With the world suddenly teeming with zombies, Charlie and Bobby are fighting to stay alive. Being about as gay as two people can be, they insist on doing it with panache.
Even with the planet throwing up its legs in submission, there is no reason a couple of style-conscious guys can't look good while saying good-bye to the age of man and ushering in the age of… God knows what. Amoebas, maybe. With their loyal zombie poodle, Mimi, at their side, they bravely face the apocalypse head-on.
Death, destruction, and the undead they can deal with. But without electricity, it's the depressing lack of blow-dryers and cappuccino machines that really pisses them off—until Bobby goes missing! Suddenly Charlie has more than fluffy hair and a good cup of coffee to worry about….
Charlie and Bobby find themselves to be the last two humans left on earth, except for the roaming zombies of all shapes, sizes,and species. They make their way day in and day out, surviving and loving each other. Then comes along a little poodle named Mimi, although the pup is a zombie Bobby doesn't have the heart to kill her. How will Charlie survive though when one day Bobby disappears? Will he and Mimi find Bobby or is Charlie destined to be the last man alive?
I have only read a few John Inman books but I have absolutely loved them, he has a way of turning even a love story into an absolute fear-inducing nailbiter. So when The Poodle Apocalypse crossed my path I knew it would be wonderful, I also had an inkling that it would be a bit different from the other Inman works I've read simply from the name and the cover. Let's face it, how fearful can a tale be if its titled The Poodle Apocalypse, right? You'd be surprised.
Okay, maybe fearful isn't the right word but it is fun, entertaining, humorous, and of course there is lots of love between Bobby and Charlie. I won't give away any specifics because I don't want to ruin the ending but I will say that I loved this little zombie tale and though humor may be the main element, the idea of being one of the last two on earth scares the beejesus out of me. The cliché, "you'll laugh till you cry" is the perfect way to describe this little Inman gem.
I have only read a few John Inman books but I have absolutely loved them, he has a way of turning even a love story into an absolute fear-inducing nailbiter. So when The Poodle Apocalypse crossed my path I knew it would be wonderful, I also had an inkling that it would be a bit different from the other Inman works I've read simply from the name and the cover. Let's face it, how fearful can a tale be if its titled The Poodle Apocalypse, right? You'd be surprised.
Okay, maybe fearful isn't the right word but it is fun, entertaining, humorous, and of course there is lots of love between Bobby and Charlie. I won't give away any specifics because I don't want to ruin the ending but I will say that I loved this little zombie tale and though humor may be the main element, the idea of being one of the last two on earth scares the beejesus out of me. The cliché, "you'll laugh till you cry" is the perfect way to describe this little Inman gem.
RATING: 
Chapter One
IT WAS so hot you could stick a chicken in the trunk of your car and two hours later it would be parboiled to perfection. I would have passed out from the heat, but the mere thought of having to pick myself up off the ground later was too much to bear. A few moments before, I had peeled off my shirt. Now I was seriously considering ripping off my baggy cargo shorts too. Sweat burned my eyes. I took a moment to wipe my brow with a sodden forearm, which did no good whatsoever. With a monumental sigh, I took a firmer grip on the shovel and proceeded to dig the goddamn grave a little deeper.
And while I was at it, I thought I might as well make the hole a bit longer too. The last visitor who’d discovered our little corner of paradise had been a tall sucker. He had probably been a real hunk back in the good old days. Not now, of course. Now he was just ugly. And tall and beefy and smelly and cranky and harder to kill because of his size. Just my luck. If left to rot beside the front porch where I had knocked his brains out earlier with a claw hammer, he would have stunk up the place in no time flat. Especially in this heat.
I don’t know why we couldn’t have our lives threatened by a nice midget now and then. Or a third-grader. Or maybe some feeble ninety-two-year-old grandmother with a walker. But no. All our homicidal visitors looked like lumberjacks. Even the girly visitors were brawny and mean. Back before the world went to shit, those girly visitors must have been cranky motorcycle chicks with leather boots and spiky hairdos, who never got laid because they were just too damned ugly, which I suppose would go a long way toward explaining their nasty attitudes now that they were, for all intents and purposes, as dead as mackerels.
I use the word “visitors” loosely, you understand. It’s just I have a real hard time admitting, even now, after the past two months of dealing with them, that what I had just banged on the head with a hammer on the front porch—rather like driving home a railroad spike—and was now trying to bury underneath the front lawn before it started to reek to high heaven, was actually a fucking zombie. One of thousands. Maybe millions. In the city. In the country. In the world. Yep. You heard me. Zombies. Just like in those annoying old horror movies. Only now they had climbed down off the silver screen and were trying to kill us in real life. And that was really annoying, don’t think it wasn’t.
Actually, when I use the word “zombies” to describe these murderous poopheads, it is more of a euphemism than anything else. They aren’t real zombies, you understand. They didn’t claw their way up out of the grave. And they don’t infect you when they bite you either. The world hasn’t gone that screwy. No, these are just people. Sort of. People who used to be our friends and neighbors. Like the guy down the street who mows his grass every Saturday whether it needs it or not, or the florist on the corner who always waves hello when you walk by, or your kid’s first-grade teacher who says she’s sorry she stood your kid in a corner for two hours but good lord that kid’s annoying. People like that. Just ordinary people. But now, of course—well, now, they’re something else.
I should also add that when I use the word “dead” to describe these creatures, that is pretty much a euphemism too. Don’t ask me what it’s a euphemism for. Because these guys sure as hell aren’t alive. They just aren’t quite dead either.
But boy, are they mean. And driven. We assume they’re trying to kill us so they can eat us, but thank God that theory hasn’t been tested yet. If I could have my druthers, I’d rather not test it.
I suppose I should introduce myself. My name is Charlie Pickett. That good looking guy lying over there in the hammock, as naked as a jaybird and acting like he’s asleep, is Bobby. Bobby Greene. Bobby’s my lover. We’ve been lovers for about three years now. And a happy three years it was, too, until a couple of months ago when the zombies started showing up.
And it isn’t only zombie people Bobby and I have to worry about now. When I say the world went to shit, I mean the whole planet. Now there are zombie bugs and zombie Chihuahuas and zombie grizzly bears and zombie cows and zombies of every size and shape and species imaginable. And if that isn’t enough, we have to deal with the screwy weather. One day it’s freezing, the next day it’s a scorcher, the day after is one continuous lightning storm, and the day after that there’s a tornado whizzing past your head. Jeez, you never know how to dress in the morning. Or what will be trying to kill you before the day is over.
I suppose you’re wondering why Bobby and I aren’t zombies ourselves. Well now, there you have me. Bobby and I have talked this over countless times in the past two months. It seems to us that if God was going to push the reset button and start all over from scratch to repopulate the world with people a little more in line with His own sensibilities—in other words, nice people, as opposed to the bungholes and politicians he had been filling it up with lately—to our way of thinking, surely God would plan ahead and not try to repopulate the joint with a couple of gay guys like me and Bobby. You see what I’m saying? Admittedly, we’re nice enough and all that, but there’s not much chance of building up a new world order with homosexuals, seeing as how homosexuals can’t breed. Not with each other, at any rate. Although, God knows we try often enough.
Plus, as far as we know, Bobby and I are the only two people left standing. We are, in toto, the only non-zombie beings we have seen. Can you believe that? We used to be known as gay people, Bobby and I, but now I guess we’re just people. Or survivors. Or remnants of a civilization. I don’t much care for the sound of that. Anyway, there’s not much need for labels when it’s just you and your lover and a couple of million zombies running around.
Here’s what happened.
A couple of months ago, we woke up one morning in each other’s arms, just like we normally do. Bobby and I have always been snuggly sleepers. We were jarred awake by the screeching of a car alarm outside our two-bedroom San Diego apartment. That car alarm just went on and on and on. Finally, after an exasperating twenty minutes of trying to stuff our pillows in our ears, we tugged on some clothes and stumbled outside to investigate. And lo and behold, that’s when we discovered we were the only two people left. Anywhere. The streets were empty. No hum of traffic or lawn mowers, no rumbling of skateboards, no distant thumping of car radios pounding out rap or golden oldies. Nothing.
And while we were standing on the street corner rubbing our eyes and wondering where everybody had gone, the power went out. What was silent before, except for that damned car alarm screeching across the neighborhood, had become dead silent. Stone silent. And then, five seconds after the power went out, the car alarm stopped screaming.
We’ve not heard another sound since that moment from another living soul that we did not make ourselves.
There had been some talk about massive sunspots before the day of the car alarm, but we’re not sure if that was the cause for everyone disappearing or not. Don’t see how it could be, really. Suffice it to say, they were simply gone. Vanished. Every single person, everywhere. And no bodies were left behind.
Bobby and I were alone. And with no electricity, no TV, no radio, no telephones, no traffic noises, no milling throngs of humanity rushing off to work on that eerie Tuesday morning, the silence was absolutely deafening. And creepy.
But enough about God unplugging and depopulating the world.
In the meantime, the goddamn grave still needed digging, and since it was my turn to dig and bury and Bobby’s turn to nap and look sexy, here I was still slaving away with the blasted shovel and occasionally leering at Bobby’s gorgeous nakedness over there in the hammock. He knew I was watching too. He had his strong, bare legs splayed wide and an arm dangling over the side of the hammock, exposing one beautiful fuzzy armpit and a neatly muscled bicep. He was trailing his fingers back and forth in the grass as he lazily swung there in the nonexistent breeze. Every now and then, I was almost sure I could see one of Bobby’s eyes peek open just to make sure I was watching. When he thought I might be, he nonchalantly readjusted his dick as if by accident. But it was no accident. And if he didn’t stop it soon, I was going to start mistaking the shovel handle for my own dick. One was getting to be just about as hard as the other, if you get my drift, and since it isn’t exactly rocket science, I’m sure you do.
It was late afternoon. Maybe four o’clock or so. Since it was summer, and this was California, the sun was still high in the sky. High and hot. Hotter than usual, of course, since the world had taken a screwy turn for the worse as far as weather went too. I figure the temperature was at about 110. It was humid as hell because two days ago it was snowing. That’s right. Snowing. In San Diego. And as of this morning, the blazing sun began turning that snow into steam. For a while you could actually hear it sizzling on the street like bacon grease popping in a red-hot skillet. Digging the grave, and simmering in my own juices, I was starting to feel like that parboiled chicken I mentioned earlier.
Bobby had a full-fledged hard-on now. He was watching me from the hammock and idly stroking himself at the same time, one hand gripping his cock, the other hand tucked behind his head. He was smiling, no longer feigning sleep. Now he just looked mischievous. God, he was gorgeous.
“Need some help?” he called out.
“No,” I said, rubbing my own crotch now. I loosened my belt and eased my shorts down past my knees, watching Bobby all the while I did it just to see what his reaction would be. The open air felt wonderful rustling the hair on my balls, almost like one of Bobby’s gentle caresses. Or the way it felt when he nuzzled me there with his nose. “But it looks like you might need some assistance,” I added with a smile.
I gave my thickening dick a good shake and a nice long stroke, just to make it stand up proud. Bobby whistled softly. “Bring that over here into the shade where I can get at it,” he said.
Then I managed to get a grip on something besides myself. Namely, the situation. I reluctantly tugged my shorts back up and tucked Charlie Junior away for another time. Charlie Junior wasn’t happy about it either, I don’t mind telling you. Neither was I.
“Let me get this Neanderthal underground first. He’s already starting to stink up the place.”
Bobby gave a monumental sigh and dropped his dick too. Being the gentleman that he is, he hauled his ass up out of that hammock and came over to help. He was still stark naked, of course, and he was still a beauty to look at, don’t think he wasn’t, but to be honest, I didn’t mind putting off sex for a while if it meant I would get some help planting this latest visitor. I did take a moment to bend over and give Bobby’s boner a gentle squeeze and a kiss on the top of its firm little head, just by way of saying hello. The crystal drop of precome glistening there tasted delicious. Bobby heaved up a pretty big moan of discontent when I stopped what I was doing, but it was planting season, dammit. There was work to be done. So after we got the sex out of our heads, we went back to grave digging.
After ten minutes of shoveling and sweating and bitching about the heat, our hard-ons were history.
When the grave was at a satisfactory depth and width and length, we each took a leg of you-know-who, dragged our visitor to the edge of the hole, and with our naked feet, tipped the bastard in. He landed flat on his back with a thud that sounded pretty doggone eternal, if you know what I mean. Yessir. He was home for good. The creep.
It took Bobby and me another thirty minutes to cover the guy up. When we were finished, we were just about done in. We flung our shovels across the lawn and headed for the backyard of this magnificent San Diego property we’d commandeered a few weeks earlier, and which must have cost several mil back in the days when that stuff mattered.
Behind the mansion was an Olympic-size pool. Since Bobby was still naked, all I had to do was drop my cargo shorts to put myself in the same condition, and hand-in-hand, we cannonballed into the deep end of the pool with a humongous splash. The water was damn near hot from the sun, but still it felt fabulous.
For the first time that day, I came to the conclusion that maybe I wouldn’t really die of heatstroke, after all.
The pool had not been cleaned for quite a while, since there was no longer electricity anywhere in the city, or pool boys either, for that matter. Not live ones, anyway. As I floated there in the still water, splashing leaves away from my face, Bobby swam up behind me and pulled me into his arms. He nibbled at the back of my neck while his hands reached around to stroke my stomach. His fingers traveled a wee bit south and twiddled with my pubic hair as I tilted my head back to nuzzle his cheek.
“I love you,” he said into my ear, and with a giggle, he pulled me beneath the surface.
“Glug, glug, glug, glug,” I answered, trying not to drown.
We laughed and roughhoused and grappled with each other as we spun around in circles beneath the water, first him on top, then me on top, then him again, then me, like a couple of frenzied crocodiles rolling over and over, tenderizing their dinner. Arms and legs flailing, Bobby’s naked body felt wonderful squirming next to mine. His arms strong. His flesh hot and firm and heavenly.
The water was glorious. Our hard-ons came back to life in about six heartbeats. It was great being twenty-five and being in love and being perpetually horny. I was pretty sure Bobby felt the same way, since he was also twenty-five. God knows he was perpetually horny. Even with the world fizzling out around us, nothing could have been finer than being naked and in love on this steamy California evening.
Well, that and the fact we weren’t zombies. That was pretty much a plus too.
I wondered how long we would be able to keep it that way.
BEFORE that disastrous Tuesday morning when everything changed, I was a waiter at Mr. A’s, an upscale restaurant perched atop a high-rise office building just up the hill from downtown San Diego. Mr. A’s had a reputation for offering its customers a resplendent view of the city and an even greater reputation for overcharging them to the hilt for the opportunity to take advantage of said view. The joint was a bastion of snootiness: the food exquisite, the service spectacular, the prices astronomical, and as if all that wasn’t pissy enough, you couldn’t get in without a tie. If you don’t mind my saying so, being a waiter there was rather a plum job. I made more in tips in a year than a cousin of mine who lives in Kansas City made teaching school. Of course, she’s probably dead now. Or zombified. Who knows? Anyway, as I was saying, I had a good job and I was perfectly satisfied with my measly little existence. Being happily entrenched in a loving relationship with Bobby played no small part in that satisfaction.
Bobby was considerably less enamored of his own place in the business world than I was with mine. On that eventful Tuesday morning when God took the world and stood it on its head, Bobby was earning his keep by holding down two jobs. Neither job was what you would call stellar. He was a dog walker in the evening and a San Diego Zoo snack bar clerk during the day. As he continually pointed out in his sweetly self-deprecating way, he was not exactly on the fast track to having his mug plastered across the cover of CEO Magazine. But even with all that, I think I can safely say he was, on the whole, satisfied with his life. And I like to think being happily entrenched in a loving relationship with me played no small part in that satisfaction.
Simply put, we were nuts about each other.
If I had any lingering doubts about that belief, the feel of Bobby’s stiff dick whapping me in the leg as we wrestled around in the pool and washed away the day’s miseries would have pretty well cleared it up. And if even that wasn’t enough to demonstrate the fact that we loved each other, the stiff he helped me plant in the front yard was surely more than enough to prove it. Bobby didn’t have to help me at all, you know. I had the watch. It was my turn to do the grunt work of slaughtering zombies and sticking them underground if one should happen along. Bobby just lent a hand because he loves me. That thought made my heart swell up. Rather like my dick at the moment. Only bigger, of course. And with less drippage.
Bobby and I were a team. Period. We had been a team before the world fell apart, and we were even more of a team now. As a matter of fact, now we were the only team.
Ain’t love grand?
IT WAS so hot you could stick a chicken in the trunk of your car and two hours later it would be parboiled to perfection. I would have passed out from the heat, but the mere thought of having to pick myself up off the ground later was too much to bear. A few moments before, I had peeled off my shirt. Now I was seriously considering ripping off my baggy cargo shorts too. Sweat burned my eyes. I took a moment to wipe my brow with a sodden forearm, which did no good whatsoever. With a monumental sigh, I took a firmer grip on the shovel and proceeded to dig the goddamn grave a little deeper.
And while I was at it, I thought I might as well make the hole a bit longer too. The last visitor who’d discovered our little corner of paradise had been a tall sucker. He had probably been a real hunk back in the good old days. Not now, of course. Now he was just ugly. And tall and beefy and smelly and cranky and harder to kill because of his size. Just my luck. If left to rot beside the front porch where I had knocked his brains out earlier with a claw hammer, he would have stunk up the place in no time flat. Especially in this heat.
I don’t know why we couldn’t have our lives threatened by a nice midget now and then. Or a third-grader. Or maybe some feeble ninety-two-year-old grandmother with a walker. But no. All our homicidal visitors looked like lumberjacks. Even the girly visitors were brawny and mean. Back before the world went to shit, those girly visitors must have been cranky motorcycle chicks with leather boots and spiky hairdos, who never got laid because they were just too damned ugly, which I suppose would go a long way toward explaining their nasty attitudes now that they were, for all intents and purposes, as dead as mackerels.
I use the word “visitors” loosely, you understand. It’s just I have a real hard time admitting, even now, after the past two months of dealing with them, that what I had just banged on the head with a hammer on the front porch—rather like driving home a railroad spike—and was now trying to bury underneath the front lawn before it started to reek to high heaven, was actually a fucking zombie. One of thousands. Maybe millions. In the city. In the country. In the world. Yep. You heard me. Zombies. Just like in those annoying old horror movies. Only now they had climbed down off the silver screen and were trying to kill us in real life. And that was really annoying, don’t think it wasn’t.
Actually, when I use the word “zombies” to describe these murderous poopheads, it is more of a euphemism than anything else. They aren’t real zombies, you understand. They didn’t claw their way up out of the grave. And they don’t infect you when they bite you either. The world hasn’t gone that screwy. No, these are just people. Sort of. People who used to be our friends and neighbors. Like the guy down the street who mows his grass every Saturday whether it needs it or not, or the florist on the corner who always waves hello when you walk by, or your kid’s first-grade teacher who says she’s sorry she stood your kid in a corner for two hours but good lord that kid’s annoying. People like that. Just ordinary people. But now, of course—well, now, they’re something else.
I should also add that when I use the word “dead” to describe these creatures, that is pretty much a euphemism too. Don’t ask me what it’s a euphemism for. Because these guys sure as hell aren’t alive. They just aren’t quite dead either.
But boy, are they mean. And driven. We assume they’re trying to kill us so they can eat us, but thank God that theory hasn’t been tested yet. If I could have my druthers, I’d rather not test it.
I suppose I should introduce myself. My name is Charlie Pickett. That good looking guy lying over there in the hammock, as naked as a jaybird and acting like he’s asleep, is Bobby. Bobby Greene. Bobby’s my lover. We’ve been lovers for about three years now. And a happy three years it was, too, until a couple of months ago when the zombies started showing up.
And it isn’t only zombie people Bobby and I have to worry about now. When I say the world went to shit, I mean the whole planet. Now there are zombie bugs and zombie Chihuahuas and zombie grizzly bears and zombie cows and zombies of every size and shape and species imaginable. And if that isn’t enough, we have to deal with the screwy weather. One day it’s freezing, the next day it’s a scorcher, the day after is one continuous lightning storm, and the day after that there’s a tornado whizzing past your head. Jeez, you never know how to dress in the morning. Or what will be trying to kill you before the day is over.
I suppose you’re wondering why Bobby and I aren’t zombies ourselves. Well now, there you have me. Bobby and I have talked this over countless times in the past two months. It seems to us that if God was going to push the reset button and start all over from scratch to repopulate the world with people a little more in line with His own sensibilities—in other words, nice people, as opposed to the bungholes and politicians he had been filling it up with lately—to our way of thinking, surely God would plan ahead and not try to repopulate the joint with a couple of gay guys like me and Bobby. You see what I’m saying? Admittedly, we’re nice enough and all that, but there’s not much chance of building up a new world order with homosexuals, seeing as how homosexuals can’t breed. Not with each other, at any rate. Although, God knows we try often enough.
Plus, as far as we know, Bobby and I are the only two people left standing. We are, in toto, the only non-zombie beings we have seen. Can you believe that? We used to be known as gay people, Bobby and I, but now I guess we’re just people. Or survivors. Or remnants of a civilization. I don’t much care for the sound of that. Anyway, there’s not much need for labels when it’s just you and your lover and a couple of million zombies running around.
Here’s what happened.
A couple of months ago, we woke up one morning in each other’s arms, just like we normally do. Bobby and I have always been snuggly sleepers. We were jarred awake by the screeching of a car alarm outside our two-bedroom San Diego apartment. That car alarm just went on and on and on. Finally, after an exasperating twenty minutes of trying to stuff our pillows in our ears, we tugged on some clothes and stumbled outside to investigate. And lo and behold, that’s when we discovered we were the only two people left. Anywhere. The streets were empty. No hum of traffic or lawn mowers, no rumbling of skateboards, no distant thumping of car radios pounding out rap or golden oldies. Nothing.
And while we were standing on the street corner rubbing our eyes and wondering where everybody had gone, the power went out. What was silent before, except for that damned car alarm screeching across the neighborhood, had become dead silent. Stone silent. And then, five seconds after the power went out, the car alarm stopped screaming.
We’ve not heard another sound since that moment from another living soul that we did not make ourselves.
There had been some talk about massive sunspots before the day of the car alarm, but we’re not sure if that was the cause for everyone disappearing or not. Don’t see how it could be, really. Suffice it to say, they were simply gone. Vanished. Every single person, everywhere. And no bodies were left behind.
Bobby and I were alone. And with no electricity, no TV, no radio, no telephones, no traffic noises, no milling throngs of humanity rushing off to work on that eerie Tuesday morning, the silence was absolutely deafening. And creepy.
But enough about God unplugging and depopulating the world.
In the meantime, the goddamn grave still needed digging, and since it was my turn to dig and bury and Bobby’s turn to nap and look sexy, here I was still slaving away with the blasted shovel and occasionally leering at Bobby’s gorgeous nakedness over there in the hammock. He knew I was watching too. He had his strong, bare legs splayed wide and an arm dangling over the side of the hammock, exposing one beautiful fuzzy armpit and a neatly muscled bicep. He was trailing his fingers back and forth in the grass as he lazily swung there in the nonexistent breeze. Every now and then, I was almost sure I could see one of Bobby’s eyes peek open just to make sure I was watching. When he thought I might be, he nonchalantly readjusted his dick as if by accident. But it was no accident. And if he didn’t stop it soon, I was going to start mistaking the shovel handle for my own dick. One was getting to be just about as hard as the other, if you get my drift, and since it isn’t exactly rocket science, I’m sure you do.
It was late afternoon. Maybe four o’clock or so. Since it was summer, and this was California, the sun was still high in the sky. High and hot. Hotter than usual, of course, since the world had taken a screwy turn for the worse as far as weather went too. I figure the temperature was at about 110. It was humid as hell because two days ago it was snowing. That’s right. Snowing. In San Diego. And as of this morning, the blazing sun began turning that snow into steam. For a while you could actually hear it sizzling on the street like bacon grease popping in a red-hot skillet. Digging the grave, and simmering in my own juices, I was starting to feel like that parboiled chicken I mentioned earlier.
Bobby had a full-fledged hard-on now. He was watching me from the hammock and idly stroking himself at the same time, one hand gripping his cock, the other hand tucked behind his head. He was smiling, no longer feigning sleep. Now he just looked mischievous. God, he was gorgeous.
“Need some help?” he called out.
“No,” I said, rubbing my own crotch now. I loosened my belt and eased my shorts down past my knees, watching Bobby all the while I did it just to see what his reaction would be. The open air felt wonderful rustling the hair on my balls, almost like one of Bobby’s gentle caresses. Or the way it felt when he nuzzled me there with his nose. “But it looks like you might need some assistance,” I added with a smile.
I gave my thickening dick a good shake and a nice long stroke, just to make it stand up proud. Bobby whistled softly. “Bring that over here into the shade where I can get at it,” he said.
Then I managed to get a grip on something besides myself. Namely, the situation. I reluctantly tugged my shorts back up and tucked Charlie Junior away for another time. Charlie Junior wasn’t happy about it either, I don’t mind telling you. Neither was I.
“Let me get this Neanderthal underground first. He’s already starting to stink up the place.”
Bobby gave a monumental sigh and dropped his dick too. Being the gentleman that he is, he hauled his ass up out of that hammock and came over to help. He was still stark naked, of course, and he was still a beauty to look at, don’t think he wasn’t, but to be honest, I didn’t mind putting off sex for a while if it meant I would get some help planting this latest visitor. I did take a moment to bend over and give Bobby’s boner a gentle squeeze and a kiss on the top of its firm little head, just by way of saying hello. The crystal drop of precome glistening there tasted delicious. Bobby heaved up a pretty big moan of discontent when I stopped what I was doing, but it was planting season, dammit. There was work to be done. So after we got the sex out of our heads, we went back to grave digging.
After ten minutes of shoveling and sweating and bitching about the heat, our hard-ons were history.
When the grave was at a satisfactory depth and width and length, we each took a leg of you-know-who, dragged our visitor to the edge of the hole, and with our naked feet, tipped the bastard in. He landed flat on his back with a thud that sounded pretty doggone eternal, if you know what I mean. Yessir. He was home for good. The creep.
It took Bobby and me another thirty minutes to cover the guy up. When we were finished, we were just about done in. We flung our shovels across the lawn and headed for the backyard of this magnificent San Diego property we’d commandeered a few weeks earlier, and which must have cost several mil back in the days when that stuff mattered.
Behind the mansion was an Olympic-size pool. Since Bobby was still naked, all I had to do was drop my cargo shorts to put myself in the same condition, and hand-in-hand, we cannonballed into the deep end of the pool with a humongous splash. The water was damn near hot from the sun, but still it felt fabulous.
For the first time that day, I came to the conclusion that maybe I wouldn’t really die of heatstroke, after all.
The pool had not been cleaned for quite a while, since there was no longer electricity anywhere in the city, or pool boys either, for that matter. Not live ones, anyway. As I floated there in the still water, splashing leaves away from my face, Bobby swam up behind me and pulled me into his arms. He nibbled at the back of my neck while his hands reached around to stroke my stomach. His fingers traveled a wee bit south and twiddled with my pubic hair as I tilted my head back to nuzzle his cheek.
“I love you,” he said into my ear, and with a giggle, he pulled me beneath the surface.
“Glug, glug, glug, glug,” I answered, trying not to drown.
We laughed and roughhoused and grappled with each other as we spun around in circles beneath the water, first him on top, then me on top, then him again, then me, like a couple of frenzied crocodiles rolling over and over, tenderizing their dinner. Arms and legs flailing, Bobby’s naked body felt wonderful squirming next to mine. His arms strong. His flesh hot and firm and heavenly.
The water was glorious. Our hard-ons came back to life in about six heartbeats. It was great being twenty-five and being in love and being perpetually horny. I was pretty sure Bobby felt the same way, since he was also twenty-five. God knows he was perpetually horny. Even with the world fizzling out around us, nothing could have been finer than being naked and in love on this steamy California evening.
Well, that and the fact we weren’t zombies. That was pretty much a plus too.
I wondered how long we would be able to keep it that way.
BEFORE that disastrous Tuesday morning when everything changed, I was a waiter at Mr. A’s, an upscale restaurant perched atop a high-rise office building just up the hill from downtown San Diego. Mr. A’s had a reputation for offering its customers a resplendent view of the city and an even greater reputation for overcharging them to the hilt for the opportunity to take advantage of said view. The joint was a bastion of snootiness: the food exquisite, the service spectacular, the prices astronomical, and as if all that wasn’t pissy enough, you couldn’t get in without a tie. If you don’t mind my saying so, being a waiter there was rather a plum job. I made more in tips in a year than a cousin of mine who lives in Kansas City made teaching school. Of course, she’s probably dead now. Or zombified. Who knows? Anyway, as I was saying, I had a good job and I was perfectly satisfied with my measly little existence. Being happily entrenched in a loving relationship with Bobby played no small part in that satisfaction.
Bobby was considerably less enamored of his own place in the business world than I was with mine. On that eventful Tuesday morning when God took the world and stood it on its head, Bobby was earning his keep by holding down two jobs. Neither job was what you would call stellar. He was a dog walker in the evening and a San Diego Zoo snack bar clerk during the day. As he continually pointed out in his sweetly self-deprecating way, he was not exactly on the fast track to having his mug plastered across the cover of CEO Magazine. But even with all that, I think I can safely say he was, on the whole, satisfied with his life. And I like to think being happily entrenched in a loving relationship with me played no small part in that satisfaction.
Simply put, we were nuts about each other.
If I had any lingering doubts about that belief, the feel of Bobby’s stiff dick whapping me in the leg as we wrestled around in the pool and washed away the day’s miseries would have pretty well cleared it up. And if even that wasn’t enough to demonstrate the fact that we loved each other, the stiff he helped me plant in the front yard was surely more than enough to prove it. Bobby didn’t have to help me at all, you know. I had the watch. It was my turn to do the grunt work of slaughtering zombies and sticking them underground if one should happen along. Bobby just lent a hand because he loves me. That thought made my heart swell up. Rather like my dick at the moment. Only bigger, of course. And with less drippage.
Bobby and I were a team. Period. We had been a team before the world fell apart, and we were even more of a team now. As a matter of fact, now we were the only team.
Ain’t love grand?
Author Bio:John has been writing fiction for as long as he can remember. Born on a small farm in Indiana, he now resides in San Diego, California where he spends his time gardening, pampering his pets, hiking and biking the trails and canyons of San Diego, and of course, writing. He and his partner share a passion for theater, books, film, and the continuing fight for marriage equality. If you would like to know more about John, check out his website.
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