Page 2 of 10 Things I Hate About Zombies

Zoey shook herself off, trying to blink the spots from her vision.

‘Sorry, stood up too fast,’ she murmured.

‘Here, I’ve got you.’ The guy passed her a Yeti Thermos. She sipped, surprised to find it filled with some sort of chilled herbal tea and not the Pabst Blue Ribbon she’d half been expecting. ‘I’m Nick, your local friendly mushroom farmer guy. And I see you’ve met my assistant. She’s the brains of the operation. And the good looks.’

‘Ah, the boss babe.’ Zoey patted Alice, who hadn’t moved an inch. ‘Does she have legs?’

‘Not when she’s in seal mode. Only when it’s three a.m. and she wakes me up needing to pee.’

‘Well, three a.m.’s the perfect leg-stretching time of day,’ said Zoey.

‘An early bird, huh?’

Always. Mostly because the world was less peopled then. And also because that was when her roommate Winslow was most likely to be shouting at his computer screen. She set down the Thermos. ‘Something like that. So tell me about these mushrooms.’

Nick tapped one of the paper bags. ‘I bought a little farm outside Mill Plain recently. It backs onto the forest, so there’s no shortage of fungi. And believe me, it takes one to know one.’

Ah. A fun guy. Handsome and goofy, and with a cute dog. If he were intelligent as well, Zoey, despite all her big words about never falling in love again, was doomed.

Wait, was that a ratty paperback sitting over there on the camp chair behind the table? Was he a reader? Did he have a Powell’s loyalty card?

‘Isn’t this the honey guy’s spot?’ she managed. Oh good, and she’d managed it in a tone that sounded like she was accusing him of murdering said honey guy.

Zoey Kaban, queen of small talk.

‘Right, Evan. He’s upgraded to store distribution instead. Hung up his tent and called it a day.’

‘Fair. It has to be a seriously good pop-up if I’m going to wrestle with a tent.’

Now it was mushroom guy’s turn to be curious. Those luminous dark eyes regarded her. ‘You’re a vendor?’

‘Sort of. I have a smoothie shop on Southeast Belmont, on the corner near the retro arcade and the zine shop. Opposite the coworking space with the rock-climbing wall.’

‘Near Laurelhurst Park, right? I take this good girl there sometimes.’ He gave Alice a gentle nudge with his toe. ‘Don’t let her sloth-like attitude fool you. She loves any excuse to chase a squirrel. She made it halfway up a tree once. Until she got scared off by some guy playing the bagpipes. Naked.’

‘That will do it.’ Zoey had encountered the bagpipes guy several times at the shop. He’d precipitated the pants mandatory sign in the window (a policy she only relaxed during the city’s annual Naked Bike Ride, when pants were in short supply citywide).

‘So, what’s your poison?’ Nick gestured at the display of mushrooms. ‘The morels are always a hit. And the chanterelles. The cauliflower one might be great for texture or a garnish.’

Zoey had zeroed in on a weird orange-looking variety she’d never seen before. ‘What about that one?’

‘That’s … a cordyceps.’

Zoey had heard that name before: it was from that post-apocalyptic computer-game-turned-TV-show. Her roommate Winslow was obsessed. ‘The Last of Us one?’

Nick chuckled. ‘I mean, sure, but no. It’s been used widely in herbal medicine for centuries. The gym bros are heavily into it at the moment. And the yoga set as well.’

‘Cross-sectional appeal,’ said Zoey thoughtfully. And with the early-adopter groups specifically. ‘I’ll try some.’

Nick hesitated. ‘I mean, sure. I just have this with me, but I can probably rustle up some more if you like it. It has kind of a limited distribution.’

Zoey unfolded the top of the brown paper bag he’d passed her, peeping inside. The mushrooms resembled the forgotten baby carrots she’d once found at the bottom of her crisper drawer, all shrivelled and skinny, like depressed French fries.

‘Dirt’s hard to find out here, huh?’ She raised a teasing eyebrow.

‘These guys are particular about their dirt.’ Nick’s dark eyes danced as he reached forward to point out the features of the weird Cheeto-lookalike mushrooms in the bag. He was leaning over her in a way that was technically breaking some personal space norms … but for some reason Zoey’s innate prickliness was failing to present itself.

Fuck it, her inner cactus was saying: with those strong features and thick-lashed eyes, he could tower all he wanted. Not to mention that he smelled good for someone who spent his mornings digging around for mushrooms and his afternoon selling said mushrooms at a farmers’ market. Like pine needles and sunscreen and fresh sweat.