Page 82 of 10 Things I Hate About Zombies

‘And still better than Jessica,’ muttered Larissa. ‘She was a doozy, wasn’t she. We warned you, but there are some mistakes you just have to make yourself.’

Nick wanted to snap that there was a reason that no one in the family had met any of Larissa’s partners: there hadn’t been any. Because no one could live up to Larissa’s standards. But now was not the time. He had to get Zoey home and looked after.

‘Speaking of mistakes,’ added Larissa. ‘Is that a new tattoo?’

She jabbed at Nick’s wrist, where the vegetable-ink tattoo from InkWell peeked out from under the cuff of his flannel shirt.

‘One of six,’ said Nick, deadpan. ‘Unfortunately they misspelled the one on my stomach, but I’ll just get a bigger one to cover it up.’

Larissa visibly recoiled. Cleo hid a grin behind her glass, which was somehow still full – she was supremely skilled at maintaining a full glass at all times.

Next to him, Zoey made a sputtering noise.

‘We’ll catch up tomorrow,’ he promised hastily. ‘We’ll do brunch at Jam.’

Nick wrapped an arm around Zoey’s waist and guided her down the B&B’s steps and towards his truck, which was parked beneath an enormous oak tree with tiny hand-painted doors set into its roots. A toy horse was chained to a rusted ring by the kerb, because why not?

Alice padded along behind them, which was odd for her – usually she walked with her nose jammed right against Zoey’s ankle. Zoey was always giggling about it.

‘Hop up, girl.’ Nick patted the truck’s bench seat. Alice loved riding between the two of them, tail wagging and ears twitching as she turned her nose to each of the open windows in turn. But tonight, as before, she whined, her ears pinned back like the first and only time Nick had attempted to dress her up for Halloween.

‘It’s okay, Alice,’ he said, coaxing her up onto her seat. In the end he had to lift her – she wasn’t having it.

Then he had to do the same with poor Zoey as well. He’d never seen her in such a state. Even when they’d enjoyed a few too many rum-infused smoothies that first night out together, she’d remained in control.

Heading back to Zoey’s place seemed like the smart decision: it was only a few minutes away, as opposed to his place, which was a solid forty-five minutes without traffic. He drove slowly, although he had no choice really, because a bunch of clowns (literal clowns) on skateboards were weaving back and forth ahead of him. Each was playing a different brass instrument.

He crawled down Zoey’s street, noting that the collection of scooters that Zoey had been monitoring had grown. The cat-mayor campaign, for which voting had now closed, but the winner of which hadn’t yet been announced, was similarly well represented. Placards for various kitties and their political platforms bristled from just about every house – except the one that was proudly promoting a ferret as a write-in candidate instead. As much as he was a Romero supporter, Nick secretly hoped the ferret won. A vote for a ferret was a vote for chaos, and chaos in a residential neighbourhood was always fun.

Zoey’s house was quiet: only the blinking light in the kitchen was on, as evidenced from the strobing through the front window. And the ghost-shaped string lights in Ainsley’s room, if those counted.

Thankfully, before he’d disappeared, Winslow had made good on his promise to replace the lock with a smart keypad, which meant they could at least avoid fiddling with keys. Even better, Winslow had left the lock on its default code setting, so a quick 1, 2, 3, 4 later and they were in. Well, Nick and Zoey were. Alice sat outside on the porch, huddled between the dozens of planters and brightly painted sculptures. She whined mournfully, the way she had a few years back during a road trip where they’d toured a famously haunted house.

It took a chunk of jerky from one of Peta’s stashes to get her inside. Even then, she sat with her back to the front door, and her doggie eyebrows had a lot to say.

He patted her soft head. ‘Let me get Zoey sorted out, and then I’ll come and check on you, girl.’

Zoey was standing in the hallway with the weirdly staggered pose of the guy at the end of The Blair Witch Project, and Nick feared that something was actually, seriously wrong. That Reba had been right.

But if so, what then? Should they go to urgent care? The ER? That holistic-medicine girl with the post-nasal drip who was always handing out business cards claiming to cure cancer via resonant frequencies?

But any of that would involve getting poor Zoey back in the truck, and she didn’t seem up for another ride. No, for now he’d try to get her comfortable in her room. Perhaps rustle up something hearty and warm.

Hearty, he thought, or … brainy?

The things he was willing to do for love.

‘C’mon, Zo.’ He put a hand to the small of Zoey’s back and guided her towards her bedroom, smiling at the Frog and Toad banner that matched his new tattoo.

She moved slowly, as though through the quicksand she’d admitted to being terrified of as a kid. The hardwoods creaked beneath her unlaced boots, and the house crackled like gristle over bone as it settled. Nick had the faint sense that he was walking into a horror movie. But how could that be, in a house as cosy as this one? How could anything scary ever happen when you were surrounded by fuzzy throw pillows and freshly cut flowers and the work-in-progress sunflower stained-glass window that was being assembled in the living room?

Zoey had stepped over the threshold into her room now. It was dark in there, and Nick had to scrabble around for the switch that toggled her complicated nest of string lights and lamps. (Zoey remained hostile to the concept of the ‘big light’.)

As the room lit up, she hid her eyes, groaning.

‘Sorry, babe.’ Nick hit the dimmer. ‘Here, let’s get you tucked in so that you can rest up. I’ll grab some medicine and snacks to tide you over. Maybe even one of your smoothies, since they do cure everything.’

He tried to keep his tone light, but the trepidation was real.