Love in the Age of Zombies (Book 1): My Zombie Honeymoon

by James K. Evans

  “Good morning,” I said. “Sleep well?”

  “Did I ever!” she said, putting the coffee cup down. As I poured myself a cup she yawned and stretched her body in such a way that her breasts were pushed out, stretching the sweater in a wonderful way. Her arms were bent and were up around her head. I had ample time to once again ogle her body. I felt a kind of hunger grow inside me, and it wasn’t for corn flakes.

  “Sleeping on the air mattress, in a secure, warm basement, with a full stomach, a freshly showered body, a big strong man sleeping in the next room, and knowing in the morning I’d have hot coffee . . .” She paused as if trying to find the right words. “I haven’t been this comfortable since before the end. I haven’t been this happy in an even longer time. I know it doesn’t make sense. Those things are just outside your house. But this morning I’m sitting in a room lit with electric lights, drinking a hot cup of coffee, and talking with an attractive older man I’m growing quite fond of.”

  “Older man? Like, what, I’m your dad’s age?” I protested, unsure of how to take it.

  Michelle looked at me. “Kevin, how old are you?”

  “I turned fifty-one on August third.”

  “Kevin, I’m not quite forty. You’re eleven years older than me. You’re an older man. I like older men. It’s a compliment. So,” she said, changing the subject, “what’s on the list today?”

  I told her that I’d show her how to check for pests. She gave me an appraising look which changed to an I know a pest when I see one look. I chose to ignore her.

  There’s always a risk some bug will find its way inside. Aphids and spider mites in particular. But since we rarely go outside and there are no plants in the house, odds are slim that we would introduce a pest who hitchhiked in on our clothes. Otherwise the system is pretty easy to maintain. So checking and rechecking is part of our daily chores. If we’re diligent and careful, we should have fresh herbs and a few vegetables until spring.

  She was leaning back on the sofa, her right arm bent at the elbow, holding the blue cup of coffee near her chin. The light from the plant room illuminated her face. One side was lit with soft lavender light, the other side was dimly lit with the light reflected off the walls and ceiling. Her eyes were mostly in shadow. There were highlights in her hair from the LEDs, giving her auburn hair a purplish tinge. The light brought out the textures of her skin, I noticed, as I let my eyes wander down her face to her neck, and then below. She was wearing a blue sweater; it was fuzzy and looked like cashmere, softly conforming to the shape of her breasts. The light accentuated their fullness, and as I gazed at them, I realized she was watching me. I felt bold, and decided to keep gazing at her body. As I looked, my eyes moving over and around her breasts, around her full tummy, down toward her hips and crotch, I noticed her nipples hardening. I felt like that was a good sign.

  “What are you looking at, Kevin?” Michelle asked quietly, repeating the question she’d asked the other night when she was tipsy.

  “I’m admiring the way the light is falling on you. You look lovely. And the way your breasts look in particular, with the soft light on your sweater . . . they look absolutely wonderful. I’m tempted to get my camera. In fact—do you mind?”

  “What, if you take photos of my breasts? I don’t think I’m comfortable with that.”

  “Not of your breasts, dingbat! Of you!”

  “Hmm . . . well, I guess in that case I don’t mind. But no nudes. You’d probably post them on Flickr.”

  I haven’t taken any portrait photos in a very long time. I haven’t been inspired. I’ve taken plenty of landscape photos over the years— Michigan is nothing if not picturesque—but no people photos. It felt good to want to take her picture.

  I grabbed my camera bag and went back into the living room. She hadn’t moved. I attached the camera to the tripod and moved to where I felt the view was most flattering. I didn’t want to use a flash; it would destroy the effect of the lighting I was so entranced with.

  “This is going to be a long exposure, about half a second, so when I tell you, try to be still.”

  Michelle didn’t respond. I looked through the viewfinder, made sure everything looked right—the composition, the lighting, how zoomed in I was. I set the timer for two seconds delay, hit the button, and audibly counted down: “Two . . . One . . .” The shutter clicked open and shut. I then looked through the viewfinder and zoomed in closer, highlighting her breasts. God, how beautiful they would look in this light without the sweater! Even so, they looked luscious.

  I hit the button again and counted down like I did before. Then I moved the camera a few feet to the left to get more of a three-quarter profile of her face and breasts. I took a few close-ups, noticing her watching me intently. Her eyes were dark and dilated in the dim light. I tilted the camera to get a couple shots of her eyes. I knew from checking the images in the viewfinder that with a little editing to tweak the levels and saturation, the photos would look great. I nodded with satisfaction and turned the camera off.

  “Don’t I get to look at them?”

  “Sure, but not right now. I promise I’ll show them to you after I transfer them to the laptop. I have a rule; I delete any photo I take of someone if they don’t like it. It helps people to relax, knowing I’ll delete every photo of them if they want. Next time, I want to get a reflector and put it over there,” I pointed to the far side of the sofa, “to add a little fill light. It’ll make the photo really pop.”

  Of course, part of the reason I didn’t want to show her the photos was because I didn’t want her to think I’m obsessed with her breasts. Even if I am. I figured I’d show her when she’s gotten to know me better and wouldn’t think I was a pervert. Unless I learned she liked perverts.

  “I didn’t know you were into photography,” Michelle said, “You’re full of surprises.” Taking her photos—enjoying taking her photos—made me feel more like the old me. I feel most myself when I’m being creative and responding to the muse. It came to mind that Tammy was the same way. While the sadness I’d felt upon awakening had lessened, it now came washing back over me. “I just gave you a compliment,” Michelle said, “And it made you look sad! What’s up with you?”

  “I hope this doesn’t insult you,” I said, hesitatingly, “but having you here somehow makes me think of my Tammy.”

  “Tammy . . .” she said, weighing the name on her tongue. “I’m going to choose to take that as a compliment. I know you loved her. I’m sorry if I put you in a tailspin.”

  “Five years ago, I might have gone into a tailspin. You know what they say about time heals all wounds? It’s true. But the past day or so, I’ve really been missing Tammy. Watching my best friend slowly die was a tough time, but I had to be strong for her, I couldn’t let her see how devastated I was.” I turned my head so she couldn’t see my eyes misting. “But don’t get me wrong, these thoughts or feelings or whatever, they hurt, but it’s a sweet pain. Does that make sense?”

  Michelle nodded, but I don’t know if she really understood. I don’t know what she’s been through. I told her about Tammy practically the first time we talked; she hasn’t said anything about her love life, and surely an attractive, intelligent, big-breasted woman like her has had plenty of attention from men. But that doesn’t mean she’s been in love.

  “Tammy and I had a wonderful marriage. You know how a lot of times the husband and wife end up barely tolerating each other? It wasn’t that way with us. We never fought. We disagreed sometimes, but even that was rare. We got along so well, it was simply astounding. The longer we were together, the better friends we were. I was constantly surprised—how can something this good just get better and better, I used to ask myself, but then a year later I’d realize things were even better yet than they had been.”

  “How long were you married?”

  “We had seventeen years of marriage. Most couples are lucky to have one good year. We had seventeen. And I don’t want to be crass, but you know, even th
e sex kept getting better. Sure, maybe the frequency went down, but the quality just kept going up. There were times we’d make love, and it’d be a spiritual experience, like our souls were melding . . . so when I think of her, my thoughts are incredibly happy thoughts and memories. I’ll miss her for the rest of my life. But I don’t regret these thoughts. Sometimes good memories make me feel sad, but I’d rather have the memories and be sad than to not have the memories at all.”

  I looked at Michele, my eyes still a bit moist. She was looking at me with a look I couldn’t decipher. Her eyes were beautiful, and I noticed how lovely her lips are. “So what is it about me being here that makes you think of her?” she asked.

  “Michelle, I’m afraid to say it. I don’t want to jinx it. But how I feel when I’m with you reminds me of how she and I got along when we first met. I don’t know how much of it’s situational. We were thrown together; if this hadn’t happened, would we have developed a strong friendship? You said you wondered when things will get back to normal. Truth be told, I think this is the new normal. But I’m talking about the way we fit together. Being with you makes me feel good. Look, I’m not coming on to you, this isn’t some bullshit line I’m using to get in your pants,” I said.

  “Damn.” she said.

  “I just feel something for you I haven’t felt in a long time. I like being around you. You make me feel better about the future somehow. Despite having creatures twenty feet away who want to eat us.”

  “Maybe without each other, those things outside would drive us to madness,” she suggested.

  “I don’t know, maybe so. But I’m glad you’re here, especially this morning. I’m glad you moved next door, and I’m glad you moved in.”

  “That’s just because I have big boobs,” she said, half mockingly.

  “That’s just frosting on the cake,” I suggested.

  “Frosting . . . there are so many interesting possibilities . . .” she said wistfully. Suddenly she got up off the sofa and said, “Let’s take care of our chores and then figure out something to do.”

  I had an instant idea of what I’d like to do with her—or even to her. I was taken aback to discover I had an erection. “Something to do?!” I asked.

  “We can play backgammon. Or we can talk. I like talking to you. You’re smart, you’re educated, you’ve lived a full life. I could learn a lot from a guy like you.”

  “That depends on what you’re wanting me to teach.”

  “Like, about making things grow, getting them big . . . liquid fertilizer . . . keeping the roots nice and wet . . .”

  I decided to ignore any possible implications of her words. “Let’s check the pH of the water,” I said. “You never know, those plants could save us.”

  “I’ve never understood the whole pH thing,” she said. “When it’s written, why is the ‘p’ little and the ‘H’ big?”

  “pH is an abbreviation for "power of hydrogen" where "p" is short for the German word for power, and H is the symbol for hydrogen. Low pH is called acid, high pH is called alkaline. The H is capitalized because it’s standard practice to capitalize element symbols. Like with H2O, the H and the O are always capitalized.”

  “You are such a geek,” she said, “how do you know that?”

  “I took the pains to memorize it a while back. To impress all those girls who are attracted to geeks.”

  She rolled her eyes. “I think I should unpack my stuff while you do whatever you need to. I would like to see how you check the ‘power of hydrogen’ so we can keep having your delicious salads. I think we should go upstairs to check the herd and maybe see survivors, I think we should turn on the radio and see if we can find any broadcasts, I think we should make dinner and have a few drinks and then I think we should either play games or make out.”

  My mind had been drifting. She was still standing before me, and I was still obsessing about her gorgeous rack. But my mind suddenly focused on her last words. Make out? I was taken aback. “What did you say? Did you say ‘make out’? Are you serious?”

  Her face lit up as she broke into a smile. “Ha-ha, now it’s my turn to get you! I just wanted to see if you were paying attention. Too bad I didn’t have the camera. The look on your face was priceless.” She paused. “I like you, Kevin, you’re smart and funny and you make me feel good about myself. The combination of those things makes you . . . interesting. And just so you know, I think you’re handsome and sexy as hell, but in a really comfortable geeky way. Like that April Barrows song says:

  I want a guy who's like an old stuffed sofa, someone who'd be nice to come home to. And when the world outside was frightnin', he'd be soft and so invitin'.

  Just when I was starting to think she was flirting with me, leaving the door open for me to make a move, she says I’m like an old stuffed sofa. Great. Not only that, but now I had reason to believe she was playing me. Or delusional. Me, sexy? I’m an older man as she kindly put it. Much of my hair is gone. I have a paunch. The notion that someone could find me sexy is ludicrous bordering on crazy. But I wasn’t really in the mood to point those things out to her. “Is that why you pressured me into letting you move in? Because you wanted an old stuffed sofa?”

  She took exception to my remark. “Pressured you?! Pressured you?! I made a business proposal. You accepted it. There was no pressure! Don’t you dare go making me out to be some freeloading vixen!” she exclaimed. The flashing of her eyes only made her even more attractive.

  I burst out laughing. Michelle’s eyes were hard with anger, but as I continued to laugh, they softened up and she began to smile. “What are you laughing at?” she asked.

  “I got you again! I invited you to move in. You didn’t pressure me. I do wonder though, how many newly-shacked up college couples have had this same conversation. ‘You pressured me into moving in, I didn’t really want to!’ ‘That’s not true! It was your idea!’” I continued to laugh and this time she joined in. “Michelle, I don’t think of you as a freeloading vixen. I think of you as a freeloading vixen with a great rack and a shortwave radio,” I said, feeling bold enough to reference her beautiful breasts. I wonder if she knows I’m a breast man? “Speaking of the shortwave radio, could I have a look?”

  “There you go again, changing the subject,” she said, “but fine, let’s take a look at it.” She rustled around in her stuff and pulled out a small box.

  “This is a shortwave radio? It’s so small!”

  “What did you expect?”

  “The last time I saw a shortwave radio was when I was about five years old,” I explained. “My grandfather had one. It was about the size of a small microwave, with tubes and knobs . . .”

  “Geez, Kevin, welcome to the 21st century!”

  I realized how dumb I must have sounded, talking about huge radios and tubes. I should have known shortwave radios had gone digital and compact just like every other electronic device.

  “Have you used this?” I asked her.

  “No, I never really had a reason to. It used to belong to my boyfriend, but he left it behind when we broke up. I’ve never even taken it out of the box.”

  I read the information on the box—it had features that hadn’t even been dreamed of when my grandfather was alive. I took it out and looked it over. It had over twenty buttons, a digital display, a hand-held microphone, and a small speaker. The antenna didn’t look like much, but I knew I could rig up a better one if I had to without much trouble. I plugged it in and began fiddling with it. First I set it on scan.

  Within a minute or two, I heard the sound of someone talking and excitedly called Michelle over. We both looked at the radio as a calm woman said "We interrupt this program. This is a national emergency. The President of the United States or his designated representative will make an announcement over the Emergency Broadcast Network at 1200 hours GMT, 0700 hours Eastern Standard time.” After a brief pause, I heard that weird sound I’ve only heard when they’re testing the system; that attention-getting signal. Then he
r voice repeated the message. It was obviously a looped recording. I felt a cold lump in my stomach. I thought we’d heard a survivor.

  Seven o’clock tomorrow morning I might finally learn something. Maybe the President will tell us what was going on. Maybe things aren’t as bad as I fear. Maybe order is being restored, but it just hasn’t made it to my neighborhood yet. Of course I will be up at seven o’clock to listen to the broadcast.

  In the meantime, I had work to do and Michelle was sitting there waiting for me. I really wanted to surf the airwaves more, but decided it could wait. Survival here was the most important, and for now that meant taking care of business.

  I needed some time to think as well—Michelle said I was “sexy as hell.” But “like an old stuffed sofa.” She also said she thought we should make out. She said she was joking, but behind every joke there’s a kernel of truth. I wonder how she’d respond if I took her in my arms and kissed her? Do I have the nerve?

  I couldn’t believe I was struggling with this. I am a fifty-year-old man. I’ve had my share of lovers. I’ve been married and fathered a child. But it was all so very long ago . . . the very idea of making out made me giddy and nervous.

  “Let’s go check the pH,” I said, “and then we’ll check on what you called ‘the herd’.”

  “And then?” she asked.

  “I’m sure we’ll figure something out.” I responded. We checked the pH of not only the new reservoir, but the other six as well. I explained how pH can fluctuate over time, sometimes simply by the plants absorbing the nutrients and changing the composition of the water. She was surprised to see how much the sprouts have grown in the past couple days.

  I told her one advantage of a hydroponic system is that you’re giving the plants exactly the nutrients they need to do their best, and in my climate controlled grow room they don’t suffer any effects from high or low air temperatures. She appeared to be fascinated, and seemed to be taking to the idea quite well. I may turn her thumb from brown to green yet!