My Zombie
Honeymoon
Love in the Age of Zombies Book One
James K. Evans
Copyright © 2015 James K. Evans
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1500143459
ISBN-13: 1500143456
DEDICATION
For Gabriel and Gretchen,
my pride and my joy.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Thanks to:
My editors: Vicki Connell, Stacie Court, Penny Overcash, Paul and Diane Kolak, Michael Coleman, and Adam Smith
for catching my mistakes and making me look good.
Gretchen
for her unwavering faith in me
and for technical advice on the characters’ medical problems.
Stan Williams
a life-long friend who drove me around the back roads of Michigan in his Jeep while I was researching the setting.
And to the Sure Happy It’s Thursday Club:
May your margarita pitcher never run dry.
September 19th
I went for a bike ride today. I haven’t spent much time outdoors for the past couple of weeks because of all the work on the basement and felt restless.
As I rode my bike through the streets, there was a strange tension in the air. The few people I saw seemed anxious to avoid me. I saw no dogs walking their people (hah!) no kids playing catch or riding skateboards. No joggers. Most houses had their blinds or curtains drawn, but even so I felt I was being watched. I couldn’t help but wonder if something was going on.
I haven’t watched or read the news in a long time. I’m sick of it. Sick of politics, tragedy, and especially sick of commercials. TV, radio, internet . . . it’s all one big trick to manipulate me into thinking I need something I don’t, or thinking that the way actresses look is the way women are supposed to look, when it’s not. Actresses look unnatural, and the longer I go without watching TV, the less natural they look. The only problem is that when big events happen, I often don’t hear about it until well after the fact. Had a something happened? I pushed the thought away and rode out of Ann Arbor.
I headed northwest past Dexter, avoiding major roads. Out in the country, I saw a lot of stately older homes, once symbols of affluence, which have been neglected and are slowly falling apart. More than once I thought, I’d love to restore that house to its original condition! The detail work on those homes was fabulous despite the decline.
It was a typical fall day in Michigan. I heard crickets, although not as many as a month ago, and their call was winding down. I heard birds and an occasional dog barking. At one point I stopped where the trees had just begun turning, bright hues of red, gold, and yellow mixing with the predominant green. They arched over the road, making it look like a tunnel. Resting on the shoulder of the leaf-strewn road a few minutes, I recalled the last time Tammy and I had gone for a bike ride out this way, before we knew she was sick. It was a day much like today, though a bit later in the season—crystal blue sky, brilliant fall foliage, cool air. The ride was exhilarating, and riding behind Tammy and watching her ass aroused me. On impulse, I pulled alongside her and said, “Follow me!”
I turned down the next side road, then down a two-track running between a field and a wooded area, and then into the woods. Tammy asked what I was doing, and I stopped my bike next to hers and kissed her passionately. We ended up making love right there in the woods, with the scent of fall around us and the slow shower of red and golden maple leaves. It was only a quickie, but it was great—until we heard the sound of a gunshot off in the distance and scrambled to get back on our bikes. We had a twinkle in our eyes the rest of the ride. It was a good time in our marriage. We were still best friends, still had a lively sex life, still gladly spent a lot of time together. It was a good day.
The memory filled me with joy and sorrow. Once again I missed her with such ferocity I could feel it in my skin. With a sigh I resumed my ride.
The traffic was horrible, even on the back roads. Many of the cars and trucks were packed as if for vacation, except families don’t go on vacation in mid-September. The entire time I was competing for the road, not sharing it. On more than one occasion, horns startled me as cars impatiently accelerated past. The traffic made me tense, and I wasn’t able to commune with nature as I like. The activity puzzled me – there wasn’t a home football game, it wasn’t a holiday. And yet the roads were unusually busy.
About twenty five miles into the ride, everything was shaken with the force of a huge explosion to the west-northwest. I had no idea how close or far it was. But it shook my bones and rattled my psyche.
Near Onandaga, just west of a branch of the Grand River, I stopped at a combination gas station, miniature convenient store, and pizzeria. It’s one of my guilty pleasures—any time I ride out there, I stop to buy a beer. The store has the odd name of Clone’s Country Store. When I asked about it the owner told me it was an old Welsh family name.
Inside, I noticed there were only three gallons of milk left, all skim. The beer cooler was almost empty as well. I grabbed the last bottle of Founder’s Red’s Rye and moved to the checkout. The two ladies behind the counter stopped what they were doing to stare at me.
An older woman, wearing a hair net and a somewhat dirty blue apron was making a pizza. She had a resigned, no-nonsense look about her. A younger woman with short cropped blonde hair, probably in her twenties, was slicing mushrooms. She, too, wore a hair net but instead of an apron she had on blue jeans and a white t-shirt with the blue image of a crown, and the caption
KEEP CALM
and
RUN FASTER.
The bear’s catching up.
I said good morning, then asked why their shelves were so empty.
The older lady said they hadn’t had any deliveries in a couple days. Something about too many drivers calling in.
They younger girl said with all the traffic they’ve been selling “more milk and stuff” in the past week.
“That’s ‘cause the salmon are running on the Grand,” the older lady responded. “We always sell out.”
The younger girl rang me up, but when she looked at me she raised one eyebrow. It made me think she wasn’t buying the explanation her coworker offered. “Things are weird right now,” she said under her breath. Something in her eyes gave me the impression she was on edge.
“Jennie, get back here and finish slicing those mushrooms. We have five pizzas to make by noon,” the older lady said.
Jennie took my money and looked me in the eye. She didn’t say another word and didn’t need to. I got the message she was sending, and it gave me pause.
“Did you hear that explosion earlier?” I asked.
They nodded and the older lady said “One of our customers said something happened at the airport in Lansing.” Good grief. The Lansing airport is probably twenty miles from here! Shaking my head sadly, I wished them both a better day and left.
Stepping outside, I walked over to my bike, then stopped and took a long draught of beer. While I was contemplating the sweetness of the bite, I noticed a young guy, maybe seventeen, gassing up his Jeep. On the roof rack were two classic wooden canoes, kept in marvelous condition but obviously well used. Inside the Jeep Wrangler I could see three other guys about the same age, along with fishing and camping equipment.
I wheeled my bike over to him, taking another drink of the Founder’s as I went. “Going fishing?” I asked. Duh.
“Yeah, my friends and I have wanted to go on a trip for a while, and somehow this seems like a good time to go.”
“Where are you headed?”<
br />
“About three hundred miles north, up into Ontario,” he replied, topping off his tank.
“Getting kind of a late start, aren’t you?” I asked. “It’ll be dark by the time you get there.”
“Yeah, it probably will be,” he replied. “Looks like we’ll be doing some night paddling. That’s okay. It’s strange,” he said after a pause, “in all my years of fishing, I never considered what it must feel like to be the fish. I thought of ways to outsmart it, I tried to get in its head, I tried to figure out what it was hungry for. But I never wondered how it felt to be the fish. But now I think I do. I feel like a fifteen-inch brown trout during fishing season in the Platte River, wary of things I don’t understand, acting on pure instinct.” He put the gas cap back on the tank, then stood up straight. “And right now my instincts tell me it’s time to go fishing. But then again, anything’s an excuse to go fishing.”
He had a gentle, intelligent tone, and after another taste of my Founder’s, I held out my hand. “My name’s Kevin. Kevin Williams. Good luck to you and your friends. And good fishing!”
As he firmly shook my hand, he said “Thanks, Kevin. My name’s Jerry. I wish you good fishing as well, whatever it is you’re fishing for. Oh, and good choice in beer,” he grinned, nodding toward the nearly empty bottle of Red’s Rye I still held. He jumped into the Jeep and drove off. I heard country music drift out the windows, and one of the guys laughed. Inwardly I again wished them luck, and got the feeling he and his friends were walking backward into adulthood. This was one of their last acts of childhood, the last time seeing the world through a child’s eyes. It made me sad and envious.
I got back on my bike and pedaled over the bridge toward home. I passed through Chelsea, where the actor Jeff Daniels grew up. Every time I pass near the city, I can’t help but sing the Elvis Costello song “I don’t want to go to Chelsea.”
I saw the huge Jiffy cornbread factory silos, but the factory appeared to be closed—no tours today. As I was riding beneath and past the ornate clock tower in the center of town, the bells sounded, scaring the crap out of me. Again, there was little to no foot traffic but a lot of cars and people acting skittish. Having been on my bike for a good part of the day, I wondered for the second time if there was something I missed. Otherwise, why was everyone so jumpy?
I was pedaling through a scenic back road east of the village and saw a huge maple tree in the middle of a field of hay. The upper leaves had already turned a brilliant golden-red, but most of the lower leaves were still green. It looked like it was on fire, with a hunter green pine grove as a backdrop . The colors were mesmerizing. I slowed down to admire the view, then stopped as a huge shiver ran up my spine.
Standing in the shade beneath the maple tree was a man watching me. He was silhouette against the field of hay. It gave me the willies but at the same time I felt silly for reacting that way.
Man up, I thought, you’re acting like a scaredy-cat. Staring back at him, I thought Take a picture, it’ll last longer.
I sat up straighter, went out of my way to slowly finish the bottle of beer, and began pedaling away. About a quarter mile down the road, I looked back. Whoever it was had come out of the shadows. He was still staring at me. As I watched, he began to move toward me across the field. His walk was unnatural, like he was deformed or injured.
I hurried on until I rounded a gentle curve and was out of sight, then slowed down and tried to enjoy the ride again. I figured I was just being paranoid. Even so, I was uneasy the rest of the ride, anxious and depressed. It was not the stress-relieving appreciation of nature I had hoped for. “Other than that, how was the play, Mrs. Lincoln?”
I was getting tired and ready to be back in my own sanctuary, where I, too, could sit with the curtains drawn, peering out suspiciously at people passing by. And watching the news.
I took my usual back route as I made my way home. The fewer cars or people I see the better’ has always been my attitude. I don’t ride my bike to see cars. But I saw plenty. In the neighborhoods I saw folks packing their cars, SUVs and trucks.
When I got to my street, I noticed it was locked up tight. Nearly every home had the blinds drawn and lights off except for flickering TVs. Some just felt empty. I imagined I was being watched as I rode up the driveway and secured my bike to Tammy’s, then went inside and fixed a drink. Now it’s time to figure out why everyone’s so spooked.
September 21st
When I got back home a couple days ago I got online. The news was all about an unknown disease that has suddenly become a pandemic in Europe, Asia, and Africa. It spreads unusually fast. Details are scarce, but politicians are talking about closing the borders. A few governors have threatened to ban flights from infected countries from landing in their states. Naturally this is causing a huge controversy. Editorials suggest banning the flights is premature and politically motivated, while other editorials suggest not closing the borders shows a lack of foresight and leadership.
The World Health Association and the United Nations have supposedly had several closed door meetings to discuss the situation, but no one is talking. Having tight lipped politicians makes me nervous.
The White House released a statement offering moral support to the affected countries and is sending CDC experts to help determine the type of disease and best course of action.
Locally, the story isn’t front page news yet. Hopefully it never will be.
Yesterday I met my new neighbor, Michelle. I was coming back from a short bike ride when I saw her struggling to unload a mattress from a rental truck into her garage. I called out, “Need some help?” and although at first she seemed reluctant, she ended up accepting my offer. “Welcome to the neighborhood!” I told her as I grabbed the end of the mattress. She grabbed the other end and led the way through the house into the bedroom, where the box springs was already leaning against the wall. I wondered how she’d managed to move it by herself.
Once we put the mattress down, she sighed and arched her back, stretching. Do women do that intentionally to make a guy look at their breasts, or do they honestly not realize the effect it has? Those women are either deliberately teasing men or they’re signaling they’re available and interested. Or maybe they’re just stretching. But how can a guy know which it is?
I took a quick glance at her spectacular rack (it took a lot of self-discipline not to stare), but did my best to look her in the eyes.
“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!
September 28th
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.
Love in the Age of Zombies (Book 1): My Zombie Honeymoon Page 1