Chapter Eight #3
I stand before the bush, clear my throat, and click to the first slide: The Zombie as Symbol.
“Zombies in story typically represent the death of the individual and the rise of groupthink. The idea that communist conformity is coming to turn us into mindless drudges is a uniquely American nightmare and mindset, which is probably why we make more zombie movies than any other country.”
“I did not know that,” Maisie says, folding her hands over her lap. “Though I do know a lot of people online that hate communists.”
I rub my chin. “Time will tell if this plays out in our own apocalypse. Is it somehow the conformity of millions that made them susceptible to the zombie virus? Are we special because we’re doing anything differently?”
“I thought maybe it was our diets at first,” Maisie says. “But all those people at Gatherers were getting sick, too.”
“Suffice it to say our immunity’s cause is to be determined.” I click to the next slide. Zombies: Basic Attributes in Film vs. Our Reality.
“Zombies classically eat brains, though the genre’s expanded this to any part of a living thing they can get their hands on. So far, so true.”
“They do eat food still, though,” Maisie says. “I saw a pack swarming a Tastykake truck before I picked you up.”
“The zombies were eating Tastykakes?”
“Oh, yes,” she says. “And the driver.”
“Fascinating. I can’t think of a single zombie movie where the zombies still eat food.”
Together we chat over each of the next few slides, and it’s the most relaxed I’ve seen Maisie yet.
Thinking through swarm danger, safe shelter options, government as good versus bad guy, and our favorite rules from Zombieland’s code, she comes alive during my lesson.
Maybe her years in the college classroom are the most experience she’s had relating to other people, the only place she felt she had a right to exist and could do so safely, more or less.
The idea plucks at my heart that perhaps that’s why she felt safe enough to go out with me, a professor, in the first place.
I’m wrapping up the final slide on Zombie: Transmission when the light in her eyes dims. “What are the chances it’s only affected the United States?”
I take a deep breath. “If World War Z is to be believed, zero. And as infectious as GI-27 is? This has to be a worldwide thing, and if it’s not yet, it will be soon.”
She nods once, solemn. I hate that our fun discussion is ending on such a dour note, but that’s the problem with apocalypses, I guess. They fucking suck.
I pack up my gear, and when I finish, I realize Maisie’s been watching me closely. When our eyes meet, she doesn’t glance away.
“You’re a good professor, Professor,” she says, her voice thoughtful. “Kind. Patient.” She pauses. “Thorough.”
“Well, you’re a good student,” I say, taking my seat next to her on our bench and hoping she doesn’t see the blush forming on my cheekbones. Her compliments warm me on the inside as much as the fire does on the outside.
“There is something else I want to learn, though. If you’re up for it.”
“Okay, I’m listening.”
“I’m teaching you how to survive, right?”
“Yes?” I didn’t mean it as a question, but somehow it comes out that way. Tension vibrates between us, and I don’t know why. What is happening?
She takes my hand, and with a deep, shaking breath, places it high up on her thigh. I stare down at it in wonder before ripping my eyes back to hers.
“What if you teach me how to”—she pauses, her eyes fluttering closed as if she’s summoning her courage. When they reopen a second later, her pale blue irises stand out like steel against her vivid pink cheeks. “How to fuck?”
Maisie
Everett’s eyes are the size of full moons behind his tortoiseshell glasses.
My mouth goes dry while I watch him try, and fail, to form words with his own.
My eyes squeeze shut. Stupid, stupid, stupid! Why did I do that? Why did I say that?!
It was just so strangely endearing watching this sweet, handsome, nerdy professor come to life over the subject he loves, I…
lost my head. While his eyes lit up as he described various fictional zombie viruses and their origins, his hair flopping into his eyes only for him to shove it out of the way again, I couldn’t stop thinking about how much I’d like to learn other things from him, too.
The things he started to show me, to teach me, when I had him pressed up against my front door.
The little groans he made as his hands traveled down my ribs, thumbs trailing across my nipples.
I’ve been replaying those sensations all day.
Not on purpose or anything, just when his large hand grazes mine, or zips up his coat, or really, anytime I feel the heat of his body on my skin.
And as much as I enjoyed tonight’s zombie lesson, we have two more days of driving and one night left together.
Spending it talking about zombies isn’t what I want to do.
My birthday is in five days. There’s still time.
But he’s just sitting there, staring at me, his hand frozen against my thigh. I don’t think he realizes how hard he’s gripping it.
“Listen,” I manage. “The reason I was so desperate to get you back to my place last night was because I was determined not to go through another lockdown a virgin. And yet, here I am, in even worse circumstances, with even fewer options.”