Sex in the Time of Zombies

by William Todd Rose

Without thinking, I grab onto the pole tightly with both hands, take a few steps backward, and then throw my body forward as I lift my legs. The world is a blur as I whip around the pole; I’ve pulled my knees up almost to my chest and allow centrifugal force to swing me back around again.

  The fucker is so close that for a fraction of a second I can see thin lines of blood outlining the contours of his teeth and smell the salty, metallic scent of the gore that covers him… But then I’m kicking out with my feet and there’s a jolt that travels up my legs and jars my hips; the stiletto heel of my right boot has plunged deep into the freak’s eye and thick, dark blood oozes out of the socket.

  For what seems to be an eternity, I’m suspended there between that son of a bitch and the pole, a bridge of barely covered flesh connecting the two. He’s twitchin’ like my nephew Sonny having a seizure, but his hands hang limply at his sides. I flex my legs and, using the pole for leverage, kick forward again.

  It feels like I’ve just sank my heel into thick mud but this seems to do the trick. Junkie-cannibal boy goes entirely limp.

  Only he’s not a junkie. He’s not a cannibal, either. Not really.

  I’ve seen enough movies to know exactly what he is… or, rather, what he was. But I just can’t seem to bring myself to think the actual word because, despite everything that’s just happened, just thinking about it makes me feel like a foolish little schoolgirl.

  The weight of his body snaps the heel off my boot and he and I both fall to the stage at the same time. I can hear Bambi crying and Chester is shouting something about how you shouldn’t get a fuckin’ busy signal when you dial 911.

  I kick boots off and think about Wilson. About Bambi. If the things I’ve seen in the movies are accurate, it’s gonna get a lot worse in here. And soon.

  Kitty and Towanda have burst through the curtain of the dressing room and they’re heading toward the door, their bouncing boobs heaving with panicked breaths.

  Jimmy Z has shimmied down from the riser and he’s making time toward the exit as well. Without him to cue up the next song, the Jaybird is strangely silent with only the sounds of suffering to fill the void.

  He and the girls all get the door at the same time. Just as they’re about to push their way through, it bursts open and this chick with skin that looks like crispy bacon throws herself at Kitty.

  Wilson’s fingers have started to wiggle but that’s all I see because I’m heading toward the back of the club as fast as my legs can carry me. No way I’m stickin’ around for this bloodbath. Consider it my resignation.

  I bust into Hollister’s office and am getting ready to throw open the door that leads into the smoking area behind the club when I stop. Hanging above her desk, she’s got this homemade plaque with the words Employee Conflict Resolution carved into the wood. Two metal brackets stick out from either side of the plaque and, resting upon them, is a shiny silver machete.

  I remove the weapon from its cradle and run the tip of my thumb lightly along the blade. Sharp. I knew it would be.

  The grip feels almost like sandpaper but not quite as rough. Which is good. I imagine blood would make it hard to hang onto something that wasn’t textured.

  I throw open the door and sunlight floods into the office. For a few minutes everything is washed out in a blinding glare of light that rams needles of pain into my eyes. I blink rapidly and shade my face with my forearm until the bluish flash-bursts of light stop exploding in my field of vision like fireworks.

  I step into the alley. Barefoot and wearing this ridiculous cowgirl stripper outfit, I take a deep breath. The air smells of smoke and gasoline; screams echo off the buildings and mock those who try in vain to scramble for safety; sirens wail like banshees and I feel an explosion rumble the concrete beneath my feet.

  At the head of the alley, this thing steps into view. It’s missing one arm and pieces of broken glass jut out of its face, glimmering in the sunlight like fairy dust.

  It sees me and breaks into a run.

  I hoist my weapon to shoulder level and stare directly at the thing’s head. It takes a lot of upper body strength and tone to work the pole; I’m pretty sure I can cleave the skull and dig the blade into its brain in one try.

  It’s halfway through the alley now and I adjust the brim of my hat to help keep the sun out of my eyes. The weight of the machete feels reassuring in my hand and I take a long, slow breath.

  You wanna tango, mother fucker?

  Let’s do it.

  I’m Rikki Wildride… and if there’s one thing I can do, it’s dance.

  Night of the Living Furries

  Three weeks earlier everything had changed. The day before it happened had been just like any other: people woke up just long enough to slap the snooze button on the torture device known as an alarm clock, slept for fifteen more minutes, and then poured bitter coffee down their gullets as they cursed at roadwork; they parked in garages, at meters, in lots that charged monthly for the little tag of plastic that gave them the right to occupy their slot number without being towed. They pecked at keyboards, answered phones, flipped burgers, and pounded nails into the frames of houses that would never be completed. Some were born, some died, some hid themselves in the shadows of bars, trying so desperately to find what could have been somewhere within the suds of their brew. None of them knew that by the time the sun mustered the strength to rise again, it would do so on a different world.

  The change began in hospitals and at the scenes of accidents. Murder-suicides, wrinkled old men and women who’d closed their eyes the night before and slipped into that fabled better place as clocks ticked toward Armageddon: these were the foot soldiers of the apocalypse, the harbingers of a new era where Death no longer held sway in his skeletal palace.

  In times to come, there would be many theories. Speculation would run as rampant as the packs of dogs who, without masters, prowled city streets in search of carrion. Some claimed it was some sort of cosmic radiation that had erupted from the sun; others said it was a virus, bio-engineered in terrorist labs and set loose upon the world before its fathers had a true understanding of the jihad they were unleashing. And, of course, there were those who saw the blight as Divine retribution: it was a pestilence that made the ten plagues of Egypt look like a mere practice round, the punishment of an angry God upon the wicked masses.

  In truth, however, no one really knew for sure. The only thing that was for certain was that the dead were not staying that way. They were rising up and were utterly stripped of whatever tiny spark had previously made them human. No expression, no sound passing through lungs that no longer billowed with air, no apparent sense of right and wrong, or even the most rudimentary of critical thinking skills. They were creatures of instinct, slaves to the twin masters of consequence and reaction. They heard a sound and they pursued it; they saw movement and they were drawn to it like ants to a picnic.

  And, in those initial days, they were fast. They had run and leaped and pounced, had swarmed through the cities and towns of the Earth like a wave of destruction. The sick, the very young, the old, and crippled: these were the first to be cut from the fold, to be taken down like gazelle on the dusty plains of Africa. Bitten and clawed, their flesh was rendered from bone and organs blossomed from stomachs like the contents of a twice-baked potato. And they, too, rose. They too walked and hunted and added to the legion of corpses that had been turned loose upon the land.

  Eventually, the muscles and connective tissues would fall prey to the forces of entropy. These swift predators would find themselves moving a little more slowly, would stumble and stagger as they stalked those still alive; but, by then, their strength no longer lay in blitzkrieg attacks that caused the sidewalks to glisten with blood in the afternoon sun. By the time the stench of rot surrounded them like a putrid aura, their greatest ally had become their sheer numbers. They would close in around their victims, slowly tightening the circle until it was no longer possible to burst through their ranks like someone whose name had
been called in a macabre game of Red Rover. Isolate, engulf, and overcome was the new strategy and, as a result, the refugees of a ruined world found themselves spending more and more time hiding; venturing out only when the pangs of hunger could no longer be tricked by sucking on small pebbles or snatching insects from the rubble, the human race had slowed to a crawl. As silent as the dead who hunted them, they crouched and trembled, dreaming of some miracle that would descend from the heavens and deliver them from this nightmarish new reality.

  Corporal J.T. Washington, however, was not one to sit idly by and simply wait for things to happen. During his seven year career in the former U.S. Army, he’d garnered a reputation among his peers as being somewhat impulsive. No one would have went as far as calling him reckless; however it was a well known fact that patience was not ranked high on his list of virtues. What others failed to realize, though, was that what seemed to be nothing more than spur of the moment decisions were actually well thought out plans. Even as a child, he’d had a gift for recognizing the consequences of cause and effect. It was almost as if all the conceivable outcomes for a suggested course of action played out in his mind simultaneously. In the amount of time it took to blink twice, he’d instinctively considered and computed every variable until the undertaking with the highest probability of success stood out among all the others. This talent had led him to capture the presidency of the chess club despite the fact that he was only a freshman; it had guided him through maneuvers both in the field and in training. And, now, it was responsible for keeping his ass alive in an undead world.

  He knew for example, that he needed to get off the streets. And quick. Even though he slipped through the shadows with the stealth of a trained killer, the world had become as silent as a tomb. The slightest rustle could draw unwanted attention as effectively as a shout and the light of the full moon only complicated matters further. It caused the buildings of the city to be silhouetted against the sky like a series of black monoliths and cast pools of shadow on the land below; but, at the same time, crossing streets would put him right out in the open. Bathed in moonlight, he would be as clearly visible as if the lamps lining either side of the sidewalks were still functioning. No, in this situation, traveling by daylight would be better; plus, his body and mind were beginning to show the first signs of fatigue. It had been close to thirty-six hours since he’d been able to capture more than a few minutes of sleep at a time. His muscles were rubbery and sore and his thoughts had the feeling of existing somewhere deep within the recesses of his brain; they seemed to bleed out slowly from fissures cracked open by weariness and struggled for substance and rationality. At this rate, it would only be a matter of time before he made a stupid mistake: kicking a tin can that he should have clearly seen, knocking over a pile of rubble, or even simply yawning a little too loudly.

  Currently, he was crouched behind an overturned dumpster at the mouth of an alley. His eyes scanned the street for signs of movement, but this sector — for the time being — seemed clear. He had no doubt that the undead were near… it seemed as if they always were; but if he was going to get moving, now would be the time.

  Across the four lane was a tall building that had the look of an upscale hotel or highrise apartment complex. The side of the building was lined with these little wrought iron balconies and he could just make out the fluttering of curtains where the sliding doors behind some of them had either been left open or broken out. The building looked to be between twenty to thirty stories, but his gaze focused on the second floor: it was still close enough to the ground that he could leap from a window to the street in the event that he found himself flanked by a battalion of staggering corpses. Any higher and he’d run the risk of breaking a leg or twisting an ankle as his body absorbed the shock of the concrete below. Furthermore, he should be able to find a room facing the east so that the rising sun would stream through the window and awaken him once the sun had decided to grace the world with its presence again.

  “Alright, Washington, deploy. Move, move, move!”

  The gruff voice that rattled through his memory belonged to Sargent Wilcox and for a moment an image of the man appeared like a ghost in the street: fatigues spattered with blood, his round jaw slack, and his skin paler than the moon overhead; where his throat had once been was now only a jagged hole with ribbons of flesh that flapped softly like banners in the breeze.

  Forcing the specter back into the brig of imagination, Julius abandoned his cover. He moved across the street in a half-crouch with the textured grip of his Desert Eagle clutched firmly in his right hand while his left braced his wrist. Every movement was carefully calculated as he zigzagged between wrecked cars and the bodies of fallen zombies that had been left to rot on the streets; his eyes swept the perimeter like sentry cameras, panning and tilting as every detail was captured in brief glances.

  Within seconds, he’d crossed the road and was standing before what used to be a large, plate glass window. Now, however, it was nothing more than a gaping hole in the side of the building with only the sparkle of little nuggets of glass on the sidewalk to prove that it had ever been anything different. His combat boots crunched through the remnants of the window as he eased his way through the opening, taking care that none of the tooth-like shards still remaining in the sill had an opportunity to bite him.

  It was much darker inside the building than it had been on the streets and he took a moment to give his eyes time to adjust to the gloom. The floor of the lobby was polished marble and reflected the columns lining the room, giving the impression that the Greco-Roman features simply descended into a lower floor that was a mirror image of this one. He could make out a long wooden desk directly across from him with reams of paper scattered about; to his left was what appeared to be a restaurant of sorts with tables and chairs toppled in the darkness. A coffee shop, wide stairs curling up to the second level, a bank of elevators to the right… bodies littered about the floor like discarded rag dolls in pools of blood that had dried black.

  If he thought it had been quiet outside, it was nothing compared to the interior of the hotel. Here the silence was so complete that he heard a high-pitched ring in his ears and his own, controlled breathing sounded like the pneumatics of some machine hidden within the bluish walls.

  Once he was confident that he was alone in the lobby, Washington crossed the expanse and worked his way behind the front desk. Luckily, this was an old-school hotel: the keys to the rooms hung on little pegs behind the desk with brown, leather fobs embossed with gold numbers. If the establishment had bowed to the trends of technology, there would’ve been nothing more than encoded cards to swipe through the readers attached to the rooms. Utterly useless in a world where electricity had gone the way of the dodo and dinosaurs.

  He plucked one down that had the number 207B imprinted on the tag and was making his way toward the stairs when a set of double doors that he’d previously overlooked captured his attention. Above the doors was a wooden plaque with intricate scrollwork depicting flora and fauna; carved into this piece of wood in elegant script were the words McDonough Conference and Ball Room.

  The doors below were just as ornate as the sign. They were highly polished and carved with what appeared to be laurel leaves and vines with an occasional rosebud unfurling its petals. The handles were shiny brass and someone had thrust a long, slender pipe through them at some point, forming a crude but effective lock.

  Placing his ear against the cool wood, Washington could just make out muffled sounds from the other side. Not voices, but what sounded like furtive movements. A thud, something that sounded like papers shuffling, a shuffling sound that may or may not have been footsteps. Whoever had placed the pipe across the doors had obviously been locking something in. And it wasn’t hard to imagine what.

  Washington knew that he should just walk away. That he should leave the doors secured, find his room, and bed down for the night. Get some shut eye and try to regroup with another regiment in the morning.

/>   But another part of him wanted to know exactly what lay on the other side. Maybe it was some sort of morbid curiosity; perhaps exhaustion was beginning to take its toll on his lightning quick decision making abilities. Whatever the reason, this portion of his mind saw the room on the other side of the doors as a mystery that had to be investigated, a riddle in search of a solution.

  He glanced below the door handles, hoping to see a keyhole through which he could spy. No suck luck. Furthermore, the doors were nearly flush with the marble floor: no chance of peeking through there.

  Lying next to the door was a black marquee with white block letters spelling out URRY CONVENTION. Other letters were scattered about the floor like alphabetic shrapnel around a disk that looked somewhat like a shiny, silver landmine. So that was it then: the rod fortifying the doors had once been the support for this placard. But what kind of convention had the sign been announcing? Washington’s mind ticked off the possibilities: curry, hurry, blurry, scurry… none of them made any sense.

  Now, he was definitely intrigued. Besides, what if this wasn’t the only way out? What if the other side of the room had a doppelganger of these doors that weren’t barricaded as well? If he wanted to make it through this night alive, he would have to understand the enemies position… wouldn’t he? Wasn’t recognizance among a soldier’s most valued weapons? As Sun Tzu wrote, a hundred battles could be won without a single loss by knowing both yourself and your opponent.

  Washington holstered his weapon and took a slow breath through his nostrils. A quiver of apprehension caused the muscles in his stomach to tremor, but he pushed the fear aside as his hands gripped either side of the rod that barred the doors. He lifted it so slowly than a casual observer might have assumed it was wired to some sort of IED. Taking care that the metal didn’t scrape against the wood and brass of the doors, he began sliding the pipe free.

  Next he laid the rod against the floor so gingerly that there wasn’t so much as even the smallest clang. He paused and listened at the door again. This time all seemed quiet on the other side. If anything was rushing toward the door, it was doing so with a stealth that the undead simply didn’t possess.