When it happened, fingers were pointed at the usual rogue-state suspects: Iran, North Korea, Ukraine. But given how it went down, some started thinking France was behind it, or maybe Brazil.
One thing we know for sure; these are *not* your dad’s zombies.
These are fucking *hot* zombies. Like…hawt.
They are definitely not the gray, shambling, rotting husks that shuffled through countless Netflix movies and TV shows in the 2000’s, moaning for brains and organ meat.
These fuckers have high color in their cheeks, full, bee-stung lips (even the dudes), and all the round places that people lust after have gotten a little rounder and fuller thanks to the virus.
And the eyes…*man*…those eyes. They get almost anime-level huge.
Smokey, hot eyes with straight, shiny, silky hair draped over them for the girls, a piercing blue gaze (yes, it’s been compared to *Blue Steel*) for the guys.
Hips, rack, eyes, package – they’re like the fever-dream of some Playboy photographer.
They don’t even want to kill you. Well, not right away.
They want to cuddle.
You see, in addition to insanely good looks, they also have immense strength and can get in nearly anywhere.
All that shit about people frantically nailing up boards over doorways and windows while the zombies slowly shuffle towards the remote forest cabin is horseshit.
These guys can bust right the fuck through that like balsawood, no problem.
And then…they cuddle you. Forever.
The “co-dependent zombie cuddle hug of doom” is what the media are calling it. In most cases, they just hug you and hug you and hug and keep hugging you until you die of exposure or dehydration.
But not always. As far as scientists can figure out (and there’s a whole lot we don’t know at this point), sometimes that hug leads to…well, *you know*. A little hawt zombie action, shall we say?
And when that happens, we have a new hawt zombie on our hands. Die or fuck a zombie and become one; that’s pretty much what you’re faced with.
And so it was that on Thursday the 24th of the 2nd year of the outbreak, I was sitting in my living room reading Proust when I heard my barrier downstairs being breached.
A crashing, thunderous splintering, ending with what sounded like silk sliding along the wall and soft footsteps.
I charged down the curving stairway, and stood at the top of the stairs looking down.
It was my ex.