Dan

Epidemiologic

Disclaimer: NSFW, body horror, not mind safe. I recommend maybe you don’t read this one. First in a cycle of horror stories, it does have a point. But right now, this part is just… yeah.

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Dan

P-Zombie

(warning: this story may not be work safe in some workplaces but it’s still pretty dang tame because I am not a romance writer ok bye)

You’ve been on some pretty weird dates before, but never with a zombie. Honestly, this Tinder thing has turned out some decent guys and some better-than-average sex. But when this particular guy passes the menu back to the waiter after ordering, reaches across the table and tries to take your hands in his, you draw back instinctively. (Not right away on the first date. Jeez, dude. Red flag.) He draws back his hands, tries to play it off, and brushes the hair out of his face. When he looks in your eyes, you get a tiny earthquake in your stomach, but you’re really and truly not prepared for the words that come staggering out next.

“I have to admit something.” Oh, good. What is it this time? Wife? Kids? Disease? Fucked-up fetish? “I’m a zombie.” Your mind goes blank. “This is, err, kind of rough, but I’m trying to get it out there early.” His big blue eyes dart around, scanning your face. “You know, early.”

“Uhh.” Your brain just goes into some kind of frozen mode, and all that comes out is a confused “Uhh.” Nice. Real smooth, girl. Your stupid tongue follows that neanderthal grunt up with a flat “What.”

“Oh, uhh.” His eyes flick around and he retracts his hands awkwardly, turning to the side like your words are going to slap him. He looks like a dog that got yelled at for eating its own puke. Full of remorse, but compelled to keep going. “I mean, I’m a philosophical zombie. Not the brain-eating kind.”

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