Sexy Zombie

  I loved my life before.

  Yes, you heard me correctly—I loved being paid for sex.

  Okay, that might be an exaggeration. I loved the money I got paid for sex.

  Oh boy, some of those guys were freaks and paid me ridiculously large amounts of cash.

  Yes, of course the men were old, fat, or in some cases smelly—but they paid. Not only did they pay, but they gave me gifts.

  Now, Bob was the client that finished me off.

  He was a sweet old man in his late eighties.

  At first, I thought it was just his age—he was in bed and a bit colder than normal.

  Well, not a bit colder. He was ice cold.

  But he was in bed, and I didn’t check for a pulse. How was I supposed to know he was dead? He still moved a bit and made some noises.

  When I went down on him, my arms reached up to his shoulders and the fucker bit me.

  I thought it was the teeth that killed you—apparently not. It’s the saliva.

  When I pulled my arm away, his teeth came out embedded in my skin.

  Should I say dentures instead of teeth? Either way, they were there.

  Because they were false teeth, I thought I’d be okay.

  Turns out, I wasn’t.

  Maybe a normal person would’ve paid more attention to the smell of his groin—but not me.

  Down to business and crack on.

  When I got up in the morning, I thought things were a little off, but I tried to get on with my life.

  I blamed my weak, trembling legs on just waking up.

  My hands were unresponsive—let’s say—and I figured I’d slept on them.

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  Even when I saw my reflection, I refused to believe I was a zombie.

  Because zombies don’t fucking exist.

  The stairs were slight trouble at first—then I fell from the top, and suddenly they weren’t.

  It was amazing how I felt no pain as I cartwheeled down at ferocious speed.

  Even when I got back to my feet—nothing.

  Must’ve been lucky.

  Not that I was fucking dead.

  I went to the kitchen to make some breakfast—because I was fucking starving, not just hungry, but starving like I could eat a scabby dog.

  And that was sounding appealing for the first time ever.

  Normally, I’d have some granola and fruit juice.

  Today?

  There was some chicken out defrosting, and without a thought, I started shoving it in my mouth—salmonella be damned.

  It was gorgeous, and I needed more.

  I didn’t even recoil at what I’d just done.

  My first thought? I needed to get ready for my next appointment. Or client, however you want to think about it.

  Going up the stairs was about as eventful as coming down.

  I fell three times, smashing my face into the lush carpet.

  Now, I’m not sure if it’s the zombie virus or if I’m just thick, but it still hadn’t dawned on me that I was dead.

  I’m going to blame the virus.

  So when I shambled into my bedroom, I tripped over my pink bunny slippers and fell onto the bed.

  Those slippers were adorable.

  If they hadn’t had my sweaty trotters in them, I’d have cuddled them.

  That’s when I realized—they weren’t on my feet.

  With a great deal of effort, I still didn’t manage to get one on, and again, I was picking myself up off the floor.

  This was starting to get silly—the amount of time I was spending down there.

  It finally dawned on me how much time I’d just wasted trying to get my slippers on.

  Everything was taking too long.

  Luckily, I can pull the pajama look off.

  I’m fucking gorgeous.

  After a short stumble down the stairs and an epic fight with the front door, I was out and about in the world.

  Now, I’m not sure how to feel about the streets being kind of dead.

  I sort of want people to see how sexy I look and admire the balls it takes to walk around like this.

  But there’s hardly anyone.

  And the ones who are out aren’t paying me any attention.

  They all seem to be finding the wall extremely interesting for some reason.

  Now, today started off a bit weird, but now it’s taking the piss.

  When you see a sexy little thing like me walking down the street in silk pyjamas and nothing else—not even a bra—you should fucking show some decency and look.

  Not just glance. Stare.

  Get an eyeful.

  Something to tell your mates about down at the pub.

  But nothing.

  Not even a sideways glance.

  No wolf whistle. Not a peep.

  My feelings are getting hurt—and no one cares.

  A woman went sprinting past me while I was mid-sulk.

  Her shoulder knocked mine, sending me to the ground for the hundredth time that morning.

  When I eventually got back to my feet—and that was taking far too long, too—I saw a pile of what looked like people in the road.

  There were screams and loud moaning, and my feet started to move like they were being controlled by someone else.

  Running like I had a haunted, murderous car chasing me down.

  I got to the pile—like ants on a cracker—and I could smell blood.

  Instead of recoiling, I started to fight my way through.

  Fight down—and there she was.

  The woman that knocked me down.

  I should have helped her.

  Instead, I bit her flailing hand and took off her little finger.

  Loud cracks sounded from somewhere, but I just didn’t care.

  Heavy weights were landing on me, pushing my face into her—and I was like a fat man at a pie-eating contest.

  Didn’t need cutlery .