text: Without taking his order, the bartender set a margarita on the rocks in front of Walter. “So, what brings you to beautiful Mexico, amigo?” asked the bartender, whose nametag read Eduardo. Walter Raymundo looked up at the bartender and considered his answer. A 45-year-old widower, Walter had arrived at *Playa de Sueños* resort yesterday. He looked at his phone - 5 PM. Yesterday’s highlight was a group catamaran sailing lesson followed by a sedate dinner for one at the resort restaurant. Tonight, he was trying his luck at the pool bar; hopefully he’d make it past 9 PM. “Oh, what you’d expect. I’m part of a Z Survivor group. Package deal - pay a little extra and the organizers promise a 2-1 ratio of women to men,” Walter admitted with a rakish smile. Eduardo chuckled. “So, my friend, you’re like the rest of us - looking for love.” Walter gave a grunt that might have been agreement but said nothing. He was looking for love, sure, but he couldn’t ignore his work, either. It had taken him 5 years to talk himself into traveling from his home in Tucson, AZ, to the nearest “safe” resort in the West. *Playa de Sueños*, located in Puerto Peñasco, Mexico, was purpose-built to resist zombie attacks. Walter lost his wife, Evie, in the great West Coast Zombie Uprising of 2022 and he was uneasy. Not because of the zombies - by all accounts the Mexican government was far more ruthless in exterminating the living dead than the United States. No, the Mexican government didn’t care that the long-rumored zombie cure was, by all accounts, just around the corner, or that with the help of a powerful drug cocktail a small number of “remediated” zombies were currently being trained to complete menial jobs in some parts of the United States. The Mexican *Guerreros contra los Muertos* were known to shoot first and not ask questions. On top of that, the resort was on a manmade island with strict security protocols including lots of men with automatic rifles. Walter was uneasy because he hadn’t been on a date since his wife died - hadn’t been intimate with another human being since Evie had been ripped from his arms by an angry horde 5 years ago. Now here he was, sipping a margarita by the pool, sizing up the female population. There were some beautiful women for sure, but as he feared he was 20 years older than most of the female guests. Middle aged women were in particularly short supply all over the Americas. For some still unknown reason, zombies attacked women more than men, and women over 40 most of all. Once attacked, older women were more likely to convert or die than any other demographic besides the very young and the very old. Solid numbers were hard to come by but something like 5% of the human population in America had been wiped out since the first flare-up in 2011. Some 15 million plus gone, and women over 40 made up 2/3 of that number. The rarest commodity of all were survivors, those who’d been attacked but made it out the other side. It was believed that less than 1% of all humans attacked by zombies survived. Most confirmed survivors were secured at government sites being tested and studied. Most, but not all. The west coast of America had taken the brunt of the zombie uprisings. Southern California alone lost 3 million to zombie attacks and another 2 million to outmigration. Zombies liked it hot but not too hot, dry but not too dry. They also appear to have a sense of humor as the government was now paying families to move into the few inhabitable neighborhoods in LA and San Diego. Houses that would have sold for millions were now being given away. Other than a few mild flareups in New York, Houston, and a handful of other cities, the middle of the country and the east coast were largely untouched. The average suburbanite in New Hampshire or Ohio watched the holocaust unfold across their TV screens, safe in their living rooms, while Los Angeles and San Diego nearly burned to the ground. Walter came out of his reverie. “Thanks for the drink, Eduardo. Very good. But I didn’t order it - how’d you know I’d like it?” “I took a chance - you seem like the tequila type,” said a woman’s voice. Walter looked to his left just as a woman started walking toward him. Walter took her in. Not your typical beauty but interesting none the less. She was perhaps 5 feet 5 inches tall, brown skin the color of melted caramel. Eyes as black as anthracite, yet a bit jaundiced in the sclera. Athletic, bordering on muscular build, small perky breasts. And not a day over 25. “Hi, um, thanks,” said Walter. “I’m America. You looked thirsty and lonely,” she said, in faintly-accented English. Her face was radiant. Walter was intrigued. “I’m Walter. Thanks again for the drink. Do you want to get a booth?” As they walked toward the booth, America lost her balance, giving Walter an opportunity to be a gentleman. She laughed, blamed it on an irregular paving stone. Once in the booth, they talked, awkwardly at first, more comfortably as time wore on. America learned that Walter lived in Tucson but had moved there from San Marcos, a town in northern San Diego County. Walter left Southern California during the Uprising only reluctantly and only after losing his wife. He took the same package most SoCal refugees took five years ago, a $50,000 relocation credit plus a military escort for those willing to relocate to Arizona, New Mexico or a handful of places further east. Tucson was a popular choice, a major metro area relatively close to the Mexican border that was too hot and dry for zombies most of the year. Walter had been a tenured professor at UC-San Diego until the Uprising. Now the campus was a charred ruin and he taught at a community college. As Eduardo delivered a second round of margaritas, the conversation turned to America. She was born in Mexico but immigrated when she was seven. She grew up not far from Walter’s hometown of San Marcos in Oceanside, a quaint, if somewhat gritty, beach town immediately south of the massive Marine base, Fort Pendleton. She graduated Oceanside High summa cum laude and did two years at Stanford. Then the Uprising. Her family called her and begged her to stay in the relative safety of Northern California. She refused and returned home to a warzone. Her mother, father, and younger brother dead, house and neighborhood burned to the ground by the Marines sent to help. Zombies, it turns out, really hate fire. Too bad humans do, too. Controlling zombies by fire had been euphemistically dubbed chemotherapy for the human population. It killed more zombies than people, but just barely. She was so distraught she didn’t wait for the government subsidy. She just started driving east and ended up, like so many others, at a refugee camp outside of Las Vegas. Eventually she got her head on straight, applied for the subsidy, and headed toward Mexico as soon as the check arrived. She had family in the state of Sonora. With no jobs on offer she couch-surfed with family and lived off the subsidy until she settled in Puerto Peñasco 2 years ago. Now she dealt blackjack at the casino part time. She knew the bartender, Eduardo, from the casino and he sometimes let her slip into the resort without paying the locals fee for a day pass. When their conversation hit an ebb, Walter signaled for two more drinks and suggested that they take them to the beach. Sunset was only 20 minutes away and what better way to end a perfect . . . what, first date? America took his hand in hers and his stomach flipped. He felt like he was 16 again. As they walked, America took another chance to appreciate Walter. Though he was probably in his early to mid-40s, he hadn’t developed the typical pot-bellied middle-aged ‘dad-bod’. For a professor, he had a weight-lifter’s build, muscular and stout. Not tall, 5’ 6”, he had blond-brown hair fading to white at the temples. Barrel chested, well-tanned, beard cropped close, no earrings or visible tattoos. Beautiful baby blue eyes and a kind, rounded face that bore no malice. He wore a loud Hawaiian shirt and vintage board shorts without a trace of irony, the way only a Californian can. No jewelry except for a simple gold ring hanging from a chain around his neck. The sunset came and went. An hour later, the couple continued to talk - about families, about politics, about loss, and about love. The bass drum of the Pacific Ocean beat out an ameliorative melody. Slowly, they got lost in one another and conversation turned to flirting. Their first kiss was soft, tentative, exploratory. The walk back to Walter’s room was full of giggles and high-pitched stream-of-consciousness jabbering. Walter offered her his arm to steady her. Walter, too, was a bit unstable, high on tequila and America’s attention. Once they got to his room, though, Walter was filled with trepidation. America didn’t follow him back to his room to play chess. For some reason, the prospect of having sex with this beautiful young woman terrified him. Physically, he was sure it would be fine, perhaps even great. He felt a familiar swelling in his boxer briefs and knew he *could* do it . . . but *should* he? Was this a one-night fling, or was she the real deal? Why was he thinking of Evie instead of America? America put her arms around his shoulders and kissed him. When she looked into his eyes, she saw fear rather than desire. “Hey, no pressure. I like you and I’m down for whatever. We can talk, we can fool around, we can go get dinner, whatever,” said America. Walter smiled and offered a compromise. “How about the hot tub? This is a suite, the hot tub on the balcony overlooks the ocean - great view.” America’s face curled into wicked, mischievous smile. “You appreciate a great view, huh? Well get ready because I didn’t bring my bathing suit.” Without another word, she shimmied out of her shorts and top. She giggled and did a little pirouette, giving Walter a full 360-degree view. After shucking out of her clothes she was wearing only a pair of lacy white thong underwear. Her pert breasts, uncovered, shone in the moonlight like teak pearls. He’d seen all he needed to see. Suddenly, all other thoughts left his mind. He went to her and kissed her as if his life depended on it. She led him to the bed. Seconds later he was deep inside of her. They both found relief, if not love, in the gentle rocking of bodies. They did eventually make it to the hot tub, two hours later. \ The next morning, America woke to an empty bed. She spotted Walter on the patio sipping coffee and contemplating the mighty Pacific. She called out, “Coffee smells good - got more on?” “Yep. Pyrex on the counter. I splurged, its real Kona coffee.” She sat next to Walter and took a sip. “Wow - that’s good!” said America, a warm smile on her lips. “What’s the occasion?” Walter offered a blank stare and said nothing for a minute. “Just being alive. And missing Evie. She loved good coffee.” America said nothing. She could sense Walter had something to get off his chest. “We met in grad school. Boston. She was studying art history - Baroque paintings, Rembrandt, Rubens that type of stuff. Taught herself German, Dutch, and French. Mind you, she was from an insular New Hampshire WASP family, had never travelled further than New York City before college. Art wasn’t really my thing. I was a few years further along, on track to get a combined MD-PhD in public health and microbiology. My passion was, still is, epidemiology.” Walter offered a sad smile. “Lot of good that’s done me.” He gestured aimlessly toward the sea. “Her parents didn’t approve. They never said anything, but they didn’t have to. I share my Guatemalan grandfather’s surname and I tan easy in the summer, even in New England. In their eyes I was 25% too Hispanic for their Episcopalian angel. We got out of there as fast as we could. We got married in Las Vegas where I had a one-year postdoc at UNLV. Soon after I landed the job at UC San Diego. She struggled for a while, volunteered at several museums before an entry level position opened at the Museum of Contemporary Art San Diego. Not her area but she was smart, persistent, a sponge. She learned everything she cold about Franz Kline, Modigliani, Picasso, Pollock, you name it. She spent ever free minute either in the University library or learning the contemporary art scene in galleries all around Southern California. She dragged me to so many shows we started a modest art collection to decorate our equally modest home. Eventually transferred some credits from back east and with even more work she earned a PhD in Arts Management. Worked her way up to a junior curator position, then a senior position. Taught at the U part-time. We had a good life.” Walter drained his coffee, put the cup in the sink, and then returned to the patio. “Six months before the Uprising, the director of the museum was killed in a zombie attack in Los Angeles. Evie was named acting director. Two weeks before the Uprising, she got notice that the promotion was to be permanent. Los Angeles was burning by then and the Board of Directors thought continuity would be best. Frankly, it was hard to find anyone from east of the Rockies to apply for a position in Southern California. Outmigration had started, looting was on the rise. A few minor flares in San Diego County had killed off most tourism. It was bleak. We talked about leaving but with her new promotion we never seriously considered it. I made a few half-hearted inquires with colleagues back east about academic openings but nothing came of it. We upgraded our security system, 4-inch hardened steel shutters activated by phone app, an ugly but lethal fence system, and a bomb shelter with 2 years of canned food and batteries. We both learned how to use and maintain guns for the first time in our lives. Thursday night yoga was replaced by Thursday nights at the gun range.” Walter paused and put a thumb and forefinger to his closed eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. Silent tears gently rolled down his face. When he returned to his story, his voice was think with emotion. “One day, Evie was called into the museum to respond to an emergency alarm. I drove her, stayed in the car. Evie went in with her Glock locked and loaded, escorted by an armed security guard. At the time, it seemed like overkill considering a similar alarm went off a week earlier when a homeless guy got stuck in a secure loading dock looking for shelter. This time it was a dozen zombies. No one saw it coming. Neither Evie nor the security guard came back out of the museum. I saw a few bloodied Zs emerge from the building. A security detail arrived too late for Evie but just in time for the first battle of the Uprising. All the noise drew even more Zs. This was ground zero, moment zero. I should have come with her into the museum. I didn’t. I got out. Sometimes wish I hadn’t.” Walter was quiet. America didn’t know how to respond. What the fuck do you say to that? When America found her voice, she spoke in a soft *sotto voce*, trying to convey sympathy. “Sounds like you two loved the hell out of each other. She was lucky - you both were lucky - to find that kind of love.” “Yes, we were,” Walter agreed. “Do you want me to leave?” asked America. “Leave, why?” confusion and hurt colored Walter’s voice. “I was sharing - I just thought I owed you the truth.” America offered Walter a pained look. “That’s just it - the truth. I haven’t been honest with you. I like you, but I need you, too. Six weeks after I got to Mexico, Ivanka was elected President. Soon after, the Trump Memorial Wall started going up fast. When they just thought Mexicans were taking their jobs, no funding. But Ivanka’s smarter than her dad, better deal-maker, too, and she embraced all that fringe conspiracy stuff - that the Mexican government engineered the Zombie outbreak and infected the US on purpose as revenge for her dad’s anti-immigrant policies. Last month they started work on the last segment of the Wall. Going rate for a coyote is a $100,000 and rising. I’m a Dreamer, so I was never fully legal in California. I must get back. You can bring me back.” She pleaded silently with her eyes. Walter looked at America in the harsh light of the Pacific morning. He smiled. “You didn’t let me finish my story.” “But . . .” protested America. “Look, I get it. The bartender probably feeds you names of gringos here for the Survivor trips. You’ve been looking for a soft touch who will make a trade - sex and companionship in exchange for a ticket back to the States. Deal or no deal? If I’m not the first, so be it. I’m not one to judge. I had a great time last night no matter how or why it came to be. Be that as it may, I haven’t been fully honest with you, either. You need the whole truth more than I do. We’re both hunting. This is a work trip.” America looked at Walter quizzically. “Work . . . for what, one of your community college classes?” “No. The teaching keeps me sane but pays shit. I run a privately-funded lab in Tucson. A very well-funded lab. We’re researching a cure.” “A cure?” said America, incredulous. “For Zombies?” “Yes. And we’re oh-so-close.” “What are you hunting for,” she demanded, but before Walter could say a word she said it. “A survivor.” “A survivor. I picked up on a few markers immediately - slight jaundice of the sclera, increased musculature, especially of the upper body, rigid posture, poor balance when walking. But I needed to be sure. There are so few survivors out there not already working for a lab.” “So, you fucked me not because I was so charming or hot but because you had to be sure . . . and you saw the bite marks on my back . . .” her voice faded away. “Yes, I saw them. But no, I didn’t go to bed with you last night just to find out. I had to see if there was the possibility of love for me without Evie. Like everyone I secretly hope that the cure will work retroactively and that I can find Evie and cure her and have it all back like it was. But I know that’s bullshit. I’m not even sure if she was killed or converted. If the later, she’s been a zombie for 5 years. No one comes back from that. The cocktail they’re using now only works on those newly converted, and it’s only partial. My cure would be a universal inoculation, a vaccine, plus it would work retroactively on newer converts. Either way, Evie’s gone. Last night helped me see that there might be life, and maybe even love, after.” “But you need a survivor to get over the line.” “And you need me to get through the wall.” America smiled. “Is it painful? Risky?” “Risky, no. Some pain. Not much. Bloodwork mostly. Some cognitive stuff. Bone marrow would be the most painful procedure but nothing you can’t handle.” She considered the offer. “What about the border crossing? The US is requiring a marriage certificate to enter as of last week in the case of a non-blood relative.” “I know. Not a deal breaker. I need a partner in life as well as in the lab. If the romantic part works out, great. If not we’ll figure that out, too,” said Walter. “Hmm. One last question.” It was Walter’s turn to smile. “Shoot.” America walked over to Walter. She was wearing only the white lace panties and a thin cotton t shirt. She straddled him and soon felt herself pushing onto a familiar, growing hardness. “Can you keep up with a younger woman? I’ll need at least one more round this morning for you to convince me.” “Hmm. Only one more? Let’s try for two, shall we?” “You got yourself a deal.” Walter carried America over the threshold to the suite. Two hours and two love making sessions later, the odd couple left the resort. An hour after that, they emerged from the Sweet Memories Wedding chapel, husband and wife. Walter drove his aging Tesla directly toward the brilliant Mexican light bouncing off the gold-plated Trump Memorial Wall. For the first time in a long time, Walter felt a glimmer of hope. In the passenger seat America was hopeful but nervous, too. She was glad to be leaving Mexico, eager to be back in her namesake country. But she felt sure Walter wasn’t giving her the full truth yet. Like her, he had poor balance and a muscular torso. And those baby blues eyes . . . too good to be true? High-end contacts to hide jaundice? What about the unusual scars she’d seen on his body? If Walter was a survivor, too, he didn’t really need America as a test subject. Instead, she suspected he was in Mexico searching for a partner to help make the rarest commodity of all in their zombie-filled world - a child born of two survivors. She kept up with the news and knew the entire scientific community was searching for just such a survivor child, to no avail. America hadn’t taken a birth control pill in three days and neither she nor Walter had even mentioned condoms. America imagined that perhaps, right now, a child was growing in her belly that would end the zombie apocalypse once and for all. If not now, soon. She put her hands over her abdomen protectively and offered Walter a radiant smile as the GPS welcomed them to the United States of America.