Hungry for Your Love: An Anthology of Zombie Romance (5 page)

Now Ed leaned forward and put two fingers on my neck. I thought I felt a pulse there, under his fingertips, but how could that be? I was dead as a doornail. I hadn’t felt anything in years. I was a zombie and that was one thing I knew for sure. The only heart I had was the watch locket around my neck like the one the Tin Woodsman got from the Wizard of Oz. But then I wondered if I’d made the whole thing up—the revenant thing.

Maybe I was still the same. Maybe I was just broken, but not irreparably. Maybe we all were and this revenant thing was just another trend, like kids pretending to be vampires because they thought it was cool. But it wasn’t cool to be dead. And maybe, just maybe, I was still alive.

Ed lifted my hand and pressed my fingers against his neck. It felt rough and his Adam’s apple was huge. But he had a pulse, pooling there in the thick of his neck. I was sure of it. He moved his head forward and slid his hand behind my head, under my hair, 40

grasping the strands between his fingers as he leaned to kiss me. I shuddered with happiness under the pressure of his lips and tried not to smile and ruin the kiss with my teeth. Slowly we slid down until I was lying on the sofa and he was above me and I felt his erection through his jeans. I melted between my thighs. My heart was pounding—there was no mistaking it. He reached up my back and unhooked my bra. Then he pulled my T-shirt up, tugged my bra away, and fit his mouth over my breast. I arched and pressed up to meet him and I could feel the whole weight of him on top of me fitting into all the right places even though he was almost twice my size. I liked the way his weight almost knocked the wind out of me—it meant I was breathing. Gasping, I took his head in my hands and kissed him as he fumbled with my jeans and pushed himself up against my panties.

“Are we going to do this?” he asked me. “I wanted to wait. But I don’t think I can wait. It’s been like ten years.”

“We’re going to,” I said firmly.

“Wait?” he asked. He sounded worried and sad but resigned.

“No, not wait.”

A long, slow smile spread across his face.

We fucked because basically we had to. You don’t pass up a chance like that, to feel human, to feel alive, not when you’ve been dead for years. Even if it was just a temporary reprieve, I didn’t care. I howled with joy as he rubbed his cock against my clit and slid inside me, pressing his tip repeatedly up against the soft pad of my wall. More and more; I didn’t want him to stop. I clenched around him tighter and tighter to keep him there. Then he went rigid and cried out; his come was spilling inside of me and I was 41

releasing in waves and crying real tears and when it was over he took my face and settled it on his chest and said, very gently, “Welcome back, baby.”

I wondered if he was talking about me or my soul, or his.

The next day I woke up in his bed and saw his big face lit up by morning. I kissed his cheek—there was stubble—and he pulled me closer to him, still half asleep. I sniffed his armpit; he smelled sweaty and warm like a man. I wanted this moment to go on forever—the sun through the window, his scent, the rumpled sheets, my body tucked into his—but I wasn’t even sure if I was ever going to wake in his bed again; you never know what’s going to happen. Still, I was alive. I had a soul.

To prove it, when I got home I sat down to write this story.

42

I Heart Brains

by Jaime Saare

1.

Derrick stared at the man nestled in the wheelchair, giving him a lengthy once over. His body was a thing of beauty—tall, broad, athletic. The fine crevices obtained by hard work and muscle definition were obvious, the outline of a rock-hard six-pack visible. Even nicked from a recent shave, his face was just as good, and his short black hair neat and tidy.

Too bad the motherboard upstairs had fizzled and died out, leaving him in this shitty fucking predicament.

About as shitty as mine.

The small folder resting on the table beside him listed pertinent information. His age: 28. His height: 6’2”. His weight: 205lbs. His known allergies: none.

It was like a Best Buy for the brain dead.

So wrong on so many levels.

“Can I help you, sir?” A sales associate approached, wringing his hands.

The showroom was nearly empty. Only one other person was in the area, and he was in the same pickle. The body that held his interest was much younger, in the early twenties, with a nasty-looking scar over his forehead. A large muted television featuring a continuous loop of football was placed directly in front of the wheelchair, the table with his information and stats placed next to him like a playbook.

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All the bodies had an area just for them, playing off their strengths. The women were displayed as risqué as the management dared, while the men were groomed to perfection.

It was laughable and depraved at the same time.

Derrick motioned at the once healthy and vibrant man and asked, “How did it happen?”

“Carbon monoxide,” the clerk answered readily.

That got his attention. He stopped staring at the all-but-living body and focused on the small pudgy man hoping to bring in a fat commission.

“Suicide?”

“I’m afraid so.”

Protocol dictated that the fine upstanding employees of Bodies For Your Brains didn’t divulge those sorts of intimate details—reminding the clientele that the “product”

was once a living man or woman not too much unlike themselves didn’t help sales—but he could see the gleam in tub-o’-lard’s black beady eyeballs.

He wanted to share what he knew.

“Why?” Derrick whispered and glanced around, as if the fat fucker was revealing the secrets to Atlantis instead of how a guy decided to off himself.

You know, therefore you must tell
, he screamed with his eyes and mannerisms, standing before the salesman like a revered mystic on a holy mission.
The fate of the
world rests on your shoulders. Use the force, Tub-o. Let it guide you.

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“Well.” Fat man peered around and lowered his voice. “His wife found him in the garage after he bet everything they owned on a long-shot horse that broke its leg out of the gate. That’s why he’s here.”

“She’s a scorned woman?”

Tub-o nodded eagerly. “And then some. I was here the day she brought him in with the release papers. She was the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen, with long legs”

—he moved his hands down his stumpy body and brought them back up again, cupping his man boobs— “–and the nicest pair of ta-tas this side of Dollywood.” He sighed and shook his head. “Then she opened her mouth. I haven’t heard a woman talk like that since my Aunt Ermer gave my Uncle Mortimer hell for driving the widow Parker home.”

“So she’s fine with donating his body?”

“Absolutely.”

“Good to know.”

He walked in a circle, studying what once remained of—he leaned forward and read the cheap paper name tag—Eric Joshua Bradworth. The body was good, in incredible condition, and he was running out of time.

Glancing down at his own skin, he struggled not to cringe. Once blue veins were now turning black, the surface no longer smooth and silky but becoming dry and parched.

The zombie virus was in full swing.

He’d learned within hours of his expenditure—following the car accident that severed the femoral artery and bled him dry—that he wouldn’t be seeing those heavenly white gates. God had other plans in store. But if he didn’t get his brain inside another body, the only thriving portion of him would slowly start to decompose, and then he’d be 45

singing along with a well-known straw man while searching for the Wonderful Wizard of Oz.

Goddamn the government and its twisted chemical weapons gone awry.

“When did it happen?” the attendant asked casually.

“Just this morning,” he answered.

“Damn, man. That’s got to be tough. But if you’re here, that means you’re ahead of the curve. It could be worse.”

“You mean I could be like the other assholes without a sizeable bank account to procure a body?”

“You said it, not me.” His rat-sized eyes narrowed and his portly belly rippled as he shifted his feet. “Are you interested in buying or will you shop around?”

He walked to Eric’s wheelchair and kneeled, staring at the body he would control and the face he would assume. It could have been worse. The guy wasn’t ugly and he’d died of something that didn’t affect viability or fuck up his face or limbs. He would be able to continue with his very physical lifestyle, having only the impediment of learning to maneuver and control a body both taller and wider than the one he was accustomed to.

But there was one deciding factor that would put it to the test.

Rodent-eyed associate frowned when he moved closer and placed his hands between the legs of the invalid, accessing the package just between. In a normal setting, he wouldn’t be caught dead copping a feel of another man’s cock and sack. But since he was dead, and the body didn’t belong to anyone at the present moment, he felt his heterosexual status was still on the up and up.

When satisfied with the answer he sought, he asked, “What are the terms of sale?”

46

“Uh, what?” Tub-o stammered and quickly looked away when Derrick peered up at him and smiled, behaving like the sick bastard Tub-o thought he was.

Fucking prick.

“Oh, the terms of sale!” He recovered nicely, providing a businesslike face. “No refunds, no returns. The body comes with a certificate of health and a yearlong membership to the Bodies For Your Brains gym. You are responsible for procuring the surgeon of your choice if you’d like someone other than the doctors retained for the company.”

Derrick thought it over and glowered at the hand that was turning grey. His entire body was rotting. Soon he would fall apart. A million dollars was an obscene amount of cash to pay for anything, but in this case, it went far beyond any connotation of medical necessity. He took a moment to thank his parents for investing in Hilton Hotel and Resorts when they started decades ago. Otherwise, he’d be another working stiff that fell directly into the stereotype when rigor mortis set in.

“I’ll take it,” he said, rising to his feet. “Where do I sign?”

Tub-o smiled cheerily and he had to resist the overwhelming temptation to press a finger into his Santa Claus-sized belly to see if he would giggle like the Pillsbury Doughboy.

“Over here, sir.”

He walked to the cheap plywood and aluminum-plated desk, taking the seat directly across from Tubs. A large wooden plaque told him the associate was actually Thaddeus Harris.

Derrick bristled at the irony.

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“Thaddeus Harris?”

“Yeah, so?”

“As in
The Police Academy
Thaddeus Harris?”

The unfriendly smile on Tubs face said it all. “I’m a lot like the Harry Potters of the world that existed in anonymity before a certain boy wizard took the name to new heights.”

“Must suck.”

Obsidian eyes flashed knowingly. “I’m sure there are things far worse.”

Derreick notched his chin and gave the man props. “Touché.”

A few clicks on the trusty DELL on his desk and Thaddy boy started listing off what Derrick guessed was the standardized version of a check list. No returns, no exchanges, no liability to the company after the donor left the property, no feeding the body after midnight…

“Oh,” Tubs said, frowning at the screen.

“Oh?”

“There’s a stipulation here. It’s one of our lesser-used clauses. I’m not even sure if it’s right.” He wrestled his girth from the chair and gave a thin smile. “Would you excuse me for a moment?”

He didn’t really pay attention when Tub-o bustled away, too wrapped up in just how fucked up his life had become. He was a respectable businessman, operating a successful brokerage firm passed down through the generations. Life had been good—excellent, even.

Well, almost.

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Losing his girl to a bedpost-notching best friend was a blow to his self-esteem, but they’d all worked through it. If Tanya was looking for greener pastures, let her have them. She’d learn her lesson when Tom moved on to his next challenge.

Death changed a lot of things, including bitterness.

This time, he would find the right woman. And when he did, he would never let her go.

“Excuse me, Mr. ..” Thaddeus waited for him to introduce himself.

“Quinn, Derrick Quinn.”

“Mr. Quinn,” Thaddeus said. “There is one minor stipulation the wife checked, and after taking a look at the hard copy, it’s definitely not a computer error. Sometimes it happens when there are children left behind, but in this particular circumstance, it’s rather odd.”

Figures.

Just when he thought he had a handle on the shit, he got thrown another curveball.

When Tubs wasn’t forthcoming with the stipulation in question, he demanded,

“Well? Spit it out, Thaddeus. What does she want?”

The belly bracing the clipboard in hand quivered like Jell-O and he fidgeted uncomfortably. “She wants to meet the buyer.”

2.

Olivia DeMarkus Bradworth wasn’t in the mood for a date. The last time she agreed to one, she wound up married to a schmuck who had the body of a Greek god and 49

shit for brains. But since the holy creator got it wrong the first time, she figured it was her moral obligation to set the wrong things right.

She smoothed her hair, examining her face in the rearview mirror. The short blond strands were still slick from the straight iron, and the smoky MAC pigments ensured her mushroom blue irises popped. She scowled and shook her head. The dark circles underneath were still visible, but in the time it took to change from her Hooters uniform and drive to the posh LaMer restaurant in Lovington, she was lucky she looked as good as she did.

“Oh, get on with it,” she sneered at her reflection. “He’s a zombie, for Christ’s sake!”

The stipulation regarding her introduction to the buyer was something she assumed would take place inside Bodies For Your Brains. The plan was simple: meet the brain, tell the brain it had best take advantage where the other brain had not, bid the brain a fond farewell, and collect the cash. But she quickly learned the meeting would take place on her time, in a place of the purchaser’s choosing. Apparently, this newest flourishing medical industry was as cold and callus as the people they catered to.