Free My Zombie Honeymoon: Love in the Age of Zombies Book One by James K. Evans Page A

bruises. I tried to comb my sparse hair, but it was no use. There was no way I was going to make myself look good.
    I gave up trying, climbed the stairs, and opened the trap door. I quickly walked through the house, checking the peep holes in the windows. She was right. I didn’t see any zombies on the side of the house, and only a few in the street.
    After a few minutes, I went and stood by the door. I was thinking: why does she want to come over? Is something wrong? Does she need food? Does she have some kind of news? Or does she just want to tell me off in person?
    When she finally knocked on the door—quietly—I opened it and motioned for her to come in. After she stepped in I took a quick look outside—no zombies in sight. In the grass about ten feet away lay part of my shirt. It was stained with blood and ripped apart.
    I closed the door, set the bolts, then turned around to look at her. Since all the windows are sealed up, the only light was from the stairway into the basement. But I could see enough to tell she wasn’t smiling. In fact, her whole demeanor seemed kind of tense.
    “What’s a nice girl like you doing in a place like this?”
    “Oh my God! Your face looks horrible!” she said, her eyes darting back and forth over my bruises. Even in the dimly reflected light from downstairs she could tell I’d been hurt.
    “Like I haven’t heard that from a woman before,” I mumbled.
    She paused for a moment and said, “I want to apologize to you. I completely overreacted. It wasn’t fair to you, especially since you were doing something nice for me. I’m sorry, and I hope we can be friends again.” She held out her hand, which I willingly shook. She kept talking. We kept holding hands. “When I thought you were dead, I guess it touched on a nerve. I’ve had people abandon me before, and it dredged up a lot of baggage that doesn’t belong to you.”
    “Let’s not talk up here,” I said, “let’s head downstairs.” I let her lead the way and closed the trap door behind me.
    Once we got downstairs, she took a quick look around. “Kevin, this is great! I didn’t really notice before! It’s warm, comfortable, it’s well lit, and it feels pretty . . . homey! My place is cold and dark!”
    “Thanks,” I said, “I tried to think long-term and tried to have everything I’d need to be comfortable.” I told her about having the walls insulated, and the composting toilet, and the tankless water heater.
    At one point she took me by the hand. I was startled, but then she led me into the grow room.
    “I want to have a look at your nose,” she said, pulling me into the light. Nurse Michelle examined me closely and used both hands to gently prod the area around my nose. Her fingers were warm, but I winced at the pain. “It’s obvious zombies don’t have a sense of humor,” she said with a smile, “otherwise they’d have laughed when they saw you run into the wall! I know it’s not funny, but . . . actually it is kind of funny.” She was smiling.
    She continued examining me and poking. I kind of liked the attention. And I liked her standing so close to me. But it still hurt.
    Finally she seemed satisfied I was going to live. “You didn’t break it, so that’s a good thing. It’ll heal up just fine. A few weeks from now you won’t even be able to tell.” She looked around at the plants. “Holy crap, Kevin! Your plants look great!” It had been a month or so since she was last here—a month is a long time when you’re growing lettuce, herbs, and tomatoes.
    I bragged to her about having fresh salad for weeks, and offered to give her some to take home. She said she’d rather eat it here, because my place is warmer and brighter than hers. I asked her if she was hungry, and she said that even if she wasn’t, she’d be crazy to turn down fresh salad.
    I told her she was welcome to stay for dinner, but she’d have to earn it first. She looked at me suspiciously, like I was going to ask her