It’s here at last – my final post for the Blogging from A to Z Challenge. Those of you who know me well might have guessed already that I took on this infernal challenge for one reason only – the chance to get my zombies out again. After all, it’s sort of obvious, isn’t it? ‘Z’ is for zombies… It couldn’t be for anything else. And to celebrate reaching the end of this epic series of 26 posts, I’m giving you a whole story today rather than an excerpt. It’s one of my favourites from my Zombie Erotoclypse collection – “I was a Teenage Zombie Virgin.” As writer Delilah Night says in her review of Zombie Erotoclypse, this story “features the sweetest end to a zombie love story” – which makes it perfect to the end of my A to Z blog challenge!
I was a Teenage Zombie Virgin
In the eighteen years between first infection and the discovery of the cure, the Zombie Plague claimed the lives of more than one billion people around the world. And for a lot of those people it was a long, drawn out death. First the infection and the descent into zombie-hood. Then the inevitable chase, capture and transportation to one of the zombie death camps that sprung up across the country. Infection rates were rapid and killing known zombies was the only way to get the plague under control. But it was as inhuman as the zombies were themselves—more so, in fact. Because inside each zombie, there was still the vestige of the man, woman or child he or she had once been. I know that for certain and I can say it with authority.
Because for two years, before I became one of the lucky ones given the cure, I was a teenage zombie. John Marsh, dead man walking. This is a story of survival and a story of coming of age. My survival and my coming of age. Both were hard won.
The Zombie Plague was already a year old when I was born, so I was truly a child of the zombie era. My parents were both croupiers and we lived in Vegas—by the time I can remember anything, humans were inside the security cordon and the zombies roamed outside. The early years were pretty hair-raising, according to my mom and dad, but once the zombie-free zone was in place and secure, life went pretty much back to normal. Anyway, that was normality for me and the rest of my generation: the zombie patrols, the sirens and claxons which indicated zombie on the loose, the midnight raids when a neighbor’s infected family-member would be disappeared in the back of an armored van. Opposite my bedroom window was an advertising billboard: Call Z11 if your neighbor starts acting zombie.
Acting zombie. That was the bogeyman from my childhood. The playground taunt that we pretended was in jest but which frightened us witless at night after the lights were out. Our teachers and our enemies were always acting zombie but none of us had seen a real zombie in the flesh. Just grainy images from the television news which tried to play down the threat while keeping us ever vigilant.
The first actual zombie I saw was the one that bit me when I’d just turned sixteen.
He came at me out of the dark, lumbering onto the sidewalk from behind a parked car as I was walking home from the racquetball club one evening. He stood in front of me in a pool of lamp light and for a split second I thought it was a friend of mine from the neighborhood.
But it was the smell that gave it away. Zombie sweat has its own special scent, once smelled never forgot. It made me glance up into his face, or what was left of it. Because he was a long way along the road, scabbed and scarred, with chunks dug out of his cheeks and half his hair missing. There was a bit of his lip hanging off that made him look like he was gurning. And when our eyes met, a deep, gleeful gurgling started to emit from his throat.
Have you ever experienced fear? No, not fear. Absolute terror. Breath-sucking, turn-your-guts-to-water, eye-melting terror? The certain vision of the end in sight? When Death has you in his cross hairs? I’m not ashamed to say I pissed my pants in that moment, because you would have too. And even as I felt the hot liquid sticking my pant-leg to my thigh, the zombie was reaching out for me. His bony knuckles grasped and found purchase on my hoodie. His grip was strong and though I struggled like a madman, he pulled me to him.
A patrol siren going off on a parallel street made him pause and I was able to escape. But not before his teeth had ruptured my left wrist. I slapped my other hand over the wound and ran as fast as I could back to the club. In the harsh light of the locker room I inspected the damage. It was hardly a scratch with very little blood and, for a while at least, I managed to kid myself that it meant nothing. I hid it from the world under a sweatband, waiting for it to heal.
“You’re acting zombie.”
People say it all the time, you know, when you forget something or do something stupid. I used to say it a lot—to my parents, to my kid sister, to my class mates. But after the bite, I started to hear it more often than I said it. And when I noticed that I was hearing it more frequently, I got scared and then I got angry. I knew what was happening. First, I couldn’t tie my shoe laces. My fingers seemed like flaccid hot dogs, not managing a simple chore I’d been able to do since I was five years old. Then I had trouble holding a pen and my eyes couldn’t fix their focus. Reading was a problem. Holding a knife and fork. Running, or even walking, in a straight line or up a flight of stairs.
In the end, my mom found me crying in my room, great, gulping, gurgling sobs racking through me because I no longer knew how to work my cell phone. She called my dad and all I can remember of that evening is how much they both cried. They were supposed to turn me over to the authorities as soon as they suspected I was a zom, ostensibly to be relocated to a zombie care facility. But everyone knew about the zombie death camps and if they’d done their duty, I wouldn’t be here now telling my story.
Instead, they hid me. First in the house and then, when I became too aggressive for them to handle, they made me a cozy little kennel under the stoop, feeding me on ground beef and road kill, when they could get it.
You know that when you’re a teenager, every problem you have is magnified a million-fold. What you might not realize is that when you’re a zombie, every problem you have is also magnified a million-fold. That’s a million times a million and, as I’ve never been very good at math, I’m going to leave you to work out the answer for yourself. It’s a fucking lot, if you can’t be bothered to work it out either.
For example, school work. The bane of every teenager’s life. Or so I thought before I became a zom. But take away the ability to read and with it all likelihood of going to an Ivy League college to study law—I had big plans before the bite—and suddenly things seem a whole lot worse. Being in the right gang? Sure, I was in a new gang now but I didn’t exactly get to hang out with other members of my crew. My parents were also members of a new gang: an underground organization of parents hiding and protecting their zombie children in hope of a cure. They linked up over the internet and sometimes, I now know, they would secretly meet up for little pity parties and discussions like ‘What to feed your zombie child’ and ‘How to keep your zombie kid out of trouble’. That one was particularly pertinent because, believe me, zombies are born hounds. They’ll fuck anything that moves.
So there I was, a teenage zombie virgin with a raging horn, trapped under my parents’ wrap-round veranda and living on dead squirrels. Came a time when all I could think about was breaking out to go and find me some nice, young zombie chick and all I could do to make the days pass quicker was jerk off. And being a zombie, I wasn’t very good at that. I could never get a really good rhythm going and the tightness of my grip on my cock seemed to vary beyond my control. This made the whole process of achieving climax somewhat random and sometimes it would take a couple of hours of fumbling with my hand in my pants, making me howl with frustration. Then the noise would bring my mother down to the side of the stoop, where she’d sit and whisper comforting words to me and sing lullabies and I’d have to desist in what I was trying to do for fear of shocking her senseless.
And if I wasn’t thinking about sex, I was thinking about food. The average teenage boy’s appetite is like a newborn’s in comparison to a zombie’s. I would have one hand wrapped ineptly round my dick while the other shoveled whatever raw meat delights my parents had left into my mouth. But I wasn’t getting to chew on human flesh so I was never satisfied. Hunger gnawed my stomach the way I would have gnawed my mother’s finger had she been stupid enough to push it through the slats.
Believe me, it was no barrel of laughs.
By all accounts I spent nearly a year in that subterranean hellhole with limited human contact and no zombie contact. But eventually the time came when I needed to go and seek out members of my own tribe and I was strong enough and healthy enough—for a zombie—to break my way out. I was mad with the full moon and I simply ripped away an area of wooden slatting until there was a gap big enough for me to squeeze through.
I didn’t give a thought about how my parents would feel when they found me missing. The fear and panic and gnawing worry that I would get picked up by a zombie patrol and shipped off to one of the death camps. I didn’t give a thought to that either. I’d forgotten about familial relationships and the Zombie Laws and the genocide by then. I was just a zombie kid who needed to find another zombie kid to have sex with.
What I do remember is the feeling of elation that swept through me as I lurched off down the road to freedom. I was in the city of excess and for a young male zombie that meant two things—feeding and fucking—and I was off to grab my fill of both. And I naively assumed it would all come easy.
Three months of eating rats and baby birds takes its toll on a person. My clothes were ragged and my skin was grey by the time I found salvation. I was living rough in the neighborhood back yards, eating pets when I could and desperately trying to get a bite of human. I can only excuse myself by saying that I’d lost touch with reality, forgotten that, on the inside, I was still a human—and when I think about that time now, it makes my stomach churn.
I had several close run-ins with the local zombie patrols and they were well aware that there was a loose zombie in the area—so everyone was keeping their doors and windows bolted and no-one ever went out after dark. During daylight hours, I kept under cover but at night I wandered.
Until the vigilantes made the night-time streets unsafe as well.
Huge gangs of them started roaming, armed with axes, picks, crowbars and machetes. Only in the zombie-free zone, of course, where there was just one zombie running around loose for them to hunt. The courage it must have taken—thirty or forty men at a time chasing down one teenage boy. Luckily, they weren’t very good at it. But even so, I was scared shitless.
Especially the night my angel rescued me. They so nearly caught me, it still brings me out in a cold sweat to think about it. I was hunkered down on an overgrown front lawn, sucking the brains out of a squirrel, when they just seemed to materialize around me. A circle of glinting blades closing in, a whisper of excitement and of blood lust as strong as my own. I dropped the squirrel but with fear sapping the strength in my legs, I remained kneeling, as if awaiting my execution.
A woman’s voice rang clear as crystal above their muttering.
“Get gone! You men get out of here now! This is private property.”
She strode into the middle of the circle of men and I looked up. I was smitten. I fell in love in a lightning flash. She was a thing of beauty, no older than I was, but so fierce and commanding that the grown men who had surrounded me stopped in their tracks. Somewhere, in the foggy haze of my memory, I knew I’d seen her before but I couldn’t remember where.
“Lady,” said one of the vigilantes, a large, mean-looking guy with a pitchfork in his hand, “you got a zombie there, so we’re gonna need you to step aside so we can finish it off.”
“Shame on you, Mitchell Price. This is a poor sick boy who used to be one of our own. I won’t allow you to kill him on my property. I’ll call the zombie patrol so they can take him to a treatment facility.”
“You Judge Carter’s girl, Eve?” said one of the men.
“You know what’ll happen to him when they get him to the center? They’re just gonna kill him, too. Why put him through that when we can do it right now, quickly?”
“I said, get off my goddamn property or I’ll call the police on you,” said Eve Carter.
She took a step forward and pushed one of the men in the chest and he stumbled backward onto the sidewalk.
Slowly the other men backed down.
“You know, he’ll take a bite out of you soon as look at you,” said the one she’d called Mitchell Price.
“I’m not scared,” she said. “I know him.”
I watched the men retreat away down the street and then stared up at her.
“You’re John Marsh, aren’t you?” she said.
I nodded and grunted, searching for my voice.
“You used to play racquetball with my brother.”
I knew her then. I’d seen her around. I’d imagined her naked and I’d fucked her in my imagination. And now? God, I wanted her more badly than anything I’d ever wanted in my life—the life she’d just saved. Even in my warped zombie mind, I knew I owed her everything.
“Come on,” she said, gesturing me to follow her.
I ambled after her, up the path to the front door and, to my amazement, inside. The house was a mess—the kitchen and the walk-through living room a paean to fast-food living. Pizza boxes, burger containers, Chinese take-out pails and bags, cups and cartons from every fast-food joint in a five-mile radius. I guessed Eve didn’t cook much, or anyone else who lived here for that matter. I stood looking round, not knowing what I was meant to do with myself. My social graces had long since slipped away.
“I was right, wasn’t I?” she said. “You’re not going to hurt me.”
I shook my head and tried to speak. All I could articulate was a grunt. But I knew I’d sooner die than hurt this beautiful creature who had delivered me from evil.
“Sorry about the mess. After my parents…went…” She looked down at her feet and then started gathering the detritus up in her arms.
I moved to help and she laughed.
“Come on, John. I didn’t bring you in to make you clean house. Take a seat while I clear the mess. Then we’ll work out what to do.”
I looked round for somewhere to sit but every couch and chair was covered in crap. I wanted to talk to her, to ask her so many things, like what had happened to her parents and her two brothers, and if she knew how my parents were, and why she was so sure that I wouldn’t just rip her pretty head off her shoulders and suck out her brains.
All I could manage was a gruff, “Why…?”
“Did I help you?” she said, peeling a garbage bag off a roll.
“I was here when they came for my brothers. My parents called in like they were supposed to when Ben and Chase came home bitten and the authorities ripped my family to pieces. Tore us apart, stem to stern. Took the boys before they’d even started to show any symptoms. Took them to a ‘treatment center’ for ‘treatment’.” She slammed the bag of trash against the wall. “I know what happens in those places, how they fucking ‘treat’ zombies.”
She dropped to her knees, her cheeks shining with tears. But her voice didn’t quaver.
“They’re long dead. And my mother couldn’t bear it so she did it for herself with pills and booze. And my father couldn’t bear that…”
Like I said, every zombie has the vestige of the human he once was flickering inside him, and at that moment, I forgot our differences. I forgot that I was a zombie and she was a healthy girl. I forgot that all I wanted to do was fuck her and then eat her and I caught her up in my arms and held her tight against my chest.
Great sobs pulsed through her for a couple of minutes, then she sniffed loudly.
“So you see, I couldn’t let them take another boy away from his family.”
She looked up at me, her dark hair curling in sweaty tendrils round her forehead, her liquid brown eyes full of trust. I bent my head and I kissed her. I kissed her in a way that I’d never kissed a girl before I was a zombie. Our lips met, hers so soft compared with mine, rough and chaffed and scabby. Her mouth opened and her tongue glided against my mouth, applying a gentle pressure until I let it slip inside. I can’t say how it must have compared with her other experiences of kissing, though it was obvious she’d had some, but for me it was sublime. Fireworks and flares went off in my gut and a burning sensation made my cock surge forward against my cut-offs. I heard a low, guttural moaning, like an animal in pain, and took a moment to realize that it was me. I held her close against my chest and through the thin fabric of our T-shirts, her nipples felt like rough pebbles.
Her arms slipped round behind me and started pulling up my shirt and I followed her lead, drawing her tank up to reveal the soft curve of her belly. It made me catch my breath and I felt suddenly dizzy.
“Eve,” I managed to grunt, not knowing where to put my hands—onto the soft flesh now revealed or to carry on pulling the garment off her.
“Shhhh,” she whispered in my ear. “Come.”
She stood up and tossed her top to one side. Then, as I gawped, open-mouthed, at her small, perfect breasts, she grabbed my hand and led me up the stairs to her bedroom. This room was junk food free but there were clothes all over the floor and the bed sheets were tangled and grimy. Did I give a shit? It was literally months, probably more than a year, since I’d been in a bed and here I was, diving into the softness with the most divine, half-naked angel.
I lay down on my back and Eve lay on top of me and started kissing me again, running her hands through the tangled mat of my hair, making little sighing noises that completely melted me inside. I took my time to explore her mouth with my tongue—I was in no hurry for this to be over—it was the moment I’d been dreaming of for so long. Her teeth were smooth as porcelain, hard and sharp in contrast to the soft swirl of her tongue against mine. Her saliva tasted sweet to me and the warmth of her breath on my face was like an additional caress.
When she let her mouth drop from mine and down onto my chest, I buried my face in her hair. Even unwashed and unkempt as she was, she smelled unbelievably good—human sweat is a million times less acrid than zombie sweat, which was all I’d caught a whiff of in months. She sucked tantalizingly on my nipples, sparking new sensations that rippled through me like electric current, and she twisted them until I grunted with the pleasure of the pain.
Her hips were grinding against mine, building friction at the front of my pants and my cock felt like the Incredible Hulk, about to burst its way out through the threadbare fabric. Luckily, she thrust a hand down between us and released it, eliciting a deep growl from me as her fingers grazed against it.
“Better?” she whispered, turning her attention to below my waist.
She drew off my shorts and then stood back to strip off her own. My cock reared and bucked as I saw her emerge fully naked and my hand went instantaneously to my rod to start jerking off. Smiling, she pulled my hand away and replaced it with her own, with a caress so soft I could hardly feel it even though it sent an intense shiver up my spine.
And as I lay there panting, hauling in great gulps of air as my hips jerked out of control, she slowly straddled me and then leant back so that I could see what lay between her legs. Glistening folds, deep pink, and nestled in the centre, a dark bud pushing its way out between the lips of her pussy. She traced a path down the cleft with one finger, opening herself up to my gaze, and then she slid gently forward to position herself just above my cock.
She gave me a questioning look, as if to seek my permission to go ahead with what she was about to do, and I gurgled my assent. Her hand, which had never left my shaft, guided me into position and angled me for entry. Then she allowed herself to plunge down, impaling herself on me with a sharp, sweet cry that will ring in my ears till the day I die. I reached up to touch her breasts and she dropped forward so that one of them brushed against my lips. My tongue swirled the areola and I sucked on the protruding nub till she gasped and replaced it with the other one.
She ground her hips forward and back as she worked up and down, changing the angle, building the friction and slowly working me up towards the point of no return. It was a long climb and with each thrust she allowed herself to drop lower, for me to push up further inside her. Her pussy was indescribably soft, slippery with her juices, but tight nevertheless, as if a hand was gripping me and pulling, tugging, milking my cock till we reached the summit and I was ready to plunge down the other side.
And how I came. With a roar, I felt my balls pull tight and then my hot cum surged out of me and pumped into her. She came with a cry, clamping her teeth down on her lower lip as her back arched and her muscles gripped me tighter than ever, drawing out my pleasure to match her own.
As her orgasm subsided, she dropped back down onto my chest. She seemed oblivious to the rancid zombie sweat that was oozing out of all my pores.
“Thank you,” she said.
I shook my head—it was I who should have thanked her. After all, no one else would have taken a zombie to their bed.
“You make me feel better about what happened to my brothers. That they were still human up to the very end.”
She could have been right about that. But, despite a vestige of humanity, a zombie’s still a zombie. The rest of my sorry story is somewhat less edifying. We slept and when I woke up in the morning, I bit a chunk out of one of her breasts. Of course, I was contrite. I hated myself for what I did, but she forgave me and bandaged the wound tightly and then we made love again.
We lived quietly in her house and by the time she’d started acting too zombie to fool the neighbors anymore, the cure had been announced. I took her to my parents who pulled strings to make sure we were among the first zombies treated and, over the course of many months of drugs and injections, we gradually became our old selves.
But there were differences in our cured selves. I’d been a virgin before I became a zombie—now I wasn’t. And we’d both found love. Human love that endured the treatment and the cure and endures to this day, much to the delight of our children and grandchildren. Who never fail to let us know when we’re acting zombie.
Want some more zombie stories? You can find the whole collection here: