This is how I hope it happens:
I’m taking a whimsical stroll in a part of town I never go walking in when suddenly; I happen to see a man eating a living human’s flesh like chicken.
“Holy shit!” I say. “What the hell….”
Chaos erupts. People are attacking from all sides, biting and groaning; their skin all gray and wrinkly; eyeballs milky white and void of intelligence. A woman runs screaming from her home as her undead husbands pursues, his mouth watering for her flesh (and not in a good way; that hasn’t happened in a long time, as the love died long ago). A toddler suddenly climbs off her tricycle, approaches her father and takes a large, juicy bite out of his hand. He screams and falls to the ground, twitching and gasping until, suddenly, he rises, all pale and drooly, and joins his daughter in her quest for the meat of the living.
I know what this is. It’s the motherfuckin’ zombie apocalypse.
I’ve been expecting this but what I had not planned on was this totally random stroll on a Sunday afternoon in this neighborhood I never, ever find myself in.
“Dresden!”
I hear my name shouted above the shrieks and bloody squishes and I turn to see you, so super hot, standing in the doorway of your home, waving me to safety.
I, of course, had no idea you even lived over here but I run through the sea of death-followed-by-reanimation straight into your front door. We quickly turn the locks and collapse against the door, breathless, terrified and a little bit turned on. Well. I mean, I might be….
“What the hell is happening?!” You ask me, your beautiful eyes wide with horror. You poor, muscular thing. You didn’t even have time to put a shirt on after your shower, did you? I get distracted by a little water on your chest but then snap back to reality.
“It’s the zombie apocalypse,” I say darkly.
Suddenly, there is slow and methodical pounding, accompanied by moaning at your front door.
“Don’t worry”, you say. “I have a basement that is made of steel and has steel enforced doors with super strong locks on them. There’s enough food to last 6 months, two separate bathrooms on opposite sides of very large basement, so, you know, do whatever you need to in there and I’ll never know, and a television that runs of batteries, which we have an endless supply of. Unfortunately for everyone else, there is only room enough for two people. I guess it’s you and me.”
We rush to the basement that seems to have been built for this exact situation, locking all doors. We try desperately to contact loved ones on our cell phones.
“My girlfriend…” you say with sadness. “She…she’s on vacation in Manhattan. Shopping trip. God, I hope she’s ok.”
“I’m sure she’s fine,” I say and turn on the television. Katie Couric is reporting live from the top of 30 Rockefeller Plaza in Manhattan with the header “Crisis! The Zombie Apocalypse of 2011” scrolling across the screen. Remarkably, she is still smiling as she reports that 90% of Manhattan’s population has been eaten or zombified.
“It seems,” she shouts over the sounds of screaming, helicopters and blind, wild shooting, “that the undead had a particular lust for the flesh of tourists. I have just received confirmation that all those who were visiting Manhattan from other locations have been either killed or recruited into the massive, ever-growing zombie army.” The camera cuts to a group of female zombies wandering hungrily in front of H&M, amid discarded purchases.
“That’s my girlfriend!” You point at a zombie in skinny jeans, a threadbare blousy-blouse that accentuates her perfect undead breasts and ballet flats with cascading, gorgeous zombie hair.
No!” You shout as your girlfriend attacks and feasts upon the flesh of Al Roker, who obviously drew the short straw that day.
I approach you slowly and lay a gentle hand on your bare, well sculpted arm. “I…I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”
You retreat to the bathroom, slamming the door. I steel myself against the carnage unfolding in front of me and begin uncovering our resources.
You return from the bathroom, stone-faced and unfortunately having located a t-shirt. “We need to make a run for it. Head for the mall or something. Someplace safe.”
“Dude. This is the safest place on the planet. It’s a steel enforced basement. We need to stay put.”
We argue for a while and then I make us a nice dinner of roasted chicken breast, garlic whipped potatoes and a tomato salad. When night falls and we are both sleepy, it becomes painfully obvious that there is only one bed. Awkwardly, you stammer that you’ll sleep on the couch. But I awake to find myself in your arms. I scramble out of bed—what in God’s name do you think you’re doing?! You quickly explain that I was having a nightmare and you were simply trying to comfort me. I am suspicious but commence making us each a double espresso while you make me an omelet.
As the days go by, we become closer, sharing our innermost thoughts and feelings; having heated arguments over whether Goodfellas or The Departed was Scorsese’s best film; laughing as we watch Airplane! again; crying as we admit how much we both miss our families. I even listen as you tell me about your girlfriend—about the hopes and dreams you had for the two of you…the way she smiled…the fact that she listened to really horrible music but you loved her anyway. Eventually, you begin to do things like brush the hair out of my eyes. You don’t even have to ask how I want my coffee because you already know. Months have gone by and some days, we’re profoundly irritated with each other. You can be so stubborn and I’m rather bossy at times. You make me cry once or twice and beg for my forgiveness. You know that when I’m moody, it’s best to put on Heart’s Greatest Hits and let me sing for as long as I want to. I know you need your alone time, so I retreat to my bathroom, writing and listening to music (because there’s a couch in there) while you do your thing.
And then poof—we’re in love. It’s scary and exhilarating. There’s also the small matter of the fact that we may be the last two people alive. But we’re too happy to let that get us down. The television stations have been off for months but we check every morning anyway. One morning, a news anchor reports live from the ABC studios that the zombies have been eradicated! We rejoice, throwing our arms around each other. Soon, military personnel with heat seeking technology discover us in our amazing basement. Suddenly, as we’re being wheeled away on separate gurneys for thorough medical examinations, I begin to feel you slip away. Was our love real? Or was it just convenient? What happens now?
A doctor mentions to me that they’ve found a cure for the zombie affliction and some of those affected can be saved and returned to normal. It’s then that I hear you ask another doctor: “My girlfriend…she…was bitten at the start of all this….”
As they wheel me into my hospital room, I am enveloped by acceptance. I breathe deeply and tell myself that it took a goddamned zombie apocalypse for him to notice me; what did I expect? This was never real. This was never meant to last. I’ll go back to my life and he’ll go back to his. We’ll always have the basement.
I awake in the middle of the night to find you sitting next to my hospital bed, slumped over, and snoring softly. I say your name and you wake up.
“What…what are you doing here?” I whisper.
You look at me quizzically. “Where else would I be?”
And we live happily ever after, in a police state that’s been put in place under the theory that the zombie apocalypse was a terrorist attack facilitated by the media and “gotcha” journalism. But still…happy.
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