Chapter 1

The second summer, after the defeat of the zombie hordes that rose like deadly hungry shadows in the midnight hours, a strange mutation of the terrible creatures took hold in the major population centers of the civilized world.

That first wave of brain-altered humans thirsting after tasty samples of grey matter had proven no match for the genocidal wrath of humankind. They were cut down like wheat in an open field, tethered to their places by frustrating slowness of movement and absolutely no weapons to further their cause of ending all human life to make way for their rotting life after death promise of immortality. Those zombie victims had originally come into existence by the accidental release of an unidentified Biological agent weaponized by well-meaning scientists for use against nasty dictators and countries with nefarious plans to dismantle the legally constituted governments of democratic societies.

My name is Grace Moneypenny and I am attached to the consortium of American governments from Brazil to Canada that led the way in supposed complete elimination of the zombie threat on the American Continent.

Now, less than a decade after the first signs of zombie infestation, our Continent leads the way in the zombie eradication program and only traces of the original infestation remain in the darkest jungles of Africa. It is more of a threat to the Ape population than the human race in those areas. Despite that fact, several large teams of zombie killers were dispatched to the remote areas to make certain zombies are eliminated forever from the surface of our planet.

In fact, our program was so successful, that I was seriously considering leaving the anti-zombie service and resuming my duties as a professor of diverse cultures in the lofty towers of Academia with a hope to finding a suitable mate with the ability to converse intelligently in various areas of interest and with the necessary equipment to change me into the mother I knew lurked deep under my surface of brittle hard unfeeling exterior ready to invoke a “final solution” on any dangers to the human race.

I knew that my reputation for terminating even the youngest zombie victims with vigor and a spirit of intense religious righteousness probably made me an outcast in our military-style program, but I followed my grandfather’s code of conduct that inspired me to rigid loyalty and obedience.

At first, the appearance of the mutated zombies seemed more like a tragic prank or joke gone bad rather than part of the overall zombie holocaust.

Since, I was a creature of habit, I made every attempt to derive the origin and the scope of the new threat and each time, I came up with the randomness of the facts and the conclusion that even the mutated zombies had no idea why they had fallen into the trap of the “Living Dead”.

I did my best to ignore the rumors about my bloodthirsty attitude in defending our precious rights and liberties because there was a great deal of truth in the descriptions of my holy wrath. It was shocking to me however to hear the rumors about my total lack of feminine charm and my preference for female room-mates. I had always thought it just common sense to seek female companionship in matters of intimate exposure rather than risk the loss of dignity associated with allowing some male “bad boy” to brag about how he had made me “do this or do that” with macho delight. I didn’t trust the male executioners in my division because they were primarily an “all muscle and no common sense” detachment of hedonistic pussy-chasers with their brains below their belts. A few times, I had gotten so desperate for some action that I had donned a disguise that included a long flowing blonde wig and six-inch heels that made my ass cheeks wiggle so vehemently that I swear I could hear them clap together when I came to a sudden stop. I found that once I had assumed the standard “bent-over” position, most males just did what came naturally and didn’t question their good fortune at landing a tantalizingly tight and thoroughly wet channel of sweet surrender. I seldom looked over my shoulder as they pounded me with resolute determination, not wanting to carry a vision of such paramours with me for any length of time.

Our first encounter with the “Sex-crazed” zombies was strangely on the weekend of the fourteenth of February, better known as “Valentine’s Day” to love-starved gals and guys the world over. I had never liked the holiday ever since little Billy Bigelow had sent a card to every girl in the class except me. His later explanation of

“I didn’t think of you as an actual girl, Grace” was more hurtful than the omission of the card.

The initial outbreak took place on that weekend in several places at the same time. It is difficult to say if that was in some sort of planning tactic or just coincidence because implanted pods had all burst at the same time in their zombie-addled brains. Anyway, the similarity of the reports were somewhat ludicrous to some degree because instead of murdered humans with their brains splattered all over God’s creation, this new edition of hybrid zombie only had one thing on their mind that that was to sodomize any human unfortunate enough to fall into their path.

Right away, it came to my line of thinking that the mutated zombies were only full grown males and that they all seemed to have functional equipment for the difficult task of defeating reluctant sphincters. I thought about the lack of gender selection for human victims and speculated that availability was the key element of the attacks and not the appearance of the victims.

About two weeks after the initial assault, I sorted the data and discovered that there was a fifty/fifty chance that the sex-crazed zombies would wind up in the female human’s vagina as well as the tight rear portal. In a way, I theorized that it was a way of hiding the purpose of the attacks. Of course, it was only after the birth of hundreds of new humans with implanted sex-crazed zombie genes that the full importance of the mutation struck home in my suspicious mind.