Story #99 - Zomb

Zomb

It was the sound of chewing that woke Sam Jones from sleep.

More precisely, it was the sound of his roommate, Joanne, chewing on his arm.

“Joanne!” He yelled, and her teeth loosened just enough for Sam to pull his arm free. Judging by the look in her eyes, she had been creepwalking again and had no idea she'd almost turned him.

“What the hell, Joanne?” Sam was furious. Pushing himself off of his bed he strode for the door, only to find the wood around the deadbolt he'd installed splintered. He knew it wasn't her fault; at night, the urges were beyond her ability to control, but this meant another round of trying to figure out a viable way to keep her out.

“Sam?” Her voice was groggy. “Sam? Am I in your room?” She looked around, darkened eyes blinking rapidly. “No! Oh no, I'm so sorry, Sammy. Did I get you? Please tell me I didn't get you!”

He took a deep breath. He'd been avoiding looking at the arm, hoping that he'd be feeling more stable by the time he looked down, but there was nothing for it now. A quick glance showed nothing to be worried about; she hadn't broken skin and there was only a faint redness where she had begun to soften him up.

Sam breathed a sigh. The area would itch in the morning, and be sore for a few days, but he'd stay human for at least a little while longer.

“No, Joanne,” he said, moving to help her off of the floor by his bedside, “you didn't get me. This time. Now, come on. Let's get out of here and into the living room.”

She nodded and let him help her out into the hallway and then into their well-appointed living room. Guests they had never suspected one of the two roommates was a Zomb, and if they had cause to speculate, they'd be more likely to pick Sam than Joanne, which was just how the pair liked it.

Joanne had been bitten in the first days of the attacks, before the virus had reached its full strength. There was little to differentiate her from any “normal” human on the planet, except for a deadness around the eyes that non-Zombs didn't have. Fortunately, a little makeup and a low-cut dress meant that most people assumed she was tired. Tired, and sexy. For most men, staring at her chest left no time for speculation, and for most women, gossiping about how she looked like a slut meant they missed the fact that she could have turned them into ravening monsters.

Setting her gently down on the couch, Sam headed for kitchen. “Tea?” He said as he moved away, and she nodded.

“Thank you, Sam. For everything.”

He didn't respond; they'd been friends now for almost ten years, and he hadn't felt it was right to turn her over to the authorities eight months ago when this had all come to a head. She was so high-functioning it was almost like having her there as she always had been, and there was no way that he was going let some science geek cut her up for parts; the government had enough captured Zombs to figure out a cure, and when they did, Sam would get a hold of it somehow.

Once the kettle was boiling, Sam snuck a look out at Joanne, who was lying on the couch, eyes closed and hands on her chest.

“I love you,” he said aloud, knowing she had no way to hear him, “and I always will.”

That was the sad truth of it, he knew; the real reason he'd never let them take her, and why he let her go out every night and find the sketchiest dirt-bags she could. She'd bring them back to the apartment, Sam would close his door and shut his ears, and Joanne would go to work. The first couple of times he'd actually listened in, but once moans of pleasure turned to screams of pain, he couldn't bear it, even for her sake. He'd told himself he was listening in to protect her, in case one of the morons she brought home got out of control, but he knew better – intimacy by proxy was better than none at all.

He didn't bother to steep the tea; chances were she wouldn't drink it anyway, but he still made sure it had just the right amount of milk and honey. She might not notice, but he always would.

Moving back to the living room, he set the cup down beside her and touched her lightly on the cheek. “Wake up, Jo. Tea's on.”

With a soft sigh, she rolled over onto her side and he ran his hand down her neck, fingers desperate to go further, but he pulled back quickly.

“Don't,” she said, eyes coming open, and he felt a rush of shame. “Don't stop.”

Sam battled himself, but the contest was so one-sided as to be trivial. Regret was a far more powerful motivator than fear.

***

The turning had not been pleasant. The sex was great; everything he'd imagined it would be, and he could tell she loved him just as much as he loved her, but that didn't mean she could ignore the imperative the virus had given her. Agony didn't really cover the feeling, but it came close enough that he would always associate the word their first time together. Blissful agony.

It wasn't so bad, really. They could be together during the day, talking and making love as he'd always wanted. Stored up vacation at work thanks to excess sexual frustration and nothing else to do meant they had months to be together, and it became a game to see which of them could bring home the next piece of meat they'd kill or transform.

Morally, Sam had no illusions; whatever part of him remained human was horrified by his actions. But he was happy, with her, and that was enough.

- D