Chapter 20 #3
‘June, are you … all right?’ blurted Zoey.
She was no Nivola sister, but even her novice eye could see that the green undertones June had taken to sporting really didn’t work with her complexion.
It wasn’t even a froggy green. It was a sort of …
mouldy green. The type you found on the loaf of $9 preservative-free artisanal bread you’d bought from Baker’s Dozen on Sandy Boulevard and had forgotten about for half a day.
The green of off-brand crayons. The green of the tank of the Breville espresso maker after Winslow had promised to change the water.
(Wrigglers! The last time there’d been mosquito wrigglers!)
The green of … oh no. Could it be?
Zoey swallowed, her rational brain trying to override Reba’s Razor: that the supernatural explanation was the most likely one.
June rubbed her forehead, which was sheened with sweat. Well, the effects of hot yoga did linger, and knowing June, she’d probably followed it up with a stint at one of the coin-operated sauna booths that had set up next to the bikini carwash.
‘Sorry, I didn’t get that,’ Zoey said, trying to give June the benefit of the doubt. ‘Are you after your usual?’
June stared blearily at Zoey, who was mentally running through every possible scenario.
Maybe June’s primarily breatharian diet was lacking in a few nutrients needed for brain function.
Or maybe she and Nate had just had a fight.
Which, given Nate’s opinions on, well, everything, wasn’t out of the realm of possibility.
‘How about a Brain Freeze?’ she asked, pointing at the sign. June had seemed to enjoy the Brain Freeze at the Lloyd Center, after all.
Nate made a gurgling sound that sounded vaguely positive.
Well, it was better than his complaints.
Zoey nodded at Reba and Gracie to get the order started, and spun the iPad around for June to pay.
June hovered her phone in the vicinity of the iPad, then jabbed at the screen, missing the tip button by a solid few inches.
No matter, thought Zoey. She understood having a tight budget, and June had been a supporter since day one.
Her purchases had practically paid Terriffany’s entire salary to date.
Smiling brightly, she handed over two biodegradable cups to the morose-looking couple. But as June reached for the cups, something seemed to overcome her.
Gravity? Or something more?
She lunged forward, her teeth snapping at Zoey’s wrist.
‘Ow!’ Zoey snatched her hand back. Had that just happened? Had June just … bitten her? June, of vegan influencer fame? June, who had had her canines filed down because they were vestigial reminders of a time before soy-based protein options, and their presence in her body offended her?
June grabbed her smoothie, then shuffled off.
‘Reba’s Razor,’ said Reba smugly. ‘Zombies. It’s zombies.’
Zoey blinked, staring down at the red, raised chomp mark on her wrist. Could it be, really? Because no matter how much evidence pointed to the existence of zombies, wasn’t that a bit silly?
‘A real in-person biting! Oh, I do love a good Portland moment.’ Reba examined the bite mark in fascination. ‘You should get a tattoo of that to commemorate the experience. How long do you think we have until she turns, Gracie?’
‘I’m just here to document,’ said Gracie, from behind her camera.
‘You’d make a great time traveller, love,’ Reba told Gracie. ‘Wouldn’t mess up a timeline one bit. Unlike yours truly. How’s it feeling, Zoey?’
Zoey rubbed at her wrist, which throbbed. June was notoriously obsessed with gargling hydrogen peroxide and olive oil (not together) in lieu of actual mouthwash, so perhaps Zoey was merely dealing with a mild acid-burn situation.
‘Let me go out back and cover it up,’ she suggested.
‘Right now? A bite wound’s a good talking point. Plus, you’ll get some sympathy tips. Look.’
Guilted by Reba’s incessant pointing at the bite mark, the smoothie crowd was dumping change into the tip jar as they waited for their orders.
‘She has high-deductible health insurance through the exchange and no sick leave,’ called Reba. ‘Small-business owner! Support the small-business owner! Look out for the GoFundMe, coming tonight!’
‘Wow, you’re good at this,’ said Zoey. At least she thought she said that. Her voice felt strangely disconnected, like when you tried to talk in a dream.
‘She hasn’t turned down interviews with Forbes, The Financial Times and Bloomberg for nothing,’ said Gracie, as Reba swapped out the tip jar for a larger one.
As unflappable as a flightless bird, Gracie was passing out smoothie cups with ease.
And thank goodness for that, because Zoey was starting to feel …
odd. Like the time she’d got both her Covid and flu shots at once, and had then eaten a whole bag of sour gummi worms (not even the weed kind) while watching the Pink Floyd laser show at the OMSI Planetarium.
She handed out a few more mushroom smoothies, trying to ignore the twin waves of nausea and hunger spilling over her.
Had she remembered to eat breakfast? Had Winslow eaten all the brains he’d been storing in the fridge, or had he left a few choice morsels stored behind the out-of-date milk and that half-eaten tray of Trader Joe’s lasagne?
Oh shit, why did she have brains on the brain?
The last thing Zoey remembered was Reba’s cat’s-eye glasses looming over her. Well, that, and the smell of extremely strong weed.
‘Oh, but that looks bad, doesn’t it?’ Reba was saying, her brow furrowed beneath the purple-tinged swirl of her hair. ‘Do you think her insurance covers a zombie apocalypse?’