Love and Zombies

I’m not a romantic. I don’t believe in soft looks across a crowded room. I don’t believe in soulmates or prince charmings or meant to bes. Maybe I’m bitter because the last time I went on a date, the entire world went to Hell. Literally.

Like most, I’ve spent that last several years surviving, brutalizing and bludgeoning the skulls of zombies, avoiding their lethal fluids. I haven’t met a stranger yet who doesn’t have an aptitude for violence, who hasn’t killed at least one creature, done something unimaginably sick to stay alive.

After far too long goring my way across the country, I finally made it to the Dome – formerly Manhattan. Though, like many cities, it was devastated by the spread of the DNA-altering virus, it managed to overcome under the leadership of the Berlusconi crime family. They fortified the city, cleaned it up, and made it possible for people to live lives as close to normal as anyone could hope for in this day and age.

It took some getting used to. When I finally settled into a relatively healthy day-to-day, my friend decided for me that it was high time that I try to find someone to occupy all the empty space I apparently refuse to fill. And, okay, yeah, fine, I was curious about what dating in the post-apocalypse looked like.

Turns out, it’s not that different from dating in the Before. I remember it being equally as uncomfortable only, these days, it’s less a resumé of accomplishments and favorite films and more whether or not you’ve killed a people-eating monster in the last month or so.

My date’s name is Peter.

He’s handsome, all densely-packed muscle and chiseled jaw, a charming, boyish smile that slants slightly to the left. He’s older, sitting somewhere in his early forties, a little salt in his otherwise dark stubble. His striking blue eyes aren’t haunted or hollow, crinkling charmingly at the corners as he chuckles through an anecdote acquired in the Before. Peter also has all his pieces entirely intact and accounted for. Nothing bionic about him.

The man is a rarity.

I found his information at my neighborhood community center, pinned to a corkboard for those like me who are looking for company. While I always considered myself content to live an unremarkable existence with my cat, Spats, in our two-bedroom above one of the local weapons outlets, I had to admit that a girl gets lonely between bludgeoning the skulls of the undead and unwinding with a glass of back-alley hooch before falling into a cold, empty bed. Not that I’d say so out loud, and certainly not to Viv, who’d take it as a victory.

So, here I am. With Peter. And Peter? Is perfect.

Like me, Peter works as a patroller, stationed on the western arc of the Dome while I’m assigned to the east. Already that gives us something to talk about and though shop talk is considered taboo, he seems to enjoy it as much as I do. Perhaps because he has little else to discuss, a sentiment I can sympathize with.

Also, Peter comes with wine. Not the sour, watered-down wash from the factory district, either. Real wine, bottled in the Before, rich with flavor that bursts on my tongue with every sip. My inexperienced palate can’t decipher the different notes, but I appreciate it, nonetheless.

It’s a merlot, Peter explained after he poured my glass with a flourish and handed it to me.

It’s delicious, I sighed, truly content, after letting it sit for maybe a few seconds too many before I swallowed. I’ve never tasted anything so good. Peter says oaky and floral and something else that goes right over my head in an obvious effort to impress. I simply smile and tink my glass against his when he tilts it towards me.

We’re in the small park around the corner from my apartment. Above, twilight bruises the sky. Peter brought a small picnic, packed adorably in an old-school wicker basket, that he lays out on the blanket we’re sat on while we wait for the movie to start. It’s a weekend marathon of Resident Evil, two movies a night until Monday, to celebrate the beginning of summer.

I couldn’t help the guffaw I unleashed when Peter suggested we attend the event with the sole purpose of tearing apart all the inaccuracies.

Peter’s a gentleman throughout the evening, offers me pieces of crusty bread smeared with tangy butter, the likes of which I haven’t had since Before; he refills my glass and produces a second bottle – who is this guy? – after we drain the first, and laughs heartily at the comments I make about the totally unbelievable zombies on screen.

Slowly, as if we can’t help it, drawn by some indescribably force, we shift closer and closer until I’m pressed against him from shoulder to hip. He’s leaned back on one hand; I’m tucked into his side. It's sweet and natural and I let the heat of his body sink into my bones.

Peter places his glass to the side and turns slightly. The air between us is charged, our faces hovering close, sharing slow breaths, intimate in a way I’ve never given myself the chance to invite before. I can feel it, this thick, cloying intensity that pulls my lips closer to his. His hand is wide, calloused, warm against my cheek where he holds my face as if I’m the most precious thing in the world—

So, of course, with everything going oh-so-right, something must go heinously wrong.

Just as he brushes a dry kiss across my mouth, the unmistakable shrieks of zombies cut through the night. We’re on our feet instantly, the machete I’d slipped under the blanket when Peter wasn’t looking already in hand. Sparing a glance at him, it appears he had the same idea as he twirls a katana expertly, face set in a wild, predatory expression.

He looks dangerous and devastating, lips pulled into a snarl that shows off rows of straight, white teeth. The zombies swarm, more than I anticipated making it past the tight security around the Dome, never mind the Dome itself. And the water. Where did they come from?

Peter and I slice and bisect and brain, moving together as if we’ve done this a thousand times, a sensuous dance of death. He ducks, I stab; I roll, he severs. Others are fighting around us, wielding modified baseball bats and 9-irons and frying pans.

“Hey!” Peter calls as he swings his katana, taking a zombie’s head clean off its shoulders. There’s a lull in the chaos as the zombies are killed and Peter seems to take advantage. “Let’s get out of here, what do you think?”

I snap the neck of the zombie I restrained from going after a young girl hacking another zombie to pieces with her crowbar.

“Absolutely.” I agree once I’ve closed the distance between us.

We pick our way over the discarded bodies of zombies and citizens alike, plunging the tips of our respective blades into skulls as we pass, and make our way to the exit hand in hand. As soon as we turn onto the sidewalk just beyond the park, the sirens start to wail, the sound long and ominous, alerting the city of impending doom.

Peter knocks his shoulder into mine, tips a boyish smile at me, eyes crinkled, “So, uh,” He clicks his tongue, bites his lip, all timid and adorable and very distant from the man I just saw cut down a rabid of zombies, “How would you feel about surviving a second apocalypse with me?”

“Do you have more of that wine?”

“A few more bottles stashed away, yeah.”

I grin and it feels bright and eager and little manic. “I’m in.”