Zombie Slut Apocalypse
Logan is ambushed by sex-crazed zombies on his way home from the bar.
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August 2017
Oslo, Norway
Logan Manigault
stood on the roof of the Oslo library.
The setting sun cast its long rays over the city,
gilded the marble opera house
and turning the fjord the colour of fire.
A commotion on the street below
drew his eye. He hefted his rifle,
but on closer observation
the danger that he’d anticipated
turned out to be a dog
that had escaped its leash
and decided to frolic among the seagulls
congregating at the library’s reflecting pool.
He relaxed, letting his gaze rest
on the pink Havnelager building
and then back to the opera house.
Good. All clear.
He’d been here since March.
The Norwegians had practically allowed him
to name his price when they’d learned
that he’d served two tours in Afghanistan
and had qualified as an army sharpshooter.
In addition to the money,
one of the perks included
as much pussy as a man could ever want.
The big-bosomed babes here
were the result of some Soviet experiment
when the Novy Soviets had occupied the country
a few years ago.
The Doll-3 retrovirus, they called it,
or maybe it was Doll-2.
He didn’t remember,
but whatever its name,
the Soviets had infected every Norwegian female
with a virus intended to create women
whose bodies fulfilled every male fantasy.
The experiment had worked.
Sort of — he’d never seen anyone back home
with such lush asses or gigantic racks —
but it had also given them a libido
that even sex six times a day
couldn’t seem to satiate.
Then, in some of them,
the virus had mutated.
That was why he was here.
The government estimated that
the mutation affected about twenty percent
of the female population, turning them
into zombies. These zombies, evidently
staying true to their Doll-3 origins,
sought sex rather than brains.
Most of the male population
that hadn’t already fled or emigrated
had succumbed to the hordes.
The latest eradication campaign
for which he’d been hired
had proved extremely successful.
If he were honest, these days
he probably spent more time servicing women
than shooting zombies.
He scanned the city one last time.
For a Friday evening
blessed with fine weather,
the streets were surprisingly quiet.
He hefted his rifle
and made for the stairs.
Maybe he’d grab a beer
before heading home.
