William Rose: Sex in the Time of Zombies

The drums have stopped and there’s this long, slow note that seems to slide down into my very soul.

No one could live through that….

We stare at each other for a moment and there’s a pause in the music, just long enough for a heavily reverbed sample of the hawk-like flute from those Clint Eastwood westerns to echo through the club You’ve gotta be freakin’ kidding me.

Snare drums, synthesizers, and bass all kick into overdrive and this is the part where my top would normally be flung off in perfect sync with the explosion of music, revealing the twins in all their perky glory. Instead, I’ve got this fucking dead guy runnin’ full blast toward me, blood streaking his face while his guts trail along behind him like he’s some dog that’s pulled free from its lead.

He clamors up the side of the stage and my heart is pounding twice as fast as the music, which is rapidly building toward a crescendo; this weird taste floods my mouth, like I’ve just stuck the tip of my tongue to a battery or something, and my field of vision narrows to the point where all I can see is this blood drenched thing scrambling across the stage with outstretched arms.

Without thinking, I grab onto the pole tightly with both hands, take a few steps backward, and then throw my body forward as I lift my legs. The world is a blur as I whip around the pole; I’ve pulled my knees up almost to my chest and allow centrifugal force to swing me back around again.

The fucker is so close that for a fraction of a second I can see thin lines of blood outlining the contours of his teeth and smell the salty, metallic scent of the gore that covers him… But then I’m kicking out with my feet and there’s a jolt that travels up my legs and jars my hips; the stiletto heel of my right boot has plunged deep into the freak’s eye and thick, dark blood oozes out of the socket.

For what seems to be an eternity, I’m suspended there between that son of a bitch and the pole, a bridge of barely covered flesh connecting the two. He’s twitchin’ like my nephew Sonny having a seizure, but his hands hang limply at his sides. I flex my legs and, using the pole for leverage, kick forward again.

It feels like I’ve just sank my heel into thick mud but this seems to do the trick. Junkie-cannibal boy goes entirely limp.

Only he’s not a junkie. He’s not a cannibal, either. Not really.

I’ve seen enough movies to know exactly what he is… or, rather, what he was. But I just can’t seem to bring myself to think the actual word because, despite everything that’s just happened, just thinking about it makes me feel like a foolish little schoolgirl.

The weight of his body snaps the heel off my boot and he and I both fall to the stage at the same time. I can hear Bambi crying and Chester is shouting something about how you shouldn’t get a fuckin’ busy signal when you dial 911.

I kick boots off and think about Wilson. About Bambi. If the things I’ve seen in the movies are accurate, it’s gonna get a lot worse in here. And soon.

Kitty and Towanda have burst through the curtain of the dressing room and they’re heading toward the door, their bouncing boobs heaving with panicked breaths.

Jimmy Z has shimmied down from the riser and he’s making time toward the exit as well. Without him to cue up the next song, the Jaybird is strangely silent with only the sounds of suffering to fill the void.

He and the girls all get the door at the same time. Just as they’re about to push their way through, it bursts open and this chick with skin that looks like crispy bacon throws herself at Kitty.

Wilson’s fingers have started to wiggle but that’s all I see because I’m heading toward the back of the club as fast as my legs can carry me. No way I’m stickin’ around for this bloodbath. Consider it my resignation.

I bust into Hollister’s office and am getting ready to throw open the door that leads into the smoking area behind the club when I stop. Hanging above her desk, she’s got this homemade plaque with the words Employee Conflict Resolution carved into the wood. Two metal brackets stick out from either side of the plaque and, resting upon them, is a shiny silver machete.

I remove the weapon from its cradle and run the tip of my thumb lightly along the blade. Sharp. I knew it would be.

The grip feels almost like sandpaper but not quite as rough. Which is good. I imagine blood would make it hard to hang onto something that wasn’t textured.

I throw open the door and sunlight floods into the office. For a few minutes everything is washed out in a blinding glare of light that rams needles of pain into my eyes. I blink rapidly and shade my face with my forearm until the bluish flash-bursts of light stop exploding in my field of vision like fireworks.

I step into the alley. Barefoot and wearing this ridiculous cowgirl stripper outfit, I take a deep breath. The air smells of smoke and gasoline; screams echo off the buildings and mock those who try in vain to scramble for safety; sirens wail like banshees and I feel an explosion rumble the concrete beneath my feet.

At the head of the alley, this thing steps into view. It’s missing one arm and pieces of broken glass jut out of its face, glimmering in the sunlight like fairy dust.

It sees me and breaks into a run.

I hoist my weapon to shoulder level and stare directly at the thing’s head. It takes a lot of upper body strength and tone to work the pole; I’m pretty sure I can cleave the skull and dig the blade into its brain in one try.

It’s halfway through the alley now and I adjust the brim of my hat to help keep the sun out of my eyes. The weight of the machete feels reassuring in my hand and I take a long, slow breath.

You wanna tango, mother fucker?

Let’s do it.

I’m Rikki Wildride… and if there’s one thing I can do, it’s dance.

Three weeks earlier everything had changed. The day before it happened had been just like any other: people woke up just long enough to slap the snooze button on the torture device known as an alarm clock, slept for fifteen more minutes, and then poured bitter coffee down their gullets as they cursed at roadwork; they parked in garages, at meters, in lots that charged monthly for the little tag of plastic that gave them the right to occupy their slot number without being towed. They pecked at keyboards, answered phones, flipped burgers, and pounded nails into the frames of houses that would never be completed. Some were born, some died, some hid themselves in the shadows of bars, trying so desperately to find what could have been somewhere within the suds of their brew. None of them knew that by the time the sun mustered the strength to rise again, it would do so on a different world.

The change began in hospitals and at the scenes of accidents. Murder-suicides, wrinkled old men and women who’d closed their eyes the night before and slipped into that fabled better place as clocks ticked toward Armageddon: these were the foot soldiers of the apocalypse, the harbingers of a new era where Death no longer held sway in his skeletal palace.

In times to come, there would be many theories. Speculation would run as rampant as the packs of dogs who, without masters, prowled city streets in search of carrion. Some claimed it was some sort of cosmic radiation that had erupted from the sun; others said it was a virus, bio-engineered in terrorist labs and set loose upon the world before its fathers had a true understanding of the jihad they were unleashing. And, of course, there were those who saw the blight as Divine retribution: it was a pestilence that made the ten plagues of Egypt look like a mere practice round, the punishment of an angry God upon the wicked masses.