The Loving Dead

by Amelia Beamer

  Michael remembered the whip he held. He swatted the air with it, producing only a swishing sound. He did it again, harder, and got it to snap. The zombie stood still. Then she reached one hand down to her pubic hair, and gave it a little tug.

  There was a moan, loud and close. Definitely from inside the house. But the zombie’s mouth hadn’t moved.

  Without looking away, Michael called out, “Audrey, you guys okay?”

  “Yeah.” She sounded bored.

  The zombie was working two fingers between her legs. In and out, in and out. Then she licked her fingers. It was as compelling as it was gross. Michael could smell her, and she smelled like a normal girl. He wondered if she was actually dead, or one of the walking dead, or just infected with something and still alive. And how exactly did the transmission of zombieism work? She already liked being tied up, at any rate. If he had sex with her but didn’t let her bite him, could that be safe, if he used a condom?

  He wanted to forget he’d ever had that thought.

  “Stop that,” he whispered. He said it again, louder, and cracked his whip again.

  The zombie’s hands stopped moving, but stayed where they were. She looked Michael up and down, then settled her gaze on the whip.

  Another moan came from nearby, louder than before. They sounded like they were coming closer—Michael looked around, trying to figure out where the sound was coming from. Once, when he’d heard the soft, please-change-my-battery beeping of a smoke detector, he’d had to go through the whole house to find the one that wanted attention—but the moans seemed to be coming from Lena’s room. He’d found Lena by advertising a room for rent on Craigslist, and in their first conversation, she’d said that she didn’t want to live in any of the neighborhoods where she could afford to get an apartment on her own. Oakland had a bad reputation, but parts of it, including the hills, were really upscale. Safe. She’d moved here to be safe. She’d been out last night, and usually spent weekends at her boyfriend’s. She was a perfect housemate. But maybe she’d come home in the middle of the night and gotten bitten, though surely he would have woken up.

  The zombie whose name he couldn’t remember moaned then, and Michael was reminded of someone clearing their throat to get attention. She cupped her tits, moaning again. There was an answering moan from somewhere else, somewhere nearby.

  “Cut that out,” Michael said. He cracked his whip. “I mean it, drop your hands.”

  The zombie obeyed. Part of Michael liked that, and he was disgusted with himself for it.

  “Stay there,” he told the naked zombie. If zombies could look petulant, this one was doing it; one hip pushed out to the side. He shut her inside Kate’s bedroom, wishing there was a way to lock it from the outside.

  “Hello?” he said, quietly so that Audrey wouldn’t hear. Kate’s friend moaned, and someone moaned back. Brandishing the whip to reassure himself, he opened the bathroom door. The room was empty. So was his bedroom, which he checked even though he’d just been there. It didn’t seem right to snoop in Lena’s bedroom without at least trying to make sure that the noises weren’t coming from somewhere else. He even checked the hall closet, which no one could fit inside without curling up on a shelf, and even then they’d have to pull out a bunch of sheets and blankets to make room. Finally he gathered his courage, and opened Lena’s door a crack. It was dark inside. He wished he’d brought a flashlight. He could imagine reaching inside to flick the light switch, and being bitten.

  He meant to ask if there was anyone there, but when he opened his mouth, his voice was gone. He cracked the whip instead. A feminine moan answered.

  Michael felt a compulsion to see what was inside the room. Before the zombie just tumbled out. It sure did sound like there was a zombie in there. Without expecting that he would do it, Michael kicked at the door. It swung inwards.

  Michael didn’t believe it. He didn’t want to believe it.

  Natalie and Henry were zombies. They wore their costumes from last night, which now felt sickeningly inappropriate. Natalie had abandoned her hat, and Henry had lost his wine bag on its IV pole. His hospital gown was dashed with wine stains, or at least Michael hoped it was wine. Their eyes were clouded; they reflected light like a cat’s.

  His friends moved towards Michael.

  “No,” he said, finding his voice. He fell backwards in shock, thinking as he fell that he was fainting. His friends would eat him. This time, nobody would save him.

  He landed on his ass, and the pain brought him into focus. The whip was a lump underneath him; he’d fallen on it, and he groped for it as he scooted away from the zombies. He grabbed the whip by the middle, and found his way to the handle. After a few flicks he managed to make a noise with it, without hitting himself. The secret really was in the wrist, like so many other things. “Back up,” he said, trying to sound authoritative. “All you zombies, back the fuck up.”

  His friends stayed where they were. Michael scrambled to his feet. He reached inside the door and turned on the light, needing to make sure he wasn’t hallucinating. Maybe he was. He wanted very much to be hallucinating. His friends looked terrible. The light reflected from their cataract eyes, and all of the color had left their skin. Their faces were gray, with black shadows, as if the scene were a photo he’d put into grayscale in Photoshop. They were all looking at him with an unpronounceable hunger. Actually it was a lot like the faces you see in porn, but with less certainty of their course of action. It was as if they couldn’t decide whether to fuck him first, and then eat him, or the other way around. Except that probably wouldn’t work as well.

  Michael shut the door, quickly. He stood in the hallway, still holding the whip. His breathing sounded very loud in his head. The doors didn’t lock from the outside.

  He wanted to go lie down. Except that he also wanted to get out of the house. He wished Kate were there. She’d think of something, or at least she’d be a rational person who wasn’t trying to fuck with him. Damn her for leaving. He hoped that she’d gotten turned into a zombie, then he changed his mind.

  He started towards the kitchen. He stopped. Maybe he shouldn’t tell Audrey that he knew about the zombies in the house. What would have motivated her to lie about them going home? It hadn’t entirely made sense when she said it, but he’d wanted to believe it. But why would she lie like that? Audrey was an odd character even among their friends, most of whom were already a few standard deviations from normal. Could she have woken up with them gone, and just thought that they’d left?

  Michael shut himself in the hall bathroom to think about it. He needed to use the toilet again, and counted himself lucky that he hadn’t soiled himself already. If he didn’t do what Audrey wanted, she could sic her zombie on him. She’d done it already, just for effect, but maybe she wouldn’t stop Cameron next time. He supposed that he could sic Kate’s friend the zombie on Audrey’s zombie, but that didn’t seem fair. They should work out their miscommunications like adults, without making zombies fight for them. He’d figure something out. He had to. What would Romero do? Probably kill them all, he thought.

  He took out his phone, and ran the tap to cover the sound of his talking. He called Kate.

  “Hello?” Kate said. It was good that she’d answered; she didn’t usually answer while she was at work. “Michael?” Her voice sounded like she was in a small space. Sometimes she answered her phone while she was in the bathroom.

  “Kate. Oh, Jesus.” Michael tried to decide what to tell her first. “They respond to whips,” he said. “The zombies. When are you coming home?”

  “Whips?”

  “Yes, whips. Remember last night, with Cameron, when Audrey smacked herself in the face with the whip, and Cameron paid attention?” Kate was silent. Michael heard a guttural moan. “Kate, what’s going on? Are you OK?”

  “Long story,” she said in a faint voice. “How does the whip thing work?”

  “You just snap the whip, and the zombie will do what you say. They’re not very smart, l
ike, Audrey told Cameron to go wash his face and he stuck his whole head under the tap. I think it was the sound, or something, like it’s a certain wavelength that they respond to. Or maybe the gesture of raising a hand over your head, I don’t know. I’ve got a book but it doesn’t explain everything.” Michael thought about what he was saying, and how it probably didn’t make any sense. “When are you coming back?”

  “What was that? You cut out after…” The phone went quiet.

  “Damn network,” Michael said. “Hello? Kate? Aw, damn.”

  chapter seven

  Kate shook her phone in frustration, as if that would do anything. Network coverage was sometimes spotty with iPhones. She’d gotten one after she started seeing Walter, when she decided she could afford it. Normally she wouldn’t answer her phone when she was at first base, Walter’s hand under her shirt, but this wasn’t normal. They were in the bathroom of a Zeppelin, and the woman on the floor had said, “Something’s happening.” Kate put Walter’s hand in her mouth and bit down an SOS—dot dot dot dash dash dash dot dot dot—hoping that he’d at least understand that much Morse code. He turned his head towards Kate. In his profile Kate noticed the beginnings of a second chin.

  Nora moaned. She threw back her head, shook her hair, and then dove back down. She had a really long tongue. And she seemed to be using it to good effect, judging by her wife’s reactions. Christine was leaning against the wall, legs spread, her eyes closed and her own tongue protruding from between her lips. She had pubic hair on her thighs.

  “Whip?” Kate whispered. “We need a whip. Michael told me that it works.”

  Walter blinked. “What?” Kate had told Walter about Michael’s predilections. Near the beginning of their relationship, by way of explaining her living circumstances, she had made up a story about the Puerto Rican cleaning lady discovering Michael’s whip, and running away screaming. Walter had been properly amused. He wasn’t sharp enough, or mean enough, to ask why they had a cleaner; twentysomethings in Kate’s income bracket cleaned their own places. But Walter had alluded to girls he’d been with in the past who were doing it because they needed the money, and how unromantic he’d found that attitude. So Kate pretended she had more money than she did. She wanted Walter to think she was spending time with him because she liked him, not because she needed the money. In return, if he thought she was lying, he didn’t call attention to it. They’d negotiated this entirely through subtext, and Kate wondered occasionally if she was completely misinterpreting him.

  “That’s not what I mean,” she said.

  He pinched her nipple, and thinking became difficult. She pushed his hand away and brandished her phone. Through the fog of last night, she remembered Audrey flicking a whip. It started to make sense, and Kate was upset that she hadn’t remembered sooner. It might not work, but at this point, what did they have to lose?

  “I don’t even have a belt anymore,” Walter said. “Good fucking luck.” He unzipped his trousers and brought out his dick. It was bright pink, and hard. Kate was embarrassed, and turned on. His smell, like fresh bread, mingled with Christine’s smell. He stroked himself, pulling back the foreskin to expose the head.

  “What are we doing?” Kate asked.

  “What does it look like? I’ve seen movies. I know we’re going to die.” He turned to face her, kissing her ear. She thought of leaning forward, tasting him one last time. That skin was always so soft, and so sensitive. She put a hand on him, and he made a noise in his throat. She opened her mouth to say something, and stroked his dick instead. She felt cheap. So easily manipulated.

  Her phone rang again. It was Michael. She answered. Walter went back to stroking his dick. Outside the bathroom door, someone started whimpering. The buzz of the engine wasn’t loud enough to cover the noise. Through the window, the hills were growing closer, but they were still too high up to jump.

  “Hello?” she said into the phone. There was no one there. “Damn.”

  Her phone vibrated. It was a text message from Michael. Whips, he’d written. Another text came in while she was looking at the first. Help, it said. All zombies here except Audrey.

  “Damn,” she said aloud. It was her fault. She had to get back home, but how? Her brain felt like it was full of cotton. Soft, silky cotton. She found herself watching the women fucking. Nina? No, Nora. And her wife, who looked like she could be in porn. Not mainstream porn with Jenna Jameson and her duck lips full of collagen, but honest, femme-positive porn made by women, with real bodies and real reactions. Kate was envious, both of Nora’s skills and of her wife in receiving them. She was supposed to be doing something, but it was hard to remember what.

  Nora moaned, deeper than before. She leaned against Walter because there wasn’t any room to lean against anything else. She shuddered. Christine opened her eyes, which were unfocused. Nora started to take off her shirt, getting tangled.

  “Honey?” Christine said. She leaned over to help Nora.

  “Something’s happening,” Nora said through the shirt. Kate felt a muscle tense in her back. “No,” she said. She looked at Walter, who still had his hand on his dick. He was closer to Nora. “Step on her. She’s turning.”

  Walter’s puzzled expression turned to fear. “Turning?”

  Nora managed to get her shirt off. She wore a lace bra, the material between her breasts yellowed with old sweat. Still, she had nice tits, small but firm.

  “Walter!” Kate said. “We have to do something.”

  Nora reached around to fondle Christine’s ass. She buried her nose in Christine’s pubic hair. The gestures might have been arousing, or tender, if it wasn’t becoming clear what would happen next.

  “You have to get away from her,” Kate said. “Walter, you have to tie her up, or sit on her or something. And where am I going to get a whip?” She and Michael had managed to tie down a zombie last night, but this was hopeless. If Michael were there, they’d stand a chance. From his texts, though, he might be dead at any minute. She glanced around the interior of the bathroom, close to panic. She focused on her breathing, tuning out the moans from inside the room and the moans and screams from the main cabin.

  I’m going to my safe place, she thought, though she’d never admit to anyone that she had one. It was Lake Merritt, a three-and-a-half mile estuary in Oakland, where she liked to jog on a sunny afternoon, as long as it wasn’t too hot outside. In her safe place, there were no zombies, and she ran because she liked the feeling of it, and even though she’d done it a number of times, the scenery changed often enough to instill anticipation of what would happen next. The aviary, for example, with lots of pigeons and gulls and squealing kids with bags of bread in their hands. Running, she dodged goose poop, uneven sand and grass. Light filtered through the trees alongside the trail behind the Children’s Fairyland, with its brightly painted Alice in Wonderland playground. She and the other joggers wore headphones, everyone in their own safe places. She’d pass the tiny Asian women jogging in jeans, lots of people walking on the path or lying around on the grass. Her favorite were the delicious-looking young men in their tracksuits, the sweatshirts unzipped. Those men always ran too fast; she could only get a good look at them if they were running the opposite direction. Maybe she should have tried to meet one of them, faked an injury or just started talking to get the attention of a particularly cute one. Some were students, surely, but most were probably career guys, and single. Stable. They’d be good listeners and they’d make her laugh. But if Kate tried to jog with them, they would surely run faster than her. The relationships would never work out.

  Christine let out a scream that brought Kate back. Her fingers were in Nora’s hair, her knuckles white with effort, pushing Nora’s head away. Nora’s mouth, Kate saw, was bloody. It was happening. Christine fainted, slumping against the wall and sliding towards the floor. Nora went for Christine’s belly. Part of Kate felt like it came loose. If she lived, she would see this scene over and over in her dreams. If she were lucky enough to live. W
hy did zombies always go for the belly? Because it was soft and boneless? Maybe, but the belly was the slinkiest part of a person. Christine’s guts, ripped open, smelled like shit. And zombies were supposed to go for brains.

  Kate realized she was still holding onto her phone. She stabbed at it, trying to call Michael, and found herself in the App Store. She was ready to cry, poking at the keys, when she saw something that said Indiana Jones. She came to understand that it was an application that would make a whip noise, along the lines of the light saber noise that everyone had. She pressed the button, hoping against hope. It wanted ninety-nine cents. She ground her teeth with frustration. The money wasn’t the issue. She selected the app and hoped that the phone would recognize the credit card associated with her account. She’d die if she had to call customer service and wade through their system, however friendly the robot operator was. Walter was whimpering, his dick still in his hand. It had gone soft. He sounded like he was saying, “Wha, wha, wha?” Each iteration rose in tone, like a question or a Valley girl’s intonation, and not the Silicon kind of valley, either.

  Christine opened her eyes, looking at Kate, and mouthed something. Perhaps it was, “Something’s happening,” just like all the other zombies had said. Or, “How could you let this happen?” She put her hands in her wife’s hair, pulling her head up, and Nora acquiesced to the tug. The women considered one another for a moment. Christine seemed to be beyond frightened, in that cold accepting place Kate had been in once, when she was really high, in the family car in the school parking lot, waiting for the cops to come along and arrest her for being really high. At a certain point, she knew, you stop dreading the inevitable and hope that it’ll happen sooner, so that you don’t have to hang out dreading it anymore. Eventually, she’d gathered herself together enough to drive her friend home, then herself, though she’d forgotten to put the bag of grass away in the glove compartment. Her brother had noticed it on the dashboard, the next morning. Probably he took it, which was OK because then they both had a secret. She’d sobered up after first period. Jazz band. Kate held onto the memory; maybe things would still work out.