoons eat damn near everything so they would eat a person, but now I know they do. Adding to the list of things I didn’t know, but now do, is the fact that raccoons can carry the Contagion. (Lucky Zoey…not!)

  Okay back to the story…more than a little pissed that I was going to be late to meet Danny, I ran in the house, washed the cut, poured half a bottle of peroxide over it, slapped a Band-Aid on it and said ‘I’m a nurse, I know what I’m doing’. Backing out of the driveway, I dialed Danny’s number. He picked up on the first ring.

  “Everything okay?” he asked, sounding worried.

  “Yep. Everything’s fine. Just running about ten minutes late.” I tried to keep it light. Just imagining the worry lines he got when he thought something was wrong made my heart flip-flop. (Sappy? I know, but he’s a keeper) “Just took a little longer to wrangle my hair,” I added for good measure.

  His audible sigh and the lift in his voice when he said, “Good. I ordered champagne,” told me that my words had worked. He was relaxing. Mission accomplished. You see, in our line of business–especially his, since he is usually the first on the scene–when someone is late we immediately think the worst.

  “Love you, Zoey. Be safe.”

  “Love you too. I will.”

  My frustration turned to a sigh as I disconnected the call. All I could think of was how lucky I was to have him in my life. For good measure, I imagined his incredibly kissable lips.

  With what I can only imagine was a goofy grin on my face, I threw the car in drive and hauled ass towards the restaurant. Now, I should probably tell you that I live on the same street where I was born, only three houses down from my parents. And that when I say I hauled ass, I mean I was going thirty in a twenty-five. I made it to the four-way stop and had just started into the intersection when I heard a BOOM! Then a CRASH! Then realized my little red Smart Car was rolling ass over tea kettle towards the lake. Sure as shit, the next thing I knew my car and I were sinking to the bottom of the Brookville Lake. The irony was, when I was four years old my dad had taught me to swim off the pier not a hundred yards from where I was dropping like a stone to my death.

  I later heard that Elmer, the idiot that hit me, had just been thrown out of his house by his crazy-ass wife (Not that Elmer was a prize, but Thelma was crazy) and had gotten shit-faced drunk before driving to his brother’s. He had run the stop sign, sent me to my watery death, (Well, I was dead for almost a week) and had ended up in the Darrah’s yard with only a bruise and a hangover. Mrs. Darrah’s petunias met the same fate as me and my car.

  When I didn’t arrive at the restaurant, Danny came looking for me. He saw the battered pick-up truck in the neighbor’s yard and followed the carnage my rolling car had made on the road, the sidewalk, and through the long grass on the lake shore. Without thinking, or so the story goes, he dove into the icy water, but just like I hadn’t been able to get the doors open or break the windows from the inside, he couldn’t do it from the outside either. I was already dead, but just knowing he had tried to save me brought tears to my eyes.

  The poor guy sat in the cold wet grass, soaked to the bone, until they pulled my car up and he could see with his own eyes that I was no longer among the living. He took time off from work, attended my memorial service, and even made daily trips to our family mausoleum where I had been ‘laid to rest’. Ya see, what I didn’t know at the time was that Danny was going to propose to me that night. So you can see where he might take my untimely demise a little harder than the rest.

  I’m not sure what my answer would’ve been then. I know that if he asked me right now I would be the happiest ‘not-quite’ zombie girl in the world. Well, I’m the only ‘not-quite zombie girl that we know of, but you get what I mean.

  Just an hour shy of exactly seven days from the time my car and I went for a late night swim, I woke up in a coffin, in my stone crypt, in the family mausoleum. Now, you are asking yourself how I knew the exact time. Well, you remember I was running late, right? As I was sitting at that damn four-way stop looking both ways before crossing, I glanced at the clock. Of all of the dumbass things to remember…I remembered what time it was. And speaking of dumbass things, I was buried wearing my watch. I still shake my head when I think about it. Do you need to tell time in the afterlife? I didn’t make it there, but they thought that’s where I was going, so I have to wonder. But, whatever…moving on.

  It took me a bit to understand what was happening and when I did…I freaked. Like the yelling, screaming, pounding against the lid of the coffin kind of freaked. After a few minutes, I realized it was doing no good. I tried to cry but had no tears. Then I got pissed. And when I got pissed, I found out I was way stronger dead than I had been alive. I broke the lock on the coffin, pushed the lid open as far as it would go, (Which by the way, is not very far) squeezed my big butt and very ample bosom out of the tiny opening, and wiggled my way into the foyer of the mausoleum.

  It was the middle of night. I had just risen from the dead. I was pretty sure that any minute the undeniable urge to eat anything and everything would strike. So, doing the only thing I could think of…I started walking to the airfield. My thought was if I could make it there, then the world would be safe from Zoey the Zombie. (Yeah. I know. Name sucks)

  After two hours and six miles, I wasn’t hungry, tired, or even winded. The others that had awakened were immediately ravenous, and although they tried to hold back, still wanted to snack on anything moving. I was cranky, but no more than any girl that wakes up dead.

  Waiting for the urge to descend upon me to eat the squirrel in the tree, the dog barking behind the Smith’s fence, or to find a pound of raw hamburger, I trudged on. Exactly ten steps later, (because I was counting steps, what the hell else did I have to do?) I realized I didn’t have the urge to eat or drink anything. Not my favorite barbeque potato chips, not my delicious diet Pepsi, not even my ooey gooey tootsie rolls sounded good. There had never been a time I didn’t want tootsie rolls.

  The longer I walked, the more the differences between me and the other ‘Life Challenged’ I noted. My nails weren’t grey. My hair was still its usual long, brown, curly, silky self. I looked pretty good for a dead girl if the reflection in the Madison’s picture window was any indication. My eyes were still green and even sparkled in the light of the street lamps. Whoever did my makeup needed a class in ‘less is more’, but overall, I truly looked no worse for wear. That prompted me to stop dead in my tracks (No pun intended) and do a quick self-examination.

  I held my breath and found it wasn’t imperative that I breathe, but it made me feel better in a ‘not-quite’ zombie sort of way. After pinching myself I found I still felt pain, but also realized my skin felt cold and a little clammy.

  It appeared I didn’t have a pulse, but after holding my own wrist and watching the second hand sweep around the face of my watch, there came a beat. Maybe I shoul
d say a flutter, but nonetheless, a sign that the ole ticker was still beating. And twenty-two seconds later it happened again. A pulse of almost three was not great…but also not completely dead.

  I hadn’t been embalmed. That didn’t make sense. But then, what did? I had other things to worry about. The airfield was still about eight miles away. I wasn’t tired, a positive side effect to the condition I found myself in, but I wanted answers that the men guarding the contaminated were not going to be able to answer. Re-evaluating myself and deciding that my lack of hunger made me less of a threat to those I loved, I changed course and headed to my parent’s house.

  On my way, two things came to mind. First of all, I was getting more exercise as a ‘not-quite’ zombie girl than I ever had as a completely living one. Second, and this is the big one, how in the hell was I supposed to tell my parents I was back?

  Every possible scenario floated around my brain until I found myself standing at their back gate, scared to make the next move. My handy dandy watch said it was almost six am; time for Mom to be up making the coffee, letting Patches out to pee, and grabbing the morning paper. Slowly my hands acted out of memory, opening the gate, and my feet took me to the patio where I sat at the picnic table for almost twenty minutes. (Yes, it’s called stalling, and yes it was becoming a forte of mine, but seriously, would you know what to say in that situation?)

  Using the key that was hidden under the planter holding the begonias, the same way it had been for as long as I could remember, I unlocked the door and walked into the kitchen like it was any other day. I had decided this was a ‘rip the Band-Aid off’ moment. Might not have been one of my best decisions, but it went something like…

  “Jay? Is that you?” Mom called from the kitchen. “I didn’t know you’d come down yet. Coffee’s ready.”

  After what seemed like forever, but was really less than fifteen seconds, Mom called out again, “Jay?” and turned from the sink at the same time as I walked into the room. Her eyes opened as wide as saucers and her mouth hung open. In the space of two regular heartbeats (Not mine, mind you) my mom spun around, grabbed a butcher knife from the block on the counter and brandished it like the guy we saw at the circus, all the while screaming, “JAY! GET YOUR ASS IN HERE! ZOEY’S A DAMN ZOMBIE!”