The sun is hot and the air cool. June is weird in Cascadia. I’m walking down the street, my pace agitated. I’m looking for a zombie.

They’re easy to find, mostly. They don’t wear many markers of their infection, not for many years without treatment, but you can usually spot them. The disease tends to infect the poor. I’m an opportunist: any zombie will do, but specifically, I’m looking for a homeless person.

There are tons in this city. Mild weather, confused local politics and a general “you leave me be and I will you” regard for others invites them. I’m assimilated, so I mostly ignore them if they ignore me. If they ask me for money I pull some clump of minor denomination out of my pocket and stuff it into their hands “leave me alone.” If I don’t I apologize, as if I’ve done something wrong by not providing them a momentary salve for their long term problems. Often enough it’s that momentary salve that turns them. Hell being homeless is what got me hunting zombies.

At the homeless encampment behind the bowling alley: I’m outta luck. Nobody’s home. Nobody’s homeless? Nobody’s in the tents. They’re out for the day, probably avoiding the heat building up under those tarps.

I keep looking though. It’s Sunday evening and traffic is light. I jaywalk to the pot shop to shop for a jay. The budtender convinces me to get three. Since I’m unconvinced of the chances of succeeding in my mission I accept the suggestion.

On my way out I finally find the zombie I’ve been looking for: she’s sitting on the corner of the dispensary parking lot exit, holding up a piece of cardboard with her right hand that says “SMILE.” In her left hand is a smoldering cigarette. It’s an obvious sign.

She’s a zombie.

I walk up to her and pull out my wallet and ask if I could get a cigarette from her. She looks at me and then explains she left them at her tent, gesturing to the alleyway behind the bowling alley. I give her two dollars and wish her good luck.

She offers me the cigarette.

I want it so bad but I can’t. I can only take a fresh one. I explain “ah I’m worried about you know catching sick,” in a hand wavy way.

I cross the street back and continue on my way, spotting no one else with my medicine. I take this walk everyday hoping not to be recognized for what I am and hoping to find a spare cig. I am a zombie.

Watch me quit cigarettes.
What comes next?
Fresh breath? Anxiety eased?
Rather binging on sugar and shopping,
A quotidian pint, endless social scrolling,
And in the briefest lonesome moments a most overwhelming lust.
Is the evil I know better
Than the nature it hides?