Lesann Berry

Penelope squeezed the wastopaneer nut between two fingers until the dry husk burst, pale green oil flowed, and the fragrance of soil and citrus bloomed. She slicked hands together and smoothed palms along her thighs till tight skin loosened.

The breeze kicked up. Her nostrils flared but she dismissed the flutter of decay. Divorce left her with over-sensitive olfactory organs. A shudder of gooseflesh rippled down her ribs before she blocked out the ugly memories.

The boredom of sunbathing relaxed her shoulders. Beyond the white sand, brilliant blue water extended from the horizon in successive dancing lines. Each wave rose, frosted by froth, tumbled ashore and lapped at the waterline. Penelope wriggled her toes, vivid pink nails flashing, and arched her spine, yawned and stretched.

Bliss.

After the frantic horror surrounding Marcus’ infidelity, even the nausea caused by the massive doses of tacise and synbatec eased. Public outrage compelled the court to mandate the experimental cocktail of powerful antibiotics be administered. She survived the contagion but not without side effects.

Her ex-husband, a slave enthralled, pumped life into the zombie Queen’s dead flesh. Penelope embraced her tropical island abstinence. Bending her head back, she admired the inverted coconut clusters, a forest of brown trunks creating a shadowy stand topped by ragged bursts of foliage.

The wind shifted direction, carried a familiar cloying stench, filled her mouth with putrescence.

Penelope scrambled to her feet.

Seconds later a zombie blundered onto the beach. He lurched forward, arms reaching, inarticulate gurgling erupting in his throat, desiccated tongue scraping across wrinkled lips.

Darting around the shambling hulk, Penelope skipped out of range. A roundhouse kick might collapse his chest or dislocate an arm, and a hard blow could tear the weak tissue free of tendon and bone.

Penelope’s stomach clenched and growled with hunger.