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Sex, drugs, and zombies.
I haven’t written any silly stories on this site for a while, so here it is. A story of two women who fall in love while battling the shuffling zombie hordes using only their wits and the undeniable power of funk music. Oh, and one of them is a Valkyrie.
You should also know that there is no hardcore sex in this story. It’s all teasing and innuendo, but it’s fun nonetheless.
The events and characters in this story are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living, dead or undead, is purely coincidental.
I peer down the long and dimly lit corridor, looking out at the sea of snarling, shuffling bodies and try to steel myself for what is to come. In the distance a dying florescent momentarily flickers and I can see that there are many more of these hideous creatures than we had originally anticipated. I hope that’s not going to be a problem.
I take a deep breath and look over at Ngomi. She’s holding her fencing foil and sporting a Zombie Response Team t-shirt that matches mine. We’re not official or anything, we just snagged a couple of shirts from the university bookstore because we thought they looked cool. We’ll go back and pay for them later, once all this shit blows over.
Ngomi’s t-shirt is a little tight on her, but that’s just fine by me. Mmm, so fine.
“You ready, baby?” I say.
“I am ready, my sweet American girlfriend.”
I smirk at her comment. “Get up, or get down?” I ask.
“I think it is preferable that we should get down this time.”
I wrap my arm around Ngomi and pull her in for a quick, but passionate kiss — I feel her tongue invading my mouth and press back at it with my own, as we battle back and forth a moment — before hoisting the boombox to my shoulder and pressing play. The funky sounds of Bootsy Collins’ baseline electrify the air. Ngomi raises her foil.
“Get back, you super unfunky motherfuckers,” she yells.
“Super unfunky motherfuckers?” I snort. “Babe, we gotta work on your trash talk.” I’ve been trying, and she’s getting better, but there’s obviously still some room for improvement.
Ngomi throws her head back and laughs. It is a deep and sincere belly-laugh, the kind that starts way down in the diaphragm. I love it when she does that, and I can’t help but join her. Together we advance toward the snarling mob, me with my boombox, Ngomi with her foil, both of us laughing maniacally.
The attitude of the mob begins to change as we approach them. It’s almost imperceptible at first — a toe tap here, a head bob there — but soon these creatures are beginning to groove. Our plan is working, and I allow myself a small sigh of relief. But we are nowhere near finished yet.
“They’re late,” I say, worrying about the rest of our team, and wondering what’s keeping them.
“Do not worry my sweet American girlfriend,” Ngomi says. “They will be here.”
“I sure fucking hope so. This is the biggest mob yet, and I don’t think we can handle it by ourselves.”
No sooner does that little prophesy of doom cross my lips, than I see the door to a stairwell flying open about fifty feet down the hall. Johnny and Sarah burst forth wearing matching black sequinned catsuits. They look fabulous.
“Drinks and dancing this way, people.” Johnny has one hand on his hip, and the other is circling over his head like he’s a cowboy wielding a lasso — a very gay cowboy, like the one from the Village People. Sarah is beside him, arms up and chest out, looking a little like Nadia Comaneci after she’s just stuck the landing. Definitely fabulous, these two.
“I didn’t think you were going to show up,” I say.
“The costume alterations took longer than I thought,” Sarah says. “This little bitch wouldn’t shut up the whole time, and it made it hard for me to concentrate on my sewing. Oops, did I just say that out loud?”
Johnny sticks his tongue out at Sarah and they both break into grins a mile wide.
“I told you there was nothing to worry about, my sweet American girlfriend.” Ngomi wraps her free arm around my neck and pulls me over for a quick peck on the cheek, as we continue herding the mob toward the stairwell.
It’s definitely easier now that the shuffling bodies have started to groove. A little dip in the hip and a glide in the stride go a long way toward making our job easier, and soon they’re happily streaming down the stairs and into the conference room that we’ve temporarily converted to a disco.
We’ll keep them here until they chill out and then release them. That usually takes about twelve hours. After that we’ll try to get some rest and then go back to round up another group. It’s tedious, and I’m tired as fuck, but now that we’ve got a system worked out it’s not bad. Not like in the beginning when we didn’t know what the hell we were doing.
48 Hours Earlier
“Ladies and gentlemen, his is Hannah your pilot istanbul escort of the nighttime airwaves, bringing the overnight oddessy of jazz and funk fueled vinyl in for a landing. Thanks for joining me on the red-eye show, and we’ll have your morning show coming up right after these important messages.” I reach over and click the button to play the legal ID and underwriter recordings.
I queue up another record, since the morning show host has yet to grace me with his presence. He should be here by now, and I really hope he hurries the fuck up, because it is way past my bedtime and I’m beat. I wasn’t even supposed to be here, but I came in when I caught wind that the regular overnight host got sick. There’s this weird virus been going around campus.
I suppose I could have said no, and just let them air a previous show. I mean, how many listeners would we actually have between midnight and six in the morning? But honestly, other than the sleep deprivation, it was a very enjoyable six hours of solitude. Just me, a stack of tasty vinyl, and a tasty eighth-ounce bag of Acapulco Gold. Nice way to spend a Friday night.
I start up the next record, ’cause morning show guy is still not here yet. Loser. I hope he’s not sick too. I can put on one of his previously-aired shows, but unfortunately I don’t have a key to lock the place up. I pull another record from the stack, preparing for the worst. Now I’m going to miss my bus. He is so dead.
I hear a scratching on the door. “It’s not locked,” I shout over the music. Still the scratching continues and I get to my feet. Motherfucker, you already made me miss my bus. I put my hand on the doorknob and silently rehearse the earful I’m going to give him when the door opens.
“Listen, man. I’m gonna miss my bus ’cause your dumb ass can’t even …” I look out beyond the threshold. Holy shit! I scream and slam the door. There’s a bunch of sketchy-looking creeps outside just milling around. I grab my backpack and dive under the desk.
I’m scrounging around, searching the pack for my canister of mace and cursing my decision to plow halfway through a bag of weed last night. Oh, shit — oh, shit — oh, shit. My fingertips touch the pepper spray hiding out at the bottom of my backpack as I quickly sober up. I wrap my hand lovingly around the canister to pull it forth. Oh thank god. I breath a sigh of relief.
I hear a dull tapping on the triple-pane glass that separates the studio from the hallway. I ignore it, and curl up tighter under the desk. Tap-tap-tap, there it is again. I peek out just a little, and there is this giant of a woman standing there looking straight at me. She’s tapping on the glass with a sword. What the fuck?
She doesn’t really look like any of the other freaky people I saw, so I slowly and cautiously crawl out from my hidey-hole and make my way to the door.
“I heard you scream,” she says.
“Are you surprised?” I say, wide-eyed. “Who are those creepy fuckers out there? They didn’t try to hurt you did they?”
Then I look at the sword she has in her hand. No, not really a sword. One of those pretend swords, used for that sport … Oh, what the hell is that thing called? A fencing foil, that’s it!
“I am fine,” she says quite calmly. “I am a Valkyrie. Sent here to sort among the slain. But I see that you are still very much alive.”
I look her over for a moment. She’s like six feet tall, black as midnight, with possibly the coolest-looking dreadlocks I’ve ever seen. They look as if she’s just getting them started, and they only fall to just below her ears. “If you’re a Valkyrie, then I’m the Queen of fucking England.”
“I am honored to be in your presence, your highness. Though, excuse me for saying so your majesty, but I always assumed you would have a much more civilized tongue.”
I roll my eyes. “I’m not the bloody Queen. And no fucking way are you a Valkyrie.” I poke her in the chest with the tip of my finger.
“Oh, but I am.” She holds her sword in the air. “And if you should fall in battle, I would be honored to have you take your place at my side, where we shall share in the feast at Odin’s hall. I find you to be a most enchanting young maiden.” She lifts my hand to her lips and gently kisses my fingers. “Such lovely milky skin, and hair that shines like gold.”
I shiver slightly. She’s more than a bit odd, this woman, but she is very chivalrous. Quite a welcome change from the meatheads who’re usually trying to hit on me. “Thank you,” I say. “If I die in battle, we can definitely sit together at lunch.”
Her eyes light up as she smiles.
“So what are we going to do about these assholes in the hallway?” I ask.
“Do not concern concern yourself with that, my fair maiden. I have already dispatched them.”
I peek around the doorway to see a pile of bodies. One or two are groaning, and they all look like they’re at least still breathing. So, I don’t think they’re quite ready for Valhalla yet, but I don’t imagine they’ll be bothering us anytime soon.
I reach up and throw my arms around şişli escort my Valkyrie’s neck and plant a queen-sized kiss on her lips. I’m adamant about expressing my gratitude, and she’s panting by the time I finally let her go. “Thank you,” I say. “That’s the nicest thing anybody’s ever done for me.”
For her part, she says nothing, just stands stock still for a moment as if she’s unsure of what just transpired. I wave my hand in front of her face. “You OK?” I ask.
She says nothing for a minute, just pulls a red Sharpie marker out of her pocket and draws a short line over her forearm. “I am more than OK, my fair maiden. I have never experienced a kiss like that, and it took me by surprise, that is all. Give me a moment to collect myself and I shall accompany you as your protector.”
“Good,” I say and pull her in for another kiss, this time with a little tongue. “Now, if you’d like to accompany me to the cafeteria, I am fucking starving.”
My Valkyrie uncaps the marker once again, and makes another red line. It’s a little farther up her arm than the first one. After securing the marker in her back pocket, she picks up her fencing foil and we’re off. “You need but show me the way my fair maiden, and I shall follow you to the ends of this earth.”
She’s a strange one my Valkyrie, but I have to admit, I kind of like her.
We arrive in the residence hall cafeteria with my Valkyrie leading the way, fencing foil drawn. I hear the funky strains of a horn section playing in the distance. It’s got a nice groove to it and I start bopping my head as we walk along. Somebody’s got good taste. Then I realize that somebody is me. We’re listening to the last bit of the record that I put on before we left the studio.
My Valkyrie escort has her head cocked as we make our way toward the sound, as if she’s trying to determine if it constitutes a threat. “It’s OK,” I say. “It’s just Parliment’s Night of the Thumpasorus Peoples, from the album I put on downstairs. There must be a radio somewhere tuned to the college station. Probably in the kitchen.”
The synthesizer solo is winding up to full force as my Valkyrie pushes the kitchen door open with the tip of her foil. What the actual fuck? We walk into what has to be the most bizarre thing I’ve seen yet. There’s a shuffling mob of people in ragged-looking suits and business attire. They look a lot like the group of unsavory characters that I saw downstairs before they were dispatched by my Valkyrie.
But the strangest thing has to be the young man with the bouffant hair and the petite blonde girl sitting on the counter-top next to him. They’re both stuffing their faces with continental breakfast selections. They seem totally unperturbed by the groaning mob around them as she snarfs down donut-holes and he little balls of melon.
Bouffant pops another piece of honeydew into his mouth, shoots his hand up and waves. Blondie gives us a powdered sugar-lipped grin.
“Don’t be shy,” he says, waving us over. “There’s plenty to go around.”
My Valkyrie and I exchange a shrug, and make our way over to the couple, being careful to not disturb the mass of bodies gathered by the radio. Bouffant offers the plate of donuts, but I snag a piece of cantaloupe instead. “What are you two doing here?” I ask, my voice in a low whisper.
“Eating,” Blondie says, her mouth still full. Bouffant elbows her in the ribs and mumbles something about manners.
“Are you not worried about them?” Valkyrie wants to know, pitching her thumb toward the groaning mob congregating only a few feet away.
“They’re not hungry,” Blondie says.
“Honestly, girl. Manners.” Bouffant elbows her again.
“Watch it, bitch.” Amazingly, Boufant is not offended by this. Blondie breaks into a large powdered sugar-lipped grin as Bouffant throws an arm around her neck and pulls her in until her head is leaning on his shoulder.
“Who the fuck are you people?” I ask. “And why is your sense of self-preservation so far out of whack?”
“It’s OK,” Bouffant replies. “They like the music. They haven’t bothered us since we turned on the radio.”
“You know that’s the college station, right?”
They both look at me and shrug.
“I was the overnight DJ.”
Still, not a single glimmer of understanding in their eyes.
“The morning show guy never showed up,” I stare at them. “And this is the last song on the album.”
Finally, Bouffant and Blondie look at each other and share one of those oh, shit moments as the music is replaced by the gravelly thumps and crackles of the record coming to an end. But it’s what they do next that really surprises me.
As the thumps and crackles are gradually drowned out by a rising snarl from the mob, Bouffant and Blondie jump down from the counter-top and both take up fighting stances. My Valkyrie draws her foil, and there is a whirlwind of activity around me. I cover my head with my hands and try to hide as the melee ensues.
By the time I open my eyes again, the mob is laid out cold on the tile floor and my Valkyrie mecidiyeköy escort is congratulating the couple on their fighting skills. She assures them that they shall indeed find a place in Odin’s hall if they should ever fall in battle, but that she thinks that they have many more glorious days ahead of them.
I just shake my head and try to process everything that has happened.
Blondie comes over and rests her hands on my shoulders. “You OK? You look a little pale.”
“What the fuck was that?” I say. I realize I’m shaking just a little.
“Capoeira,” she says, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “Brazillian dance fighting.”
I hold my face in my hands. “Am I the only one around here that doesn’t know some kind of kung-fu sword-fighting shit?” The stress is proving too much, and I let out a small sob.
“It is alright, my sweet maiden.” Valkyrie sets her fencing foil down on the counter and immediately has me wrapped up in her arms. “I have sworn to protect you, and will do so until I die in battle, or until the day that you tire of me.”
“Thank you,” I say. I throw my arms around her neck and kiss her. It lasts a good five minutes, and when we’re done, Blondie and Bouffant just stare at us with their mouths agape.
“Damn girl, you’d better hang on to her.” That comment comes from Blondie, but I have no idea which one of us she is addressing. My mind is currently fixed on trying to figure out what’s going on with my Valkyrie as she once again pulls the Sharpie from her pocket, and makes a third red line on the skin of her forearm.
“What are you doing with all those marks?” I ask.
“I am keeping tally of how many times I have felt the earth move beneath my feet when you kiss me. When I get to five, I shall ask you to be my girlfriend. When I get to twenty, I shall seek your parents’ permission to ask for your hand in marriage.”
“Oh, you definitely want to hang on to her, girlfriend,” says Bouffant.
I reach up and plant another passionate kiss on my Valkyrie’s lips. I think maybe the earth just moved for me too. She has some really nice lips, and I think I fit nicely in the curve of her arms. “That’s four,” I say. “And my name is Hannah, by the way. I thought you should know that, since you’re going to be my girlfriend and all.”
“Ngomi,” she says, uncapping the Sharpie again.
“Ngomi the Valkyrie.” I smile. Ah well, not the weirdest thing that’s happened to me so far today. I let her finish the fourth hash mark before reaching up to plant the fifth kiss on her lips, sealing the deal. The kiss lasts another five minutes, and is accompanied by plenty of Brazillian tongue-dance fighting.
The four of us work together to gather provisions and discuss our immediate plans for survival. Ngomi is busy making coffee on the stovetop while Blondie, Bouffant, and I slap together sandwiches on the big stainless steel table that dominates the center of the large commercial kitchen.
I smile at my Valkyrie as she looks over her shoulder at me. None of the rest of us felt qualified to operate anything other than a Keurig, and I thought for sure I’d be going into caffeine withdrawal by now. But then Ngomi piped up and said she had seen coffee prepared many times over the fire in Odin’s hall, and volunteered to take care of it.
I think I’m beginning to like being her girlfriend. I blow her a little kiss and then turn my attention back to peanut butter and jelly duty. I get a nice warm feeling when I think about Ngomi the Valkyrie. I don’t know what the fuck is going on with all these snarling mobs dressed in suits and business casual, but at least I feel safe with the people in this room.
“So if you guys don’t go to school here, how did you get mixed up in this shit?” I ask the couple making sandwiches with me. “Did you know each other before this started?”
“Nah, I just stopped in to apply for financial aid when I met Johnny here,” Blondie says. “Isn’t he just the best?” She wraps her arms around Johnny’s arm and lays her head on his shoulder.
“I hate to break it to you sister, but your boyfriend’s about as queer as a two-dollar bill.” This gets me a look from Blondie that could curdle milk. “Sorry, but it’s true. I don’t think he’s going to be taking you to prom.”
She scrunches up her face and clenches the edge of the table as if she’s trying hard to decide whether or not she should lay me out on the floor like she did those snarling, shuffling things that were in here before.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “That was rude. I’m normally not like this. I’m just — I’ve been up all night and I’m exhausted. That’s no excuse, I know. Sorry.”
“You just need coffee, sweet girlfriend of mine. Then you will be alright.” Ngomi comes over with two steaming mugs that she places in front of Blondie and Bouffant, before turning to fetch one for herself and one for me.
Blondie thrusts her hand out to me. “I’m Sarah,” she says. “I’m going to be starting here in the fall.” She tilts her head toward Bouffant. “This is my friend Johnny, he’s here for the figure skating competition. If he places high enough, he’ll go on to Nationals, and then maybe the Olympic team.” Sarah puts her hands together in a moment of miniature applause as she shares the tale of Johnny’s figure skating glory.
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