My Zombie Honeymoon: Love in the Age of Zombies Book One

by Evans, James K.

  It was the woman. The young blonde woman the men had thrown to the zombies. She had been mostly eaten, and had turned. I quickly walked up, placed the gun against its head and shot it. I turned away, a mixture of revulsion and pity seeping into my stomach. I decided not to say anything to Michelle.

  As I rounded the corner of the house to go inside, I looked back. The beautiful, formerly virgin snow was now a scene I’d have never imagined. Scattered all over the snowfield were the remains of zombies. Bodies were everywhere. Frequently there were bits and pieces of zombie skulls and frozen zombie brains. It was all gray-ish black and puss yellow against brilliant virgin white.

  If this was a horror movie, the scene would show crimson red against the white. But in reality, their blood had long since congealed and blackened. There were a hell of a lot of dead and decomposed bodies and body bits scattered across my lawn, Michelle’s lawn, our driveways, and into the street. But no blood.

  When I ran out of ammunition, I went back inside and was tempted to get another box, but my left shoulder was aching and Michelle could tell. I should have put a coat on when I went outside. She gave me a stern look and a lecture about not overdoing it. Then she gave me a pain pill. To my dismay and amusement, as I swallowed the pill she put on her coat, grabbed a box of ammunition, and climbed the stairs. Shortly after, I faintly heard a series of gunshots from the .22. They sounded kind of pleasant.

  When I woke up, it was morning. I could detect the scent of a recent shower. And she had changed clothes. “Wake up, lazy bones, time to get to work.”

  “Get to work? Doing what?”

  “We have a ton of cherry tomatoes we need to pick, probably enough for fresh pasta sauce. And with the herbs we have growing, it’ll be great. Plus I have a surprise.” That got my attention, but then again, I have a dirty mind and a wicked imagination. We picked a very large bowl of cherry tomatoes and some herbs, plus a few hot peppers had finally ripened. They sure take their time.

  We pruned the lettuce and checked everything over for pests. I gave the few houseplants, like the spider plant, a fresh drink of water. Then we went into the kitchen. I mashed the tomatoes and put them in a pot on top of the natural gas stove we try not to use too much. I made sauce from the tomatoes and while it was cooking down I added some sausage flavored beef jerky. I chopped it into small pieces and added it to the sauce. As the sauce reduced, the jerky rehydrated. By the time it was done, the sauce tasted smoky and the sausage had the texture of real meat, not jerky. We boiled the noodles and I stirred the basil into the sauce just before serving it.

  The whole time we were making dinner, I was half-erect wondering about her surprise. You wouldn’t believe the scenarios running through my mind. When dinner was finally ready, she showed me the surprise. While I was asleep, she snuck over to her house to get a few things, including her case of wine and a bunch of CDs. I admit, it was a bit of a letdown after the possibilities I had imagined. I was glad she had her wine and music, but the surprise I had hoped for was something a bit more . . . tactile. Plus I didn’t like her leaving the house without telling me. If something had happened to her, how would I have known? I swallowed my objections, however, and agreed to have a glass of wine. I’ve never been much on wine, but I must admit, the stuff she has is very nice. It made our Italian meal feel even more Italian. I can’t recall the last time I had wine.

  We had a huge salad, ate more spaghetti than I thought we could, then sat back and relaxed. She played some of her music—I’m glad her tastes run parallel to mine. One song was called Shagging the Night Away. She was amused when I said the music was fun and playful even though they were singing about shagging. She laughed and told me it was beach music, and shagging is a kind of dance you do in the sand. I felt my face redden. I thought shagging was slang for having sex, as in The Spy Who Shagged Me.

  It reminded me of Fudgies asking what a pasty is—and pronouncing it ‘pay-stee’ instead of ‘paah-stee’. Here in Michigan, you don’t wear pasties, you eat them. I used to buy them from the Saline Downtown Diner, and I’ve been known to drive as far as Clarkston to drop in on Uncle Peter’s Pasties.

  I laughed along with her, feeling silly but happy. Maybe the wine is making me feel this way. After we’d finished the bottle of wine, we brought out the small mattress and reclined on it as we played another game of backgammon. Each time it was my turn, she unbuttoned another button on her blouse. Within five minutes, her blouse was completely undone, and so was I.

  I hate playing with a cheater. Then again, I love admiring her breasts. Losing a game of backgammon is quite worthwhile under those conditions. And indeed I did lose, but by then I was ready to devour her nipples. Which I did, among other things.

  We fell asleep in each other’s arms—again—under the stars. Not five feet from where just a few days ago, a dead man with a bullet in his brain had fallen to the floor. Right after he’d shoved his cock in my mouth. Bizarre.

  Amazing

  Which is more amazing:

  dead bodies,

  walking, eating, killing

  or

  this dead heart

  living, loving, healing

  December 19th

  It’s been a tough couple of days. The day after my last entry, I got up early, leaving Michelle sleeping. I made some coffee and went into the living room. We had left the CDs and cases out, kind of spread around, and I decided to tidy up. I put my CDs away first and then put hers away. After I put them away, I went through a few of her discs to see what kind of musical tastes she had. In the process, I came across CDs with notes attached to them. Some had inscriptions written on the cases or on the inserts. They were love notes. From Wayne.

  Wayne, telling Michelle how much he loved her, how she’s his heart and soul, how passionate their love is. One case contained a folded over note; the outside said, “Michelle, any day is a good day to say three little words to you.” On the inside it said, “Let’s get naked.”

  I felt a stirring of darkness inside. A feeling I wasn’t familiar with and didn’t like. It was Shakespeare’s green-eyed monster. I was jealous of Wayne. I couldn’t help myself—I went through all her CDs. I found seven of them with love notes, all from Wayne. By the time I finished going through them I was actually angry. I don’t know why. I remember thinking, So this is why she brought them over!

  The rational part of my mind recognized how absurd this was. How unfair and inappropriate my feelings were. It didn’t matter; my emotions remained.

  I put the CDs away and made myself get busy. I tried all day to reason myself out of my feelings. I couldn’t do it. No matter what reasoning I used, I couldn’t dismiss my anger. I made every effort in my interactions with Michelle to appear as if there was nothing wrong. We made small talk and joked with each other, but inwardly I felt stretched taut. Even as I write this I feel tight. I’m trying to act like things are okay, but they’re not. I’m pretending.

  Not long ago, we went to bed and made love. I remember a friend of mine, Brian, talking about a grudge fuck, where you’re angry and you fuck like you’re angry. I had no idea what he was talking about until tonight. I wouldn’t say I fucked her with anger, but I would say I fucked her instead of making love to her. I was rougher than usual, but she didn’t seem to mind. She fell asleep in my pretending-I’m-okay arms, and I lay awake, mentally chewing on this unaccustomed cud. Eventually I fell asleep despite my smoldering anger and questions.

  This morning I woke up and stared at the ceiling, trying to figure out what was going on. Why did I feel so depressed and anxious? Michelle woke up and drowsily nestled her head on my chest with my arm draped over her back. I lay there listening to her breathing and she slowly stroked my chest. Once again I slipped into bizarre paranoia. I felt sure she was about to say, Kevin, there’s something I need to tell you. She’d cry and confess and would say how sorry she was, but she couldn’t help how she felt. I’d find out my suspicions were justified. I’d learn my life for the past few mon
ths had been a misguided illusion; a sham. At one point her hand travelled lower, between my legs, and even though I was already hard, I kissed the top of her head and said “Not this morning. Maybe later.”

  She moaned in disappointment and said “Okay, but later I’m going to ravage you!” Being ravaged didn’t appeal to me. I’m a regular guy and I know I could have sex with her despite my emotions, but I didn’t want to have sex with. Except for last night I’ve never just had sex with her, it’s never been mechanical. I’ve always celebrated her body and our feelings for each other. The other part of me once again was dismayed. She wants to ravage you and you’re not interested? What the hell is going on?! I got up and again went through the motions of acting normal. She stayed in bed a few more minutes while I made coffee. I sat in the living room, glancing over at her CDs, remembering what the notes said. She must have kept those notes and CDs because she’s still in love with him and misses him I concluded.

  I sat and stewed for a half hour or so, occasionally sipping my now-cold and bitter coffee while she took a shower. My efforts to talk myself down from this emotional ledge were not working—in fact, my anger was building. I felt like I’d been blindsided. It felt as if I’d found a stash of pornographic photos of them.

  As I was sat there stewing, Michelle came out of the bedroom and poured a cup of coffee. Carrying it into the living room she innocently asked “What are you doing?”

  I tried not to say anything about the notes. “Just sitting here thinking.” Then before I could stop myself, I quietly said, “Why didn’t you tell me you were still in love with Wayne? Don’t you think that’s something I should know?”

  “Kevin, you need to learn to hold off on trying to be funny until after my first cup of coffee. Or after we make love.”

  “I’m not joking. I want to know. I think I deserve to know what’s going on.”

  She put the cup of coffee down. She’d barely sipped it. She looked me full in the eyes. “Kevin, I’m not in love with Wayne. That was a long time ago. Where is this coming from?”

  “I’m not stupid. I came across his love notes with your CDs. About how much he loves you. About getting naked. You wouldn’t have kept them if you didn’t still love him.” By now I was on my feet. I had begun to pace. I wasn’t talking so quietly anymore. Even while it was happening, a part of me was thinking Whoa! Slow down! You’re overreacting!

  Michelle picked up her cup of coffee, took a sip, and then calmly put it back down. She looked at me again. “Kevin, listen to me. You’re talking about Wayne in the present tense, like he’s still around. But he’s not. For all I know he’s dead. I don’t even know where he lives. So I still have the CDs he gave me. I like the music. So they still have love notes on them. You know I don’t listen to CDs much, I listen to my MP3s. I didn’t even remember the notes. I don’t love him anymore! That’s absurd!”

  “How can you expect me to believe you?” I asked, my anger increasing. I was losing control, my emotions igniting like gasoline. “First you downplay how much you loved him, then you hide these CDs and love notes, and now you say you don’t love him but the evidence says you do! How can I trust you when I know you’re not being honest?” I moved toward her and got in her personal space. I could see the fear and anger on her face. At the moment, I thought she was mad because she’d been busted—because she’d been caught red handed. She backed up away from me.

  “Kevin, what’s wrong with you? I’ve never seen you like this! You’re acting crazy! I didn’t hide anything from you and I don’t still love Wayne!”

  “Oh, so now on top of everything else you’re saying I’m crazy?!” I grabbed her coffee cup from the table and hurled it against the wall. Coffee went everywhere and the cup shattered. I guess that pushed her over the edge. She began shouting.

  “All right, you’re going to stop this right now and listen to me! I’m not in love with Wayne. I’m in love with you. Wayne is dead. Everyone I knew and loved is dead. How the fuck can you be jealous over a dead guy who walked out on me when . . .” She took a deep breath. “Yes, I loved him. Yes, he broke my heart. That was ages ago when we lived in a different world. My feelings for him . . .” She broke into tears.

  See, there she goes, missing him and crying for him, my disturbed side commented. She covered her eyes for a moment, then looked up at me while wiping her teary eyes.

  “This is no different than you having photos of Tammy around. And you still wear your wedding ring. Who knows what else I’d find if I snooped around? Do you see me getting all weirded out about that? Do you hear me accusing you of not being honest? No. But here you are, accusing me . . . She stopped, closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and said “I can’t talk to you right now. Please give me some space.” She ran into the bedroom. I could hear her crying.

  I felt such an odd mixture of thoughts and feelings. I felt like I was splitting into two parts of myself. My heart was saying, I know what I saw. I know what I read. I don’t care what she says. I know what I know. My mind was telling me, What the hell is wrong with you? You’re acting like you caught her cheating on you. She says she doesn’t love him. Has she ever lied to you? No. And even if she is still in love with him, so what? He’s dead, either dead and buried or he’s a zombie looking for someone to eat.

  Another part of me, a very small voice nearly unnoticed, said And she said she’s in love with you!

  But my heart wouldn’t listen. Even writing it now, it feels absurd. I felt betrayed. I felt like I’d been kicked in the gut. Michelle, in love with another man. How could she do this to me? Here I trusted her, and once again, what did I learn? Never, ever trust a woman. They’ll lie to you, they’ll abandon you, they’ll stomp your heart in the ground with a hobnailed boot and then feed it to the zombies. Everyone goes away in the end.

  I stormed into the storeroom and got a bottle of booze. I poured a nice slug, slammed it, then poured another. It was barely 9:00. My hands were clammy and shaking and I felt crazy. I don’t mean figuratively. I felt like I was losing my mind. Usually when I find myself overreacting to something I can talk myself down. But not this time. I wandered around, coming back time and again to the love notes from Wayne.

  After about a half hour I grabbed the bottle of bourbon and headed upstairs. I deliberately made the trap door slam after I stepped into the kitchen. It was a cold, dark empty house. The house where I mourned the death of my son and the death of my wife. The house in which I made love to my wife. I walked around the rooms, muttering to myself, “I know what I know. I know what I saw.” My mind was arguing with me the whole time, telling me to get a grip, I was being stupid and was about to mess up a good thing. I completely ignored it.

  After wandering through different rooms, not really seeing anything, I ended up in our old bedroom. I had continued to drink the straight bourbon, and the alcohol started hitting me hard since I hadn’t eaten anything. I don’t remember much after that. I do remember staring at the photo of Tammy and me on our wedding day. Huge smiles. She was beautiful. She was dead and I was drunk. I’m going to let Michelle write what happened next, because frankly I don’t recall.

  So here I am, writing again. I hate writing. But Kevin asked me to. So here goes. After he flipped out on me, I ran into the bedroom. I heard Kevin open a bottle of booze. Then I heard the trap door slam so I knew he must have gone upstairs. I waited a few minutes to calm down. I didn’t know why he was so mad. He was acting crazy. But I also loved him and was worried about him. I’d never had the slightest hint that he was unstable.

  After giving him a half-hour or so to come to his senses, I went upstairs and heard him crying. I found him in his old bedroom. He was pretty drunk. He was talking incoherently to a photo of Tammy. I heard her name a few times and mine too. I don’t think he even knew I was there. He was still holding the bottle of booze and was barely keeping his balance and the booze sloshed out of the bottle onto the floor. I heard a phrase or two I understood. He kept saying why did she do it, why did
she do it. I didn’t know if he was talking about Tammy or me. And a couple times I heard him say please don’t go away.

  Then he got sick. He turned toward me and his eyes were unfocused. I got out of his way. I don’t know if he saw me or not—he didn’t act like he saw me. He stumbled down the hall to the bathroom. He fell into the wall once. As he went into the bathroom he threw up. All over the floor. Then he was throwing up into the dry toilet. I went in and stood watching him. He didn’t know I was there.

  At first I felt like it served him right, being sick. Then I started feeling sorry for him. I found some washcloths in the closet and knelt down on the floor next to him. He had vomit all over his shirt. I tried to clean him up but it wasn’t easy with him still throwing up. Eventually I got most of it off him. I cleaned up his face. He quit throwing up and I pulled him to me despite all the stink. I rested his head in my lap.

  He was crying and mumbling but I couldn’t tell what he was saying. He looked up at me with red eyes. His breath smelled like bourbon vomit. He was still crying. He looked right at me and said what did I do wrong? Then he started crying again. His whole body was shaking with his sobs. He started calling for Jason. He called his name over and over. My heart melted. He might pretend he’s okay, and maybe sometimes he is okay, but there’s also a broken part of him. These feelings have been bottled up inside him for years. They aren’t because of me. They belong to Tammy and Jason. Maybe he never let himself grieve. I guess our intimacy brought those feelings to the surface. Opening his heart to me was reopening an old wound.