My Zombie Honeymoon: Love in the Age of Zombies Book One (8 page)

“Did you get bit?” she asked me.

“No, but it was close. Add I’d afraid I adracted a butch dore of thed. They dnow I’d here.”

“You got that right. It looks like there are about forty of them out there! You jerk! Don’t scare me like that!”

“You dink
you
were scared . . .” I said.

“Can’t you hear them?” she asked me.

“Dot dowd here,” I said.

“Listen . . .” she said. I guess she held the radio close to the window, because I could hear rasping sounds in the background. “Now I have to listen to that creepy sound! It’s driving me crazy!” she said. “I didn’t sleep a wink last night I was so worried! Oh, and I’m cold. The gas quit working. I’m cold, I’m hungry, I’m exhausted, I’m scared shitless, those things are making all that noise, and I’m alone. Thanks, Kevin,” she said sarcastically, “you’re quite a guy.”

She must have turned off her radio, because that’s all I heard from her.

I had all day to obsess over our conversation as well as the events of the night before. I also had all day to obsess on my nose and whether or not it’s broken. I don’t think it is, but it’s all black and blue and very swollen.

I did my usual work with the plants, started a new batch of lettuce, and generally moped around. Every time I leaned over, I could feel the pressure in my face increase from the swelling. It hurt like hell. I kept wanting to look at it in the mirror.

I was feeling quite a stew of emotions. I was still freaked out by my close encounter of the zombie kind, still trying to convince myself she was coming on to me, and feeling guilty over scaring her half to death. I wondered if she was washing her hands of me, which I found depressing, but also had momentary spells of pride. After all, I’d found a clever way for us to communicate, she seems to really like me, and she was
obviously
coming on to me. But within minutes of thinking that, I’d start second guessing myself and trying not to let myself get overly hopeful.

I left the radio on all day in case she relented. She never did. Around dusk I went back upstairs briefly. She was right. The number of zombies had grown. It’s now a zombie mob. Most of them are around the side of the house, where they can still smell any blood that hasn’t washed away. But they’re also in front of both of our houses and meandering up and down the street.

So I had figured out a clever way for us to communicate. And now she won’t speak to me. Plus I drew zombies to us. Brilliant. Another gold star day.

November 8
th
             

I didn’t sleep well last night. When I tried to sleep on my side, the pillow hurt my face. So I lay on my back, watching the glow in the dark paint slowly fade. Around two o’clock I got up and downed a couple shots of bourbon and some melatonin. Fell asleep a half hour or so later. But at some point before I fell asleep, my emotions began to change. I went from feeling bad and guilty to feeling pissed off. Royally pissed off.

I risked my damn life doing her a favor, being neighborly and all that. I nearly lost my life in the process. I smashed up and maybe broke my nose. My face hurts. I can still smell zombie on my skin, no matter how much I wash or what I do. And instead of being concerned about how badly I’m hurt, instead of expressing concern or gratitude or whatever, she gets pissed at me? Where does she get off?

Now I remember why I haven’t dated since Tammy died. Women are emotionally unreliable. I never know how they’re going to feel or what kind of mood they’re going to be in, and no matter what they’re feeling—especially if it’s bad—somehow it’s my fault.

If Michelle wants to get mad at me for facing the zombies alone, for trying to make her life easier, for risking my life and nearly dying, let her be mad. I don’t need it. I have my books, my DVDs, my plants, my food and booze. I’m self-sufficient. I have electricity, water, and light. She has a dwindling supply of food, very little light, no electricity, no heat, and probably no water. We could have been good friends or more. But she chose to be a bitch. So let her suffer the consequences of her choice.

I’ve turned off the radio. I don’t want to talk to her.

November 9
th
             

Happy Halloween nine days late. I look like I’m wearing a mask. Much of my face is various shades of blue and a gross looking yellow from the bruises. But at least the swelling’s gone down.

I’m not so mad any more. If anything, I’m pretty sad. Michelle’s the only person I know who survived. I truly enjoy her company, and it’s not just because she’s so attractive and has a great rack. She’s smart and funny. Intelligence combined with humor (and a great rack) is such a turn on. I don’t want her to suffer and I don’t want her to go anywhere.

I turned the radio back on a few minutes ago. Maybe I’ll even try to reach her later. Meanwhile, some of my lettuce is ready for a partial harvest, along with some cherry tomatoes. The beer has conditioned enough to start drinking. I’m going to have a nice salad and a beer for dinner, then try to get some exercise and maybe watch a movie. After the problem with Michelle, I wasn’t in the mood to watch any relationship movies or even any porn—instead I watched
the Godfather
. Maybe when she thanked me for bringing the radios over, I should have said
Some day, and that day may never come, I will call upon you to do a service for me.
I can think of many ways she could service me.

Now that I’ve simmered down, I feel restless. I wish I could go for a bike ride. But it’s not safe. Maybe I’ll go through the porn and see if I can find something halfway decent. Or decently indecent.

Later--

I heard another explosion a bit ago. I’m not sure where it came from, the sound down here makes it hard to tell. Maybe I should go upstairs and check around.

Even later--

When I went upstairs, it was already dark. From the east windows I could see a glow on the horizon. It wasn’t super bright, so I really have no idea what it was or how big a fire it was. After all this time, it was strange to see something besides the moon and stars in the sky. I could very faintly see one or two zombies facing the light, slowly making their way in that direction, whether because of the light or the earlier sound of the explosion, who knows?

November 11
th

What a day. Early this afternoon I heard Michelle on the radio. “Kevin are you there? Please answer. Hello? Kevin?”

I stood there for a minute, debating. Did I want to answer? Maybe get back into the same cycle, where I start having feelings for someone, with possible hopes for something more, only to have her stomp on my heart with a hobnailed boot? Would it be better to turn off the radio and mind my own business? Or should I just get over it and move on, still being friends?

I’ll admit it, hope surged in my heart. She wanted to talk! She didn’t sound mad!

In the end, I caved. Or came to my senses, depending on how you look at it—or how things turn out. I picked up the radio and hit the transmit button, relieved to hear my voice was back to normal.

“Hey,” I said, “what’s up? Everything okay?”

“If it’s okay I’m coming over. Be there in ten minutes. If that’s okay,” she said.

“Don’t be a fool! It’s not safe!” I warned her.

“Most of them are gone,” she said, “go see for yourself. Meanwhile, is it okay if I come over? You never answered me.”

“Sure, I’ll be at the door in ten minutes,” I replied. My heart was beating fast, and any lingering resentment evaporated. Feeling hope was kind of refreshing—it’s been a while since I had hope, especially when it involves women.

I quickly went into the bathroom and checked myself in the mirror. In my haste I forgot to grab a lantern, so I couldn’t see much. The only light was from the grow room LEDs so my face looked purple, and not just from the bruises. I tried to comb my sparse hair, but it was no use. There was no way I was going to make myself look good.

I gave up trying, climbed the stairs, and opened the trap door. I quickly walked through the house, checking the peep holes in the windows. She was right. I didn’t see any zombies on the side of the house, and only a few in the street.

After a few minutes, I went and stood by the door. I was thinking:
why does she want to come over? Is something wrong? Does she need food? Does she have some kind of news? Or does she just want to tell me off in person?

When she finally knocked on the door—quietly—I opened it and motioned for her to come in. After she stepped in I took a quick look outside—no zombies in sight. In the grass about ten feet away lay part of my shirt. It was stained with blood and ripped apart.

I closed the door, set the bolts, then turned around to look at her. Since all the windows are sealed up, the only light was from the stairway into the basement. But I could see enough to tell she wasn’t smiling. In fact, her whole demeanor seemed kind of tense.

“What’s a nice girl like you doing in a place like this?”

“Oh my God! Your face looks horrible!” she said, her eyes darting back and forth over my bruises. Even in the dimly reflected light from downstairs she could tell I’d been hurt.

“Like I haven’t heard
that
from a woman before,” I mumbled.

She paused for a moment and said, “I want to apologize to you. I completely overreacted. It wasn’t fair to you, especially since you were doing something nice for me. I’m sorry, and I hope we can be friends again.” She held out her hand, which I willingly shook. She kept talking. We kept holding hands. “When I thought you were dead, I guess it touched on a nerve. I’ve had people abandon me before, and it dredged up a lot of baggage that doesn’t belong to you.”

“Let’s not talk up here,” I said, “let’s head downstairs.” I let her lead the way and closed the trap door behind me.

Once we got downstairs, she took a quick look around. “Kevin, this is great! I didn’t really notice before! It’s warm, comfortable, it’s well lit, and it feels pretty . . . homey! My place is cold and dark!”

“Thanks,” I said, “I tried to think long-term and tried to have everything I’d need to be comfortable.” I told her about having the walls insulated, and the composting toilet, and the tankless water heater.

At one point she took me by the hand. I was startled, but then she led me into the grow room.

“I want to have a look at your nose,” she said, pulling me into the light. Nurse Michelle examined me closely and used both hands to gently prod the area around my nose. Her fingers were warm, but I winced at the pain. “It’s obvious zombies don’t have a sense of humor,” she said with a smile, “otherwise they’d have laughed when they saw you run into the wall! I know it’s not funny, but . . . actually it
is
kind of funny.” She was smiling.

She continued examining me and poking. I kind of liked the attention. And I liked her standing so close to me. But it still hurt.

Finally she seemed satisfied I was going to live. “You didn’t break it, so that’s a good thing. It’ll heal up just fine. A few weeks from now you won’t even be able to tell.” She looked around at the plants. “Holy crap, Kevin! Your plants look great!” It had been a month or so since she was last here—a month is a long time when you’re growing lettuce, herbs, and tomatoes.

I bragged to her about having fresh salad for weeks, and offered to give her some to take home. She said she’d rather eat it here, because my place is warmer and brighter than hers. I asked her if she was hungry, and she said that even if she wasn’t, she’d be crazy to turn down fresh salad.

I told her she was welcome to stay for dinner, but she’d have to earn it first. She looked at me suspiciously, like I was going to ask her to do something unsavory, and I told her I was going to make her pick her own lettuce. We went back into the grow room and I handed her a pair of scissors. I told her to cut off a few of the older, outside leaves from each plant. The plants continue to grow, and if you’re careful, you have a constant crop until the lettuce starts to bolt.

As I was telling her this, she was tenuously cutting leaves. A few cherry tomatoes were ripe, so we picked them as well. None of the peppers were ready yet, but I doubt she would have wanted them anyway—they’re really only for chili hot heads.

When we had a large bowl filled with lettuce, we went into the kitchen and I started tearing them into tinier pieces. She asked me why I wasn’t washing them first, and I explained to her there was no need—they were never exposed to any pesticides, there were no bugs to worry about, no dirt to wash off . . .

We’d picked plenty, and I added some raisins, sunflower seeds and croutons, then added some oil and vinegar (no refrigeration required) and we went into the living room to eat. I don’t have any kind of table.

We ended up watching a movie, comfortably sitting side by side on the sofa. It wasn’t a
movie
movie, more like a long music video. It was called
Koyanisqaatsi
and has a lot of time lapse video showing the serenity of nature contrasting with the hyperactivity of man. Phillip Glass did the sound track, and the music and visuals are perfect for each other.