William Rose - Sex in the Time of Zombies

Special thanks to Ms Tiffany Shepis for being so cool with her small part in this collection; and, as always to my oldest and truest fan, #1 editor, and wife, Farrell; without her support and encouragement, this book would not have been possible and she truly is the wind beneath my wings

If you downloaded this book expecting lurid tales teeming with pornographic descriptions of unspeakable acts, then I’m afraid you’re reading the wrong collection. Certainly there are events within these stories that some may find shocking or disturbing. Portions of it may even be considered erotic. But the focus in all of these stories isn’t so much the physical act of sex; rather it’s the idea of sex and sexuality as a common thread linking together disparate characters across the timeline of an undead apocalypse. Sex as motivation, sex as a weapon, sex as a way of asserting your humanity in a world of the dead: these are the types of things that interest me.

I’ve always been intrigued with the psychological and sociological ramifications of a single, shared event… in this case, the collapse of civilization as we know it. How individual people cope and deal with this collective tragedy would undoubtedly be as varied as the personalities involved.

And, for me, that is the true root of my obsession with the alternate reality of the walking dead I’ve created. In my novel, The Dead & Dying , I set up the basic rules: zombies are referred to as alternately freshies or rotters (depending on the degree of decomposition), you don’t necessarily have to be bit to come back, and son on. In Sex in The Time of Zombies , I’ve went a little further and explored a specific, universal theme and various perspectives on it. As such, these are not so much stories about zombies as they are about the people who now must struggle for survival in a world they no longer control. But don’t get me wrong: the undead are the glue which binds this particular world together and their presence certainly factors into the equation.

While it is true that these stories could be read in random order and still have them stand on their own merits, I highly recommend reading them sequentially. They are laid out, more or less, chronologically and take us from the very first day of the outbreak to points that are years in the future. Regardless of how you read them, I hope that you’ll enjoy them as much as I did creating them. And who knows? Maybe, somewhere within these pages, you’ll catch a little glimpse of yourself….

It’s three thirty-six on a Wednesday afternoon; but time really doesn’t apply in the Jaybird Lounge. Windowless and dim, with only ambient light coming from the GOBOs and strobes hidden overhead, it could be any point between opening and last call. The entire joint smells of old beer and stale cigarettes. The Health Department actually banned indoor smoking nearly two years ago but the scent has seeped into the scuffed wood of the bar and the threadbare carpet. It lingers like a ghost that refuses to move on to the next life, haunting patrons who want nothing more than a few quick puffs with their Jager bomb.

Hidden in the shadows of the far corner, Jimmy Z sits atop a riser and cues up the next song. I see him for a moment in the soft glow of his DJ rig: horn rimmed glasses, shaven head glistening softly as he presses the headphones against one ear. He fiddles with the soundboard and then disappears back into the darkness, fading like the remnants of a dream.

The end result of his adjustments fill the Jaybird with electronic rhythms that seem to flow from one side of the room to the other before melting into the air like sugar on an absinthe spoon. What very well could be the voice of God booms out Cowgirl’s do it bareback and echoes into infinity before being overpowered by the steady thud of a kick drum. Jimmy’s got the bass pumped up and I can feel the drum pounding in my chest, thudding away as if it were actually hidden somewhere behind my heart and lungs.

And that’s me, Rikki Wildride, up there on the stage. Yes, the one with with white, cheeky shorts laced up the front and the red fringed bikini top that barely covers my glitter-dusted breasts. I’ve teased my red hair until I look like some refugee from an 80s pop video and that stupid white cowboy hat keeps trying to slide off my head like it’s got some sort of clinical aversion to Aqua-Net. At least, though, the holsters are staying in place when I swing my hips. Which is more than I can say for yesterday.

This is actually my least favorite number and I’m not really sure why. Maybe its got something to do with the damn stiletto heels on those boots. Or it could be that the Old West simply isn’t my thing. I’ve always been more into the sci-fi and horror scenes; in fact I’ll be breaking out the Gothic Lolita routine later on in the evening, after the Jaybird has been packed with horny business types on their way home from work. Now that’s a bit I can really get into.

And, coincidentally, it’s also the one which usually brings in the majority of my tips for the night.

For now, though, I’m not really working it. There’s only a few customers this early in the day and I’m just going through the motions while my mind wanders.

I’m wondering what had been going down outside this afternoon. The drive to work had been crazy, all sirens and flashing lights while every type of emergency vehicle imaginable sped by. I could see a dark cloud of smoke billowing up in the distance, probably down around the mall, and a stream of helicopters flew toward it, low and fast. Must’ve been something major going down out there to rate that kind of response. Terrorist shit, maybe. But I wouldn’t know because some dickwad smashed out my window three days back and boosted a stereo that couldn’t be worth more than twenty bucks, tops. Bunch of savages in this town….

Chester pulls me out of my thoughts as he presses up against the edge of the stage with one end of a dollar clamped between his teeth. I swing my hips back and forth as I lower down into a kind of wide-stance crouch right in front of him; leaning forward, I take the other end of the bill in my teeth and give the twins a little jiggle. Chester’s a regular and seems to be an okay guy for the most part: he tips often, never gets grabby or causes any trouble. Hell, my top’s not even off yet and he’s already started letting the cash flow so he’s fine by me.

Oh yeah, and that skanky slut behind him? The one who sank money into boobs when she shoulda been thinking orthodontia? That’s Bambi. She’s the type that gives the rest of us girls a bad rap. If you’ve got the cash and want one of her private dances in the backseat of her Pinto, well that can be arranged. In the mood for a little hand massage beneath the table? Yeah, she’ll do that too. Fact is, there’s not a whole helluva lot that bitch won’t do. If Hollister knew about it, she’d be out on her ass in the amount of time it takes to chip a nail. But there’s a lot that goes down the boss-lady doesn’t know about.

Right now for example. See how that whore’s sidled up to the table with the guy passed out on it? I saw that dude come in when I was just starting my shift. Totally trippin’ balls on some pretty serious shit by the look of it. His face looked like all the color had been drained out of it and even though his hair was literally streaming sweat down his forehead, he had his jacket buttoned all the way up. Came stumbling in and holding his gut like maybe he had the cramps real bad, ordered a beer, and collapsed into that chair there. And he’s been slumped over the tabletop ever since, wallet right out in the open while his drink gets warm. But Bambi, she’s acting like she’s actually chatting him up, tossing her hair over her shoulder and laughing like he just told one of the jokes we’ve all heard a million times. The show has to be for Chester because the only witnesses are me, Jimmy Z, and Wilson who’s pulling triple duty as bartender, bouncer, and doorman. And we all know exactly what she’s up to.