What Souls are Made Of

Chapter 1

The fact that the planet was nothing more than a zombie-infested wasteland, a harsh and unforgiving place, didn't mean that true love didn't exist but was it deserved? Should a pallid-green monster be allowed to pine for the tender softness of a soulmate? Were monsters allowed any joy?

I asked myself these questions every morning as I pulled my mind from the stupor of fading dreams. I wasn't always like this; the world wasn't always like this. I once was a healthy 23-year old bachelor embarking on a career in cyber-security. My days were filled with virtual vulnerabilities and hacker threats, while my evenings were spent at a dive bar half a block from my apartment. My college buddies and I would lament on the monotony of working eight to five, our lack of girlfriends, and the good ol' days of college. I still smile when I look back on those moments, the laughter, the tan skin, the cravings for nachos instead of human brains.

Then my whole world changed. No, it was not the change of the world as a whole; it was the change of my world: Sarah. She breezed into the bar with her blond hair knotted in a small bun at the nape of her neck, which flowed to a billowy white shirt that made her look like an angel. My eyes clung to her as she glided to the bar while glancing around for the lucky person she was meeting. My heart pounded in my ears as her gentle blue eyes paused on me. In all the delusions of a young man, I convince myself they lingered on me because of interest and not because I was staring. I let it fill me with confidence and draw me to her.

"Hello," I gave her one of my stifled smiles to conveyed that I had a secret she wanted to know.

It had the desired effect as she let out a "hello" of her own on the edge of a floating laugh.

Her laugh, I could get lost in memories of her laughter for hours. The peaks and valleys reminded me of the rolling hills of Ireland, velvety and full of life. The peals would waft over me like a summer breeze tickling the leaves of the trees.

"May I buy you a drink?" Still to this day, I am uncertain of how I managed the confidence that saturated my voice.

"Well, I'm waiting for a friend, but she appears to be running late," she glanced at her phone to accent the point.

"I am happy to keep you company until she arrives. You know, ward off the rabble," I smiled as I threw in a ballsy wink.

"And how do I know you aren't a part of the rabble," she teased with a smile.

I was in; I slid onto the stool next to her as the bartender approached. I had always enjoyed playing a small game with myself when I offered to buy a lady a drink; what would she order? Was she boisterous and outgoing, destined for a sweet mixed cocktail? Was she tentative and unsure, playing it safe with a beer? Or was she relaxed, gravitating toward a simple glass of wine? My mind whirled through the possibilities but leaned towards a glass of wine.

"May I have a Wild Turkey Old Fashioned, extra sweet, with a lemon twist?" The order spilled from her lips as easily as the receding wave of a calming lake.

The bartender nodded and turned to me. I had no words; she had stolen them with her confident order. "Uh," I stuttered as the cool I had mustered evaporated somewhere around 'extra sweet.' "I'll take a..." My mind clamored for a drink... any drink... "Cosmo." It slipped past my lips with an odd tone. Part of my mind pushed forth triumph that I had successfully conjured a drink from the jumble, but another, far more angry part of my mind, lamented that Cosmo was where I landed. I hated Cosmopolitans; hell, I hated vodka.

The bartender gave another nod, but as he turned, I could see the smile of a chuckle cross his lips.

"Interesting drink choice," her words lingered in the air as I responded with a simple shrug.