Page 4 of Zombies, Satyrs and Vampires, Oh My!

chapter

three

Atticus

She is the one.

I don’t even know what the fuck that means, but the phrase echoes through my body as I run. Then I see them through the clearing. The woman and one of the ferals. It’s one of the flyers. Maybe he’s a mothman; I’m not even sure, because I’ve never seen one close up. He basically looks like a weird cross between a praying mantis and a moth.

I run at him without another thought because he’s got the woman—MY woman—pinned against a tree. His brownish-grey wings are folded behind him, highlighting the fact that he stands nearly two heads taller than her. His segmented body bends allowing his feelers and pincers to examine her body. His proboscis reaches out towards her face, and I fucking lose it.

“Hands off, motherfucker!” I yell as I shove him out of the way with strength I didn’t know I had.

He falls to the wooded ground. He scrambles to his feet, crouching on his haunches as he looks up at us with his multiple beady eyes, before making a screeching noise and flying off. He circles, then lands further away, watching us. Clearly, he’s not intending to give up his pursuit any time soon.

I turn back to the woman. I’m not positive, but I’m pretty sure my mouth falls open as I stare at her. She’s the most beautiful creature I’ve ever seen. She’s not short and dainty, like a lot of women. No, she’s thick and robust with generous curves in all the right places. Full tits, soft belly, and though I can’t see it from the way we’re standing, I’m sure her ass is round and plump. She’s voluptuous and I want to put my hands on her everywhere.

She’s staring right back at me too. Her pale blue eyes search my face, inventorying my features. She’s wearing a royal blue, v-neck t-shirt that highlights her fair complexion. Her chest rises and falls quickly as she stares up at me. Her hair is dark, nearly black like mine, and she’s got it hanging in two long braids on either side of her head.

I lick my lips.

“I want to say thank you,” she says, “but not if you saved me from him so that you can eat me.”

I do want to eat her. But not in the way zombies normally eat humans.

Fuck, she smells delicious and I want to devour her. I want to lick her all over her body. I want to find all the places she smells that good and I want to bury my tongue in them.

“I don’t eat people,” I say, because voicing my actual thoughts would horrify her.

Despite that, despite the fact that I know I must terrify her, despite the fact that my reaction to her unsettles me, I can’t resist her entirely. So, I lean in closer, pressing my nose nearly to the flesh of her neck. I close my eyes and inhale deeply. A rumble vibrates up my throat. Without another thought, I lick that delectable skin and the sweetness of her bursts on my tongue. I groan in the first pleasure I’ve felt in decades.

Then I still when she clears her throat.

“I think I have some salt and pepper packets in my purse for emergencies,” she says. “Maybe some fast-food taco sauce would be more to your liking?”

I leap backwards, every muscle of my body held taut, as I suck in one deep breath after another. I hold myself poised, ready to run. To put as much space between us as necessary if she seems afraid. “I apologize,” I say stiffly. “You smell like cookie dough.”

Her pale blue eyes narrow on my face and I know what she’s seeing. I know what I look like. My grey pallor that is almost a light purple in tone, the too pronounced bone structure, my green eyes that nearly look as if they’re lit from within, they’re so green. But so far, she’s not recoiling. Still, she’s probably as disgusted by me as she was by the mothman.

“What are you?” she asks, her voice an awed whisper.

I know the question she’s asking. What kind of monster am I? What are all the ways in which I am not quite human? I could answer her. I’ve spent two decades cataloguing all of my otherness, mostly because doing so satisfies my own intellectual curiosity. So I could answer her question.

I just don’t want to. I don’t want to tell her I’m a monster. I don’t want to admit that truth. For reasons I don’t yet understand, I want her to see me as a man, not a thing.

“My name is Atticus. We need to get you out of here.” I glance around us and the mothman is no longer staring at us from the woods. I look up at the sky through the trees. Far up in the air, I can see a winged something circling. Maybe it’s just a hawk or an eagle, but I doubt it. “He’ll be back, and I suspect there might be more.”

She thumbs over her shoulder. “The cabin I’m renting is back there.”

I’m already shaking my head, trying not to gape at her sheer human arrogance. “That won’t keep you safe.” I hold my hand out to her.

She stares at the tattoos that cover my now pale purple skin. Every piece of ink I had before the change is now practically lit up against the fair color of my skin. Then there are my eyes.

“Why are you here? Why did you rent a cabin?” I ask.

“I’m a writer.”

“Are you alone? Is there someone else with you that we’ll need to retrieve from the cabin?”