Hungry for Your Love: An Anthology of Zombie Romance

Romance ain't dead...it's undead. In this thrilling zombie anthology, horror fans will finally get their fill of zombie-on-zombie action, zombie-human love, and zombie smut. Because why should vampires have all the fun?This collection of never-before-published short stories includes:--"Revanants Anonymous" by Francesca Lia Block: two zombies meet at a Revanants Anonymous meeting and when sparks fly they wonder how "dead" they really are--"I Heart Brains" by Jaime Saare: a widow and a dead man get a second chance at love--"Captive Hearts" by Brian Keene: zombie plagues can't stop a woman from caring for the man she loves--"Everyone I Love is Dead" by Elizabeth Coldwell: what happens when your true love comes back from the dead--after you've already moved on with a new man?--"Last Times at Ridgemont High" by Kilt Kilpatrick: an electrifying zombie romp--and many more!

From Publishers Weekly

Perkins (Cowboy Lover) collects 21 zombie romance stories full of humor, horror, and love. Jaime Saare's "I Heart Brains" has an SF twist: a man infected with "the z-virus" shopping in a megamart for a gently used replacement body. In Jan Kozlowski's powerful "First Love Never Dies," a police detective learns of an undead sex slave operation run by his ex's abusive father. In Regina Riley's poignant "Undying Love," a long-suffering zombie seeks his lost lover. Gina McQueen's "Apocalypse as Foreplay," Jeanine McAdam's "Inhuman Resources," and Dana Fredsti's "First Date" are zippy stories about the sexy turn-on of successful zombie hunting. Stacy Brown's "The Magician's Apprentice" offers chills as a woman willingly gives up every bit of herself to please a man. Michael Marshall Smith's "Later" makes one man's heartbreak palpable when his girlfriend has a fatal accident. Voodoo magic, zombie-creating viruses, and inexplicable zombie apocalypses all make appearances, but effective storytelling moves beyond the reanimation and into the hearts and minds of the characters. Copyright © Reed Business Information, a division of Reed Elsevier Inc. All rights reserved.

Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.

ROMANCE AIN’T DEAD Jeremy WagnerI love my dead wife. Wait, let me rephrase that. I love my zombie wife. She’s not dead or alive. She’s reanimated, brought back from death after drowning in Lake Michigan this past summer.I’d better explain.My wife, Sheri, and I have been married for twenty years. We’re in our late forties and live in Winnetka on Chicago’s North Shore. We’re quite wealthy. I owe my fortune to major successes in real estate while Sheri’s fortune comes from her deceased parents’ multibillion-dollar medical-supply company. Sheri’s an only child and her trust-fund releases and six-figure dividend earnings blast into our joint bank account every quarter. Needless to say, we don’t work day jobs. We enjoy our marriage full time.I’ve never been in such love with a woman. We met in college. By chance, Sheri happened to be at a bar my friends and I frequented. When I first saw Sheri, I was sucker punched by Eros. She was amazing to me: short and curly blond hair, toned body with all the right curves, green eyes from another world. I’m eating my heart out just thinking about the first moment we met. When I first saw her, she stood out in vivid, living color while the world around her turned to grayscale. I’ve never seen anyone the same way. Since then, I’ve forgotten every woman I met before her and I’ve never looked back.Sheri’s my proof of love at first sight. Also, we’ve proven love ain’t dead, even if my better half is considered dearly departed.Sheri’s demise and return to the world of the living started when we went to the Ravinia Festival in Highland Park. We hunkered down on the grass on a beautiful summer evening with a basket full of cheeses and prosciutto paired with bottles of Laeticia Pinot. We became tipsy while watching, and dancing to, Tony Bennett. It was a blast.We returned home at midnight and Sheri wanted to stroll down to the sand of our beachfront property. When we reached the beach, she got the idea to go skinny-dipping. I declined because Lake Michigan is ice cold year-round. Even on the hottest days, this Great Lake is freezing.Sheri said, “You’re a freaking wimp, Bruce.” She kicked off her heels and took off her blue Escada dress and undergarments. I laughed and sat on the sand with another bottle of red wine, admiring her sweet backside running toward the water. She squealed and dove under. She came up wet and smiling in the moonlight. She said the chilly dip sobered her up. I waved the bottle of wine at her.I watched Sheri backstroke farther away from the beach. Then I heard the sound of an engine. Sheri asked me what the sound was and I wasn’t sure.Minutes later, the sound grew louder and I made out the shape of a yellow speedboat with its lights off, hauling ass in the moonlight. Before I could yell and summon Sheri back toward shore, the boat roared past our beach and nailed my wife in the head. The boat never stopped.I dropped the wine bottle and ran to the water. I dove in and swam out to Sheri. I found her floating facedown in the water, bleeding from her head. I turned her over, screamed her name, but she never responded. I towed her back to shore and began mouth-to-mouth resuscitation. She was DOA.Sheri looked calm and restful in my arms. She didn’t breathe and I couldn’t hear her heartbeat. I assumed the boat had killed her on impact or she had drowned. Maybe a combo of both did it. Moments later, I rose and picked up Sheri in my arms. I carried her back to our mansion, remembering how I once carried her into our honeymoon suite. The memory was enough to break my heart to pieces.Inside the dark house, I set Sheri down on a large Westchester leather sofa and covered her with a blanket. The room filled with moonlight. I walked in shock to retrieve my cell phone from the kitchen. I was about to call the cops when I heard the doorbell ring. I glanced at my watch and wondered who was at my front door at this hour. Soaking wet and shaking with cold and loss, I went to the door and flicked on the outside house lights.To my surprise, I found my next-door neighbor, Doctor Wyclef Moliare, waiting for me. “Wyclef, what’s going on? It’s late.”“I heard screaming from your beach, Mister Bruce. Everything okay here, mon?”I studied Wyclef. He wore khaki cargo pants with a bright white T-shirt emblazoned with artwork for a Chicago 5K Run, and no shoes. I always considered him a cool guy. A tall, mahogany-colored man with short dreads and about my age, Wyclef was a purebred Haitian. I remembered him as a real success story, coming to Illinois straight from Port-au-Prince as a teenager, later going to college and becoming a leading brain surgeon.“Sheri’s dead.” I began crying. I hung my head, helpless to aid my beloved Sheri and helpless to stop sobbing.“Take it easy, mon.” Wyclef gave me a comforting hug before moving farther into my house with no regard to invite. Without looking at me, he said, “Where’s your wife?”I sniffled and wiped strings of snot from my cold nose. “She’s . . . she’s in the living room. On the sofa.”I watched Wyclef dash for the living room. His speed and attitude alarmed me and I ran after him. In the living room, I found him kneeling next to my wife’s body, checking her pulse and vitals. I felt an odd prickle when he threw the blanket off of her naked corpse. “Hey, Doc. Now, wait—”“What happened?” Wyclef continued his appraisal of Sheri’s body.“She got hit by a boat. She was taking a midnight dip and some fucker in a speedboat nailed her.”“You get the numbers, make of da boat?”“No.” The thought of the asshole getting away made me crazy. “Whoever it was, was driving fast with lights off and just kept on truckin’. Probably didn’t realize . . .”I started crying again, releasing big lost-love sobs as the weight of my soulmate’s death crushed me. Through my tears, I saw Doctor Wyclef nodding and studying Sheri without looking at me. His physical inspection of my dead and nude wife unnerved me. I was thankful when he put the blanket back over her, tucking it around Sheri with a caring touch.He got to his feet and looked at me. “How long ago this happen? When I hear the screams?”I nodded and after a minute of wrestling with my overwhelming grief, I mustered coherent words. “Yeah. That was me screaming out there. Tried mouth-to-mouth, but she was gone.”“You call the police? Ambulance comin’?”“No. You rang the doorbell before I got to my cell phone.”Wyclef looked down at me and grabbed my shoulders with his large hands giving me a tight squeeze. His dark brown eyes were wide and serious. “You love your wife, mon?”“Of course. Christ, Wyclef. What kinda question is that?”“Forget da hospital and police. They ain’t gonna help this one. You want her back?”I looked into those fierce Haitian eyes and wondered what the hell he was getting at. “I want her back more than anything. What are you saying?”“I’m saying, my friend, I got ways to bring your loving wife back from da other side.”Losing Sheri and hearing my neighbor talk of reviving her from the grave was too much. I felt my legs weaken and Wyclef grabbed me and helped me to a leather chair. I hunched over and put my hands to my face. I breathed deep and regained control. “What in the name of Johnny Freaking Appleseed are you telling me? You sound like a goddamn nut.”Wyclef stood over me and laughed. It wasn’t a malicious laugh, but it boomed and sounded scary even though the tone was lighthearted. He spoke in an assuring and baritone voice. “I can get her back. But we have to act quick and you got to believe. You believe in Vodou? You know, you call it Voodoo.”I wasn’t sure how to answer this. Sheri and I are Jewish and never subscribed to any other religions or beliefs. To even consider anything related to witchcraft or being satanic was laughable and absurd to me. “No, Wyclef. I don’t believe in that crap and I’m baffled as to why you’re asking this. Sheri’s dead and with God. I think it’s time to call the cops and find out who killed her.”“Wait, mon. Listen.” Wyclef maintained his deep and calm voice. “Before I came to da States, I was a teenage bokor. A witch doctor. That’s what got me interested in medicine and led me down my path as a doctor and surgeon.”“A witch doctor?” I found this funny. I always respected Wyclef. He received hundreds of awards in medicine, escalating his reputation and accolades as one of the nation’s most brilliant brain surgeons. Plus, the guy possessed great taste in food and music. I just couldn’t see him dancing naked around a fire in Haiti, making zombies and shrunken heads. “You gotta be kidding me.”“I learned many old secrets growing up in Haiti. I learned secrets of the dead. I saw medical science coupled with the spirit world. I’ve made zombies and I’ve raised zombies from dead bodies whose souls have moved on to da other places.”Again, I couldn’t imagine this. “You’ve got one of the most reputable practices in Chicago. What would happen if your clients or the press knew you practiced black magic?”Wyclef smiled wide and revealed his large white teeth and the significant gap between his incisors. He didn’t answer my question but said, “Did you know Chicago was founded by a Hai...

About the Author

LORI PERKINS is the Editorial Director of Ravenousromance.com, and president of L. Perkins Agency, a New York literary agency that specializes in horror, science fiction, fantasy, erotica and pop culture.  She is the author of four nonfiction books and has edited a dozen anthologies.

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