Love, Lust, and Zombies Read online

  LOVE, LUST AND ZOMBIES

  LOVE, LUST AND ZOMBIES

  SHORT FICTION

  EDITED BY

  MITZI SZERETO

  Copyright © 2015 by Mitzi Szereto.

  All rights reserved. Except for brief passages quoted in newspaper, magazine, radio, television, or online reviews, no part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying or recording, or by information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  Published in the United States by Cleis Press, an imprint of Start Midnight, LLC, 609 Greenwich Street, Sixth Floor, New York, New York 10014.

  Printed in the United States.

  Cover design: Scott Idleman/Blink

  Cover photograph:

  Text design: Frank Wiedemann

  First Edition.

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  Trade paper ISBN: 978-1-62778-119-0

  E-book ISBN: (TK)

  Contents

  Foreword • MARK ONSPAUGH

  Introduction

  Vanilla • JANICE EIDUS

  In the Red Light • A. M. HARTNETT

  Smile • LAURA HUNTLEY

  Dead from the Waist Down • AUGUST KERT

  Sweeter than to Wake • THANA NIVEAU

  The Wild Ones • ERIN O’RIORDAN

  So You Want to Date a Zombie? • SHANE VAUGHAN

  Still • DELILAH DEVLIN

  The Dying Time • E. C. MYERS

  My Zombie, My Lover • MITZI SZERETO

  Come Back to Me •CHANTAL NOORDELOOS

  Not Ready to Let Go • DEANNA K. DEAVERS

  Night of the Lovin‘ Dead • ASHLEY LISTER

  Under a Perfect Sun • ZANDER VYNE

  About the Authors

  About the Editor

  Yeah, I know I’m ugly… I said to a bartender,

  “Make me a zombie.”

  He said, “God beat me to it.”

  —Rodney Dangerfield

  FOREWORD: LOVE AND DEATH

  Mark Onspaugh

  “So then, what do you believe in?”

  “Sex and death. Two things that come once in my lifetime.

  But at least after death you’re not nauseous.”

  —Woody Allen

  Sigmund Freud, many feel, was responsible for the notion that human beings are driven by two powerful but opposing forces or drives, lust (eros) and death (thanatos). One can lead to procreation and perpetuation, the other to cessation and (perhaps) oblivion.

  But human beings have been putting a face on both Lust and Death long before Freud got his MD in Vienna. And humans, being creative and somewhat perverse, would sometimes pair the two.

  Not sex and death, sex with death.

  In the 1400s, Europe had its fair share of troubles, what with the Hundred Years’ War and the ever-popular Black Death. The Black Death, the species highpoint for rats and fleas the world over, killed off 30-60% of the population. (That’s a big disparity, and one only hopes that the next plague—zombies?— will keep better records.) By the way, here’s a fun fact for you rodent buffs: some of the Plague was spread by marmots, but historians seem loath to say that Europe was nearly wiped out by woodchucks.

  Anyway, all this death and decay got artists thinking. Death struck everyone down, whether king or pauper, young or old, naughty or nice. This led to various allegorical paintings called The Dance of Death (Danse Macabre) where Death leads various folks in a conga line with an unpleasant destination: the grave. Poe, of course, revisited this gruesome theme in 1842 with the ultimate party crasher in “The Masque of the Red Death,” and it would be 135 years before John Travolta and the Bee Gees would strike back for party hosts everywhere with “Stayin’ Alive” in Saturday Night Fever (1977).

  Because human beings are not content with the same old same old, someone came up with a wrinkle—Death “dancing” with one partner. These works usually featured Death as a sinister, decaying fellow fondling a comely maiden. One of the best known of these works is Der Tod und das Mädchen, painted in 1517 by Hans Baldung, a student of Albrecht Dürer. What I find remarkable about this work is not that the woman cowers before this rotting corpse, but that there is an erotic subtext to the painting—she cowers, but she is also attracted to him.

  Of course, various mythological tales often portrayed the love of Death for a mortal, Death sometimes being the lonely king or queen of the underworld. Such tales seem as old as storytelling itself.

  In the years since, the arts and popular culture have visited this theme again and again—Death pairing up with various partners. Sometimes Death is represented by a handsome actor, whether Fredric March in Death Takes a Holiday (1934) or Brad Pitt in the remake Meet Joe Black (1998). Sometimes Death is a handsome/beautiful vampire, or mummy, or ghost, but we all know that, for most, Death represents corruption and decay, worm food that will leave behind bones that eventually turn to dust.

  In a world of zombies (in whatever form—supernatural, Romeroesque, slow or fast), why would anyone choose to love and/or lust after them? Is it some primal desire to pair those great id urges, eros and thanatos? Is it a means to hold on to a loved one? A chance to rekindle humanity, in both the undead and the living? Is it for revenge, or a perverse attraction to rot and ruin? Is it rebellion against convention, to pursue the ultimate bad boy or girl, who rots and hungers for us quite literally?

  There is no single answer. Humans can’t be pigeonholed into neat little compartments. We defy normality, we eschew the average. We question, we invent, we explore. The reasons for such pairings would be as diverse as we are.

  Before you are fourteen remarkable tales that examine the directions that Love and/or Lust may take when Death is personified, when the grave is no longer for restful sleep, but rather the awakening of dreadful (and all too human) appetites.

  Be moved, be aroused…and be alert for the scratching at your bedroom door.

  INTRODUCTION

  Let’s face it: zombies are hot, and baby, they’re getting hotter. Although not the most traditional of sex symbols (at least not for most people), zombies are coming into their own. You see them everywhere: landing on the silver screen in romantic roles, ambling and shambling across television screens and the pages of novels, maybe even shopping for brains at your local supermarket. Frankly, I wouldn’t be at all surprised if we soon start seeing them posing provocatively in magazine centerfolds. (I wonder if this is what Hugh Hefner had in mind all those years ago when he started his magazine?) Next thing you know, we’ll have X-rated zombie channels featuring zombie skin flicks (providing there’s any skin left on them). Perhaps not the ultimate in high culture, but at least you’ll know all those grunts and groans and moans are real rather than fake.

  Still not convinced? Then you need to start thinking outside the box. Zombies have evolved—they’re not from the wrong side of the tracks anymore. Gone are those one-dimensional gut-munching charmers from George A. Romero’s grim and gruesome 1960s flick Night of the Living Dead. Those were old-school zombies. Even the flesh-hungry characters from the hit TV series “The Walking Dead” are showing a bit more savvy and chutzpah than their predecessors. Zombies have a lot more to offer these days, and thank goodness we non-zombies are finally beginning to realize it!

  But can zombies be sexy? Why the hell not? Beauty is in the eye of the beholder. After all, when is the last time you took a really long hard look at the person you wake up next to every morning?

  Zombies are infiltrating and enriching our daily lives, so isn’t it about time they had their more…er…romantic and sexy sides showcased? It’s my goal as editor of Love, Lust and Zombies to help make this happen. This anthology featu
res a talented international cast of writers who work across the genres, from horror, sci-fi/fantasy and paranormal to mainstream and erotic fiction. Their stories run the gamut—from apocalyptic, horror and romance, to tongue-in-cheek comedy—and all with a helping of sex. And yes, these writers love zombies.

  And you’re going to love them too! In fact, you’re—

  Hey! What’s that shuffling sound I hear outside my front door? It’s a bit late for a delivery van and no one else ever comes to these woods, especially after dark. I guess I’d better go see who it is. Might even be some pesky critter roaming around foraging for food. You get a lot of that up here.

  I don’t believe it—now whoever it is has started banging on the door. “Okay, I’ll be right there!” Boy, some people are sure impatient.

  I’ll be back in a min—

  Mitzi Szereto

  (Writing from a log cabin in the mountains of Appalachia)

  VANILLA

  Janice Eidus

  I‘m a vanilla kind of person, not edgy at all, or so my college friends would tell me. When we sat around in our dorm sharing sexual fantasies, I’d feel embarrassed by theirs, and they’d yawn during mine, which always featured missionary position and not much else.

  They’re right, I guess. Being vanilla shows even in my choice of profession. I’ve been a librarian since I graduated from college a few years ago, and it’s a pretty vanilla job. I was drawn to it, the same way my friends were drawn to their more glamorous jobs: personal assistant to a TV producer; Apple support person; jingle writer for commercials.

  I, on the other hand, was drawn to the quiet and peacefulness of the librarian’s world. No bringing work home with me; no being on call 24/7. I love the long stretches of time that go by between queries from the library’s patrons.

  But right now, as this oddly attractive, craggy-faced gentleman approaches my desk at the library, my heart begins to skip, and I feel a shortness of breath. I immediately grow wet in a place I rarely do—not a vanilla response at all. I have to put up my guard. I must protect myself from this man who brings out such feelings in me. I cannot desire someone so strongly, so quickly. It’s not who I am.

  He asks in a strong, commanding voice, unlike the typical patron who approaches me with diffidence, for a recommendation of encyclopedias. His blue eyes are insanely intense; they trap me in his gaze. I drink him in, all of him, wanting to gaze at every inch of him, including his privates. But no, I resist by staring down at my hands in my lap. My mind is utterly blank; I can’t remember what an encyclopedia is. I have an almost irresistible urge to throw myself into his arms. Before I can calm myself enough to attempt to respond to his query, he leans across my desk so that his face is only an inch or two away from mine. He smells of strange cologne, reminiscent of a deep, rich, wet soil. Not ordinarily enticing to me and yet on him, overwhelmingly sensual, not a word that often comes to my mind. My heart is jackhammering inside my chest.

  In a voice low, powerful and determined, letting me know he won’t take no for an answer, he says, “You’ll meet me when you get off from work tonight. You’re going to the movies with me.” I nod like an automaton. As he walks away, I blink and shake my head, to clear myself of him. I watch him stride quickly away, toward the doors of the library. He doesn’t glance back, and he’s gone in a heartbeat. I’m so wet down there, I worry about soiling my underwear. I’m embarrassed and look around the library to make sure none of the other patrons see what’s going on with me, as I squirm in my seat like a besotted schoolgirl. Luckily, everyone on the floor appears engaged in his or her own private tasks, and no eyes are on me.

  I head to the ladies’ room, leaving my desk unattended, and splash cold water on my face, neck, collarbone. The sharp cold is an affront to my heated flesh. As my breathing finally returns to normal, I stare in the mirror at my still-flushed face and try to figure out what was so compelling about him, why I so quickly betrayed my vision of myself for him. It wasn’t his complexion, that’s for sure, which was pasty with a grayish tinge—like he’s never been in the sun in his life. Was it that cologne? Or those piercing blue eyes? Or his shaggy, longish hair—very unkempt— not usually my taste, but on him, so sensual. There’s that word again. Against my will, I imagine myself in bed with him, and I see my hands grabbing at his hair, pulling it as I scream with pleasure. I am not myself, and it—and he—scares me.

  And now I’m sitting in this dark movie theater right next to him, just as he had commanded me to. He’s in jeans and a white T-shirt, which brings out his pasty complexion even more, but also shows off his firm muscles. Once more, I drink in his dense, rich smell. He hasn’t spoken much since he met me outside the library at sunset. I’m glad I dressed neatly this morning in a green cable-knit sweater and a gold heart on a chain around my neck. I want him to find me totally conventional, so he won’t get any ideas about sex on a first date, despite my fantasies, which are raging wild as I now imagine him riding me from the back, his eyes wide open. I grow wet again.

  And the movie he’s chosen for us to see! I can hardly follow it. I have to keep averting my eyes. It’s about dead bodies that come back to life and terrorize a group of people trapped in a farmhouse. Nothing overtly sexual about it, and yet I find myself lusting after the robotic zombies as if they are heartthrob leading men, and as if I’m not the tame vanilla girl I know myself to be.

  “It’s a classic,” he says to me as the movie—thank goodness!—finally comes to its gory end. He grabs my arm and steers me out of the theater. The touch of his sandpapery hand on my elbow feels dizzying—strong yet ephemeral all at once. I blink to clear my head of the fantasy of him now pulling my hair and making me scream with painful pleasure.

  “Now we eat,” he says, and I follow him without protest to a noisy, harshly lit neighborhood deli he appears to know well. Really, I would prefer the kind of quiet, dimly lit bistro known for its wine list and elegant salads. “Order the BLT,” he tells me, holding me in his gaze once again. His voice is even more commanding than before. “It will put meat on you.”

  What an odd thing to say! Does he think I’m too skinny? I really want a small green salad, but despite myself I do his bidding and order the BLT. He’s like a force of nature. Touch me, an inner voice is crying out, waiting for him to slide his hands over my breasts and belly and down below. But I must continue to seem calm on the outside. I don’t want him to sense my turmoil.

  I wait for him to order after me, but he says, “I won’t be eating yet.” He sends the waiter away, and stares at me with those intense blue eyes. “I’m building up an appetite.” He smiles and I see that his teeth aren’t great; some of them are ragged-edged and some are dark like night. He could use some serious dental work. Not that it takes away from his looks, though—and the powerful effect he has on me. As I bite into my sandwich, I imagine the bread as his flesh. He watches every bite I take, licking his lips a few times. He seems hungrier than I am although he’s not the one eating. Is this some kind of kinky foreplay? If so, I shouldn’t be playing along but I can’t stop myself.

  “Have dessert,” he says, in his commanding tone, when I’ve finished my sandwich. “I like to watch you eat. The way you take tiny bites. The way you swallow delicately. Your relationship to food.” He pauses, and then resumes. “So tentative. So different from mine.” He pauses again. “Now order the ice cream. It’s homemade.”

  Obediently, I order a scoop of vanilla in a bowl, the flavor that should calm me and return me to myself. He doesn’t take his eyes off me as I eat. My body is hot, and I feel self-conscious licking the cold, creamy ice cream off my spoon, while his eyes never leave my face and he runs his tongue over his narrow, chapped lips. I imagine those lips touching my own; I imagine his teeth sinking hard into my flesh and drawing blood.

  When I’m done, he pays the check and we walk out into the warm spring evening. His silence unnerves me. I force myself to be brave, to initiate conversation. “That movie, why do you like it so much?”
My shaky voice betrays me, and I toss my head to rid myself of my latest fantasy of him sucking and licking my fingers and toes, his tongue sharp as a razor.

  He’s quiet for a long moment as we stroll. “The plight of the living dead speaks to me,” he says, matter-of-factly.

  “But aren’t we meant to side with the victims, to care about their plight?” I’m confused.

  It’s his turn to shrug. He touches my elbow again and I feel his coarse, rugged skin. “Depends on who’s doing the viewing.”

  Is this his idea of a joke? Does he have some sort of wry sense of humor that I just don’t get? Is he deliberately trying to rattle me? But why me? Did he choose me because I seem innocent, the kind of female a misogynist could walk all over?

  “In here,” he says, pointing to the entrance of a little park I’ve never noticed before. It’s dark out, and I’m not one for going into parks after sunset. But once again I do as he says, without hesitation. It’s as if my will has been drained from me. I picture him throwing me onto a park bench, having his way with me in public, cloaked only by the dark of night.

  We find a bench beneath a large tree inside the seemingly deserted park.

  “What kind of work do you do?” I ask, my voice still shaky.

  “Did. Not do. I took a very early retirement.” He smiles widely, as if I’ve just told him a joke, showing off those bad teeth again. “I was a rock musician in a band. We toured a lot, I made enough money, I tired of the fast life, I retired young. Took the easy way out. Didn’t have any more life left in me.”

  Rock musician—well, that certainly explains his edge. And probably the bad teeth and white pallor. I imagine all the groupies he had, one after another, night after night, each of them catering to his kinky whims, allowing him to douse them with whipped cream, to cruelly tickle them with feathers, to tightly bind their hands and feet, to enter them rapidly and fiercely. But what I still can’t figure out is why he’s interested in me.