Sex in the Time of Zombies

by William Todd Rose

  “My man! I knew you weren’t no zombie lover! I fucking knew it!”

  It took an eternity to cross that room. I didn’t want to look at the creature on the bed, wanted to close my eyes and wish it all away; but, somehow, I found that I couldn’t take my eyes off her. Not in the same way as before, though. When she’d been living, Sarah was like this beautiful butterfly the flittered by; a butterfly so rare and exotic that no one else was privileged enough to witness its graceful dance through the air. But there was no beauty here… not anymore. Now there was only the viscous snap of teeth as she chewed at the air… unblinking eyes that locked onto mine with pupils so round that the irises seemed to be mere outlines.

  I’m sorry, I’m so so sorry….

  I placed my hands on either side of the bed and pulled myself into position.

  I had to do this.

  I had to be part of The Rotter Nation.

  There was no other choice now.

  I closed my eyes and tried to will away that shaking in my arms and legs. Just do it. Do it and get it over with.

  At that moment, I heard a sound unlike any I’d ever heard before. It was a shrill scream that sounded as if a bobcat had mated with a human. So loud that my eardrums quivered in pain and my eyes watered; it was the sound of rage and anguish and shock and every other emotion that can tear a person down all rolled into a single, undulating screech.

  VIII. CRIME AND PUNISHMENT

  As it turned out, that ornate matchbox I’d focused so much of my attention on had been our undoing. After the Emperor had finished his speech, Mr. and Mrs. Thompson had solemnly carried the ceremonial torch to the end of the pipe with all of the reverence it deserved. The crowd had waited in hushed anticipation for the spark that would culminate the day’s festivities. But it was a spark that would never come.

  See, the Thompsons were exhausted . They’d spent weeks caring for their sick daughter, waking up at all hours of the night when she’d cry out in fevered delirium, sitting by her side with cool rags and whispered lullabies; so it was understandable how they that might forget the all-important matches back at their tent. It was also understandable that Mrs. Thompson would go running through the streets of Free Town as quickly as her feet would carry her. She had to retrieve them, after all, had to make the ritual complete.

  Mrs. Thompson’s screams had echoed through the town like the cry of a banshee before being abruptly cut off. Other residents quickly arrived to find Carlos straddling his aunt’s limp body, her throat squeezed between his hands as if he meant to pop her head open. But they’d responded too fast to those initial screams; when they tackled the leader of The Rotter Nation, Mrs. Thompson gasped for air and coughed as she scrambled into a far corner of the tent.

  And, of course, she’d told them what she’d witnessed. Tommy. Me. Naked. Preparing to… to…. She broke down then, collapsed in a huddle of tears; but even the most unimaginative person in Free Town was able to piece together the rest of the story.

  The zombie that had once been Sarah… tied to the bed, legs spread wide. The way I couldn’t meet their stares and could only gaze at my own feet as tears silently streamed down my face. Tommy hollering over and over that he didn’t want to do it, that me and Carlos had forced him, that he’d tried to stop us.

  The next day the three of us were tethered together like the little flags that still dangled from streamers throughout the town. Carlos led the way, his hands bound, a rope tightly cinched around his waist, and tied at the back, this same rope encircled me as well, and then trailed off to Tommy, who brought up the rear.

  We were paraded through the center of town and citizens on either side spat at us as we passed, their warm, thick spittle sliding down my cheeks and soaking into the collar of my shirt. Others hurled stones that bounced off our ribs and foreheads, leaving angry welts and thick blood in their wake.

  Murderers!

  Bastards!

  Kill ’em! Kill the dirty….

  At one point, I saw my father in the crowd. He was holding my mother close to him, as if his arms were the only things that kept her from collapsing into the dirt; both had aged twenty years overnight, their faces pained and wrinkled and tired, oh so very tired….

  I tried to mouth I’m sorry as I passed; but in unison, they both turned away, leaving me with only the sight of their backs to serve as the final memory of my parents.

  We were led to the age of town, to the platform where the Burning should have taken place the night before. The Emperor stood atop the platform, flanked on either side by his most trusted guards, and the wind rustled his thin, gray hair as he looked down upon us.

  At some point during the night, a machine had been built upon the platform. The thing looked like a giant arm attached to a wooden base and, at the very top of the arm was a little metal disk. A rope ran through the grooves in the pulley and dangled down to street level where it circled slowly in the wind. Attached to the end of the rope was what looked like a harness of some sort. It, too, was formed of rope, of loops and swirls that could easily accommodate the arms and legs of a full grown man.

  The Emperor raised his arms and the jeers of the crowd surrounding us trickled into silence. In the distance I heard a bird call out and the leaves in the forest whispered their secret language as the seconds drug on into minutes.

  Even though I couldn’t bring myself to look at the Emperor, I could feel his stern gaze burning into my soul. After what was probably the longest moments of my life, I finally heard the old man’s voice boom out over the congregation.

  “I have little to say to you boys. Other than this.”

  I was crying again and my cheeks glistened in the morning sun. But these tears weren’t for myself or what would become of me. No, I completely deserved what-ever punishment was passed upon us. I knew this as surely as I knew I would never see Sarah speaking with the dead again.

  “May God have mercy on your souls… because I most certainly will not.”

  The crowd erupted in a great cheer and I felt the rope around my waist tighten as Tommy began struggling against his restraints.

  “I didn’t do nothing! I swear, I didn’t….”

  A guard rushed by my peripheral vision and there was the sharp crack as the ax handle connected with Tommy’s jaw, a grunt of pain, and a dull thud as Tommy fell to the ground. He was quiet after that, save for a soft weeping that somehow sounded wet and gurgly.

  “Carlos Thompson, for repeated crimes against the community and residents of Free Town I sentence you to death by hanging.”

  My head snapped up as the guards cut through the rope connecting me to the older boy and drug him to the suspended harness. Carlos was screaming, his voice as high pitched as a woman’s and he struggled against his bindings. Just like Sarah had struggled against hers….

  It didn’t take long to secure him within the rope sling and I watched as he was hoisted into their air. Within moments he’d been pulled to the top of the platform; but then the entire contraption swiveled with a squeal only matched by his own. His feet kicked in the air as he dangled over the other side of the wall and he cried out for his mother over and over. And then he was slowly lowered like a human pinata into the crowd of rotters below.

  When his screams finally faded, the Emperor nodded and a second, smaller rope, was pulled. This must have somehow released the harness, for it was quickly followed by a dull thud that could only have been Carlos Thompson’s body plummeting to the ground. Gas was poured through the pipe. A match sparked and then a great, black cloud of smoke arose from the other side of the wall… the Burning Ceremony had finally been completed.

  Tommy and I were kept standing in the middle of the crowd until the last lick of flame had finally burned away. I can’t really say how I felt then: every cell of my body was numb and even thoughts were few and far between. It was almost like back in the tent, when I had that sensation of existing somewhere outside of my own body.

  “Thomas Ballister… Johnathon Smith…
for your crimes, I sentence you to banishment from this great city. May your shadows never darken our walls again.”

  One by one, Tommy and I were hoisted into the harness. One by one we were dropped into the cinders and smoking ashes of the dead on the other side. No supplies other than the clothes on our backs. No food or weapons. Just two teenage delinquents turned loose in a wilderness ruled by the living dead.

  IX. FRESHIES & ROTTERS (Revisited)

  Tommy didn’t last three days. We were running from a pack of rotters, scrambling up a hillside so steep that even the trees seemed to be struggling to keep their grasp. One moment he was right behind me, panting and crying as his hands reached out for the next root, the next rock… and then he was gone. Tumbling downward, screaming my name over and over even as the first rotter grabbed his shirt in its decaying hand.

  But that was three cycles of the moon ago. And I’m still out here. Running. Hiding.

  Staining my lips and fingertips with berries and occasionally eating the raw flesh of some small animal I’ve managed to spear with a sharpened stick.

  And, sometimes, I think I can see her in the distance: this pretty young girl with shy eyes and chapped lips. She seems to be beckoning to me, urging me to come to the arms in which I’d always dreamed of being held. But, by the time I get there, she’s always just a little further away. Always so distant and unobtainable.

  But I’ll make it to her eventually. I have to. I need to look into those beautiful eyes of hers, need to hold her cheeks in my hands, and let her know how very, very sorry I am. I need to somehow make things right, to purge this sadness that taints my soul and makes me punch at my own reflection in the stream. Without her, I can never forgive myself. Without her, I can never be whole again.

  And maybe that’s why she’s always just out of reach. Perhaps I haven’t suffered enough yet. Perhaps there are still years of atonement in my future before I can know the warmth of her touch.

  I won’t give up. I’ll pursue her to the ends of the earth if I have to. And I know that I’ll eventually reach my dear, sweet Sarah. After all, I was always the best… I was always the last of the refugee team left alive. But even then, I still know in my heart that the game is not truly over until the last survivor has been cornered.

  I just need to make sure I can find the redemption I so desperately need before I’m called home.

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