Sex in the Time of Zombies

the sun had set several hours earlier and a darkness had fallen across the town that made it seem as if they had been plunged into the void of space. The days of street lamps and the soft glow of curtained windows were over; no headlights splayed across the soot stained walls, no winking neon or stop lights cycling through their array of colors. And on that particular night there wasn’t even the pale luminescence of moonlight to chase away the shadows.

With the darkness came silence as well. She’d never realized how noisy society was until it had all been taken away. The humming of air conditioners, traffic four blocks over hissing through rain-slick streets, the muffled beat of music seeping through the walls of bars and clubs: all those things were missing now. The million other tiny sounds her ears had learned to take for granted had been replaced with a silence so complete that only a high pitched ringing filled her ears.

And it was really the quiet that worried her most. They had ran their hands along the cinder-like edge of the counter and smeared the dark ash across their faces and arms commando style. They’d curled up beneath a black tarp Jeremy had found a few days back, had tried everything within their power to pass themselves off as just another cluster of shadows. So, in a sense, the darkness was their ally. Her boyfriend, however, had a tendency to talk in his sleep.

In the bedroom of their apartment it had been nothing more than softly muttered gibberish, not even loud enough to wake her if she were sleeping. But out here that same sound would be like a loudspeaker broadcasting in the night: we’re here, we’re hiding over here, come get us, come quick….

Which was one of the reasons sleep came in short, quick bursts. Even though she was so exhausted that her muscles felt as if they were made of overcooked spaghetti, she had to be ready. Ready to clamp her hand over Jeremy’s mouth, to push the words back into his throat if she could. Ready to keep her loved ones safe.

She didn’t have to worry about Mama, however. About two weeks earlier they’d been attempting to sneak through a heavily infested area just outside of Redfield. There were rumors of a FEMA rescue station nearby and her stepfather, Denny, had insisted on scouting the route ahead of them. They’d followed about fifty yards behind and hid behind dumpsters or wrecked cars when he’d form his hand into a fist and then move on when he’d wave. Start and stop. Duck and hide, picking their way through the rubble and debris of a once proud society. But then he’d been pulled down by a pack of corpses that seemed to appear from nowhere, ripped apart right before their very eyes. Sometimes she’d still see him in her dreams: the way he fought and clawed and punched even as his knees buckled from the force of the assault… the bright, crimson arc of blood that spurted with slow-motion clarity as teeth pulled strands of flesh and muscle from a throat no longer capable of producing sound. He’d been a good husband and decent stepfather but, in the end, had made a horrible scout. He should have pushed his ego aside and listened to her suggestions instead of simply shrugging them off. Maybe if she’d been the one running point things would’ve turned out differently.

But she’d learned quickly that in this new world regrets could quickly get your ass killed.

You had to focus on the here and now, to push memory into the farthest corners of your mind and bury it beneath the weight of more pressing concerns. Food. Clean water. Shelter and survival.

The future operated on the same principle. In her previous life she’d had dreams: she’d finish college, get a job with a decent newspaper in a medium size town, get married, kids eventually. At some hazy point on the timeline of her life, the grandchildren would come bursting through the front door with squeals of Grandma! ; she’d shower them with hugs and treats and smile serenely at the man by her side… the man whose face she’d seen morph from the smooth flesh of the young into a wrinkled mask of experience. But things had changed, hadn’t they? Hopes and ambitions were now exclusively short-term; her ambitions had been reduced to making it through yet another night alive, of finding that mythical pocket of society that had somehow been untouched by the insanity that had swept over the world like a tsunami of death and mutilation. Life had been reduced to an almost constant state of now and those who dared to dream too long would quickly find themselves wrapped in the darkness of a sleep from which they would never awaken.

The world had changed. And she, in turn, had been forced to change with it.

The sun had just begun to paint the eastern horizon with streaks of amber and orange when she heard it: a scuffling sound from outside, so soft and furtive that it was almost lost beneath the rhythmic lull of her companions’ breathing. Footsteps? The sound of well-worn soles sliding over concrete and asphalt?

She closed her eyes and tried to listen for the sounds to repeat, to lock in their distance and general location; but her heart hammered in her chest with such force that she could only hear the whooshing of blood as it surged through her veins.

The cold hand of fear squeezed her stomach and caused bile to shoot up through her esophagus and flooded her mouth with stinging bitterness; beads of sweat dotted her forehead and the muscle below her left eye twitched like a caged bird longing for flight.

She held her breath.

Remained perfectly still.

Listening.

Praying.

Maybe it had only been the breeze. A yellowed scrap of newspaper, perhaps. Or a small animal. Dogs and cats were few and far between these days, having been hunted almost to extinction by the same masters who’d once showered them with toys and treats. They were rare, but not entirely unheard of.

Could that be it then? Nothing more than a mangy cur scavenging for carrion?

She took a breath through her nostrils so slowly that it took nearly ten seconds for her lungs to fill. She could smell the musty scent of age within the store, the smoky ghost of the fire that had gutted this place and refused to leave its haunt… the sharp bite of dried sweat. If the stench of rotting flesh existed outside the shattered shop window, it was masked by these other odors.

But surely the reek of a rotter would’ve overpowered them? It had been so hot lately that the sun-bloated corpses who staggered across the landscape traveled in a cloud of fetor so repugnant that even the flies shunned them.

Had she imagined it all? Perhaps she’d slipped into sleep for a fraction of a second and her mind had amplified the sound of the tarp shifting into something much more sinister?

That had to be it. The dead were notoriously noisy, caring not for stealth or cunning.

While it was true that they didn’t grunt or growl or groan, they were clumsy for the most part and prone to knocking over precariously balanced piles of rubble or kicking old bottles as they shuffled forward. Surely a freshie or rotter would’ve tripped across the string of tin cans she’d tied between the splintered telephone pole and an old parking meter by now; they weren’t smart enough to avoid traps, after all. Not even such primitive early detection systems as her’s.

Mere feet away, something thumped against the floorboards of the store and every muscle in her body tensed.

Fight or run? Shit, how many of them are there? Shit, shit, shit….

A long, slow creak as the wooden planks flexed beneath the weight of the intruder.

Just one. Has to be. More would be nosier. I can deal with just one. I know I can.

Her hand began crawling across the floor as if of its own accord, its fingertips searching for the cool reassurance of the tire iron.

Two blows. Quick crack to the skull to stun it. Then plunge the business end into the eye socket, go for the brain, use all your strength, all your weight, drive that fucker home.

The muscles in her arms and legs had begun to quiver with a mixture of fear and adrenaline; her heart thudded out a cryptic message in Morse code, and her throat felt as if it had somehow expanded to allow more air to flow into her lungs.

You can do this, girl. You wake up Mama and Jeremy and they’ll be dead before they’ve even cleared the cobwebs outta their minds. You have to do this.

Her fingers wrapped around the smooth metal of the tire tool and she lifted it from the floor so slowly that it almost seemed as if she suspected it would disintegrate if hoisted too quickly. Though her palms were warm and slick, the weight of the weapon immediately caused her breathing to even out.

Drop that fucker fast and then get the hell outta here…