Sex in the Time of Zombies

by William Todd Rose

  The sound was louder now, more insistent. And definitely coming from the other side of the door.

  “Shomeone there?”

  At the sound of his voice the sound grew louder, doubling in intensity. For some reason an image of Bowser came to mind: the dog was standing in the kitchen, scratching at the wall as he looked from the door to the family seated at the dinner table.

  Washington practically fell against the door and he pressed his palms flat against the cool wood as he leaned forward; with his left eye squinted, his head bobbed back and forth as he attempted to peer through the round peephole.

  “M… Molly?”

  Through his fish-eye view of the hallway, he could see a distorted, gray raccoon on the other side. It’s paws were sliding over the door and, as he watched, its furry little head lurched forward and thumped off the wood.

  “You’re… you’re not Molly. Nope, nope, nope.”

  For one, this raccoon had perfect ears. It’s eyes were glossy white with blue irises, not the scarred, black buttons of his little sister’s toy. Nor was it wearing a t-shirt.

  “And you’re big, too. Really, really big.”

  It all came back to him then: the convention hall with its parade of life-size animals, Leopard Woman in her sexy little leotard, the bottles of vodka, and his journey through memory.

  And then he heard his mother’s voice again, so clear that she could have been standing just over his shoulder.

  I’ll show you what VD does to your dirty worm….

  Washington pressed his face against the door and realized he was crying. The tears were hot and stung his eyes like needles and he wrapped his arms around his stomach, resting the weight of his body squarely on the side of his face.

  “I was just a little boy, you mean old bitch… I didn’t do anything wrong. You hear me? I didn’t do anything wrong!”

  Tears quickly gave way to a rage that exploded within him like a bombing run. His muscles trembled with years of pent-up frustration and he slammed his fist into the solid door.

  The sharp crack of knuckles against wood elicited a response from the other side. The raccoon pounded on the door as well, almost as if it were mocking the drunken man on the other side.

  “Fuck you, Mama. Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you!”

  Washington was breathing heavily through his nostrils and his fists were clenched so tightly that his fingernails dug little crescent moons into the palms of his hands.

  “I didn’t do anything wrong, bitch!”

  He’d show her. After all these years….

  He slid his boxers down his legs and stumbled out of them. Somehow, being naked in this hotel room made him feel invincible and powerful. He felt as if he could take on an entire platoon single handedly and he snapped to attention.

  “This is not a dirty worm… it’s a fucking penis. There are many like it, but this one is mine, damn it!”

  The muscles in his body quivered and jerked and his breathing was so heavy that it almost sounded as if he were wearing a gas mask.

  “You wanna see how dirty I can get, Mama? You wanna see all the nasty things I can do to Molly?”

  He turned the little lever and the door unlocked with a soft click. Flinging it open, he threw his head back and yelled at the ceiling.

  “And God still won’t hate me, you hear? God still won’t fucking hate me!”

  The giant raccoon heaved forward and suddenly its soft arms were wrapping around Washington, almost as if it were trying to comfort him with a hug. The fur tickled his naked flesh and sent little shivers tingling along his spine and scalp and a giggle bubbled up from somewhere.

  “It’s me and Molly now, Mama. Just me and Molly after all these fucking years.”

  Paws slid over his ribs again and again like Molly was petting him.

  “And you can’t stop us this time. Not this time.”

  The raccoon squirmed against his body, tangling its furry feet within his own, and suddenly Washington was falling. He thudded to the floor with the animal still clinging to him and looked at the ceiling as he stroked its back with one hand. So soft, so nice….

  “You watching, Mama? You getting a good long look?”

  Washington wedged his other hand between their bodies until he felt something springy and stiff within his own hand. He worked himself slowly and, as the plush fur rubbed against his sensitive skin, he closed his eyes. The raccoon was nuzzling his neck now, the nose hard and cold in sharp contrast to the rest of its body.

  “You want me, Molly?” he whispered with closed eyes. “You want me?”

  Everything seemed soft and distant and Washington’s head lolled to the side as waves of fatigue crashed over him. With his hand still cupped over his crotch, his breathing steadied slowly and, before he’d even had a chance for release, the gravity of alcohol pulled him back down into its darkness.

  He laid perfectly still as the giant animal continued to writhe over his naked body, its padded hands desperately attempting to scratch through his skin.

  Perhaps if he wouldn’t have downed that last bottle of Absolut, he would’ve noticed the round patch of mesh on the animal’s throat. Perhaps he would have seen the face floating like a specter in the darkness beyond, the unblinking eyes, and the spiderwebs of blue veins against its waxen flesh. Perhaps it would have made a difference….

  But, as it was, Washington simply laid on the floor, safely tucked within the confines of dreams as teeth began to pull and rip at the thin netting that separated it from the too-frail skin of his exposed neck.

  He slept and dreamed he was a boy again.

  He stood in his childhood bathroom with a cloth bag by his feet and calmly removed each clothespin from it one at a time.

  He broke each one in half as a raccoon with a chewed up ear watched from its perch on the toilet tank.

  “We’re free, Molly.” the little boy said. “We’re finally free.”

  Tender is the Nightmare

  The trailer had a musty aroma, as if water had soaked into the threadbare carpet at some point and infected the foam padding beneath with mildew. It wasn’t overpowering but was omnipresent none-the-less, a subtle reminder that the entire world was slowly edging toward decay while its inhabitants struggled in vain to prevent this from happening. Even the smell of hot wax couldn’t entirely cover it: the candles flickered and caused shadows to dance and jump across the faux-wood paneling, some of them scented slightly of lilac and sandalwood, others possessing only a scent that brought boxes of brightly colored crayons to mind. Most of the furniture in the room had been piled in front of the thin door and every so often a coffee table or bookshelf would change positions with a thump as the knob jiggled and the the cheap glass rattled in the rectangular windows; but, for the most part, the barricade seemed to be holding.

  For now at least.

  Neither of the two occupants had any delusions that the obstruction would last forever; they knew that the glow of their candles would be like a beacon in the night for any zombies within close range of the mobile home park. They would be drawn to the light like moths, attracted by the only source of illumination on a night as dark as the heart of Satan. They would swarm around the trailer, clamoring for a way in. They would break windows and cause the doors to creak on their hinges. And eventually they would find an opening. They would swarm through in a seemingly endless stream, would fill the living room with the stench of rotting flesh, and fall upon the couple: it was inevitable. The single wide already rocked slightly from all of the hands that currently pounded and scratched at its vinyl siding… it was only a matter of time.

  But, for the time being, none of that mattered. Luke lay on the couch cushions that had been arranged across the floor and watched as Carrie made her way toward him. In the soft candlelight, her skin looked smooth and radiant, the way he’d always imagined an angel would look. Blonde hair cascaded over her shoulders like strands of silken moonlight and hung over her small breasts, hiding her nipples behind its sheen
. Her blue eyes sparkled like the waters of Lake Norman on a cloudless day and her thin lips smiled as she handed him a tumbler half-full of dark liquid.

  “Afraid it’s a tad bit warm, darlin’.”

  Her voice was soft and gentle and seemed slightly out of place in the barrage of banging from outside.

  “Couldn’t find any wine glasses, neither so these’ll have to make do.”

  She squatted beside him and he found his attention drawn to the patch of curly hair between her legs. At the same time, he felt a stirring in his own nether regions and his face warmed with embarrassment; his stomach did a flip-flop, just as if he were riding Thunder Road at Carowinds, and the wine within the plastic cup seemed to vibrate as he took the tumbler into his trembling hands.

  Carrie had to have noticed but, to her credit, she simply placed her hand against his bare chest and stroked the nest of hair between his pecks. Her touch was light and warm and sent chill bumps tingling along his scalp and arms. Closing his eyes, Luke breathed in slowly as a smile crept across his own face.

  “To us…”

  He opened his eyes again to see Carrie holding her own tumbler aloft.

  “In this crazy, nightmare world everything’s been turned on end. The dead won’t stay that way. People would just as soon kill ya as say hello. Everyone we ever knew… everyone we ever cared about… are gone. But we still got each other. We still got this one night. We still got love. And those bastards out there won’t ever be able to take that from us.”

  The words were a typical Carrie speech; she’d always dreamed of being a poetess, had filled notebooks with scribbles of verse, stanzas of longing and remorse. As such, she tended to lean toward the melodramatic which (though Luke never would have dreamed of admitting to her) sometimes came across as a little corny. But there was something different about this toast: perhaps it was the way her voice quivered with emotion or how the little muscle in her neck seemed to tremble as she spoke.

  “So, to us, my love… to us.”

  They touched their glasses together and tilted back their heads to drink. The wine was dry with only a hint of sweetness; but there was also a bitterness in the aftertaste that made Luke pucker his lips and squeeze his eyes shut.

  “Drink it all, Darlin’. Bottom’s up.”

  Taking a deep breath, he threw back his head again and gulped the remainder of the wine quickly. It warmed his stomach and left his throat feeling as if he could use a glass of water.

  But these thoughts were immediately vanquished as Carrier took his free hand and raised it to her breast.

  Luke felt as if his heart had skipped several beats and the bitterness seemed to form a hard lump somewhere in the back of his throat. Every nerve in his body tingled and he stroked her nipple softly with this thumb, his excitement building as it grew firm beneath his touch.

  “Go ahead,” she whispered, “it ain’t going to bite ya.”

  He squeezed a little more firmly and his breath caught in his throat with a gasp as her other hand snaked between his legs.

  “Don’t be scared, darlin’. I’ll be gentle.”

  He dreamed of this very moment so often, had pleasured himself on countless nights with fantasies of how Carrie’s lips would feel against his own, how her breath would tickle the little hairs in his ear as she moaned softly. But nothing his imagination had ever conjured could compare with the sensation of her tongue slowly sliding across his belly or the way her bangs lightly brushed against his skin.

  His hands ran along her back, tracing the arch of her spine with his fingertips, massaging the firm cheeks of her ass. Neither of them said a word. They simply allowed their hands to explore each others body: probing, caressing, petting, squeezing gently as sighs as soft of the wind passed through their lips.

  Finally, she eased herself onto him, enveloping his member with the warmth of her body and moving in a way that was somewhere between a bounce and a slow rocking motion. Her hands pressed against his chest and her head was tilted slightly to the side; with eyes half closed she bit her bottom lip and slid her pelvis back and forth as she whispered his name over and over.

  Every nerve in Luke’ body seemed to tingle as he clutched her gyrating hips in his hands; he began thrusting in time with Carrie’s own movements, perfectly matching her rhythm as his pulse quickened. So she was soft, so warm, so beautiful and perfect.

  “I love you, oh God, Carrie, I love you…”

  Nothing else mattered: the dead outside, the fires that burned out of control in Charlotte, the fact that the reactor at Duke Power would probably go into meltdown soon without anyone around to man the controls. All of that may have as well existed in some other time, some distant dimension that was as hazy and insubstantial as a half-remembered dream. All that mattered was this very moment, this closeness with the woman he’d once feared would be nothing more than a friend, these two bodies that had merged together and moved with the synchronicity of a single organism.

  Carrie was moaning now and she rode him more intently, the muscles in her face tightening and relaxing with each push into her body. Her chest glistened with a sheen of sweat and her breasts jiggled as spasms coursed through her body.

  “I love you too, I’ve always loved you, always, always, always…”

  Within moments, Luke erupted into her, clenching his teeth as his fingers gripped her sides so tightly that his nails left little red marks in their wake. Carrie collapsed on top of him, her breasts pressed firmly against his chest, and together they panted as they tried to regain their breath. He wrapped her hair around his index finger, toying with it lazily, and his eyes felt felt heavy. It was almost as if ejaculating had drained every ounce of energy from his body: he felt satisfied, happy, and as lazy as a cloud drifting across the Carolina skies.

  “Thank you, baby. Thank you, so much.”

  His voice sounded distant and fuzzy to his own ears and when Carrie replied her words were thick and slurred.

  “Couldn’t…”

  She yawned and nuzzled her cheek against his chest slightly.

  “Couldn’t let ya… die… a virgin… darlin’.”

  He wrapped his arms around her, holding her with the last vestiges of his fading strength.

  And he was tired… so damn tired…

  They closed their eyes together and, with their naked bodies lying atop one another, allowed the beating of their hearts to lull them into the darkness of sleep.

  Outside, the dead continued their assault on the trailer. More and more corpses joined the congregation and pieces of siding were ripped away as they clamored over each other. The hinges of the door had begun to creak as screws slowly gave way to the force being exerted on them. But it no longer mattered. For sitting on the kitchen counter within the trailer was a partially full bottle of wine; the bottle’s cork rested beside an empty bottle of sleeping pills that left a bitter aftertaste in the mouths of anyone who took them. And, just beneath the bottle, was a sheet of notebook paper. Written in careful script across the blue lines were the following words:

  “Or bid me go into a new-made grave,

  And hide me with a dead man in his shroud

  Things that, to hear them told, have made me tremble

  And I will do it without fear or doubt…”

  - William Shakespeare

  Signed,

  Luke James Gilford and Carrie Marie Tate

  R.I.P

  Food Whore

  Yeah, I’ll admit it. I’ve sucked cock for as little as a half a tin of cat food a year past its expiration date. I’ve given handjobs for a few sips of water and have no problem spreadin’ my legs if the payoff is right. I mean, damn… it’s just sex, ya know? It’s hard enough making your way in this sorry excuse for a life. Some folks are blessed with strength and can drop an undead mother fucker with a single swing of an ax. Others got speed and agility: they run through the forests and old cities, bobbing and jumping and weaving like deers with their tails on fire. And then there’s the folks w
ho got smarts. These brainiacs can build traps like you wouldn’t believe. Complicated shit too, but they just seem to pull these ideas outta their asses like it was nothing more than a worm that poked its head out to say howdy. Me? I ain’t got none of that stuff.

  Back when there was still schools and shit, I’d always be the last one crossing the finish line in phys-ed. Huffin’ and puffin’ and so red in the face that I probably looked like a big, swollen penis. And fuck that whole climbing the rope bullshit. Only thing I ever got outta that little experience was friction burns all over my hands and an achin’ ass from falling off it over and over. In all my other classes, I did good enough to get by. I mean, I weren’t no retard or nothin’. But, at the same time, I wasn’t the one up there givin’ the speech at graduation neither.

  So, ya see, I gotsta use what I got. And what I got are tits. What I got is an ass that just won’t stop and a pair of lips that could suck your soul right outta your pee hole. Shit, I know I ain’t nearly as pretty as I used to be. None of us are. We’re all nothin’ more than a buncha smelly, dirty, underfed skeletons that ain’t got the good sense to lay down and die. Clothes aren’t no more than rags really and most folks done given up on their hair altogether. Mats and tangles and little bird nest clumps that stick out all over the place… it’s enough to give a former beautician nightmares for life.

  But me? I make damn sure I’ve got this little silver brush with me everywhere I go. Hundred strokes a night, right before bed, just like Granny Foster taught me. Keeps my hair as soft and dark as a raven’s feather. And that makes a lot of difference, ya know. I ain’t the only food whore out here. There’s stiff competition and anything that gives you an edge, you best be takin’.

  Course, just as important as my little brush is this here knife. I like the way it’s small enough to hide in the palm of my hand so it’s always ready if’n I need it. See, most guys are perfectly happy to get their jollies, give you the food, and be on their way before the cum has even started to dry. But there’s also some sickos out there, believe you me. Real bastards who can’t get it up unless you’re screaming like a bobcat in a beartrap. There was even this one fella who liked to drink your tears after he done messed you up real bad like. Held you down and licked them right outta the corner of your eye as he shots his load all over your tits, if you can believe that. All the travelin’ girls talked about him the same way people used to talk about Bigfoot or the Loch Ness Monster. But it was real twisted shit, ya know?