Hungry for Your Love: An Anthology of Zombie Romance (9 page)

“S-s-s-s-stronger.” This is surprising. He usually lets her direct therapy. A bar is out of the question, of course. Not ethical.

“Don’t forget to use full sentences,” she reminds him in a slightly apologetic tone,evading the question. He’ll take it as a rebuke and she doesn’t mean it that way, just a reminder, her job. As for the bar, well, it’s not like given the choice she wouldn’t want to go somewhere with a bit more ambience than the local coffee house. She knows these trips into the community aren’t dates, even if they sometimes feel like it.

“How about dinner, then?” He offers this compromise with a smile, the kind she cannot refuse, the one so wide and open, childlike and honest, offering himself up in that perfect span of pearly white.

“Well done, Robert. Lovely phrasing. Very clear. Dinner?” She pauses, considers his request.

Dinner teeters on the edge of impropriety but doesn’t cross over. Besides, she should be working with his feeding skills. Hand to mouth is the occupational therapist’s realm, but lips to gut are hers. Biting, chewing, swallowing, jaw retraction: all are 78

legitimate therapeutic goals and necessary if he’s going to take his place as head of the family empire.

Dinner can be therapeutically justified. Okay, maybe rationalized is more accurate. She definitely won’t charge his insurance plan. He will pay for dinner but this extra time will be her treat, like going Dutch, like college, both so poor this the only way to be together more often than not.

“I don’t know a local restaurant that caters to your particular needs.” She won’t say brains, can’t say it. That word reminds her of all he is and all he isn’t. Besides the absence of a beating heart, the need for this particular kind of sustenance seems to mark the true difference between living and revenant, between zombie and man.

“I do.” It’s the ‘I’ that decides her, the Cartesian acknowledgement of the difference between brain and mind, the Augustinian assertion of self. There are the mindless, shambling dead, and there are the thoughtful undead, men and women of heart and soul, certainly more human than not. Robert is definitely one of the latter.

“You’ve been planning this. You knew I’d accept.”

“I hoped,” he says, remembering to use a full sentence as well as that small, bold pronoun that makes mammal man.

They stroll down the street, a leisurely pace that hides his stiff joints, the slight lurch in his every step. She has taken his left arm, the one slightly crooked, the muscles of it in definite need of an extra physical therapy session or two to get better extension and a wider range of motion. It’s gallant though, that arm, as tender as the stroll. The sun is setting, splashing the sky crimson and vermillion. It’s a flattering light for her and for him. The greenish tinge of his skin, so prominent under fluorescents, mellows in this 79

light, turning flesh-toned in the glow. And whatever stares come are not from those wondering at zombie and woman strolling arm in arm, but at two people walking a distance they could so much more easily drive.

His head tips to the left, towards her. His nose drinks her scent in a long, audible inhalation. “Mmmmmmmm,” he murmurs, exhaling, a yearning hum that sends chills down her spine.

“Mmmmm,” she responds, not just flattered at his desire, but aroused.

She’s good enough to eat
. She can hear it in his voice, feel it in the brush of his mouth against her hair. That she feels the slight skim of his teeth against her scalp only adds to her longing, his restraint admirable and extraordinary given his hunger and needs.

Has a man ever given up something so necessary thinking her even more essential?

Since the Zombie Wars and Zombie Peace, dating has frankly been a nightmare. Every man pulls out the line, “for the good of the species,” sometimes mere seconds after

“hello” and “pleased to meet you.” How many times has she sat in a Starbucks with a stranger on a first date to test the waters, one that never moves past, “let’s get it on for the good of mankind,” “you’re not getting any younger,” or her personal favorite, “I’m a rare commodity. I’ve got options,” the implication clear that she doesn’t?

Well, apparently she does, good ones.

He helps her off with her jacket, pulls out her chair. Only when she’s settled does he take his seat across from her, his eyes never leaving her face. She tells herself he’s gazing into her eyes, and maybe he is, although now and again she catches his eyes wandering up toward her hairline. He forces them back to hers after each lapse, accompanied by an apologetic shrug, a resigned sigh. It’s sweet how hard he tries, how 80

he wrestles with his nature, determined to be more human than not, for her sake and for his. It’s hard to resist and why should she, anyway?

It’s some time after the main meal, a few stray bits of Synth-brains still clinging to his plate, a few limp bits of salad on hers, that she decides to agree to a second date and whatever else may come. She watches him regretfully eye the remnants on his plate, forgoing the satisfaction of a final lick and slurp, denying himself the last bit of neural goodness to make a good impression. She’s definitely going to turn vegetarian. You can’t watch a zombie eat brains, even synthetic ones grown in Petri dishes just for this purpose, and not reconsider meat in any form. Even tofu may be out, unless it’s blended or extra firm. The slightest jiggle and wiggle makes her nauseous, too reminiscent of the last sixty minutes of zombie meets brains. Still, it’s a small thing to give up really, a minimal compromise, the kind good relationships, the best, are full of.

She watches the way he eyes her skull, surreptitiously of course, but obvious to anyone who spends any times with the living dead. No, she’ll never be able to fall asleep in his arms, not without a helmet at least. Yet even that seems a small price to pay for a man who takes such care, wants and needs, as any man, but is patient enough to enjoy the pursuit as much as the getting. She won’t ever have to worry about him falling asleep after making love. And while she’s not sure about children, there’s much about zombie human interactions that’s still unknown. There’s always adoption, a human girl, a Zombie boy, or vice versa, the perfect integrated family.

His hand stiffly slides across the table, waits, palm upward, for hers. “Happy?” he asks.

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“Yes,” she replies, a completely honest response. She is happy. She slips her hand into his, cool and comfortable—unexpectedly pleasant, actually, more than you’d think from something long dead. But then his dead isn’t, not really—a subtle but critical difference.

“Tomorrow?” Can a zombie wear his heart on his sleeve? If so, then Robert does just that, his heart and soul waiting for her answer.

“Full sentences...” she starts but then stops herself. She’s not his therapist anymore, can’t be. “Okay. Not dinner, though. Let’s save that for another night.” She’s going to have to work up to meals. As it is, she’s not sure if she’s going to keep this one down.

“Maybe the park? I love walks.”

“Walks. Mmmmmm,” he replies as if he can’t wait.

It’s a nice thought, that’s he’s as eager as she, that this isn’t about brains or loneliness, but something more. And who’s to say it isn’t true, that he can’t wait, that neither can she? Stranger things have happened, stranger loves have found each other, risked, and lasted.

There are worse things then falling in love with a zombie, making a life with someone not quite living and not quite dead. They’re proof enough of that.

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Eye of the Beholder

by Stacey Graham

Anna left the theater with the theme song swelling her head. Escaping through the fire exit door, she skirted around couples holding hands as they whispered about the credits. She had candy stuffed into her bag and a soda stain on her skirt. Who would care if she stuck to the shadows? Stepping out of the alley, she attempted to hug the dirty brick walls lining Times Square and avoid the tourists dressed in their best vacation gear, price tags still attached to the collars.

Eyes fixed on the filthy oil and God-knows-what stained concrete beneath her feet, Anna crossed Broadway, her hands clutching the cheap purse she’d bought on Canal Street weeks before. The smell of formaldehyde still clinging to the fabric, the bag reminded her of her last boyfriend—small, stinky, and not worth the money she’d spent on it—but she loved it. It was unfortunate that the chemicals used in making the bag had created an adverse allergic reaction, seizing Anna’s ability to breathe and slowly suffocating her a few days later. When she awoke in the morgue, she held the purse in a death grip, not content to release the faux Coach bag she’d died for, even in the half-life of the undead.

Through the excessive noise of the car horns and music of a half-naked cowboy, Anna’s eyes strayed from the pavement to a pair of lovers, caught in the harsh illumination of the street lamp that clashed with the gaudy lights of Times Square, their hands wandering and lips smashed in unnatural angles against skin. Anna lingered too long watching, mentally betting against herself on how long it would be before one of them took a breath, one that didn’t include the other’s carbon dioxide. Her head turning 83

back a moment too late, her body crashed into the figure dead ahead. As her cheek assaulted the soft gray wool of his suit jacket, she felt her skin tear away, leaving a rough spot that would take forever to patch up in the morning.

Awesome
, she thought.
How much more putty does a girl have to go through to
leave the house lately?
Clutching the torn skin on her face with her fingers, Anna turned to apologize. Zombie maintenance was getting expensive. Soon she’d be filling the holes with Spam in order to make it to the corner store, she thought with a wry grin.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t see…what are you doing?” she said. The man in the suit was on his hands and knees in the deepening twilight, searching the ground for something.

“Don’t step on it! I can’t get another one and those things squish. Sounds awful.”

His hands groping blindly, she dropped beside him to help. Her eyes darting under the tabloid paper boxes, their innards stuffed with news of the apocalypse, she heard him chuckle. “I finally get a girl to notice me and she’s helping to find an eyeball.”

“I’ve heard worse pickup lines,” she joked. Having a bond with someone who understands the delicate nuance of rotting flesh and protruding cheekbones made up for any awkwardness over missing orbs. Dropping her purse to the ground to get a better look under the paper boxes, she heard a distinct
pop
.

“Oh crap, I’m sorry.” With a grimace, she raised her bag to find the squashed remains of a blue-veined eye stuck to the bottom of her fake Coach hobo bag. Peeling what was left from the leather, viscous eye goo leaving a trail from the bag, she gave it to the man now standing over her, one hand covering the gaping hole in face.

“Blech. I hate it when this happens, it was inevitable, however.” His auburn hair tousled from the hunt and patches of dirt on his knees, he looked more of a teenager than 84

a grown zombie male slowly losing his parts due to a clumsy girl. Smiling at her now, she saw how his face was losing elasticity around the mouth, giving him a lopsided grin she hoped he was going for.

“Hold on, I can help.” Digging into her bag, Anna withdrew a small wad of putty.

Picking out the Tic Tac and a stray flimsy bubble of lint, she rolled the substance into a ball. Standing on tiptoe, Anna smiled into his good eye as she popped the putty into the hole and drew down his eyelid to a sultry half-lidded angle.

“I feel like I’m winking at people. The crazy guy on the corner just gave me the finger,” he said.

Her hand still on his chest to steady herself, Anna was reluctant to step back.

Since her untimely demise, most people avoided her due to the slight head roll and drooling. He made no move to extricate himself from her touch, and she wondered if rigor mortis had set in his legs. With a fetid sigh, Anna released her hold on him and turned away. Anna had had little luck with men while alive; why should it change now that she had pulse issues? Reaching down to pick up her beloved bag, she felt the cold fingers of her eyeball victim grasp her hand, drawing her back into his arms.

“I can’t move quickly anymore so chasing you down for a date is impossible” His words were spoken low and rough. Anna knew his vocal cords were disintegrating, giving him a sexy timbre. “But can I take you out for a bite to eat? I’m Michael, by the way.” Pausing to consider what zombies found appetizing, Anna wasn’t sure she could sample the buffet of humans stretching out before her in Times Square.

“Anna,” she said, pointing to herself. “I’m full, really. I ate a small family earlier and you know how they can make a girl bloat,” she said. Smiling up at him, her lips 85

straining over teeth in rotting gums, Anna didn’t mind how the garish lights of the city bounced off her mottled skin, creating an aura of mystery and rancid fascination. She felt beautiful for the first time in years and it had only taken death to prove it to her. “How about a tour of the city instead?”

Holding out his hand to hail a cab, he looked back to smile only to shake his head in amusement as a bus removed it from his wrist as it sped by. Horrified gasps from the top tier of the tour bus turned to sounds of vomiting as shoppers buried their heads in the black bags filled with ill-gotten goods from Canal Street. Anna knew that black bag well; it had housed her own death warrant, but she was powerless to warn them. The hand, now flattened in the street, was a lost cause.

“This has to be the worst first date in history,” he said. Tucking his arm into his suit jacket pocket, he grabbed her fingers with his remaining hand and said, “Let’s walk from here.”

Down the street, music flew from an open doorway. Its rhythm hard and heavy, it drew in crowds of the living and undead, both unable to resist its beat. Anna and her date walked past the doorman and into the club—apparently you don’t question a man missing an eye and a hand—and into the smoke-filled room. It was difficult to determine who was still breathing and who had just passed over by the look of the patrons. They all had the twitch of the dead after working in the city all summer.