A Sacrifice for the Undead: The Zombie Bride
A Zombie Apocalyptic Old-World Village Monster Erotica
Stella Lovegood
Copyright © Stella Lovegood 2024
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Any reproduction of this written work, in part or in whole, is
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Blurb
A 6k word zombie monster erotica read with a medieval, rural village setting.
In the year 1512, the village of Stonecreek guards against the zombie apocalypse it swears is coming with ritual sacrifices of their fairest maidens. The maidens go willingly, seeing it as a great honor to protect their people.
What they didn't know is that the zombies like beauty more than brains, and are more interested in eating them...
out
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A Superstitious Ritual to Ward off the Apocalypse
For years, my little rural village of Stonecreek believed that the apocalypse was coming.
As it is foretold, the apocalypse will begin with harbingers of danger. The sky will turn blood red, like the very heavens are bleeding through distressed clouds which try, futilely, to catch their blood rain. The water in the rivers and streams that everyone relies on for their livelihood will streak with dead fish and rotting, bloated carcasses of cows.
And at the stroke of midnight, under the cover of pitch-blackness and rolling fog, legions of the undead will rise from their graves and attack my sleepy, little village.
Prophecies of the apocalypse have been made since the beginning of time and memory, and my village's only defense against its unfolding is to round up the fairest maidens every year and select a volunteer to be strung up in the trees outside the village boundaries on Hallow's Eve, to delay the apocalypse for another year. The beautiful sacrifice is said to be an offering to the gods, a plea to blanket my little village under supernatural protection.
From the time I was first conscious of this ritual tradition happening to now, at the ripe old age of twenty-one, I could remember the faces of all the women that sacrificed themselves before me. They all submitted to the ritual with a certain determined bravery etched into their dainty, heart-shaped faces, their brows gritted with a look that said that there was no turning back. The whole square gave them a heroine's farewell, the only time when a woman was saluted to, with the same reverence that our soldiers were afforded when they were sent off to man the defenses or fight a war under the high king's orders.
That was my same destiny. Just hours before, as the light of the world shrank to little more than a bleeding, flickering light on the far horizon, as if from a fire in a running foot messenger's tower, my dear husband and siblings had kissed me on my cheeks. My mother had birthed thirteen children, and I was the eldest of the ruddy-cheeked lot. They'd all gathered around me, the smallest children burying their running tears in my billowing skirts. I'd never felt the love radiate from them as much as I did in that final moment before we'd parted, my sisters and mother all sniffling into their handkerchiefs, the men in my family issuing stoic faces, trying to project callousness.
My husband had patted me awkwardly on the head, wishing me good luck. Our marriage had been an arranged one, so there was no love lost. I knew he'd simply re-marry probably only a few months after my passing, when it would no longer be considered rude and unbecoming to. I harbored no ill resentment of this fact; it was simply the way of the world.
I'd gotten up on that stage in front of the church, the very same platform where they scheduled public executions, and waved to a grateful audience. I'd glanced up at the gallows and the guillotine from my steady perch on the wooden platform, feeling the weight of my chosen fate bear down on me.
It was the first moment I'd questioned my destiny, the first time my previously unwavering determination faltered.
But, there hadn't been any time to waste. After my farewell, with the priest saying prayers for me and sprinkling me with holy water, the soldiers had escorted me to the prepared carriage. Off we had gone, with the wheels rolling over gravel and protruding rocks and tree roots on the path to the graveyard about one mile as the crow flies from town, but two miles or so winding the circuitous route.
The soldiers had strung me up in the great hanging tree, securing me so I couldn't run off. I was precariously balanced on an old swing, my legs spread wide, my feet tied to opposite sides of the worn plank. My arms were bound over my head. There was no way for me to get free unless someone cut me down. The soldiers had tipped their hats at me, eyes wandering my slight frame and skirts billowing around my legs in the slight evening breeze.
Then, within moments, they'd taken off back down the path, the neighing of their horses drawing the carriage the last thing I heard before they crested a hill and I was left completely alone.
Now, as the night wore on, and the fog rolled in, making it difficult to see anywhere past the most immediate yards in front of me, I was really beginning to regret my ambitions to volunteer as sacrifice. I thought vaguely about my other dreams of becoming a potteress or painter. Or simply witnessing another sunset while collecting blueberries in the outskirts of town.
I even regretted not experiencing the full spectrum of human emotions. The myth of female pleasure had always been whispered in the village, rumors passing like slipped notes under back doors through laundry rooms and behind washing lines. I'd heard of only a handful of other maidens who had experienced it. My sisters and I had always giggled about what it might be like if we ever got to experience it ourselves; apparently, it occurred on our wedding nights.
But, my betrothed and I had had a rather uneventful marriage for the last three years, and I'd never experienced any soaring songs of ecstasy or uncontrollable bouts of hysteria. One lady I overheard talking about her pleasure gushed about feeling out of this world, as if she had been kidnapped into a different realm, as if her body was no longer her own. And when she had plopped back down to earth and its solemn reality, she'd wished immediately that she could simply live perpetually in that ethereal domain of hushed, soft pleasures.
Personally, because I'd never experienced it, it remained just that for me: a myth, a legend, a lie, a wish. Something that had evaded me and which I would die never getting to the bottom of. I faced out, overlooking the eerie graveyard, and tried to hum softly to distract myself from runaway thoughts.
In the distance, carried over empty fields and rolling hills, I finally heard the church bells tolling, echoing softly as if out from a reverie. I counted the echoes, feeling fear build a nest in my chest and burrow deeper within me, like a rodent searching for warmth in the depths of winter.
The final bell pierced the cold night.
