Page 48 of 10 Things I Hate About Zombies

An ellipsis appeared as he typed.

I went over to drop off the money to the tow-truck guy, and apparently he was attacked last night. We’re talking bite marks.

Bite marks? Zoey texted back.

His wife said he came home mumbling about brains and then disappeared again.

All right. So something very odd was going on. Something that made all the joking about zombie apocalypses seem less … jokey.

But before Zoey could properly consider what this meant, a police officer strode in, wearing hot-pink glasses that Zoey suspected weren’t to uniform standard. Was she trying to be one of the people? Because most of said people had left the minute they’d seen her approaching. Someone in a blow-up frog costume hovered on the corner, a walkie-talkie handy.

Zoey grimaced. ‘Hi. This isn’t about the cat-mayor thing, is it?’

‘It’s not. And I’ve already voted. For Mean George.’ The cop’s voice was musical, as though she secretly performed as a soprano in a community choir on her days off.

Of course. Romero’s Cat Nip position was divisive among law-enforcement types.

She tried to think why else the cop might be here. Perhaps she’d found Romero? But coming in personally to let Zoey know didn’t seem like an efficient use of taxpayer resources.

The cop leaned forward, putting her elbows on Zoey’s counter. Great, now she’d have to clean it. ‘We’ve been having a minor issue with a … biting epidemic.’

‘Biting?’ Zoey repeated, glancing down at her phone, which buzzed each time Nick added a new thought about the tow- truck guy’s assault and disappearance.

For some reason, Nova’s blindingly white, oversized veneers popped into her mind. Where was Nova? Zoey hadn’t seen her in weeks. Nor Nestor, come to think of it. And June had been coming in with Nate the Hater instead of Darina the Handstander.

‘That’s right,’ said the cop. ‘Biting. We’re not sure what’s at the root of it. It’s most likely some sort of viral challenge thing. Like when all the kids were eating Tide Pods. Now everyone’s running around biting each other.’

‘Even the vegans?’ asked Zoey, trying to imagine tiny Darina doing such a thing.

‘Even the vegans. Although with less gusto.’ The cop fiddled with a striped paper straw, which Zoey was now going to have to replace. ‘Look, it’s a problem. Whatever it is, something’s going around, and the kids aren’t all right. The kids, and also the clean-eating, exercise-loving healthy types. Which is why I’m here.’

‘Because smoothies are healthy?’ suggested Zoey, who didn’t quite follow.

The cop leaned forward conspiratorially. ‘Look. We’ve triangulated the first biting incident to this area. We’re talking a few weeks back, on a Monday. We had a few reports about a rabid cat the night before, but we’re not sure those are related.’

‘Was it a black cat?’ asked Zoey. Perhaps the cop was here about Romero, even if just incidentally.

The cop nodded. ‘A vicious one, from the description. Look, we just want you to be safe, ma’am. To keep an eye out for any biting behaviour, and let us know if it happens. See it, say it, you know? Oh, and maybe increase your liability insurance while you’re at it. Bite wounds can cost a pretty penny. Although I should probably say a pretty nickel, since they’ve stopped printing pennies. Did you hear about that?’

Zoey nodded. ‘Uh-huh. And yep, got it.’

Now the cop was fiddling with the napkins, each of which Zoey had painstakingly hand-stamped, and which now weren’t sanitary. ‘While I’m here, can I get a Rain Parade?’

Zoey blended up the smoothie, which was a blend of pomegranate, black plums, Earl Grey tea and black charcoal, and came out looking the exact colour of the Pacific Northwest skies any day of the year that wasn’t summer.

‘Can I ask how far this biting problem extends?’ asked Zoey, pushing the smoothie across the counter.

The cop shrugged. ‘It’s hard to tell. Biting is a spectrum, you know? Kids do it. Boxers do it. Lovers do it. But we’ve had reports citywide. Across the river, too. Not my jurisdiction, though.’

The cop jammed two straws into the smoothie, slurping heartily.

‘Wow. I can see why people are going around biting each other. They’re probably hungry, sipping on this stuff all day.’

Don’t smack her in the face, Zoey. That’s a felony.

‘We sell protein bars, too,’ she managed instead.

The cop grabbed a carob bar and headed off next door to inform the zine-shop owners that they shouldn’t get too close to anyone with a toothy smile. Chewing on the inside of her cheek, Zoey watched her go. Something odd was going on. Something more than just biting. Because it didn’t end with the biting, did it? It ended with people shuffling around the streets muttering about brains. And then, presumably, with more biting.