The undead seek human captives for sex.
Boston is hostage to a blizzard & zombies roam the icy streets. Hayden Thomas, tabloid writer, discovers a zombie tribe that lives off constant sex with humans instead of eating their flesh.
Mattie, one of the...
Mattie grabbed Hayden's dick and began stroking, not in her usual rough, demanding way, but slowly, carefully. "After I fuck you, you need to eat. Then sleep."
Hayden closed his eyes.
"Don't try to play me, Hayden. I don't care if you like it or not," she said, stroking him gently, squeezing his shaft.
He opened one eye. She was staring at his cock.
Still stroking him, she continued speaking, the rhythm of her words seeming to match the motion of her hand. "I could have made you drink the tea."
He nodded, remembering the cup he'd thrown, the second one Rachelle had so willingly drank and Matthew's words. If you ever wondered what she's really like, wonder no more, here's the real girl under the mask.
Mattie caught him looking her. She stared back, the green glimmer in her gaze glowing bright, and smiled.
*****
Hayden knew he was dreaming and struggled to wake but the dream held him down, gripping him in its shadowy arms.
He was back by the maple tree outside the longhouse, but it was a late summer evening and the air was warm, humid. Instead of icy and dotted by the last snowflakes of a blizzard, the night was the perfect kind when a person could stay outside until morning, cradled by the lingering heat of the day. In front of Hayden was a fire, logs stacked upright like a teepee. Flames roared, skipping up into the black air, embers floating toward the stars. The fire, like the night, was perfect.
The yellow and orange flames lit up dozens of faces. Seated in the grass, Hayden was part of a circle. Actually, there were two circles. One was made of people standing. The circle he was part of was made of people seated in the grass. Because of the fire in the center, he couldn't see all the way around but he could see enough to know they didn't have much in common. Young, old, male, female, attractive, plain, there was nothing about them that was similar. Except that they were alive.
Those who stood behind them were not.
Each of them held the end of a chain, a rope, or a leash.
Mattie was behind Hayden, holding the end of his chain.
He turned around. "Where's Rachelle?"
"She's there. Can't you see her?"
Hayden leaned forward, searched the crowd. Mattie pointed to a cluster about twenty feet away, but Hayden still didn't see her.
"No, not across from you. Across from me. Look up."
Hayden lifted his chin. Rachelle stood beside a woman twice her age. The woman held a brown clay jug and two large brown mugs.
A thin line of dread worked up Hayden's spine as he watched the other woman fill the cups and hand one to a man at the end of her leash and one to the man at the end of Rachelle's. The men drank, handed the cups back. Rachelle patted the top of her servant's head. He lowered his shoulders and looked down, letting her stroke him like an obedient dog.
Mattie leaned down and spoke into Hayden's ear. "She's not the girl you think she is."
One of the standing women came forward. In the shadows of the flames, she strolled inside the circle, touching some of the seated ones as she passed. She stripped off her clothes as she walked, twisting and turning, reaching back to run her fingers down the fresh tattoo along the base of her spine.
She neared Hayden, he recoiled, fighting and woke.
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