Page 21 of 10 Things I Hate About Zombies

Which was why it was so strange to Nick that Zoey had so vociferously protested his efforts to help with her fridge. He had the truck, and he was willing to help. It was as simple as that.

But apparently it hadn’t been. Zoey had been absolutely ready to wheel the refrigerator down to her shop on a couple of taped-together skateboards. Baffling.

It wasn’t that he didn’t love an independent woman. Zoey was smart, funny, driven, and successful. And gorgeous, although that was not germane to his current train of thought. But he found it mystifying that someone would try to do it all on their own, by choice.

As he pulled up the farm’s driveway, his phone dinged with an urgent calendar reminder.

Ugh, that was right. Darina was coming by tomorrow morning to discuss tax breaks and programs for small businesses. She’d been a bit disappointed when he’d said that mushrooms were his thing and not weed, because apparently that was the focus of most of the programs.

But she’d heartened when she’d found something of interest on the property that apparently unlocked some sort of additional funding or tax incentives. She’d been coy about what exactly that was – something about easements or improvements – but had suggested she come by to show him precisely how he might benefit.

Darina had also been very adamant about her punctuality. Small people were often punctual, he’d noticed over the years. Perhaps because it was easy for them to get lost in crowds otherwise: it was better to arrive early and get a good seat than have to jump for visibility through a thronging pack of people. Nick, at six foot two, had always tried to move to the back of any venue so that shorter people could get a decent view. It was just part of being a good neighbour.

As such, Nick was up bright and early the next morning, never mind that he’d spent a solid hour staring at the ceiling reliving his evening out with Zoey. Although mostly he’d relived the moment where he’d almost kissed her. What if he had? What would Gwyneth Paltrow have done? (Both of his sisters loved Sliding Doors and would reference it whenever they were weighing a major life decision.)

Nick raced through his morning chores so that he’d have time to show Darina around. But apparently to no avail. For in spite of Darina’s exhortations about punctuality and the calendar invite she’d sent via both Google and iCal, Nick’s driveway was empty save for his truck.

Perhaps he should’ve treated this meeting like a visit from a tradesperson and assumed that Darina might arrive anywhere between 8 a.m. and 5 p.m. within a one-week window. Oh well. He had time to check on the greenhouse.

The white heads of the mushrooms on their racks greeted him as he went inside. The earthy scent of the place wrapped around him, grounding him in the way that he loved. How could you not adore mushrooms? Talk about community. People could learn a lot from them.

He set to work sweeping and checking for signs of pests, then sprayed the compost on each of the shelves to keep it moist – which the mushrooms loved. He was so lost in his work that he didn’t hear the commotion outside until Alice’s ears started twitching.

Pulling off his gloves, he went outside, trying to listen for what had caught Alice’s attention. There it was: an engine, but not one of the lifted trucks driven by lunatic teenage boys around the windy backroads that turned to slip ’n’ slides when the endless rains hit come October. More like a two-stroke engine. Or not even that. Whatever it was, it was in trouble. And possibly in the embankment just off the driveway, the spot where the wildflowers exploded in summer and families of stray cats multiplied. Pumpkins, too, the result of his neighbours up the street tossing their food scraps into the ditch.

Alice by his side, Nick hurried down the unsealed driveway, preparing to act as a human jaws of life.

A tiny Smart car had trundled off the road, landing at an awkward angle in the drainage ditch. Darina was wedged inside, dressed in some sort of tutu-like outfit that had fluffed up all around her. Well, in the bits where the airbag hadn’t.

Nick wrenched the door open. ‘Darina?’

Shoving the airbag aside, the tiny, glittery woman blinked up at him with bloodshot eyes. Ah, so Zoey’s mushroom smoothies weren’t the only thing she’d been imbibing on Belmont. Although a container of said smoothie had exploded all over the passenger seat, coating it in green froth.

‘You’ve been at The Smoothie Maven, huh?’ He said it gently, trying to assess whether she was injured or just shaken. Had she suffered a bump to the head? Was anything broken?

Darina blinked again, and Nick faltered. A concussion was seeming likely.

Finally, Darina reached out a bangle-clad arm. Nick took it gently, helping her out of the car and up the flower-studded embankment. She managed to drag her handbag and a package of documents out as well, doing so with an impressively guttural grunt. The documents were drenched dayglo green with smoothie goo.

Alice retreated, her lip curled slightly. Odd. Alice loved everyone, and she’d met Darina before, at the farmers’ market.

‘Are you all right to walk?’ Nick asked Darina, cautiously.

Blinking, Darina scooped smoothie goo off the folder and jammed it into her mouth, sucking her long, glittery fingernails clean.

Nick did his very best not to recoil. Was this how Darina ordinarily comported herself at work? Had she been raised by wolves? Or just hippies? Should he say anything, or would that affect his tax break, or grant, or whatever she’d been about to offer him?

Unstable on her giant platform heels, Darina stumbled down the driveway, possibly high, or possibly concussed – Nick couldn’t tell which. He walked alongside her, trying to halve his steps so that their strides matched. He felt like a racehorse with a slightly demented miniature pony buddy.

Was it safe to redirect someone who might have a head injury? Should you engage them in conversation, or just hope that their brain miraculously healed before they started spontaneously speaking French or claimed to be living a past life? He did know that you weren’t meant to let someone with a concussion sleep, but that was about as far as his knowledge extended.

Perhaps Darina just had to shake off the accident funk, and then she’d be all right. Maybe this was a pride thing, like the way Zoey had refused his fridge-moving assistance.

‘So, thanks for coming down,’ Nick began, hoping to set Darina at ease and let her know that he wasn’t about to report her for a single incident of stoned ditch driving.

Darina made a gurgling noise not unlike the dismissive greetings offered by the baristas at Nick’s favourite Portland coffee shop, Chem Lab, which sat on the riverfront in a repurposed automotive garage. Following behind them, Alice whined softly.

‘Nice day for a quick survey, huh?’ he went on, uncomfortably. Maybe it wasn’t a concussion. Maybe Darina was mad at him for some unfathomable reason, and was giving him the silent treatment. Oh shit, the silent treatment! It was the perfect weapon for making someone else natter on like a fool. His sister Larissa was a master of the silent treatment. She’d used it to coerce her tenth-grade math teacher into revealing the end-of-year exam answers, and to make her first boss admit that they’d illegally started her at a rate lower than the guys doing the same work. No wonder she was such a sought-after employment-law attorney.