Hungry for Your Love: An Anthology of Zombie Romance (33 page)

of her excitement, and it made my head swim. She bent down and touched my cheek.

“I’m going to get on top of you, all right?”

Yeah, it was. She straddled me and lowered herself until she rested on her knees astride my lap with my penis standing just before her. She licked her fingers and worked the saliva around my head and shaft. “Look at you!” she said and laughed. “ You’re still so hard!” She was right.

“Now just relax. It’s okay. Let me do it.” She opened herself with one hand, grasping me with the other as she rose up on her knees, leaned forward, and backed into me until she could ease me into her. Her mouth opened with a little quaver as my penis slipped past her slick folds, and we both breathed out sharply. “Thaaaat’s it….” She groaned. She arched forward and back, holding on to my shoulders for support as she leaned into my chest and rode me. She closed her eyes and let her head loll as she rocked and grinded into me. The sound of her sharp breaths and languid moaning was sheer music to me; hearing it made me prouder than anything I had ever done before.

I reached up to gently knead her breasts; then slid my hands down her sides and held her by the hips, experimenting with what I could do with the angle of my own pelvis. She encouraged my initiative. “Ummm, yes…put your hands there…yes, just like that…yes, ooooh, that’s it, I like that. Good…” She closed her eyes, and bit her lip with a deep sigh. I grabbed her butt and pulled her into me more. “God, yes!” she exclaimed, then she was coming. What a show; I could feel her whole body tense and the muscles inside her quivering. She stiffened and opened her mouth to cry out silently. She clung to my shoulders and suddenly dropped down and seized my face with both hands to kiss me 303

with her wet, open mouth again and again. At the touch of her lips and tongue on mine, I came again, even harder than the first time. Such a rush. My first kiss.

The moon never seemed so big and full. She lay across me, head resting on my chest, her hand on my heart. I ran my hand through her hair. “Jeremy?”

“Ms. Baymiller?”

“Um…maybe you should start calling me Angela.”

“Okay.”

“Tell me something.”

“Anything.”

“Are you eighteen yet?”

I kept petting her head. “Yeah, don’t worry. Besides, your teaching career has bigger problems.” You’d have thought I’d be wired all night. I sure did. But I was sleeping like a baby before I knew it.

I woke up the next morning feeling like a million bucks. The sun was up and birds were singing. It was going to be a gorgeous day. I yawned and reached over for Ms.

Baymiller—I mean, Angela. But she was gone. I shot up with a start and called out her name. “I’m right here, sweetheart. Just getting dressed.” She was standing behind me on the other side of the room, just out of my sight. I expected to see her in her usual academic elegance, in smart blouse, skirt and heels. But instead there was a Valkyrie in her place: hair pulled back into a ponytail, wearing a sports bra, a set of skateboarder’s elbow pads and wrist guards, and some sort of rigid medical neck brace to protect her throat. She had taken scissors to her classic herringbone skirt, and now it was twice as short and slit nearly all the way up. She wore the dead patrolman’s motorcycle boots and 304

belt, his pistol back in the holster. She slipped a big bowie knife into her boot. I had never seen a sexier woman in my life.

She checked the shotgun, and set it on the desk next to a line up of all the knives from the teacher’s kitchenette. “There are still some good things in the principal’s confiscated items box, though it’s mostly just illegal fireworks and porn. Have you ever shot a hand crossbow?” She walked up and crouched down to give me a peck on the cheek. “Morning, handsome. Like the new outfit?”

“I really do.”

She tousled my hair and grinned. “Get dressed, cowboy. I’m going to go get the keys to Caruthers’s Range Rover. It’s parked just right there. I think we can reach it with no problem. Then we can go shopping, try to pick up some news on the radio, head for safer ground.”

Sounded like a plan, I agreed. She left me to get suited up. Now, where did my clothes go? I found my shorts and was still looking for the rest when I heard a crash from somewhere beyond the hall. I froze, then after a few heartbeats I stepped to the doorway and listened. “Angela?” Nothing. I went back to the desk and picked up the shotgun.

Then I heard her: “Jeremy! Come quick!” As I ran down the hallways, I heard her add, “It’s Dee Dee!”
Oh no. I was wrong about them not being able crawl up the air
ducts.
“Angela, don’t!” But it was too late.

Dee Dee looked like hell, but enough like a lost waif that no wonder Angela came up to help her. The late cheerleader made a keening noise just like a crying child, and stumbled towards her with arms out wide. They embraced just I ran into the room. Dee Dee seized her and buried her head into Angela’s shoulders. I raised the shotgun, 305

knowing that if her bite connected, I would have to shoot both of them. But had it? Had her protective gear held up? I couldn’t shoot till I knew for sure. Goddamn it! “Angela!”

Dee Dee raised her head from Angela’s shoulder and looked at me with tear-filled human eyes. “McGowan?” I lowered the shotgun, unbelieving. She hadn’t turned. “You son of a bitch, I thought you were coming right back!” She broke their hug and came at me, but instead of clobbering me, she grabbed me and hugged me too. One miracle after another. “Were you just trying to shoot us, McGowan?”

I ducked the question. “Dee Dee? You’re alive? But…I saw the bite…”

She rolled her eyes. “Jeez, Jerry, I told you it was just a hickey, already.” She pulled down her collar enough for me to see. So it was. It had looked worse yesterday when she was all covered in sweat and blood-splattered and growling at me in her sleep. I guess yesterday wasn’t my finest day for decision-making, though it did shape up nicely in the end.

“Jesus—I thought the zombies had gotten you. Would have saved a lot of trouble if you had just shown it to me when I asked you.”

“Zombies? What? I didn’t even get it then. I got it the night before…from Stephanie. We were, um—trying something.”

Angela looked at her. “
Stephanie
gave you that? Dee Dee, that’s just…” she struggled for the right word. “…sexy.”

And right then, I realized that zombie apocalypse or no, everything was going to work out just fine.

306

First Date

by Dana Fredsti

I blame E-Compatibility. According to their Compatibility Matching System®, Barry and I were a match made in heaven, or at least the Financial District. I'm here to tell you E-Compatibility sucks.

My date and I sat across from each other in a booth in the Royal Bank next to the window facing Sacramento Street and Embarcadero One. The Bank is a well-known bar with good grub that caters to the Financial District's insurance crowd. I'm partial to their steak salad. Their wine list is eh, but if you're a beer drinker, the Bank is your place. My date, a thirty-something Gecko wannabe with slicked-back hair ten years out of style, wallowed happily in his third Guinness; I sipped on my first glass of an indifferent zinfandel and wished I'd gone home after work. True, I'd be alone in my small studio apartment, but I'd be drinking better wine and not listening to my date blather on about capital gains, due diligence, and profit margins.

I work as an office manager in a venture capital firm and sure, I hear business jargon on a daily basis, but I pretty much tuned it out unless it directly related to my job.

I ordered supplies, made sure the place was clean every morning with no coffee cups lying around unwashed, and provided office hospitality by dint of the fact my desk was in the lobby and I actually like people. And did I mention I have a great smile? Seriously.

Courtesy of my days on the beauty pageant circuit.

It helps to have auto-smile in one's repertoire, especially first thing in the morning when you haven't had your first cup of coffee and six executives from some potential 307

portfolio company show up a half hour early for an eight a.m. meeting. Helps me say,

"Can I get you some coffee or tea?" without "accidentally" pouring the steaming hot liquid of their choice on the laps of the occasional elitist jerk who comes in. It helped now as Barry ("Call me "Bare, hahahahah!") did his best to impress me with how much he could talk about himself without once asking me my opinion or any information about me at all. This guy was more self-absorbed than a six-pack of sponges.

Did I mention E-Compatibility sucks?

I mean, honestly, we had zilch chemistry. I could see how some women might find him attractive, but he sent nary a tingle to my loins. My nipples stayed distinctly unerect, totally uninterested in the man sitting across from me.

And his taste in movies? Jeez, Louise. When I asked him what his favorite horror movie was, Barry's answer wasn't
Dawn of the Dead
,
Halloween
(the original, thank you!

I don't acknowledge Rob Zombie's crappy remake) or even
The Grudge
. "That's easy," he said, taking huge bite of his club sandwich. "
Hostel
. I mean, that's just balls-to-the-wall horror—" (I hate that expression and curse Eli Roth whenever I hear it) "—especially the part where the dude blowtorches the Japanese chick and her eye falls out." Bits of rye bread and cheese fell out of his mouth as he talked.

"That's torture porn, not horror."

"Eh,

same

difference."

I focused on ungritting my teeth, choosing not to reply to such an idiotic statement.

308

I tried not to watch as a slice of bacon tried to escape Barry's Hoover-style dining, only to be snagged at the last minute between his teeth. He tossed his head back like a seal setting up a fish for the kill and the bacon vanished down his gullet.

"Can I get you another glass of the zinfandel?"

I looked up at our waiter and smiled my first genuine smile of the evening. He was cute, kind of David Boreanz circa
Angel
, but without the goofy, spiked, over-gelled hair. Plus he had a really cute Brit accent. "Sure. Unless you'd recommend something else." Just a little bit of innuendo there, I admit it.

"You

like

red?"

I nodded.

"I'll see what I can do." Cutie-boy grinned at me. My body responded with an unexpected tingle of heat between my thighs. An unspoken message passed between us, a mutual interest expressed with pheromones and eye contact.

He turned to Barry, but before he could say anything, my charming date snapped

"Another Guinness," with all the manners of a testy three-year-old.

A scream from outside distracted all of our attention.

Suddenly a woman slammed into the window like an oversized bug, her bloodied face plastered in a scream.. Her blue eyes, wide with pain and terror, met mine in an imploring stare, as if I could do something to help her from my side of the window. She was close enough to kiss if not for the piece of glass separating us. I watched in stunned disbelief as a heavyset man in a Starbucks uniform ripped into her neck with his teeth and tore out a chunk of flesh. Arterial blood spurted out over the window and the woman slid 309

down out of sight, the bloodthirsty barista battened onto her like a lion taking down a gazelle.

"What the fuck?" Barry stared at the gore-streaked glass. Our waiter shared his look of incredulous horror.

"We have to help her." I was halfway out of the booth before the words left my mouth.

"Are you fucking nuts?" Barry reached over the table and grabbed my wrist before I got up. "She's dead."

I jerked my wrist free. "How do you know she's dead?" I started to stand, but was stopped by Cutie-boy's hand on my shoulder.

"That guy tore out her carotid artery. She's bled out by now."

"And that dude is totally insane." Barry shook his head. "I mean..." He looked outside and gulped. "He's eating her."

No way. I slid back across the booth to the window and looked down. The barista's teeth were buried in the woman's neck, his head moving back and forth as he worried a chunk of flesh free—and swallowed it. He couldn't possibly have heard my choked gasp, but his head snapped around and he glared up at me with the soulless bluish-white eyes of a corpse, all color leached out of the cornea. Blood, tissue, and gristly bits of flesh coated his mouth, a flap of skin hanging from his bottom lip.

Our booth was semi-private with tall backs separating it from the ones on either side, so the other diners hadn't seen the incident, but they'd heard the screams. Outside, cars swerved to avoid several bystanders who'd seen the incident and now ran across the street. Others weren't so fast, stumbling towards the Royal Bank as if they couldn't quite 310

control their limbs. A gypsy cab didn't maneuver fast enough and slammed into a woman in a power suit staggering across Sacramento. She flew into the air and landed hard on the street. A red Escalade rear-ended the cab, only to be sideswiped by a Smart Car. The result was inevitable. But when Power Suit gal staggered to her feet, blood and fluids leaking out of a smashed body, and lurched towards our window. No one could have foreseen that.

I suddenly noticed a growing number of people like Power Suit Gal among the normal-looking concerned bystanders. People with skin a sickly pallor, clothing either askew or ripped, and, well, pieces missing from their flesh. Things dangling out of gaping wounds that should be safely tucked away. Like intestines. It was like one of those stupid 3-D pictures, where you stare and stare at it and suddenly see a hidden image within the patterns. In this case, I suddenly saw a lot of fucked-up people. And they were attacking the people who weren't fucked up. And by “attacking,” I'm talking full-on, flesh-ripping, gut-tearing, eviscerating mauling.

Shit.

"Zombies," said our waiter.

"You're right," I said.

"Are you both fucking crazy?" Barry looked at us as though we were the ones chewing out throats and swallowing chunks of flesh, like we were responsible for the carnage outside.