William Rose - Sex in the Time of Zombies

Her words echoed through his memory, gathering strength with each shameful repetition.

…disgusting little pervert.

His stomach churned with bitter acids and he was trembling now as images of the clothespin snapping shut flashed through his mind.

…doesn’t feel so good now, does it, you sick little bastard?

Perhaps he whimpered. Or maybe he choked back the sob that felt like a bubble rising through his chest. Whatever the cause, the end result was the same: every plush head in the convention hall snapped toward the door simultaneously, as if connected by some invisible rod.

“Son of a bitch.”

Most of the human-animal hybrids were slow and lumbering, as could be expected. The leopard woman, however, was surprisingly quick. Maybe the tightness of her costume had somehow slowed down deterioration, for she moved almost as quickly as the freshly dead. She shouldered her way past her fellow occupants with no regard for decorum, breaking into a slow run as she extended her arms as if she could somehow magically extend their reach.

Even though twenty or more feet still separated them, he could see the long, black nails that tipped each finger and they clawed at the air as she ran like the animal she was pretending to be.

For a moment, all of Washington’s training went AWOL. He stumbled backward as his hand fumbled for his weapon, struggling to remove the pistol from a holster that now seemed more complicated than it had the right to be.

Before the others had crossed even half the distance, Leopard Woman had burst through the double doors. She was close enough now that Washington could see a film of dust on the green contacts that made it look as though her pupils were dark slivers of almonds. Those unblinking eyes were focused entirely on him as she rushed across the few feet that still separated them, her teeth already gnashing at the air in hopes of finding flesh.

His holster finally gave up its prize and he brought the barrel up as his finger squeezed off a round. The shot echoed through the lobby as if it had been fired from a weapon of much higher caliber, seeming to be three times as loud as it would have been out in the open. At that exact moment, Leopard Woman’s feet rolled over the rod that had previously barred the door.

Her body pitched backwards and Washington’s bullet ripped through the fabric of her prosthetic ear, exploding it into a shower of fluff and stuffing.

She landed on her back with her legs spread wide but no sooner than her head had cracked against the stone floor, it snapped up again, eyes still fixated on her prey.

A second shot caused a spray of dark blood and pink gristle to explode like a geyser from the back of her head. Bits of bone peppered the wall behind her and her lithe body went limp as the sulfuric cloud of smoke released from the gun dissipated like a soul that had found release.

The rest of the anthropomorphic crowd hadn’t made it close enough to the doors yet to be an issue; however, Washington knew that if he took the time to try and re-secure the door he’d be pushing his luck. Instead he bolted for the stairs, taking them three at a time and diving for cover once he’d reached the second floor landing. He pressed his back flat against the wall and concentrated on his breathing, trying to ensure that he was as silent as humanly possible; at the same time, he fished a small, rectangular mirror from his shirt pocket and angled it around the wall so he would be able to monitor their movements without revealing his position to the enemy down below.

In the reflection, he could see that the giant animals had just begun filing through the open door. Some of them walked across the now-still body of Leopard Woman as if she were nothing more than a bulky rug while others seemed to skirt around her. However, none of them seemed to be heading for the stairs. A more intelligent hunter would have looked around and tried to pick up the trail of their prey through any means necessary; with the living dead, however, it was a different story. As long as he remained completely silent, as long as he stayed hidden from view, Washington simply did not exist. Chances were they’d already forgotten the brief glimpse they’d caught of him.

He wasn’t sure exactly how long he sat like that, watching these things mill about the lobby like confused tourists. Long enough for the muscles in his legs to begin to cramp and for his eyelids to feel as if someone had glued pennies to them; long enough for the shame of memory to burrow deep within his soul and simmer on the coals of guilt.

And here I thought you was a good little boy. You think good little boys do that?

Finally, he saw a blood-drenched gopher stagger out the broken window as if it were the entrance to a burrow and disappear into the streets beyond. The lobby was silent and he finally allowed himself to stretch.

Now, to find that room and get so much needed R&R….

The hotel room was much nicer than any of the ones Washington had ever stayed in.

Rather than having carpet so threadbare that it felt like walking on sandpaper, the plush shag seemed to billow around his bare feet. He sat on the edge of the bed and flexed his toes as he looked around. The far wall was dominated by a large window and he’d quickly pulled the thick, taupe drapes over the flimsier curtains behind them when first entering the room. In front of the window were a pair of overstuffed chairs with a round table sitting between them. There was a television, a writing desk nestled into an alcove, a wardrobe and dresser, and a few lamps scattered about. But there was also a small, black refrigerator with a glass door; through this door, he could see these little bottles of alcohol staring back and soon after stripping off his unirform he’d carried a fistful to the bed and downed them in rapid succession.

The empty bottles now clustered about his feet, collateral damage in the war against memories that refused to be put down. He’d spent his entire adult life pushing these thoughts into the furthest recesses of his mind and, for the most part, had been successful. If you didn’t think about it, his reasoning went, then it was almost like it had never happened. But those damn freaks in the animal costumes had ruined all that, hadn’t they? They had to bring everything back, to make his past come charging toward the front like an insurgent hellbent on emotional jihad.

The voice of his mother still echoed through his head like a moment looped in time. The contempt in her clipped tone jabbed fiery bayonets into his gut and the part of his anatomy the old bitch had always called his dirty worm ached with the phantom memories of pain.

“Fuck you, woman. Fuck… you.”

He twisted the cap off the final bottle of Absolut, tilted his head back, and allowed the liquid to gurgle into his throat. The vodka left a trail of napalm down his esophagus and spread like the fires of a Molotov when it hit his stomach.

Normally, Washington could hold his liquor with the best of them. But he’d had so little to eat over the past few days, that the alcohol had quickly dulled his tired mind even further. By the time the bottle had joined its comrades on the hotel’s floor, it felt as though he’d somehow stumbled into an out of focus photograph that was just beginning to show the effects of age.

Everything seemed fuzzy and indistinct: the sharp edges of the writing desk and wardrobe blurred into hazy patches of reality and the bed looked like it were a mere prop. The down comforter, the crisp white sheets, and carefully fluffed pillows… none of these things looked like they were ever meant to be actually used. They were too ethereal for that, too perfect for a world that seemed as if it were about to careen off into the furthest reaches of space. And, on top of all of this, everything had a grainy quality as well. Like one of the old black and white films he’d watched as a kid when….