Lois Lane Stays As Still As Possible

In a fraction of a second, every zombie film and television show Lois Lane had ever watched came back to her. Instinctively she lay as still as possible on the table, doing her best to not even breathe. She let her eyes stay mostly closed, so that they couldn't see her pupils as she looked at the gore-stained, lumpy potato-women who wandered aimlessly...and the one who hovered over Lois.

That they were actually shambling corpses was apparent to Lois. As a reporter on the crime beat, she had been in the city morgue more times than she could count, and on the scene more often than not. She had even been to the forensic crime testing grounds up state, where medical cadavers were left to rot in various secure grounds so that researchers could examine how they decomposed.

All of these women were dead...probably weeks ago, based on lividity. The skin had not yet begun to break down, but there were odd bulges, little hisses of decomposition gasses, the smell of putrescine and cadaverine beneath that rotten-potato odor. Dead...and yet they moved...and there were no obvious injuries, aside from a few breaks in the skin from bumping into sharp corners.

The one that hung over Lois didn't breathe. Something drooled off of her fangs, to drip on the bare skin of the reporter's clavicle. Lois wondered what, if anything, remained of the woman whom this plant-zombie had been. If anything of the brain still existed, or if it was full of rotten tubers.

Then Lois felt something on her leg. A hand. Cool, room temperature. It slid up the reporter's inner thigh. Dry, thin fingers sped along the skin until it reached the reporter's pussy. It took all of Lois Lane's self-control not to move as those fingers **** themselves into her labia...

The potato! Lois realized, as the fingers hit the mass of the control-spud jammed in her cunny, pushing it painfully inside of her. They can sense the potato!

There was a growl...the growl of four hungry stomachs. All four of the potato-women crowded around the table, and the reporter realized at last what was going on.

They want to eat my potato...and they don't care if they eat me to get it!