Thursday: Return to cleared houses, gather any needed supplies (food, alcohol, weapons, booze, prescription drugs).
Friday: Laundry, cleaning, plant seeds, move sprouts to hydroponic raft, harvest anything ready, check pH and water levels. Haul bodies (if any left). Check in with Doc.
Saturday: Breakfast in bed (pancakes, coffee, and each other). Scout out neighborhood for any signs of zombies or intruders.
Sunday: Lounge around naked. Enjoy each other. Watch DVD or listen to music. Read. Dance in bed.
One thing I always look for when we’re scavenging through houses are spices. I don’t want to run out. Once the spices are gone, I may never (for example) taste cinnamon or cumin again.
Michelle’s the one who checks for drugs, since she’s most likely to know what they’re good for. I wouldn’t know them by their generic names.
We’re always looking for antibiotics, pain meds, and ADD meds for those days when we’ll need an extra boost. We haven’t found a whole lot of useable meds yet (most are long expired), but at one point Michelle jauntily entered the kitchen (where I was packing up some canned goods) holding up a medicine bottle and shaking it so I could hear pills rattling.
“Lookie what I found!” she chimed, “a bottle of tadalafil!!” She had a gleam in her eye I found curious.
“What’s tadalafil?” I asked.
“Generic Cialis!” she replied rather gleefully. I’ve never used it, but even so, it sounds like fun. Not that I need it. But hey.
We also retrieve any liquor and beer we find. We stockpile alcohol in the crawlspace under Michelle’s house. No point in leaving anything out in the open.
We come across dead bodies in some of the houses. When possible, we haul them away with the zombies. Sometimes it’s not possible (if they’re too large to haul up flights of stairs, for example), so we close the door to those rooms and leave them.
Yesterday we came upon several disturbing scenes while scavenging houses in the neighborhood. One house was pretty trashed inside, with empty beer bottles, cigarette butts, and liquor bottles scattered everywhere. We heard rustling upstairs—it sounded like small animals—and went to check it out. We’ve seen plenty of rats in these houses, along with a few raccoons, opossums, some feral cats and even a wild dog. They all run when they become aware of us.
So we weren’t surprised when we went upstairs and saw a half-dozen or so rats scurry into holes they’d chewed through the walls. We could smell something decomposing, and in the master bedroom we found the remains of a dead man lying in bed. His hands and feet were duct taped to the bed frame and his head showed signs of trauma. The mattress had a lot of blood stains.
It was hard to tell what happened to him. The rats had been feeding off the remains.
Michelle is the one who pointed out the blood on the mattress. Bodies don’t bleed after they’re dead, so the rats couldn’t have caused the blood we saw. His head trauma could not have come from himself or the rats—they must have come after the fact. He couldn’t have taped himself to the frame. It appears someone did this to him.
Michelle went into the master bathroom to look for pharmaceuticals. I headed downstairs where I found more bloodstains on and around a coffee table. Looking closer, I saw duct tape stuck to the legs. While I was puzzling over this, I realized this was the house where the bad guys pulled their truck into the garage. She must have lived here and been captured by them. The body on the bed must have been her husband or boyfriend.
The blood was on the coffee table and carpet must have been hers. They must have taped her down so they could have their fun. There was a broken broom handle, which they probably used on her too. I can still picture the nasty lateral bruises on her legs and back as they heaved her into the horde. I’d hate to think what else they might have used the broom handle for. Sick bastards. May they rot in hell. I can just see the fat man grinning and having a drink as they tortured her.
I decided to see if the truck was still in the garage.
I opened the door into the garage and flinched when I saw another bunch of rats—maybe a dozen—swarm away from me and disappear. The stink of dead flesh was pretty strong there, too.
Sure enough, the truck was there. The day they broke into our house they must have left it here so we wouldn’t hear them approach our house. I heard a slight scrabbling sound coming from behind the truck.
Instantly I recalled that Michelle killed the guy whose pecker I bit, saw the other guy get eaten by zombies, but didn’t know what happened to the third guy. Was he still here, alive after all this time? If so, what would I do?
I raised my gun (I no longer carry it like I’m a TV actor) and quietly followed the trail of blood to where the sound was coming from. It led behind the truck. Dim light filtered in through the narrow windows at the top of the garage door.
Peering around the corner of the truck, I found a strange sight.
Three rats were gnawing at two decomposing bodies lying in a pool of blood and tissue. One was a few feet from the other, the back of its head blown off, presumably by the gun still grasped in other body’s right hand. Bits of dried bone and flesh were splattered onto the tailgate.
The body holding the gun was collapsed against the garage door, its neck and shoulder ripped out. The back of its head was blown off, a gory spray pattern of brains coating the garage door. Ample amounts of blood stained his filthy shirt. A pool of dried blood spread around the body and underneath the truck. There was no blood around the other body.
“Scat!” I shouted at the rats. They quickly ran under the truck and disappeared, I assume into another hole in the wall. I suppose the house is completely infested.
Michelle must have heard me, because shortly afterward I heard her call my name. “Kevin? Are you okay? Where are you?”
“In the garage,” I called. She found me staring behind the truck. She couldn’t see the body from her doorway vantage point.
That was the moment I noticed something that gave me a great deal of perverse satisfaction.
“Michelle, come look!” She warily came over, holding a cloth to her nose. When she came to stand by my side, she flinched and jumped back.
“Ugh, two more. We should open the door and haul them away.”
“No, wait, look closely. See how the one leaning against the garage door had his neck and shoulder torn out? See all the blood on his shirt and the floor? He was attacked. The other body must be the zombie who attacked him. He must have been bitten and then killed the zombie before killing himself.”
“So? We’ve seen worse. It’s disgusting. Why do you want me to look?”
“Do you see anything familiar about the body?” I asked her, pointing to the one in the pool of blood. She glanced at me with a look of impatience before looking back at the body, the cloth still held to her nose.
“I don’t—“ she started, then stopped. The hand holding the cloth slowly dropped to her side. I knew she was a very observant girl.
“His arm. That tattoo. It’s him.”
His right arm, the one holding the gun, had a garish tattoo—the tattoo we’d seen on one of the guys. Now that we were closer, I could see that it was a Dixie flag. The skin was shrunken and shriveled, but it was clear. This was the third guy, the one who’d gotten away.
“When he ran off he must have made his way back to get the truck and was attacked and bitten by the zombie. During the scuffle he must have shot it in the head, and then as he bled out he must have killed himself so he wouldn’t turn.”
Michelle and I looked at each other for a long minute. Searching her eyes, I could see a lot of what she saw in mine as well. A sense of satisfaction and relief mixed with disgust.
Michelle turned away.
“I didn’t find anything,” she said, “those guys must have taken everything worthwhile. Let’s get out of here. I want to go home.”
I turned away, and on impulse looked into the cab of the truck. Besides empty beer cans littering the floor along with
empty cigarette packs, the only thing usable was a roll of duct tape—which I decided to leave. There were blood smears on it.
We headed home for a quiet night. Seeing that guy, seeing his tattoo—it rattled us both.
We decided to leave both bodies where they were. That sick bastard didn’t even deserve a zombie burial. Let the rats eat him.
February 4th
We finally finished hauling away all the bodies. There were no major problems, although we were both glad to be done with it. We dumped them in the basement of one of the burned-out houses.
Every day after we hauled we were compelled to take a shower (I was equally compelled to shower with her). Handling the zombies also had an effect on my appetite. Usually, hard physical labor will make me hungry, but when it comes to hauling half-rotten bodies . . . well, let’s just say I won’t be eating any canned meat for a while. Michelle, however, seemed fine. If anything, she seems to be eating more. The nurses training she had must have eliminated her squeamishness.
She continues to act a little strange around me. And she’s moody. I know a lot of women have PMS, but I’ve never noticed it in her before. A couple of times I caught her crying, and when I asked what was wrong, she said “Everything.” I wondered if it meant she wasn’t happy with me, but an hour later she was dragging me to the bedroom, desperate to get a taste of Big Kevin. I don’t get it. Was she mourning her friends and family who are gone? Mourning the loss of our world? Or, hell, was she upset because she’s gained a few pounds? I haven’t said anything about her weight—I’m not a complete idiot all the time.
A few times I noticed her staring at me. Not in a loving or lustful way—hell, I like those stares—but in a way that made me uneasy. What’s she thinking?
PMS. Geez, what a number it does on women! I’ve known women who had it so bad, I didn’t dare go near them. What’s the difference between a zombie and a woman with PMS? You’re allowed to shoot the zombie.
I wonder why Michelle is getting it so bad now? Is it the environment, the lack of sunlight? Seasonal Affective Disorder? Some missing vitamin or nutrient? Is there something in the air? Or is it just the level of stress we’re under?
When she looks at her ring, she’s usually smiling, although once I caught her crying. I asked her again what was wrong, and this time she said, “My ring is so pretty and I’m so happy to be with you.” Seems an odd thing to cry about, but I never claimed to understand women. My not being able to understand her merely confirms that she is, indeed, a woman.
She had another talk with the doctor tonight. Maybe she’s having plumbing problems. Women are usually reluctant to talk about that stuff with their man, and men are usually reluctant to hear it anyhow. I can’t imagine what else it could be, unless I’ve turned into a zombie but am unaware of it. I’m not craving her thigh, as far as I know, only what’s between her thighs.
A good ribeye, on the other hand . . . that, I’m craving. Damn, I miss Knight’s. I still remember how it smelled when you walked through the door on a cold winter day—grilled steak mainly, but undertones of alcohol, baked bread and fried food. My mouth’s watering just thinking about it.
And the way the plate smelled when the server first put it down in front of me, the seared steak still slightly sizzling as the juices began to pool on the plate near the melted butter from the baked potato. Drops of condensation beginning to form on the pint glass of Founder’s.
Sigh. I need to stop with the food porn.
February 7th
Yesterday was kind of odd, not having to haul bodies like we’ve been doing nearly every day for weeks. It was nice to just putter around the house. We actually watched a movie, too. Between scavenging, hauling bodies, taking care of the plants, cooking and cleaning up, we haven’t had as much leisure time lately.
Michelle used the down time to jump my bones a couple of times. I think her PMS has affected her libido, as she seems to want it more than ever. Not that I’m complaining. But I’ll be glad when she finally has her period and gets over her PMS! When she’s not horny, she’s moody. She’s like a pendulum, swinging from emotion to emotion. I never know what to expect.
Never trust women. I should get it tattooed on my forehead. Or chest. Or maybe a lower body part.
So today started out great. We’d had a nice day. Nothing unusual, unless you consider being in love, barricaded in a basement surrounded by zombies and growing plants under lights unusual. We’d had a nice dinner, I had some beer I’d cooled in the root cellar, Michelle had a glass or two of wine.
She didn’t know it, but I also took one of the Cialis pills. Just to see.
I was sitting on the sofa when she came and sat next to me. I put my arm around her, and she leaned over and kissed me. I kissed her back, one thing led to another, and before too long we were lying naked on the bed. She stroked me until I was hard, then said, “I’ll be right back.”
“Where are you going?” I asked.
“To get some lube.” she replied. Lube? Since when did she need lube?
She disappeared for a minute and came back with a bottle of lube. I noticed she had latex gloves on.
“Why the gloves?” I asked as she lay back down and poured some lube onto her hands.
“Sometimes I react to the glycerin,” she said, then reached over and started stroking me again. It felt very nice. “Besides, it’s kind of kinky.”
That sounds interesting. I’ve never been into latex, but it might be a novel experience, I thought. Little did I know.
She asked me, “Hon, what’s that Klingon Proverb they used in one of the Star Trek movies? Something about revenge?”
“’Revenge is a dish best served cold.’ It was in the second Star Trek movie, The Wrath of Khan. Why are you asking?”
“I don’t know, it just popped into my head. I don’t think I agree. I think revenge is a dish best served hot.”
“Is that right?” I asked. It was hard to concentrate on what she was saying, as her hands (both of them) felt so great stroking me. I don’t think she’d ever given me a hand job before, and I liked it! Her hands felt so warm and slippery. The latex added an interesting texture. I was wondering if the lube she used was some of the warming lube, because it started really warming up and feeling nice. But within thirty seconds, it was warmer than any warming lube I ever used. And being alone for ten years, I had plenty of time on my hands (so to speak) to try different kinds.
“What kind of lube is that?” I asked. It was starting to get a little too warm. “Is it some kind of warming lube? I might be having a reaction to it.”
“No, it’s just regular lube. Speaking of warming though, remember when you sliced my lettuce with the same knife you sliced hot peppers with? Wasn’t that funny?!”
“Sure, I thought it was funny.”
The lube was starting to get too hot.
“Well, before I came back, I cut open a hot pepper and rubbed a little on my hands.”
By now the heat was definitely on the uncomfortable side. It wasn’t horrible, but it sure wasn’t pleasant. I jumped out of bed and started fanning my penis as it bobbed up and down like a hyperactive kid on a pogo stick.
Now mind you, it wasn’t excruciating. But when I realized she was seeking revenge, I decided to overreact. Then perhaps her need for retribution would be satisfied.
“Ow! This hurts! I can’t believe you did this!!” Fanning didn’t seem to help. I ran into the bathroom and turned on the shower, no hot water, just cold, and jumped in. I gasped as the water hit me. Michigan water in February is very cold.
I grabbed the soap and started washing myself—I knew my only hope was to wash off the capsaicin. The cold water helped, but I couldn’t tell if the soap was doing any good.
I could hear Michelle, the snake, laughing in the bedroom. “You’re a horrible person! You’re not getting any for a month!!” I yelled, hoping she couldn’t hear my smile. I kept washing with soap, rinsing, washing with soap. Lather. Rinse. Repeat. Michelle’s laugh
ter disappeared for a minute, then she rushed in carrying a big handful of snow.
Trying to look apologetic (but her grin was counterproductive), she said, “Here, maybe this will help.” She packed the snow around my erection, which cooled the burning just a tad.
“That’s better! Get more snow!!” I cried. “No, forget it!” I jumped out of the shower without drying off, dashed through the living room and up the stairs, then straight out the door and into the snow. Michelle followed me.
I think under most circumstances, I would have gone flaccid by now, but the Cialis seemed to be living up to its reputation. Sticking straight out, as I ran into the yard it wagged around like a dog’s tail, except this dog was not happy.
With the moon shining bright, I turned around, dropped to my knees and started shoveling snow onto my crotch. Even in the dim light, I could see how red I was. Michelle was laughing so hard she couldn’t even stand up. She fell back against the wall of the house. Pointing at my woodie, she gasped “You have a cherry dicksickle,” and collapsed in laughter.
I, however, was doing a good job of not laughing. The look of my fully-engorged bright pink cock in the pure white snow under the blue light of the moon was perhaps the most surreal thing I’ve ever seen.
Had there been zombies close by, my penis and testicles would have made a spicy meal for them. Spicy Kevin nuggets.
I continued shoveling snow onto my crotch until the burn subsided a bit. I assume my body released endorphins in response to the pain. The rest of my body was freezing—literally. It’s not a good idea to go straight from the shower into the winter air in Michigan.
I finally stood up. Michelle was still grinning like the Cheshire cat. I threw a snowball and hit her right in the forehead. She just started laughing again.
“Snowballs,” she gasped, “you have snowballs!!” and she fell down again, laughing. I marched past her and locked the door behind me. She started pounding on the door.
“Kevin, let me in! I’m cold! There are zombies out here! And coyotes! And women selling Amway!” I ignored her and marched straight downstairs.
Love in the Age of Zombies (Book 1): My Zombie Honeymoon Page 26