Rotting to the Core

PRAISE FOR ROTTING TO THE CORE

S.P. Durnin is a unique voice in the world of horror. This book will leave you wanting more! Well written and well-paced, you won’t be able to put it down!

-Eric S. Brown, author of BIGFOOT WAR and KAIJU APOCALYPSE.

S.P. Durnin’s masterful storytelling and well developed characters pull you in from the first chapter, grabbing you by the throat and holding your attention to the very last sentence. Fiction this powerful is nothing short of addicting!

-Devan Sagliani, author of UNDEAD L.A. and ZOMBIE ATTACK!: RISE OF THE HORDE .

The Crowbar Chronicles is a rousing good tale. S.P. Durnin takes you on a wild ride at high speed into the aftermath of a zombie apocalypse. You’ll fall in love with the characters, and there’s someone for everybody. I highly recommend the novels in this delightful series!

-Sean Liebling, author of BLOOD, BRAINS AND BULLETS and THE REAPER: NO MERCEY.

Durnin pulls no punches in this thrill ride through the apocalypse!

-Jason Brant, author of ASH and THE HUNGER TRILOGY: DEVOURED, CONSUMED, and RAVAGED.

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PRAISE FOR KEEP YOUR CROWBAR HANDY: THE CROWBAR CHRONICLES

"…There’s a reason the characters, and the reader, will want to keep that crowbar handy!"

-Tony Monchinski, Author of I KILL MONSTERS and the critically acclaimed EDEN novels.

KYCH is a rollercoaster ride of action, adventure, suspense, horror, gore, and personal relationships at the end of the world as we know it. If this is only the first book in the series then hold on to your socks, the rest will blow them off!

-James Jackson, survival instructor/weapons advisor, and author of UP FROM THE DEPTHS.

S.P. Durnin manages to bring a shining light into the quivering darkness of the apocalypse!

-Michael S. Gardner, author of DOWNFALL and BETRAYAL.

"…The humor is great, the survivors are fun to follow, and each truly speaks with a voice of their own."

-Stuart Conover, via ScienceFiction.com

I found myself hooked into the book early on and kept getting mad that I had to stop reading it to do things like work my day job, sleep, and tend to other annoying but necessary interruptions.

-Richard Baker, via Zedprep.com

"…A high-action story of survival, love, betrayal and sacrifice. If you enjoy the zombie genre, they you’ll definitely enjoy this book!"

-Tiffany Clark, via Zombie and Post-Apocalyptic Fiction Fan Club

KYCH keeps you intrigued from start to finish. S.P. Durnin’s writing style is compelling, and he clearly enjoys creating vivid characters and story sequences…

-Patrick S. Dorazio, author of COMES THE DARK, INTO THE DARK, and BEYOND THE DARK.

"…S.P. Durnin takes you on a wild ride through the zombie apocalypse, all the while showing us both the best and the worst in people. If you like zombies, you will love this book!"

-Cedric Nye, author of THE ROAD TO HELL IS PAVED WITH ZOMBIES

ROTTING TO THE CORE

Book Two of the Crowbar Chronicles

S.P. Durnin

A PERMUTED PRESS BOOK

Published at Smashwords

ISBN: 978-1-61868-657-2

ISBN (eBook): 978-1-61868-658-9

ROTTING TO THE CORE

Keep Your Crowbar Handy Book 2

© 2015 by S.P.Durnin

All Rights Reserved

Cover art by Roy Migabon

This book is a work of fiction. People, places, events, and situations are the product of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or historical events, is purely coincidental.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author and publisher.

Permuted Press

109 International Drive, Suite 300

Franklin, TN 37067

http://permutedpress.com

For Tonia.

Love you wife.

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

About the Author

-Acknowledgements-

Once again, I should take this opportunity to profusely thank a few people, even though most already know Who They Are. Those who, through advice and encouragement (which sometimes entails putting a swift boot upside my butt cheek), keep that crowbar swinging.

Tony (The Beast) Monchinski, Sara (Baconhugs!) Beverage, J.L. Bourne, Bowie V. Ibarra, Michael (Our Benevolent Overlord) Wilson and all the Mighty Minions of Permuted Press for their herculean efforts, my editor Bobbie Metevier (who –once again- didn’t lynch me over my comma fetish), Jason (because the apocalypse should be fun!), Brant, James R. Jackson of The Ward Room (author resource extraordinaire!), Roy Migabon (for another awesome cover!), Shawn (Walking Corpse) Riddle, John (The Camel Spider) Brewer, Jackie Chin and the Merry Marauders of Zombiepalooza Radio, Guy Cain (ZASC!), Brian (Gnash) Parker, Thomas (OMI) Wolfenden, Devan (ZA!) Sagliani, Eric S. Brown, Danielle Pascale and Jeffery Clare of All Things Zombie, Chris Claremont (for years ago taking the time to talk with a young punk at a comic book shop, back when I was a young punk), Michael S. Gardner, Shana Festa and the gang at The Bookie Monster, and George A. Romero and Tom Savini (the High Lords of Harmful Matter) for paving the way.

*Special thanks goes out to my Beta (reader) Corps. Tim (Good Stuff) Wendt, Keith (Jitterfreak!) Rogers, Anthony (X) Masten and Leslie B. Foster (See? Told ya you’d make it into the book kid).*

Lastly (and certainly not least) thank you to my Better Half. Not only because she’s the buxom, intelligent Ginger that haunts every Irishman’s dreams, but because she’s able to quiet the horrors that reside in the deepest, darkest, most terrifying corners of my back-brain.

Even the ones that scare the shit out of me...

–S.P.

People don't appreciate what they have.

It takes something pretty drastic to shock the average person out of their own head—9/11, Hurricane Katrina, Benghazi, something to that effect. A traumatic, usually bloody and well-televised, event that reminds them that neither they nor their loved ones are immortal.

Except for now, of course.

Anyone left alive is very appreciative of said fact, and most likely feel lucky enough to roll double-sixes all night long.

Four months ago, much of human civilization came to an end. Don't get the wrong idea. There wasn't a nuclear war, no sudden polar shift and (as far as we know) the Ozone layer is still up there. We weren't hit by a rogue comet from space. I'll bet the sky-watching doomsayers were all pretty upset planet Nibiru never showed up. Aliens didn't invade either. No super-intelligent, highly-evolved space badgers swooped down to raze cities in flying saucers, and there was no cataclysmic volcanic activity that blotted out the sun causing an ice age. Some of those scenarios would've almost been preferable actually...

What happened? The recently deceased got up and started chowing down on the living.

Yep.

You read that right.

Zombies. Mobile corpses. We call them Maggot-heads. Kat thinks the label is hilarious, and Foster insists it's good for morale. You know, comedic objectification of something frightening?

Yeah. I didn't buy it either, but what can I do? The name stuck.

Now, as to what caused dead bodies to get up and kill? Nobody has the first clue. Space-borne, parasitic organisms? An Amazonian super-virus? Hell was full so all the dead were sent back? Who knows? No one cares at this point. Believe it or not, when you're fighting (or more often running) for your life, there's normally not a lot of free time to ponder the mysteries of the universe.

It's no picnic, let me tell you. Almost every day is a new lesson in disturbing with a side of That's Just Fucking Nasty in Unheard Of Ways. The maggot-heads (the dead) are shambling around everywhere, there are people out there preying on the living for food, weapons and other less, shall we say, innocent reasons. It shouldn't surprise me how little time it took for much of humanity to regress back into what amounts to barbaric tribalism.

Gods, what a crock. Ignore me. Occasionally, I have bouts of contemplative naval-gazing and spend too much time thinking about what I should do, instead of what I have to do. That's Rule One in the zombie apocalypse. Do what ya gotta do, as the Chief says. Good advice, but difficult to adhere to sometimes. Maybe it's easier if you're alone, without anyone to look out for, or to watch your back when you need it. I couldn't be that way though. The survivors we've gathered since this whole thing started? I wouldn't trade any of them. Alright, yes, we're each a little crazy in different (and sometimes disturbing) ways. No problems admitting that here. But together we're stronger than any of us could be on our own. No matter how screwed up our little group is, it's a really good feeling to have people you care for and who care about you. Especially when one of them is the woman who ended up...

Well. Maybe I'll write about that later

Above excerpt taken from the popular The Chronicles of Jacob O'Connor: Year Zero

-Chapter One-

Are they still there? Katherine asked.

Jake O'Connor glanced briefly towards the ugly, plaid couch where Katherine Cho lounged, absently kicking her feet. She sat with her legs hung over the headrest, shoulders beneath her on the seat so she was nearly upside down, toying with an equally ugly and threadbare throw pillow.

Yes. Just like the last time you asked me, ten minutes ago. Jake replied, tensely.

No need to be snippy. I was just curious. Kat pouted adorably and flipped her ugly pillow across the couch. Besides, there's not much else to do cooped up in here.

It's been a long two days; I'll give you that. Jake shook his head.

Roughly forty-eight hours prior, the duo had been motoring east with the rest of their friends—having just rescued Jake's long-time friend Allen Ryker and the muscular blonde EMT Maggie Reed from a band of well-armed and (partially) trained marauders. Said marauders had raided, and then incinerated, the safe-house their rag-tag little group had sheltered in just outside New Holland, Ohio. They'd also taken Allen and Maggie, along with the teenage Karen Parker and Allen's squeeze-of-the-month Heather Bell, captive as another quartet of Jake's companions had watched helplessly from within their zombie-pulping transport, the Screamin' Mimi. After reconnecting with Jake's party, they'd all decided to track the hostile abductors and take their friends back by force.

Seventy miles, one smelly crawl through a sewage plant's drainage ditch on Jake's part, and eight dead marauders later, they'd managed to retrieve Allen and Maggie, but Karen was still missing and Heather had been killed. The dark-haired young woman had managed to escape her captors just as they'd reached their waste treatment plant hideaway outside Mulberry, Ohio, but not for long. After escaping her restraints, Heather had been mowed down by a flurry of gunfire from the rest of the aggressor convoy and left where she'd fallen in the field across the road. Jake and the others would've buried their companion, but the mobile dead in the area had all but consumed her body. The survivors had settled for killing every bandit within the sewage plant, and making good their escape with a marauder safely trussed like an ugly turkey in the bed of their Hummer.

Then the survivors made their way back to a small, little-used airport in Wilmington, where the rest of their party awaited their return with supplies, weaponry, and their transport.

That had been the plan anyway.

It all went right out the window when Jake's rescue party encountered a large pod of the dead. George Foster (Special Forces fixer and Navy veteran) had brought their Humvee screeching to a halt and they'd all stared at zombies that filled the road before the upcoming overpass, from shoulder to shoulder, in far greater numbers than the survivor's ammunition supply could have dealt with. Not even the modified Humvee they'd obtained, with its thick crash plate over the front bumper (tastefully painted with a large fanged smile) and windows covered with a grid of inch-thick steel bars, could make it through a horde that size. They'd fled back the way they'd come, at speed. Realizing there was no way past the horde, Jake reluctantly decided it was his responsibility to provide a distraction and lead the rotten, staggering crowd away, allowing the others access to the airport and relative safety. His decision hadn't been received well, especially by his red-haired lover Laurel, but they didn't have other options. At least none that would keep them from becoming zombie-kibble. So Jake had convinced his friends to make tracks, while he once again played a life-and-death game of Pac-man with the oncoming dead.

Over his repeated (emphatic) protests to the contrary, Kat had invited herself along for the jaunt.

After dodging zombies through miles of Wilmington's abandoned streets, the pair had taken refuge in the town's Collage Hall, or Old Hall as the plaque out front read. The four-story, brick building had bars over its first-floor windows, which were high enough to prevent even the most determined zombie from clawing its way in, but it also had one drawback: It only had one door. Granted, said door was a thick, steel, security job that wouldn't cave even if the maggot-heads outside got it into their molding skulls to mob the entrance, but there was no rear access.

So much for adhering to fire code, Jake had mused as they'd searched hurriedly for an alternate entrance.

It was Kat who'd found their way in. Noticing the newly-painted fire escape, she'd run at the wall, leapt high, planted one biker-booted foot on its brick face, jumped skyward off its surface, and caught the bottom rung of the fire escape with one hand as Jake watched open-mouthed from the sidewalk. She'd then proceeded to hang down head-first from the ladder like a trapeze artist and catch Jake's hands in a firm grip when he'd jumped skyward for all he was worth.

After powering up by the main-strength in his biceps, O'Connor had gained the lower rung and awkwardly muscled his way up the ladder past Kat's inverted form. She'd aided his efforts by pushing him up from below by way of (shamelessly) taking a double handful of his buttocks as he slid by her. She could have simply retained her grip on his vest, but had decided that wouldn't have been half as much fun.

Besides, he'd been looking up her shirt, so fair was fair.

As Jake dangled there, he'd been treated to a view of Sir Isaac Newton's discovery acting upon a world-class set of breasts beneath the taunt fabric of Kat's thin tank top. Her cut-off, belly shirt gaped quite a bit normally anyway, because she liked showing off the firm lines of her slim midsection, but hanging upside down? No one could blame him for a bit of discrete ogling. Kat was damn attractive, and he was only human.

Katherine Bright-feather Cho made no apologies for her looks. Mama-san had fallen for a hunky, Native American Air Force pilot back in the day, and she’d received her exotic features from both parents. Her complexion was that of mild Earl Grey tea and many people asked whether her ancestral heritage was Japanese or Chinese. Her reply was always, I’m Squaw. Kat's facial features displayed the high cheekbones and dark eyes of her Navajo father, and her trim form moved with panther-like grace due to daily lessons in several different styles of martial arts via her mother from the time she began to walk. That, coupled with her habit of wearing midriff shirts to show off her well-defined abs, hair chopped into a ragged pixie-cut (dyed blue, of course), tight black leather pants, biker boots, a quirky sense of humor, and an unreasoning tendency to mask her intelligence by faking a vapid vixen personality type, made her an appealing (if somewhat intimidating) young woman.

Once they'd pried open a second story window, the leery pair had scoured the building's interior until they were satisfied there wasn't a zombie or ten lurking in any of the rooms, waiting for its next unlucky meal. Afterwards, they'd cautiously made for the ground floor and decided to keep an eye on the stumbling horrors as the crowd passed on the avenue outside.

Unfortunately, the horde did not simply continue flowing along the desolate side street and pass obligingly by as Jake and Kat had hoped. The awful corpses began stumping onto the grounds of Old Hall and spread out, almost filling the lawns, completely enveloping the shaken pair's hiding spot.

That had been nearly two days ago.

After recovering from the initial fear of being trapped within a virtual lake of zombies, Jake and Kat decided to collect whatever resources they could find within Old Hall. Their quiet search discovered a few useful items but nothing really promising. The contents from a half empty vending machine (chips, granola bars, and some fairly stale peanuts), a can of instant coffee, a half a dozen tea-bags (along with a two-thirds-full bottle of top shelf vodka from the bottom desk drawer of the administration officer's desk), four packs of various cigarettes, two books of matches, half a bottle of Ibuprofen, a twelve-pack of Jolt Cola and, tucked behind jugs of bleach in the janitor's closet, and a small Zip-lock bag of what Kat proclaimed to be (after taking a deep appreciative whiff) high-quality, medical-grade marijuana.

Jake convinced her not to test the quality of the last outright, sighting they didn't know if zombies outside would be attracted by the smell of burning cannabis. Kat had relented, but pouted briefly as they tried the faucets in the restroom, thankfully finding that the building's well-fed water supply was still available.

Then the pair retreated back up to the second floor and inventoried everything they'd carried with them on their Dead Run. Jake's tac-vest yielded: two MRE entrees, his full canteen, a fifty-foot bundle of paracord, two candles, five magazines for his M-4 rifle (twenty-nine rounds each), a pair of binoculars, a small first-aid kit, a four ounce bottle of Iodine, three Zip-ties, and an emergency blanket. Additionally, he carried two spare magazines for his Hammer pistol (ten rounds each), a Gerber multi-tool, a liquid-filled compass, three chemical glow-sticks, a full roll of duct tape, one maritime flare, his Zippo lighter, a Ka-Bar, fixed-blade, Tanto-style knife, a Surefire tactical LED flashlight, and three latex condoms.

Kat had given him a grin and raised one delicately arched eyebrow over the last.

What? You can use them to carry water, or even keep tinder dry, Jake explained.

Uh-huh. She chuckled.

Jake sighed as she fought a giggle fit, then they went through what she'd brought along.

Kat always flat-out refused to wear a tac-vest, insisting that it would only slow her down. The pretty Asian sported only her trademark midriff tank top, black leather pants, a pair of flat-soled knee-high biker boots, the steel-embossed forearm bracers she'd looted from a motorcycle dealership, and a web-belt carrying a trio of small pouches along with two magazines for the Glock 17 riding in its tactical holster on her left thigh. She'd managed to grab her small EDC (Every Day Carry) bag, which Elle had thrust at her before they'd jumped from the roof of their still-moving Hummer though, and now began pulling items from inside.

Her contributions were as follows: two more MREs, a roll of toilet paper, a sharpening stone for her sword, a hundred-foot coiled length of climbing rope, four weighted throwing knives, two spare magazines for her pistol (nineteen rounds each), a bottle of Manic Panic Royal-blue hair dye, a tube of MAC smoked-purple lipstick, a fingernail clipper, two pairs of underwear (basic black Vicki's bikini-style), a ten pack of Hubba-Bubba chewing gum (original flavor), a small Hello Kitty figure holding a little plastic sword, an audio CD (Joan Jett and the Blackhearts Greatest Hits), and twelve more Latex condoms.

Staring open-mouthed at some of the necessities she always carried, Jake was, perhaps for the first time in his life, at a total loss for words. Knowing full well if he pointed out the utter uselessness of lugging a bottle of blue hair dye through the zombie apocalypse, an argument would immediately ensue, he chose to remain silent on that one. Instead, he picked up the strip of condoms. After considering them for a handful of seconds, he slowly turned his head to give Kat a level gaze.

And you're carrying these because...?

"Hey! Unlike someone, I don't have any problems admitting it. Kat shrugged. I like having sex."

He blinked, clearly taken aback. Well. That's...um... blunt.

Cho smiled impishly. Should I phrase it another way? Knockin' boots? Tappin' dat ass?

Jake felt a migraine beginning behind his left eye.

Humping like lemmings? Ridin' the O-Train? Gettin' my freak on?

Dropping the strip of condoms back into her bag, Jake closed his eyes and silently begged his building headache to recede. You have no shame, do you?

During the apocalypse? Kat piped happily. Let me think. Nope. Not one bit.

Picking up her Joan Jett CD, he gave her an inquiring look.

Kat's smile grew wider. Mood music. Never hurts to be prepared, right?

Forget I asked, Jake mumbled, and Kat started stuffing things back in her bag.

That night and the following day alternated between tense moments of fear and lessons in boredom. While it was necessary for the pair to keep careful watch on the dead outside, none of the things seemed at all interested in their hideaway. It didn't appear as if the creatures could smell them, or possessed any kind of weird sixth sense allowing them to target a living human, so that was a plus. Jake had theorized previously that zombies hunted solely by visual and auditory means, so as long as neither he nor Kat were heard or spotted peeking through the blinds, they were safe enough for the moment.

There were some problems, however.

First? O'Connor and Cho were trapped inside Old Hall. There was no way to leave without being seen by dozens (if not hundreds) of the dead. Making it safely past that many motivated flesh-eaters, and escaping afterwards without being bitten, would be a real chore. Even for the two of them.

Second? If they did manage to break through the creatures encircling the grounds, the things were sure to follow as they made their escape. After putting some effort into leading all those zombies away from their temporary camp within the airport, they didn't want to lead the herd back towards their friends.

Third? While they could use the two-way radio Laurel had thrust into Jake's tac-vest to call their group for a rescue, there was a damn good chance the rest of that marauder party (who were without a doubt highly motivated to recapture or kill the lot of them), was nearby. Especially after Jake, Kat, and Elle had ventilated their entire security force at the waste treatment plant in the process of rescuing Allan and Maggie. If the marauders managed to trace their transmissions (or if said hostiles knew the area at all), when Laurel and the others arrived to save Jake and Kat's bacon, they could end up in a firefight, along with having to deal with the thousand or more zombies currently outside. The survivors couldn't afford to go head to head with a hostile, heavily-armed group like that if they could avoid it.

Which was why, after nearly two days, Jake and Kat quietly sat in one of the second floor offices, drinking warm Jolt Cola, while snacking on stale peanuts and barbeque Ruffles potato chips. Yes, they had two MREs left, but they wanted to save them just in case they had to go on the offensive (i.e. run like fun for the nearest horizon). If they didn't figure out a way to slip past the horde soon, the worried pair wouldn't have any choice but to attempt fighting their way out (if they could) and pray to lose the zombies under the cover of darkness. Not too likely on unfamiliar ground, to say the least. Then Jake and Kat would have to take the long way around Wilmington, which on foot could take two or three more days, to insure none of the creatures saw them as they carefully made their way back to the airport.

There's got to be a way out of this, Jake grumbled for the hundredth time in the last few hours.

I'm all ears. Kat remained in her comfortable position on the ugly couch. But I still say we just wait until dark and make a break for it.

Jake looked away from the stumbling horrors outside long enough to give her a wry grimace. Kat, we need a plan. We can’t just stroll out the front door—

Actually, I'm for going out the same way we got in. You know. The fire escape?

Fine. We can't just hop off the ladder out back, start blasting away at those things, and—

I was going to stick with my Katana. Besides, you've got that garden tool there, she motioned behind him. It's fairly quiet and effective. No need for you to whip out yer hand cannon, Tex.

Glancing backward, O'Connor saw the hook end of his crowbar sticking up over his right shoulder. He'd carried it since the day of the outbreak, when the recently dead started rising up to feed on the living. Jake had taken it from a small, empty hardware store on the way back to his apartment, just before setting out across Columbus proper, intending to make his way to Laurel or die trying. He'd kept it ever since and attached a shotgun sheath to the back of his tac-vest to carry the industrial-tooled steel brain-smasher. While he could've switched to a machete as most of their group now carried, Jake found the crowbar's eight-pound weight comforting. Besides, he could use it to pry open doors, or even move heavy objects if need be. He didn't know of any machete, regardless of brand name, capable of doing the same.

It's not just a question of noise, Kat. Jake rubbed his throbbing temple. We don't really know the area. We'd have to circle the town and take a long route back, and we don't know if there's any other defensible buildings we can shelter in. We don't have much food or water, either. Granted, the Iodine in my pack, or bleach in the janitor closet, would take care of most organisms that might contaminate water nearby, but we have no way to carry more except for my canteen and maybe a couple of those bottles we found. Why don't you carry a canteen again?

It would clash with my outfit. Why do you think? Kat crossed her leather-clad legs over the back of the couch. Besides, if I get thirsty and don't have any water I just pop in a piece of gum.

Oh, good lord. Jake began massaging both of his temples.

Kat looked confused. What? You don't like bubblegum?

Dammit, Kat, that's not the point! Without water you get dehydrated and... You know what? Never mind. Jake realized some conversations just wouldn't go anywhere good. Like I said, we need a plan.

We have one. Bolt when it gets dark. Kat looked confused.

That's not a plan.

Is too.

Is not. Jake frowned.

Is too!

"Look, just so we're both clear on this? Making a break for it is not a plan! That's what you do when a plan fails. Jake's headache was in full swing now. We need to think of a way out, before those things somehow realize we're in here and before the others decide to come looking for us. Laurel's probably having a full-blown shit-fit right now. Christ, I'm never going to hear the end of this..."

You're worrying too much. We'll be fine taking off once the sun goes down tonight. Beside: ninja, remember? Kat pointed one finger at her unconcerned smile. Those things can't see that great at night, but me? When it comes to working in the dark, I'm an expert.

Kat expected Jake to crack wise, seeing how she'd all but spoon-fed him that straight line, but he turned back the window. She frowned, sat up, and took a good look at him as he stood peeking through a small gap in the blinds.

Jacob O'Connor had never thought of himself as what most people considered handsome. Maybe in the right kind of light. And from across the room. In his mind, he'd never even be modeling baseball hats. From the rear. A narrow waist, broad shoulders, and the weight his serious gaze carried generated an entirely different opinion on part of Kat's best friend Laurel, however. If she were to be honest, Kat was of the same mindset. To her, the sharp lines of Jake's hawk-like face gave him that whole ‘ruggedly handsome" look just marvelously, even without the patented barbarian-hero block chin.

Besides, she thought, tall, light blue eyes, sandy brown hair, a nice bum? Hot-tay!

More lean than muscular, Jake's six-foot frame looked nothing like the hulking behemoths so popular in action movies or muscle-building magazines, but his chest was deep and the cords in his arms rippled when he'd crossed them. Both brought an appreciative smile to Kat's lips. His hair stuck out at odd angles, almost like a character in the Anime she'd enjoyed watching before the dead rose, and just seemed naturally messy as opposed to styled within an inch of its life. It went well with his punk-rocker CBGB t-shirt, Khakis, and combat boots. It also brought a few questions to mind. Questions like, what would be the quickest way to get that shirt off, him onto the couch where Kat could run her fingers through that messy hair while he lay beneath her, and spend the next few hours getting super-sweaty in the most enjoyable way possible?

That was something Kat had been struggling with for a while, and she wasn't willing to admit it to anyone yet. Especially Jake. Saying she was strongly attracted to him would be a supreme understatement. Her feelings were more along the lines of unbridled affection, coupled with a healthy dose of absolutely, bug-fuck bonkers, horny cave-woman lust. With the exception of the odd kiss (and one near-disastrous make-out session on the roof of an abandoned Agri-supply), Kat had managed to keep her emotions in check. The fact that Jake and her best friend Laurel had become seriously involved was the major contributing factor in that choice. She would do anything for her red-haired roomie.

Well. Almost anything, as it turned out.

She couldn't bring herself to swear off hoping she and