Girlfriend In The Zombie Apocalypse Day 02

I awoke to the devilish laughter of Dean echoing in my ears. Which promptly coalesced from dream memory to real world sounds of the twittering song of a woodland wren, or some such songbird. It was dawn already.

Since the end of everything survivors tended to rise and retire with the dawning and setting of the sun and we counted the passing of days by the phases of the moon.

I took a good look around the surrounding woods, searching for danger signs. Then got out the binoculars and checked Emily and Dean's camp. They looked safe enough, still sleeping in their little tent. There were no signs of disturbance and no dangers in sight near to them.

I got down from my tree, bathed quickly in the nearby stream, gathered up my equipment and set off northeast, moving diagonally parallel to where Dean and Emily would be headed once they got moving.

They were following the northwest road toward the coast. I had been leading them, following the path of the road but staying just out of sight of it, in the woods. Most of the roaming scavengers still used roads to travel by which made them dangerous for small groups.

There was enough morality, residual desire and guilt in me to stop me going too far away from her. Just incase she ran into trouble. Not that, realistically, I would be able to do much from so far away. Still, it kept me from straying too far.

It felt good to be on my own again. To move at my own pace, to not have to wait for stragglers, to not have to worry about anyone but myself for once. Of course, in the back of my mind I was busy worrying about Emily, if she was still safe, but I resisted the urge of go back and check on her and instead plunged deeper into the woods.

*****

It was mid morning before I stumbled across the little cottage. I spotted its white washed exterior through the dappled curtain of summer foliage and undergrowth, saplings and bracken and brambles, as I trundled through the woods following what I assumed was a deer track. The cottage must have been a little holiday home or something, off the main road by a good mile and barely accessible by a overgrown track that was little more than two tyre-cut ruts in a trail made through flattened woodland undergrowth.

I had learned a few things in my scavenging experiences one of which was travel light but not to dump your existing supplies where people can stumble across them and steal them off you. I climbed a tree and secured my pack and weapon harness to the trunk, keeping only my hand held weapons on my belt, which included a number of kitchen knives, a hand axe and a claw hammer. My main weapon, that I always took with me into building searches, was the antique but razor sharp wakizashi. The Japanese short sword was ideal, in fact designed, to be used indoors when the full length samurai sword would have been too long and cumbersome.

The front door was locked, but only by the yale lock and an old credit card dealt with that in a second.

I was hit with the usual stale musty smell of houses that hadn't been aired in months, but not with the tell tale scent of rotten meat that would give me a zombie or corpse warning.

Saying that I stumbled into my first zombie in the hall, practically behind the door. He, an old man before he turned, was pretty fresh and showed no signs of decay yet. Which explained the lack of usual zombie scent.

He was lying on the floor, struggling to get up apparently surprised by my sudden appearance. He was trying to lunge for me and get up at the same time and failed in both cases. I put him down straight away with a huge, driving short sword slice to his skull, separating his brain and spinal cord.

I only started to examine him after I was certain he was no longer a threat.

He smelled strongly of disinfectant and I noticed that his chino style, tan coloured trousers were liberally stained at the crotch. He might have been in his sixties, had gray, slightly wild hair and a matching wispy beard. He wore a check shirt, that wasn't tucked into his trousers and an unbuttoned waistcoat.

Zombies are slow and lumbering and generally easy to avoid. The only times they really posed a dire threat was if you were panicking, if you found yourself cornered or if there are a lot of them tightly packed together. Then again, if you come up against them in significant numbers you're really going to be in trouble.

There is also the fact that while Human's get tired and require sleep, zombies don't. They never stop coming after you. There were also loads of unanswered questions, for example, if their senses were the same as ours, what kind of memory they had, long term, short term or goldfish.

There wasn't much of interest in this one's pockets, a set of small steel keys, a bottle of pills that I thought were for treating angina. Maybe that's how he died. There were no bites on him anywhere. I moved on.

It was a small bungalow with a simply lay out. A corridor led from the front door to the back bedroom with rooms off it to the left and right. Left: front bedroom and bathroom. Right: living room and kitchen. A back door in the kitchen led to a small walled in garden, now overgrown.

There was little to take other than tinned food and fresh clothing. Most of my weapons and survival gear were good quality and I'd only replace items that needed replacing. I was no bodybuilder and couldn't carry too much weight on my back and still be able to defend myself.

One thing he did have that was interesting was a petrol driven generator, something like a grand's worth of kit. He had it set up in the kitchen and was running the fridge-freezer off it.

I checked the fridge-freezer and found it was chock full of freshly caught and killed livestock. Mostly rabbits and squirrels and a few chickens and other birds. A lot of it was skinned and stripped. Just unrecognisable hunks of raw meat. Some was bagged up some ready to be skinned and prepared.

I wondered, beyond what he had it all stocked up for, how he was doing his hunting. Did he set traps like me? Or was he a go-out-and-find-em style hunter. And if so, what weapons did he use? A bow? A hunting rifle? A shotgun?

Any thoughts of searching around for new weapons was voided from my mind, like a flushing toilet, the moment I ventured into the back bedroom.

The noise initially alerted me what what to expect - a strange gargling version of standard zombie groans, growing more and more ferocious and animated as I got closer to the room.

However, the reek of disinfectant was the first thing that hit me, with a faint undercurrent of air freshener scent. The next thing that hit me was the brightness of the room. It was white washed floor to ceiling. There were none of the usual trappings of a bedroom, like a bed or wardrobe or chest of drawers. There was a rectangular dining table pushed up against the wall under the window opposite the door. And on the right hand wall was an archetype medicine cabinet. All white with mirrored doors. And that was all the furnishings in the room. Even the floor was white tile effect linoleum. Behind the door to my left were plastic gallon containers of industrial disinfectant, a mop and bucket, and other cleaning equipment. And something like a dozen aerosols of air freshener.

There was also a big carving knife suspended from a nail in the same wall behind the door.

However, the first thing that caught my attention once I stepped into the room before all of the interior decor, was the stark naked female arse mooning me from the table under the window.

I could tell from the dull, bluish-gray hue to the once pink flesh, that the naked arse was undead. My eyes were drawn to the pouting, slick, pussy lips that were now a dark, muddy shade of gray brown and above it a prominent ruddy star of the undead woman's anus.

My eyes readjusted, pulling back and taking in the rest. There were two female zombies chained up in the bedroom.

Even in their undead corpse state they were undeniably hot. Sexual beings.

Taking a step back I could have recognised the sexuality was purely in their voluptuous, over-ripe bodies, the way they were dressed and the fact that they were obviously shackled and arranged as sexual toys for the now dead man in the hall.

But I was in the moment and even looking them over was enough to get my underused phallus to fill out and harden. My heavy, blue balls, too long without attention, tingled insistently.

As with their departed owner, I could see no sign of the cause of their infection or devolution to animated corpse. They were to all intents and purposes pristine. There were no signs of decay, even though the whole room was suffused with the strong odours of disinfectant and air freshener.

Maybe he had snatched them as living women and out of some kind of sick necrophilic fetish, choked or drowned or suffocated them, turning them into zombies so he could have his little undead harem or slave room or whatever.

Or maybe he had found them recently turned, liked the look of them and hauled them back home and kept them as fresh as he could. Who knows.

Bent over the table, doggie style, with her feet on the floor was the elder of the two. It was pretty much impossible to tell the ages of the undead, even the fresh, un-rotted ones. I put her in her thirties somewhere, though maybe that was an under estimate.

She could well have been a barmaid, she was typical of the stereotype. Very busty, full hips, round face, full lips. Some would describe her as plump but she wasn't really. No more than Emily was. But she was a hell of a lot curvier.

She was wearing an unbuttoned white blouse, a pleated mock-leather mini skirt, striped knee socks and black ankle boots. But her most striking feature was her punk styled hair. It was dyed azure, the left side shaved to a hairs breadth stubble from her temple around the back of her ear with its multiple piercings. It was cropped at the nape of her neck and the right side had been left long, I suppose to be combed across her right eye, emo style. Of course, it was unkempt and needed a wash.

Examining her hair brought me to her face, which was pretty, even with the wide open eyes devoid of sentience and full of the usual desire to eat brains. She had a nasal stud, a brow piercing and a tongue stud in too. Her make up was thick Egyptian style eyeliner, crimson lips, pink blusher, but the blue-gray of undead flesh was still visible.

There was something wrong with her mouth and it took me a moment or two to figure it out. Her jaw seemed to be loose. Dislocated or maybe broken. And she didn't seem to have any teeth at all. Her gums were tattered and scabby, her tongue flopped aimlessly and pinkish drool matted her hair and face to the wood of the table top.

I wondered if it had been an experiment to take away a zombie's weapons or maybe an attempt to make a zombie take a cock in her mouth without biting it off.

I leaned in for a closer look and the zombie babe lurched for me with a throaty gurgle, rage and desire in her big brown eyes and a slackly open and danger-less, toothless mouth.

I jerked back in spite of myself and straightened up with a frown, throwing a final glance over the cuffs, chains and pad locks that held her wrists and ankles to the four legs of the table.

Then I turned my gaze away from 'Blue' and over to my left, to the other zombie hottie who was chained to the plasterboard wall with steel chains and pad locks, looped around her upper chest, snaking under her arms and around her waist.

She, I would guess, was a little younger, twenties I'd say. She looked fresher, in a more youthful way, not a less decayed way. She was more goth than punk. Black vest top, more like a bustier or something, with a on display decolletage, a monochrome tartan mini skirt over spider-web hold up stockings and black combat boots.

There was a large ring gag stuffed into her cherub-bow lipped mouth. She was more slender and prettier than Blue, and her tits might have been even bigger but it was hard to tell with the artificially promoted cleavage.

Her straight bobbed hair was black with red dyed tips and fringe.

She reminded me of Emily when I had first seen her on her first day at work when she was barely twenty. She sent my erection from ballistic missile to full on nuclear.

There was a pendant housed in her very generous cleavage. A little silver feline, sitting up and licking at a forepaw. So I called her 'Cat'.

Though distracted by the two zombie hotties and increasingly horny by their presence and their promise, I examined the rest of the room carefully. The medicine cabinet proved the most interesting. It was stocked full of boxes of condoms, lubricants, bottles of water and alcohol, an enema kit and a huge jar of what I assumed to be viagra tablets.

I sat down in a little chair in the corner of the room to the right of the door and just looked at them and thought to myself. This might not be too bad a place to rest for a couple of days. It was pretty secluded, the small size made it easy to defend or escape from, in theory. Plus there was this interesting little sexual distraction that I was getting more and more intrigued by.

I was sorely tempted. It had been literally years since I had had any kind of sexual encounter that wasn't attached to my wrist.

The morality was a little dubious. I didn't consider myself a rapist, they were dead and the idea of consent was irrelevant in these circumstances. Wasn't it? And at the same time, if they had been free from their chains they wouldn't have hesitated in trying to eat me on sight.

Or was I trying to convince myself that it was okay? Give myself a reason to let myself have some fun at a woman's expense for a change, even if they were dead women.

And the idea of chivalry towards dead women, however animated they still remained, was just foolish wasn't it?

I quickly snapped down the uncomfortable rising of the term 'necrophile' and stood up with a new determination as I had made up my mind and was now set to make preparations to stay the night. If not a day or two.

*****

While I secured the house and brought my belongings inside and settled myself, eating and exploring the cupboards and drawers and the shed and greenhouse in the back garden, a new realisation struck me, something I'd learned about zombies and put to the back of my mind as essentially useless and irrelevant, until now.

Zombies, like human's grew more lethargic and for want of a better word, pliant on a full stomach. Feed them enough and for a while, they are peaceful, almost dormant, their appetite is slaked and appetite is the singular driving force for a zombie.

And suddenly the fridge-freezer made sense. The old man had been feeding the zombie hotties regular meals of raw animal meat to keep them sedate and relatively safe. It was a clever idea, like keeping a psychopath doped up on sedatives.

In a cupboard I found a couple of food processors. He wouldn't have taken the risk of removing that ring gag to feed Cat and then put it back on again in order to fuck her face whenever the desire took him. He would have blitzed the meat into a soupy mush and then spoon fed her or piped it straight down her throat, I guessed.

I decided to replicate my assumption and see what happened. They both gobbled down their platefuls like good little girls. And it was surprisingly easy to shovel the pulped meat down Cat's gaping throat and she swallowed the stuff almost gratefully, the typical zombie groaning becoming something more akin to a purr as she greedily gobbled the meal.

I also realised that Blue was having a similar problem with eating to Cat, though for slightly different reasons. I assumed the old man had done something rather harsh to her in his first attempt to create a safe and bite-free zombie blow-job not only removing her teeth but also loosening the bite-down strength of her jaw. Whatever he had done, dislocation or somehow severing tendons maybe, it had left her jaw slack with no strength in the shutting and no ability to keep her mouth closed. Therefore she was unable to chew solid food. So I had to use the blitzed soup for her as well.

I came to the conclusion that Blue's mouth would probably be useless as a fuckable orifice, which was why Cat still had her undamaged jaw and only the ring gag to keep her from biting down on a thrusting cock.

I left them alone for a half hour to let their meals settle and had my own meal of spit-roast rabbit and some blackberries and mushrooms and wild carrots and a handful of ripe tomatoes that I found in the back garden. I took two of the Viagra tablets at the same time, just in case.

However, I was jittery and distracted, my cock at half mast all the while and my balls tingling. It was like they knew they were gonna see some action and were impatient for it to start. So, even as I was chewing on the last bit of roasted rabbit, I found myself up on my feet and heading into the back bedroom to begin the night's entertainment with the two zombie hotties.

Of course, the zombie pieces of arse were still chained up, unable to move and though vocal, as if they knew something was going to happen, they were somewhat relaxed, satiated by their meals and not showing much in the way of agitation.

I was a touch anxious about the state of them. I knew they were already turning, their flesh unable to keep away the rot and decay that took over all forms of dead flesh, but I couldn't smell anything yet, and apart from the gray hue to their flesh, the lack of anything living behind their eyes and the slightly doped up facial expressions, they seemed normal enough. I was just wary about getting too close. I doubt, unless you have a necrophile fetish, there could be any better kind of a mood killer than your prospective lover stinking of death and rotting flesh.

By now my horniness was dictating my actions. And I wouldn't have been able to change my mind or walk away now that I was in there.

I started with Cat. I didn't bother trying to shove my tongue through the ring gag and into her mouth, I'd be tempting fate, worse than the smell of rotting flesh had to be the taste of it surely? Besides, there didn't seem any point, it's not like she'd be trying to kiss me back.

I got my hands onto her huge, seemingly natural, tits instead. I shoved both hands down the neckline of the low cut top, instantly taken aback by the cold and clammy feel of her skin. There was a coating of cold sweat between her breasts, though they were still lovely and soft and inviting to the touch and once again, my cock hardened to the extreme.

As my horniness increased, my conscience and sense of guilt diminished, crushed down to a small weight in the base of my guts, so small it was easy to ignore and let my lusts and frustration lead me.

Wanting to see more, I grabbed at the neckline of her top and tore at it. It took three hard tugs to get the fabric to tear but tear it did and her massive naked breasts tumbled free, falling into my hungry, eager hands.

I spent a good five minutes mauling those incredible tits. They reminded me of the mouth watering porn babe 'Siri'.

I hefted them and squeezed them hard, squashing them between my fingers, unconcerned about hurting Cat, after all she was dead.

I crushed them together into the centre of her chest, took the long fingertip nipples between my fingers and thumbs and pinched and pulled them, bounced he big jugs by my grip of her nipples.

Cat seemed to be making an nondescript mewling noise that could have been a form of zombie groan or possibly a feminine moan. Or, to be fair, any number of other possibilities.

She dipped her head languidly, looking down at her chest as I tortured her tits and a flood of bubbly saliva splashed out of her forced open mouth and collected in her cleavage and all over the upper curves of her huge tits. I laughed at her guttural reaction and the helpful application of lubricant and carried on working hard on those huge, soft, malleable jugs.