Sex in the Time of Zombies

by William Todd Rose

  Sex in the Time of Zombies

  William Todd Rose

  Comprised of seven short stories set during varying points of an undead apocalypse, this collection explores the roles sex and sexuality may play in determing survival in this nightmare landscape. Stories include Dance With the Dead, Night of the Living Furries, Tender is the Nightmare, Tiffany Shepis & the Fanboy of the Apocalypse, Hips, and Skinning the Freshy. Sex… Zombies… Let the infection begin.

  Even in a world filled with the living dead, sex exists. A stripper hell-bent on survival faces off against the living dead in a no-holds barred dance of death. A lone soldier, separated from his unit, finds that the ghosts of his past may very well be more dangerous than a hotel overrun with zombified furries. A boy faces his inner demons, ready to do anything to be accepted by his peers. A woman, captured by slavers, finds out there are worse horrors than the walking dead. From the first day of the undead apocalypse to points far in the future, this book explores the roles sex and sexuality play in determining survival. Sex… zombies… love. The line between them is not as clear as you might think. Let the infection begin.

  SEX IN THE TIME OF ZOMBIES

  A Collection of Short Fiction

  by William Todd Rose

  Acknowledgments

  Special thanks to Ms Tiffany Shepis for being so cool with her small part in this collection; and, as always to my oldest and truest fan, #1 editor, and wife, Farrell; without her support and encouragement, this book would not have been possible and she truly is the wind beneath my wings

  INTRODUCTION:

  If you downloaded this book expecting lurid tales teeming with pornographic descriptions of unspeakable acts, then I’m afraid you’re reading the wrong collection. Certainly there are events within these stories that some may find shocking or disturbing. Portions of it may even be considered erotic. But the focus in all of these stories isn’t so much the physical act of sex; rather it’s the idea of sex and sexuality as a common thread linking together disparate characters across the timeline of an undead apocalypse. Sex as motivation, sex as a weapon, sex as a way of asserting your humanity in a world of the dead: these are the types of things that interest me.

  I’ve always been intrigued with the psychological and sociological ramifications of a single, shared event… in this case, the collapse of civilization as we know it. How individual people cope and deal with this collective tragedy would undoubtedly be as varied as the personalities involved.

  And, for me, that is the true root of my obsession with the alternate reality of the walking dead I’ve created. In my novel, The Dead & Dying, I set up the basic rules: zombies are referred to as alternately freshies or rotters (depending on the degree of decomposition), you don’t necessarily have to be bit to come back, and son on. In Sex in The Time of Zombies, I’ve went a little further and explored a specific, universal theme and various perspectives on it. As such, these are not so much stories about zombies as they are about the people who now must struggle for survival in a world they no longer control. But don’t get me wrong: the undead are the glue which binds this particular world together and their presence certainly factors into the equation.

  While it is true that these stories could be read in random order and still have them stand on their own merits, I highly recommend reading them sequentially. They are laid out, more or less, chronologically and take us from the very first day of the outbreak to points that are years in the future. Regardless of how you read them, I hope that you’ll enjoy them as much as I did creating them. And who knows? Maybe, somewhere within these pages, you’ll catch a little glimpse of yourself….

  Warmest regards,

  William Todd Rose

  Dance with the Dead

  It’s three thirty-six on a Wednesday afternoon; but time really doesn’t apply in the Jaybird Lounge. Windowless and dim, with only ambient light coming from the GOBOs and strobes hidden overhead, it could be any point between opening and last call. The entire joint smells of old beer and stale cigarettes. The Health Department actually banned indoor smoking nearly two years ago but the scent has seeped into the scuffed wood of the bar and the threadbare carpet. It lingers like a ghost that refuses to move on to the next life, haunting patrons who want nothing more than a few quick puffs with their Jager bomb.

  Hidden in the shadows of the far corner, Jimmy Z sits atop a riser and cues up the next song. I see him for a moment in the soft glow of his DJ rig: horn rimmed glasses, shaven head glistening softly as he presses the headphones against one ear. He fiddles with the soundboard and then disappears back into the darkness, fading like the remnants of a dream.

  The end result of his adjustments fill the Jaybird with electronic rhythms that seem to flow from one side of the room to the other before melting into the air like sugar on an absinthe spoon. What very well could be the voice of God booms out Cowgirl’s do it bareback and echoes into infinity before being overpowered by the steady thud of a kick drum. Jimmy’s got the bass pumped up and I can feel the drum pounding in my chest, thudding away as if it were actually hidden somewhere behind my heart and lungs.

  And that’s me, Rikki Wildride, up there on the stage. Yes, the one with with white, cheeky shorts laced up the front and the red fringed bikini top that barely covers my glitter-dusted breasts. I’ve teased my red hair until I look like some refugee from an 80s pop video and that stupid white cowboy hat keeps trying to slide off my head like it’s got some sort of clinical aversion to Aqua-Net. At least, though, the holsters are staying in place when I swing my hips. Which is more than I can say for yesterday.

  This is actually my least favorite number and I’m not really sure why. Maybe its got something to do with the damn stiletto heels on those boots. Or it could be that the Old West simply isn’t my thing. I’ve always been more into the sci-fi and horror scenes; in fact I’ll be breaking out the Gothic Lolita routine later on in the evening, after the Jaybird has been packed with horny business types on their way home from work. Now that’s a bit I can really get into.

  And, coincidentally, it’s also the one which usually brings in the majority of my tips for the night.

  For now, though, I’m not really working it. There’s only a few customers this early in the day and I’m just going through the motions while my mind wanders.

  I’m wondering what had been going down outside this afternoon. The drive to work had been crazy, all sirens and flashing lights while every type of emergency vehicle imaginable sped by. I could see a dark cloud of smoke billowing up in the distance, probably down around the mall, and a stream of helicopters flew toward it, low and fast. Must’ve been something major going down out there to rate that kind of response. Terrorist shit, maybe. But I wouldn’t know because some dickwad smashed out my window three days back and boosted a stereo that couldn’t be worth more than twenty bucks, tops. Bunch of savages in this town….

  Chester pulls me out of my thoughts as he presses up against the edge of the stage with one end of a dollar clamped between his teeth. I swing my hips back and forth as I lower down into a kind of wide-stance crouch right in front of him; leaning forward, I take the other end of the bill in my teeth and give the twins a little jiggle. Chester’s a regular and seems to be an okay guy for the most part: he tips often, never gets grabby or causes any trouble. Hell, my top’s not even off yet and he’s already started letting the cash flow so he’s fine by me.

  Oh yeah, and that skanky slut behind him? The one who sank money into boobs when she shoulda been thinking orthodontia? That’s Bambi. She’s the type that gives the rest of us girls a bad rap. If you’ve got the cash and want one of her private dances in the backseat of her Pinto, well that can be arranged. In th
e mood for a little hand massage beneath the table? Yeah, she’ll do that too. Fact is, there’s not a whole helluva lot that bitch won’t do. If Hollister knew about it, she’d be out on her ass in the amount of time it takes to chip a nail. But there’s a lot that goes down the boss-lady doesn’t know about.

  Right now for example. See how that whore’s sidled up to the table with the guy passed out on it? I saw that dude come in when I was just starting my shift. Totally trippin’ balls on some pretty serious shit by the look of it. His face looked like all the color had been drained out of it and even though his hair was literally streaming sweat down his forehead, he had his jacket buttoned all the way up. Came stumbling in and holding his gut like maybe he had the cramps real bad, ordered a beer, and collapsed into that chair there. And he’s been slumped over the tabletop ever since, wallet right out in the open while his drink gets warm. But Bambi, she’s acting like she’s actually chatting him up, tossing her hair over her shoulder and laughing like he just told one of the jokes we’ve all heard a million times. The show has to be for Chester because the only witnesses are me, Jimmy Z, and Wilson who’s pulling triple duty as bartender, bouncer, and doorman. And we all know exactly what she’s up to.

  See there? How she slid that wallet off the table as easily as she slips out of a halter top? If the dude wasn’t so strung out, I’d almost feel sorry for the poor son of a bitch. But maybe Bambi’s not as slick as she thinks she is; looks like he’s starting to stir, almost as if there were some sort of psychic burglar alarm on that tattered fold of leather. She’s scramblin’ now, fishing twenty’s out of the wallet and dropping it back to the table in one smooth movement. But junkie boy there, he’s so whacked out of his gourd I don’t think he even realized where he’s at. Much less that some piece of white trash just nicked the payment for his next fix: his eyes have this dull, sunken look to them and if I thought he was pale when he came in it’s nothin’ next to how he looks now. Shit, dude’s so far gone you can see the veins just under his skin, like little blue roadmaps.

  Bambi, she just keeps tryin’ to play out cool.

  “Shit, sugar, I sure as hell would love a drink. As long as it’s a’coming from a good lookin’ stud like you.”

  God, I hate that stupid little cum rag. That little southern twang to her voice? As fake as those tits. And everything else about her for that matter.

  Bambi calls out to Wilson for two shots of tequila and to make hers a light. Which is actually code. Her and Wilson have a deal worked out, see; when Hollister’s not around and Bambi orders a light, he’ll basically just fill her shot glass with water. Well, he’s bringing over the drinks now so just watch how this goes down.

  See how Wilson makes sure Bambi gets her drink first? Wouldn’t do to have a customer get the water shot. He puts the salt shaker and the little dish of lemon wedges on the table, takes the money, and heads back to the bar. They’ll split the night’s light tequila take in the parking lot later; but for now, Bambi shakes a little salt onto the fleshy part of her hand, licks it off, throws back the water, and immediately suckles that little sliver of lemon. Lick it, slam it, suck it. The story of her life. But the smell of the lemon, it keeps the mark from noticing there’s no alcohol on her breath if he gets that close.

  The music’s been blarin’ through the amps this entire time and I thought I was just kinda watchin’ all this while I teased my way to the point where the clothes start comin’ off. But maybe my dance has lost a bit of its oomph; or perhaps I just can’t hide the complete and utter disgust I feel for that revolting little tramp. Whatever the cause, Chester starts to turn around so he can see whatever the hell it is I’m lookin’ at and Bambi shoots me one of those back-off-bitch stares that she’s famous for. The expression, though, is as fleeting as sobriety on Two-For-One Tuesdays. By the time he’s facing them, Bambi’s all sugar and spice again.

  Junkie boy looks like he’s starting to come out of whatever drug-induced haze he’s been floating in. Like he’s just now startin’ to realize that ain’t a tuna fish sandwich he smells in the air.

  Bambi puts more salt on her hand and holds a lemon wedge with the other.

  “Hey, darlin’, why dont’cha let Bambi give you a hand with that drink of yours.”

  Dude makes no move toward the shot glass, but Bambi’s launched into a full production now that she’s got an audience. She shakes her ass a little and leans forward so that her boobs practically defy gravity by staying in her top. She reaches the salted hand forward.

  “It’s okay, sugar… go ahead and give little ’ole Bambi a lick.”

  I don’t know why but the little hairs on the back of my neck start to bristle and my stomach feels like its turned into a petrified walnut. I realize that the cowgirl song is still blasting with its incessant techno beat… but my dancing slows to the point that that I probably look more like a mental patient than anything even remotely exotic.

  I find myself wishing that the six-shooters slung around my hips fired more than just blanks. But, again, I don’t know why. All I know is that something is wrong. But I can’t quite put my finger on what.

  Junkie boy turns his head slightly and looks at the salted hand being offered to him.

  There’s something familiar in his eyes. Something that reminds me of the way the pervs stare at my tits when they talk to me. As if I were nothing more than just a piece of meat.

  Everything happens in a blur. The table overturning as junkie boy bolts out of his chair, grabs Bambi’s wrist, and yanks her to him. It looks like he’s trying to give her a hickey right where the pile of salt was, but Bambi is screaming, her voice shrill and piercing. Her face is a mask of pain and she tries to pull away, but he’s got her wrist tight and she’s pounding at his face with her free hand. Now I see the blood starting to ooze across her skin and notice that it’s also on junkie boy’s lips and chin and the full realization hits me: he’s biting her. Chewing on her hand, ripping through the flesh and muscle with his teeth….

  I stand up there on the stage and the music sounds so muffled and distant now, as if I were hearing it through a concrete wall five feet thick. For a moment everything seems to swim in and out of focus and I start to wobble on these damn stiletto heels. I can feel my heart fluttering and the air I’m breathing seems too warm, too thin…. I grab onto the silver pole, the one closest to the front of the stage, to brace myself. Part of my mind is yelling do something, do something! but I can only stand and watch, transfixed by the way Bambi’s blood glistens in the strobes.

  Wilson, however, is running across the floor but to me it seems as if he’s moving in slow motion. He’s got a Louisville Slugger and he’s choked up on the grip nice and low, same way my Dad taught me to do it. Gritting his teeth together he swings and the bat whacks into cannibal boy’s spine but that mother fucker just keeps right on going. He’s tearing chunks of flesh away now and Bambi’s still struggling and screaming, lines of dark mascara and tears running down her cheeks.

  Wilson swings again, this time hittin’ right around the left kidney. Cannibal boy whirls around, his clenched teeth pulling a long ribbon of muscle from Bambi’s hand as she stumbles backwards. Before Wilson can even ready the bat again, freak show launches himself at the bartender and tackles him to the floor. This time he goes straight for the kill like some kind of fuckin’ jungle cat, biting and gnashing at Wilson’s neck as this spray of blood arcs out and splatters against the fucker’s face.

  Everything is thrown back into sharp focus again and it’s almost a physical feeling, like being in a speeding car that suddenly slams on the brakes. Chester’s huddled in a corner and he’s yelling at his cell phone, his voice barely audible over the unn-tiss-unn-tiss-unn-tiss beat of the music; Bambi’s scrambling backward on the floor, clutching her injured hand to her chest and leaving bloody smears across her cleavage.

  Wilson has stopped kicking and twitching and seems to hold little interest for cannibal boy now that’s he’s perfectly still.

  Dea
d. Wilson is dead.

  At some point during the struggle, Wilson had ripped the buttons off that fucker’s jacket and when cannibal boy turns to face the stage I see a shredded white t-shirt crusted with blood. Bulging out of the rips in the fabric is something pink, something that almost looks like linked sausage, and I realize he wasn’t cramping when he first staggered into the bar. He was trying to hold his own guts in. Now, however, that doesn’t seem to be much of a priority. They slide out of his wound and plop to the floor as a stench like a combination of rotting food and warm shit overpowers the usual scent of the bar.

  The drums have stopped and there’s this long, slow note that seems to slide down into my very soul.

  No one could live through that….

  We stare at each other for a moment and there’s a pause in the music, just long enough for a heavily reverbed sample of the hawk-like flute from those Clint Eastwood westerns to echo through the club You’ve gotta be freakin’ kidding me.

  Snare drums, synthesizers, and bass all kick into overdrive and this is the part where my top would normally be flung off in perfect sync with the explosion of music, revealing the twins in all their perky glory. Instead, I’ve got this fucking dead guy runnin’ full blast toward me, blood streaking his face while his guts trail along behind him like he’s some dog that’s pulled free from its lead.

  He clamors up the side of the stage and my heart is pounding twice as fast as the music, which is rapidly building toward a crescendo; this weird taste floods my mouth, like I’ve just stuck the tip of my tongue to a battery or something, and my field of vision narrows to the point where all I can see is this blood drenched thing scrambling across the stage with outstretched arms.