Servant of the Undead, erotic zombie horror free read
By Isabelle Drake
Each Sunday, I’ll be offering up a part of my serialized erotic zombie horror story, Servant of the Undead. You loyal Lady Smutters will recall I wrote about this dark, dirty story a little while ago.
No, without further ado, let’s get you started with Servant of the Undead.
Part 1: “Do it.”
Hayden Thomas shifted on the wooden captain’s chair, trying without success to ease the
stiffness in his spine. Whoever selected the chairs for the Boston Public Library obviously never sat in them. The damn things had no armrests and were crammed so close together Bates Hall looked like a cafeteria. Except for the green desk lamps and rows of bookcases lining the wood paneled walls of the vast, deserted room. Hayden leaned back, placing his palms on the small of his back as he stretched.
Fine, it did look like a library. And it was everything the city claimed it to be, historical, well-cared for, and a fucking architectural gem. He just didn’t want to be there, digging through old books sane people shouldn’t care about. As if on cue his phone flashed. He picked it up and read the message. That article will be done tonight. Right? You’ll have something fresh. Right?
As if he had a choice.
Hayden tapped in his reply, yes and yes, then shoved the phone in his pocket. He wasn’t going to look at it again until he had what he needed. Something fresh. What the hell did that mean anyway? A paycheck. Control over his future. Little things like that. So he’d come to the library, to look through actual books. He’d scanned through several about werewolves then set aside the ones on vampires when he found the ones he needed.
Coming to the library had been a good idea. Not only had he found fresher content than the guys only using the internet, he’d also made a video clip of the inside with his webcam. He might be able to use that on the paper’s website as part of the series. A scholarly approach to give the piece an air of authority. Bob would love the irony of that.
“Lights in this section getting turned off early. ‘Bout twenty minutes.”
The security guard had come up behind Hayden and was standing in the aisle between the rows of gleaming wood tables. He motioned toward the expansive windows that started at the top of the bookshelves and reached up about fifteen feet to the domed ceiling. “Snowmaggeddon, man. Everybody’s leaving. You should too.”
Outside, snow whipped against the glass, so fierce and bright that even though the sun had gone down an hour ago the white blast was still visible. The bloated flakes brushed against the glass, spun in circles, creating a delicate, menacing spiral. Shit. A storm. As if he didn’t have enough to deal with. He’d promised Rachelle, a girl he’d started seeing, that he’d be done with the article that night so they could “do something fun, something crazy” tomorrow. Hayden eyed the stack of books surrounding his laptop.
“Do you have a photocopy machine?” he asked, scanning the area behind the guy.
“Yeah.” The guard looked at the piles of books, his mouth twisting into a frown as his gaze skimmed over the titles. “Where’d you find those?”
“In the scary monster section, under Z for zombies.”
“Seriously, dude. I need to learn how to protect myself.” The man whipped a folded newspaper out of his back pocket and brandished it, showing the headline. “It’s all in here—Zombies Flooding Beantown Streets, Hungry for Human Flesh.” Hayden didn’t need to see it in print because he’d come up with it when Bob insisted they write some pieces connected to the comic convention beginning that upcoming weekend.
“You believe what you read in The Boston Weekly?”
“They wouldn’t print it if it wasn’t true.” The man folded the paper and tucked it back into his pocket. “Or could be true.”
No wonder Bob Keeler had enough money to live in Chestnut Hill.
The man pointed to a hall tucked between two bookcases. “It’s down there. But like I said, you better get going.” He stepped away then turned back, his gaze hopping from one book to the next before finally landing on Hayden’s face. “Snowmaggeddon. Zombies. Be careful. Article says to avoid isolated places and stay with others.”
“I get it,” Hayden assured him, using his firmest professor voice, the one he’d perfected while being a grad assistant at Boston College.
The guy gave Hayden the once over, doubt lining his face as he turned, the folded paper waving at Hayden as he marched off.
That teacher voice was handy, but according to Rachelle, he used it—and the attitude that came with it—too much. She complained about his work ethic and said they needed to have more ‘epic fun’. How was he supposed to have any kind of fun when he had years of student loan payments coming his way and only a one page CV to deal with them?
He swung out of the chair, grabbed the three books he hadn’t gotten to yet, and headed for the hall. The photocopier, positioned under a rectangular window, hummed in the dimly lit space. He lifted the lid, set the book on the glass surface and started flipping through, scanning for the chapter he needed for his research. Research. Right. There was a euphemism. He jerked through the pages, black-eyed stares and ragged clothes flashed past. Good God. Zombies. Why did people waste their time with this sort of thing?
But Bob Keeler was convinced that because Rodney McKinnon, star of Zombie Rites, was coming to the comic convention, that if the paper featured anything having to do with zombies, especially something fresh, that he’d sell thousands of copies. The man was crazy. Sure, Boston was going to be overrun with comic book freaks. But those people were educated, right? They didn’t believe zombies were real. So why would they want to read about them?
Hayden flipped to a chapter where the zombies looked like regular, live, people. No rotting flesh, no odd jerky movements. His skin prickled. What if you couldn’t tell a zombie from a human? He paused at a drawing made by an eyewitness, a so-called zombie tracker. Apparently, the witness spent an entire summer stalking on a tribe believed to take part in hazing rituals that included a lot of sex. The drawing showed two men, bare-chested and wearing chaps. One, with a rope tied around his waist, leaned against a tree while the other man tied the opposite end of rope to the trunk, tying him up like a dog he didn’t want getting away. Hayden lifted the book closer. They weren’t wearing anything under the chaps. And the tied-up guy had a huge boner.
He turned the page. More drawings. The guy tied to the tree held the ass of a woman and was pounding that boner into her. Apparently, the witness had in mind to document the entire ritual. There were five more drawings, each one showing the man fucking a different woman while others watched. And all the women looked very satisfied. And willing.
Hayden’s cock stiffened.
Okay, so they’re people into group sex, but where was the proof they were zombies? Proof that zombies are real. He snickered. That would be fresh, so that’s what he needed. What he didn’t need was the distraction of a rock-hard dick. He reached down and shifted the zipper on his khakis.
The last page in the section outlined the zombie tracker’s theory of that particular tribe’s sexuality. Those zombies could remain “alive” by either eating human flesh or through frequent sex. The sex method worked because the live human passed out afterward, giving the zombie an opportunity to escape. Sometimes humans were taken as sexual servants, kept like pets and used for sustenance. The sexual hazing rituals were designed to encourage survival skills and teach tools to acquire and use humans.
Overhead, a window squeaked open. Gusts of snow flew in. Fingers scratched at the sill, clawing at the wood trim. A full hand appeared, covered with a black fingerless glove. The other hand appeared. Then a forearm, wrapped in red wool, an elbow, bare skin peaking out between the strips of red. A mass of tangled hair, a mix of brown and red, popped through the opening. One of the hands reached over, swiping the hair away. Two brown eyes, rimmed with smudgy make-up peered down.
Until then follow Lady Smut, we’re always here to inform, entertain, and keep you up to date.