These zombies are hot.
And they don't eat their human captives, they use them for sex.
Here's a taste:
“Don’t make me wait.”
Hayden Thomas burst out of the Boston Public Library and charged face-first into the storm. Shit. Snowmaggeddeon—Boston’s worst snowstorm in a century. He’d almost forgotten it. But there it was, swirling and blowing in a fierce, icy blast that pretty much had the whole city at a standstill. The early December snow was heavy and deep, covering doorways and blocking windows. Smart people were at home, safely waiting for the city’s snowplows and salt trucks to take care of the mess in the streets and on the sidewalks. Hayden wasn’t smart like that. He was motivated. Or desperate. Why else would he have just spent hours digging through the library shelves for long-forgotten books about zombies while a blizzard raged outside?
A nasty blast of wind whipped past, filling his nose with giant flakes and blinding him. He slipped on his gloves to wipe his eyes and then hitched up his backpack and tightened the front strap. No way in hell was he losing his laptop to a gust of wind. No laptop, no job. No job, no money. Hayden could deal with unpaid bills, but he was Hayden Buchanan Thomas—wonder kid—he could not deal with being unemployed. Being a reporter for the Boston Weekly, Bob Keeler’s ridiculous tabloid, was causing him enough grief. Dodging questions at parties about what he was doing now that he was out of grad school and making up explanations to silence his Boston College cohorts was getting to be a full-time hassle.
After wrapping his itchy black wool scarf tightly around his neck, Hayden took the first careful step. Thick, wet snow sagged until his boot finally hit the concrete. Three slow, leaping strides later, he reached the landing of the low steps that led to Dartmouth Street, snow covered and silent. Moving one leg at a time, he made his way to the bottom, then continued in the direction of the Copley T Station at the corner of Dartmouth and Boylston. Once there, he paused, using his hand to shield his eyes. But there was nothing clearly visible on the horizon, only the blurry outlines of buildings obscured by endless snow. Not a single living person was out on the streets.
Once he got back to his borrowed apartment, he planned to stay put and wait the storm out too. Judging by the sexy insistence in his girlfriend’s voice when she informed him she was coming over, he was going to be at her mercy the whole time. Her semester at grad school had just ended and she was more than ready to keep him up all night. At first he’d been anxious about hooking up with a neighbor, but now he was really beginning to see the advantage to having Rachelle in the brownstone right next door. A hot flush washed over him, chasing away a sliver of the monstrous chill following him down the hushed street. He smiled beneath the scratchy wool. Letting her have her way with him was the least he could do, considering what she’d just seen posted on the internet. Especially considering she didn’t know the truth behind the pictures of him and the girl. He trudged ahead, blinking when his lashes got too coated to see. What exactly was the truth, anyway?
Damn if he knew.
He kept moving, closer to Rachelle and farther away from that unbelievable scene he’d just been part of in Bates Hall, the library’s famously traditional room. What he’d done there among those rows of green desk lamps was anything but traditional. Sex, video, and a lie more believable than the truth.
The drifts of dense, untouched snow made walking difficult, and the cold air was beginning to pierce his lungs, making each breath a whisper of pain, but he moved on, slowly, steadily. Determined and clinging to Rachelle’s demand—Be ready to fuck me senseless. He was ready. He just had to get there first.