There’s nothing I would rather contemplate at the end of 2015 then the end of the world as we know it. Not for real! But in a zombie post-apocalyptic fictional kinda way, with a lesbian romantic twist.
I really am excited for 2016. New year, new stories, new possibilities in all areas of life. I’ve been working on a new story–a lesbian romance set in Los Angeles after of course the zombie apocalypse. And I mean, immediately thereafter, like before the main character figures out exactly who’s left alive in her building and what that means for her survival.
I’ve had a lot of fun playing around with this story, especially the “would you rather game.” In this yet unntitled story, the main character, Beatrice, and her roommate Rowena (Weena) hole up in their apartment at night and play games to help themselves prepare for and figure out who to save, who would survive. For example: Lenny Kravitz and Mike Tyson are battling a horde of zombies? Who would you rather survive and why?
Here is an excerpt from my work in progress. I’d love to hear what you think, and get your help… any ideas for a title? Right now I’m calling this “lesbian zombie romance” which really I think just won’t work…
I was never someone who had those star-crossed encounters, you know? Meeting someone’s eyes in a coffee shop or a crowded bar. If I had been unlucky in love before, my chances of simply finding another lesbian now—let alone experiencing mutual attraction and affection, shared interests—is about as likely as internet service magically being restored to greater Los Angeles. Ever.
The person I would most want by my side during the zombie apocalypse was also the woman most likely to ferret out women with even the most remote homosexual tendencies—my roommate. Weena could get laid in an elevator of straight people—in between floors. She had one of those larger than life personalities: tall, big laugh, teeth so bright and a smile so engaging, women noticed her, looked at her, liked her. And then of course they also fucked her, with a frequency that spun my 30-something spinster heart.
If you’d told me six months ago that it would be me still here, still fighting, I would have laughed at you. For starters, I’m severely lactose intolerant. Like, if they accidentally butter my toast at IHOP, I nearly shit my pants before the check comes—that intolerant. Weens—full name Rowena Louise Mcgowan—Weena or Weens for short, was a security guard, for goodness sake. She carried a firearm, real handcuffs–not just the ones she used with her girlfriends for fun–and she had both the skills and the stature to overtake a fleeing man and bring him to his knees. And she had.
But when the shit got real and we lost electricity, internet—for God’s sake cold beer—Weena decided to leave, to give up. About two weeks into the new reality, we were on self-imposed lockdown in our apartment. We shared a two-bed one-bath in a 30-story building overlooking Skid Row—which is how I know she could get laid in an elevator full of straight people between floors. She had.
We were playing a game we’d invented since the shit out there turned bad. The game was a variation on “would you rather” but with a post-zombie apocalypse twist.
“Kristen Stewart and Kate Moennig are surrounded on all sides. You have an ax and a dagger which means you have to get close to the dead to kill them and you won’t have time to save them both. Who would you pick to survive? Kristen or Kate?”
I groaned a hungry—no, anguished, sound. I weighed the choice out loud.
“Is there a chance she will be so grateful that she’ll immediately fuck me senseless for saving her life?”
Weena threw a cushion from the couch at my face. She has perfect aim.
“Duh, Bug! What the fuck would the point of saving one of them be if there was no ‘I’m indebted to you for life’ fuck?”
My name is actually Beatrice and back when people called me, they mostly called me Bea, but Weena wouldn’t be bound by the nickname everyone else used. She took a spin on “Bea” and from the first day we met, she’d called me “Bug.”
“God, I hate these choices. Ok,” I played this out. “For the immediate thank-you fuck, I’d probably have to choose Kate—“
“I knew—“ Weena screeched.
“Wait, wait, let me finish.” I pulled a long strand of hair through my fingers, imagining what I would have done a year ago to make myself gorgeous for the chance to fuck either one of them… or anyone else for that matter. “We’re gonna need some women to help us repopulate the world assuming the world doesn’t completely end. Based on readily available information, Kristen might still have sex with a man.”
“But… I also wouldn’t want to take the chance that I’d lose her to some guy who’d want to screw the gay right out of her. With Kate, I’m suspecting a lot less likelihood that she’d leave me for a wanger, even if it meant human civilization would end with us. That has a romantic sound to it, doesn’t it?”
Weena rolled her eyes, took the pillow back that she’d thrown at me, tossed it in my face again. “Choose!”
“Kate.” I settled it.
“That could have gone either way,” Weena took notes. Every time we played this game, we kept score in a log book. As though some day when faced with these choices in a crisis, we would look back on our decisions and know exactly what to do. As if anything that was happening around us could be studied, prepared for.
“Your turn,” I grabbed the legal pad and pencil. “You can take a steaming hot bath for one hour in an extra deep tub—yes, the water comes out of the tap just like before—or you can eat a full-on Thanksgiving dinner with all the trimmings in peace and safety. Your choice—one hour of clean or an entire meal of dreamy food.”
Weena’s expression darkened as she contemplated the choice. “Neither,” she said. “I don’t want either of those things, not anymore.”
“Are you sure? No strings attached? We’re talking straight up sweet potatoes, homemade dressing. Gravy so thick you could lie on it. A bed, I’m talking a bed of gravy.”
Weena shook her head, her lips thin as the lines on the paper. “Bringing back any taste of the real world, the old world, would only make coming back to this one that much harder. If you got to fuck Kate Moenning, shit, that would almost be worth splitting open zombie heads and shitting in buckets and foraging for jerky or something edible that hasn’t yet been ruined. But a turkey and stuffing or a hot bath? Jesus. I can’t imagine how sick I’d feel if for one minute I had hope that the old world was still out there somewhere.”
Thanks for reading! If you like Bug and Weena’s story and want to hear more, let me know.
And whether you’d rather stay in 2015 or are looking forward to all the possibility of 2016, have a safe, happy, zombie-free New Year!!!