Page 6 of 10 Things I Hate About Zombies

Zoey hefted the mushroomy blend in the Vitamix jug, regarding it with something approaching awe. It was an astonishingly lurid colour. The sort of dayglo green you associated with Lamborghinis or Mike Wazowski from Monsters, Inc. And it had an interesting scent to it: sort of like overripe apples. She dipped a finger into the blender, considering the consistency of the mix.

But before she could taste the mixture, her roommate Joaquin flounced into the house holding a bouquet of black roses and a giant black helium balloon that had originally said With Sympathy, but which had been patched with a piece of paper that read Inkstigators, which was the name of Joaquin’s new tattoo parlour. There’d been a soft opening last night that Zoey had politely attended for a solid fifteen minutes before excusing herself to come home and finish reading the Wodehouse collection she was currently obsessed with. Apparently the event had been quite a hit. If Portland were a calling-the-police kind of town, the police definitely would have been called. Instead, a few people with regular nine-to-five jobs had shaken their heads sternly as they’d watered their lawns using low-flow hoses.

‘It’s temporary tattoo time!’ Joaquin cried in the manner of a game-show host. Joaquin was a remarkably effusive individual, a personality trait that was reflected in their tattoos, which were extraordinarily bright and vivid – although Joaquin, who though effusive was also humble, claimed that was mostly to do with the special vegan ink they’d procured from a supplier in Brazil. And a little bit due to technique, of course.

‘You get a temporary tattoo. You get a temporary tattoo,’ they added, as Ainsley stepped through the door clutching some booze and chocolate in the Kiki-Bouba reusable tote bag she’d had since college. ‘Everyone gets a temporary tattoo!’

‘Not me,’ called Winslow, who was busy dispatching bad guys in Call of Duty. Zoey could count on one hand the number of times that Winslow had left his room since he’d moved in – it almost felt unfair that he was paying a fifth of the rent given that he seemed not to use either the kitchen or the bathroom. Ainsley disagreed, arguing that the presence of pee bottles in Winslow’s bedroom meant that he should be paying more, not less.

‘We had a ton left over from the launch,’ explained Joaquin, spreading out the temporary tattoos over the speckled kitchen counter. They grabbed the sponge from the sink and doused it under the tap. ‘Who’s up first?’

‘Me, but just because some cool water on my skin sounds amazing right now.’ Ainsley stuck out her wrist, flapping the loose fabric of her floral sundress, which she’d somehow managed not to catch in the spokes of the bike she’d chained up out front.

‘Into the living room. The light’s better.’ Joaquin and Ainsley flopped down on the striped Seventies couch that Ainsley and Zoey had rescued from the street a few months back. The streets of Portland were filled with astonishing kerbside gems – you just had to get to them before someone with a truck did. Or the rain.

Joaquin placed one of the tattoo papers down on Ainsley’s wrist, dabbing the sponge at it until the image transferred. Ink Saves, it read, with a hand pointing upwards like something out of a Renaissance-era painting, had said painting been fashioned by a hipster.

‘Cute,’ said Ainsley, waving her wrist at Zoey.

Zoey shook her head: she wanted to finish writing down her smoothie recipe before it slipped her mind.

‘They’re long-lasting,’ sang Joaquin, waggling the sponge. Then, affecting a tone straight out of a Twilight Zone episode, intoned, ‘C’mon, Zoey: join us.’

‘Join us,’ repeated Ainsley, in the same tone. She pulled a bottle of terrible wine from her bag, tilting it so that the gold on the label gleamed tackily. In her normal voice, she added, ‘I’ll pour you one of these. If the price is any indicator, this particular wine was stomped by angry Spanish grandmothers from the worst grape harvest in a hundred years.’

‘Wow, how can a girl say no to that?’ asked Zoey drily.

‘Besides, you owe me after absconding last night,’ pointed out Joaquin. ‘Don’t think I didn’t notice.’

Sighing, Zoey gestured for Joaquin to pass her the sponge. ‘All right, all right. But I can do my own.’

Soon enough, all three of them had matching temporary tattoos, and the photographic evidence of this was making its way across the internet.

‘Gotta get the word out,’ said Joaquin, deftly typing in hashtags.

‘So, tell me about this mushroom guy.’ Ainsley gave the screw top a quick twist and chugged before holding out the bottle to Zoey.

Zoey grimaced, then again as Ainsley wiped off the bottle with her skirt. ‘Even the worst grape harvest in history deserves better treatment than that. Think of the grandmothers. I’ll grab some glasses.’

But in the kitchen, disaster awaited.

Romero, whose main goal in life was seeking out snacks from every house he visited, was lapping merrily from the toppled pitcher of mushroom smoothie.

‘Dammit, Romero,’ Zoey muttered.

The black cat looked up at her with unapologetic eyes as she grabbed the pitcher. His thick fur was coated in garish green, and his whiskers were thick with the stuff. He resembled Zoey’s Christmas tree, with its thick faux snow that managed to dust the entire floor in carcinogenic white fuzz by the time the holidays were over.

‘Are you even meant to eat mushrooms?’ She crouched down with a dish towel, trying to wipe the worst of the goo from his fur. ‘Ains, can you google cats and mushrooms?’

‘On it,’ called Ainsley. ‘Ugh, it’s all AI slop pictures of mushroom cats. Okay. Normal mushrooms should be okay in small doses, but not, like, poisonous toadstools. You didn’t put poisonous toadstools in your smoothie, did you?’

‘I’ve lost the urge since breaking up with Kit,’ said Zoey. She frowned, wondering whether weird orange mushrooms would be all right for a cat to eat. He’d presumably only had a small amount of the smoothie, and she’d only added a touch of the mushrooms anyway – her ingredient rule was always to start small and work your way up. Unless you were dealing with coconut or pineapple, in which case the limit did not exist.

Romero licked his lips, then with a furious meow galloped out of the kitchen and the living room, where he squeezed under the couch, unleashing a flurry of furious moans and groans. (He was renowned for these and had once been tapped by a Foley artist to provide noises for a rabid raccoon in a local short film.)

Joaquin knelt, peeking under the couch to check that Romero wasn’t dying a mushroom-assisted death. Romero lashed out a vicious little paw in their direction.

‘Feisty,’ said Joaquin, who’d jumped back just in time.