Chapter 23 #3
‘Ains, is Joaquin working today?’ he asked. He tried not to grimace as a biting situation appeared to unfold amid the shufflers. Were they acting? Was this zombie-on-zombie violence? How many discussions had that person dressed as a ghoul from Fallout had about the definition of a zombie?
‘I’m pretty sure Joaquin slept overnight at Inkstigators,’ said Ainsley, who was now halfway through the cinnamon roll. (It was impressive progress.)
Nick stood. ‘All right. It’s time to hunt some zombies.’
Everyone stared at him, aghast.
‘Gross,’ said Celeste, who’d finished her doughnut and was now fiddling around in the Pro Tools mobile app. (She’d sampled some zombie groans on the way over.) ‘Hunting is emblematic of toxic masculinity. Are the straights okay?’
‘Peta told me about the bedroom-door lock,’ added Ainsley.
‘I don’t mean hunt, hunt,’ said Nick. ‘And I can explain the door. Look, I just need some of that tattoo ink, and a bunch of hypodermic needles.’
Reba slurped the last of her milkshake. ‘Now this is a plan I can get behind. I’ve got about fifty boxes of needles in the Kombi.
Scored them from a CVS that messed up its pricing.
Longest receipt in the world, but at least I got to reuse it for my mummy Halloween costume.
People laugh, but my hoarding tendencies have always been good to me. ’
‘She’s right,’ said Gracie. ‘Whatever you need, the Kombi summons it for you. It’s an impressive vehicle.’
‘All right, so sometimes it’s DoorDash doing the summoning,’ said Reba. ‘But mostly it’s the Kombi. Come on.’
With Alice at his heels, Nick hurried out to the truck, trying not to let his zombie paranoia overcome him.
Now that he was keenly attuned to the possibility of zombies, everyone seemed like they’d been zombified.
Romero. Zoey’s missing hairdresser. That terrible slam-poetry performer.
That weird colloidal-silver lady. June and Nate the Hater, who were just now shuffling by.
(Nick averted eye contact. Although, it had to be said that Nate was quite pleasant as a zombie. He moaned a lot less.)
Oh shit, he owed Darina an apology for trapping her in the shed. Here he was, thinking that she’d been having a psychotic break, or worse, had been flirting with him, when the poor thing had just been trying to eat his brains. And all because of his mushrooms!
‘I’m going to head to Inkstigators for the ink,’ he said.
‘We’ll meet you there,’ said Reba decisively. ‘I’ve always wanted to stab some zombies. Won’t be long – the Kombi’s right out there in the loading zone.’
‘We’re coming too,’ said Ainsley, around the last bite of her cinnamon roll. Celeste nodded. In her head-to-toe vegan leather, she looked absolutely ready to go on a zombie-hunting spree. Or at least to play a minor role in an off-brand Mad Max.
‘Could we grab a ride with you, though?’ added Ainsley. ‘We can chuck our bikes in the back of the truck.’
‘We took the MAX in from my place and then rode the rest of the way,’ explained Celeste, hoisting her ukulele. ‘Now that I think about it, this whole zombie situation really explains the public-transportation behaviour we witnessed.’
‘Hop in,’ said Nick. ‘But you’ll have to squish. Alice likes to be next to me.’
‘She’s a good girl,’ said Ainsley, giving her a kiss. ‘Zombie!’ she shouted suddenly. ‘Run it over!’
‘Whoa, whoa,’ said Nick. He smacked the horn instead. The zombie glanced up from their phone, and Nick wondered whether they were actually a zombie or just someone walking and texting. ‘You seriously think I’m about to plough through pedestrians just because we have a zombie situation going on?’
‘That was my old landlord,’ muttered Ainsley. ‘Nothing of value would’ve been lost.’
‘Oh. You’re right. Sorry, missed opportunity. We’ll get the next landlord,’ promised Nick.
‘They’re really … picking up,’ said Ainsley, frowning over at the shambling hordes on Belmont. ‘Did Zoey change the recipe or something in the past few days?’
Nick frowned. ‘I don’t think so. I think we’ve just … hit critical mass.’
‘Bit critical mass, more like,’ said Celeste wryly, with a strum of her ukulele.
Nick pulled the truck slowly around the corner, taking the back streets towards Inkstigators.
Here and there, potentially zombified individuals lurked, blinking as the truck crawled down the narrow residential street, much of which had been taken over by portable vegetable gardens and unpermitted al fresco dining spots. Efficient, no. But pretty, yes.
‘Okay, so does anyone have a definitive way of determining who’s a zombie?’ asked Celeste.
‘Green skin, shambolic gait, moaning brains.’ Ainsley ticked these off on her fingers.
‘Well, they’d definitely be part of the Venn-diagram overlap,’ said Nick. ‘But are they definitively zombie traits?’
Nick pulled up at a stop sign. A guy in a faded Pixies T-shirt and pyjama pants banged on the window with green-tinged fists. A smartwatch on his wrist flashed in alarm.
‘Brains!’ moaned the guy.
Alert, said the smartwatch, your body temperature is below normal range. Alert.
‘Definitely a zombie,’ said Celeste.
Ainsley considered. ‘Unless he just got out of an ice bath. They’re great for burning brown fat.’
Nick shook his head. ‘No one with that little muscle mass does ice baths. It’s purely a YouTube gym-bro thing.’
‘So, zombie?’ said Celeste.
‘Zombie seconded,’ said Ainsley.
‘Okay, zombie consensus reached.’ Making sure the windows were rolled up tightly, Nick pulled away and continued cruising down the street. The zombie guy looked somewhat affronted, but recovered promptly, continuing his quest for brains down Cesar Chavez Boulevard.
‘Ah, he’s heading towards Fred Meyer,’ said Celeste. ‘They always have a great selection of brains.’
‘Celeste!’ Ainsley whacked her on the shoulder.
‘What?’ said Celeste. ‘I wasn’t born vegan. I chose the veg life.’
‘We’ll catch up with him when we’ve got our ink,’ promised Nick, as they cruised through the leafy neighbourhood. ‘He’s moving pretty slowly.’
So were they, but not slowly enough to appease the local Karens, three of whom were standing around a dividing wall, tape measures out as they tried to determine whether a neighbour had encroached upon a property line.
‘Children live here!’ shouted one, as the truck crawled along. ‘Read the fucking signs!’
‘I’m sorry! I’m a good neighbour, I promise!’ shouted Nick.
‘Oh yeah, with your Washington plates?’ shouted the woman. ‘Pay some damn state taxes like the rest of us!’
Nick’s fingers tightened around the steering wheel. ‘Really regretting my “no running people over” policy right now,’ he muttered.
When they pulled up at Inkstigators, Nick was relieved to see Joaquin’s bike leaning against the glossy black facade. At least they wouldn’t have to take Reba up on her offer of breaking and entering.
Speaking of. A pair of cat’s-eye glasses poked out from the door, followed by some purple-tinged hair and a tie-dyed scarf.
‘About bloody time,’ shouted Reba. ‘Did you take that weird bridge exit that sends you back downtown or something? We’ve got zombies to deal with!
Oh, but I wish my Frank were here to see this.
Huge Return of the Living Dead fan, he was.
Dan O’Bannon signed his favourite coffee mug, you know.
And obviously he liked Romero, when the mood was right. ’
‘Speaking of him, still no leads,’ said Ainsley. ‘And the poor boy’s looking like he’s going to be declared Mayor of Laurelhurst.’
‘The cat, not the director,’ clarified Nick.
‘Why not both?’ said Reba. ‘Come on, move those butts.’
Inkstigators was further along than it had been in the photos Zoey had shown Nick from its soft opening.
Now it sported a dramatic avian mural painted above its glass and tile facade and gold-edged lettering in its windows – Ainsley’s work, of course.
Potted snake plants waggled their tongues from statuesque planters, and a taxidermied crow stared down from a gleaming perch above the entrance.
Reba held the door as she ushered them in, giving them each a pat on the back like she was playing a game of Duck, Duck, Zombie.
A progressive Pride flag smacked Ainsley in the face as she followed up the rear; she gave it a quick hug.
Alice sat politely by the front door, tail flapping happily.
Having attended many of Nick’s own ink sessions, she knew that tattoo shops took sterilisation seriously.
She also knew that some delicious treats were imminent – on the counter was a jar filled with biscuits from the Good Boy raw-dog-food shop next door.
‘Back in my day we just used a ballpoint pen and a razorblade,’ whispered Reba, admiring the state-of-the-art tattoo pens and the MacBook Pro that blinked in the corner, rendering some sort of 3D CAD design for Joaquin’s side hustle as a printer of plastic doo-dads.
‘But you can’t stop progress. I mean that with the greatest of compliments. ’
‘Wow, the whole gang’s here,’ said Joaquin, embracing everyone in turn.
‘So, Reba tells me we’re zombie-hunting, huh?
My dad will be so excited. He’s a prepper from way back.
He was the very first person to purchase that Costco end-of-the-world canned goods set.
But now he can’t use it because it’s a collectible item. ’
The things one had to think about when contemplating the end of the world. Speaking of, was that a zombie groan outside? Or had the UPS guy just thrown out his back lugging a giant box of books over to the used bookshop a few doors down?
Time was of the essence.
Joaquin, realising this, scooted over a vintage Coca-Cola tin bristling with ink-filled squeezy bottles.
‘Right, here’s your vegetable ink,’ they said. ‘Use it wisely, because that’s all I have left until I find a new supplier. The Etsy vendor I got it from has disappeared – not a trace of them anyway. But the ink’s solid. Well, liquid, but you know what I mean.’