Shrooms: Garden Variety Zombies Book 1

By Zola Joyce

Hazel always had doubts about the protective abilities of the government. Particularly Child Protective Services and the cranky old lady who’d been doing her best to separate Hazel from her one and only parental unit. Why couldn’t Mrs. Stenopoulos see the value of independent living, and Hazel’s knack for it from the youngest of ages?

1.She was second in command of her mother’s slightly illegal but very profitable enterprise.
2.She’d taught herself to drive a full four years before she was eligible to get a license.
3.She’d rescued her beloved hound from the ‘Clinical Trial’ her mother’s boyfriend of the month had recently concocted.
4.And just a few weeks after her 15th birthday, she’d secured a full ride scholarship to the local university. Early entrance.

Hazel was a caretaker, a dog lover, and a crack shot. Ask anyone in town.
If fate were to match her up against this year’s homecoming queen, who do you suppose would survive the zombie apocalypse?

Who’s going to like this book?
-Dog Lovers?
-Politician haters?
-Not too serious students of human nature?
All of the above. Oh yeah, and zombie fans, too.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Zola Joyce
• Release date: Sep 27, 2023
• ISBN: 9798215693629

Zola Joyce

Zola Joyce writes both modern-day romantic comedies and action-packed historical westerns. All her stories guarantee lots of action, a heroine and hero with a backbone, and a happy ending!In past lives, she's studied in Brazil, taught ESL in Budapest, and dabbled in hazmat cleanup. She currently develops software in the great state of Texas, with an amazing husband and two wonderful kids.

Book preview

Shrooms

Garden Variety Zombies: Book One

By

ZOLA JOYCE

Cover Illustration and Design by Nicolás Uribe

Copyright © 2023 Zola Joyce

All rights reserved.

First Published October 2023

Dedication

Eternal thanks to my husband, for his unwavering support and infinite patience, as I navigated through the uncharted territory of this book. I love you always!

Special Thanks

Thank you, Nicolás, for the encouragement, and most generous offer to lend your amazing talent to the cover of my humble book.

Many thanks to Angela (at Splash of Creativity), the amazingly talented illustrator who brought my zombie comics to life on social media. I couldn’t have done it without you.

And last but not least, my amazing editors, Aré, Alex, Michelle, and Erin. Your time and feedback have been invaluable. Thank you!

Contents

1 | My Life Underground

2 | Would you Trade me a Cookie for that?

3 | Knock-knock-knocking on Hazel’s Door

4 | Sick at the QuickieStick?

5 | A Hot Prospect for the Librarian

6 | Shady Old Lady

7 | Ladies and Gentlemen, I’m in Fear for my Life

8 | Maybe you should Leave the Shotgun?

9 | Twelve Minutes into the Apocalypse

10 | Escape from the Crying Closet

11 | Bowling for Zombies

12 | A Low Score

13 | The Cure is Confidential

14 | Hand me that Horse Tranquilizer

15 | Triggers and Itchy Fingers

16 | I’m with the Band

17 | Running Naked through the Corn Field

18 | The Pharma Rep

19 | My Last Final Exam, Ever

20 | Dog versus Man

21 | The Yapper Napper or Bust

22 | Two Teenagers and a Basset Hound

23 | Bite, Professor?

24 | Friends in Low Places

Other Books by this Author

Q&A with Zola Joyce

1 | My Life Underground

The short and skinny fifteen-year-old glanced up at the flashing red light, silently pulsing to the beat of Spirits in the Sky. That tune meant Uncle Bill was calling. She smiled at the memory of tinkering countless weekends, perfecting their early warning system. Her uncle had set it up when she was only eight, and she’d quietly sat at his feet for days watching and learning. The lights flashed red when the phone rang and yellow for the front door. It had been pretty cutting edge at the time to program a specific song to each caller.

The girl gave the screw one last turn and flipped the switch on the grow light.

One down, six to go, she muttered to the empty basement, before picking up the receiver of the harvest gold landline.

Hey Uncle Bill, she answered, pulling off her safety goggles and running two dirty hands through the tangles down the back of her neck.

Hazel, honey, where’s that mother of yours gotten to?

I’m not exactly sure, she replied, stretching the kinks out of her back. We haven’t crossed paths in a few days. Honestly, I’ve been studying all hours for my finals, so I’m not surprised I haven’t seen her. I’m down in the lab now catching up on some work.

I keep telling you to stay away from your mother’s business. It’s illegal. If the university finds out, it could jeopardize your scholarship.

Not to worry, favorite uncle. The assistant provost is a regular customer.

I heard he’s retiring next year, he replied. Have you given any more thought to moving in with me? Your cousin’s living in the dorms, so you could take his room.

She and Uncle Bill had discussed this a million times before, and gotten nowhere. Alice needed looking after, and Hazel couldn’t do that from her uncle’s place.

Have you tried calling her at work? It’s only Tuesday, and she’s usually sober on a Tuesday.

There’s no answer on her cell. And the switchboard isn’t picking up either, which is odd.

It rained pretty hard last night. Sometimes the landlines act up when they get wet. What do you need to talk to her about?

Child Protective Services just called me, complaining your mother hasn’t been keeping up with her monthly check ins. They haven’t been able to reach her for weeks, so they tried her backup. Which is me. I did my best to buy your mother some time, but I don’t think my excuses fooled anyone. Mrs. Stenopoulos is on her way over for a surprise inspection. I figure you’ve got ten minutes.

Shit, she mumbled under her breath, knowing her uncle didn’t approve of cursing. I gotta get ready, she said in a louder voice. Send Alice over if you hear from her. It’s always better when my token parental unit is present.

She slammed the receiver in its cradle and scuttled up the ladder, giving the heavy floor hatch a good shove until it crashed on the oak floors. She tripped climbing out and bruised her knee.

She went over to her mother’s king size waterbed, and did a snow angel onto the rumpled sheets.

Grabbing the phone off the side table, she dialed Alice’s cell, but it went straight to voicemail.

It’s me. The old lady is on her way over to inspect the place, ‘cause you haven’t been checking in with CPS like you promised. The judge is going to be pissed. You need to get home right away.

She hung up, wondering what Alice’s excuse would be this time? Her battery died? Her cell was lost on the job, dropped in the lake, traded for drugs? Hazel had heard all these and then some. Most had even been true at one time or another.

She sighed and climbed off the bed, setting off a series of rolling whitecaps. She slammed the floor hatch closed and tossed a rug over the secret opening. Then she headed toward the back bedroom, where she’d hung her cross-stitch checklist. On the front was Psalm 27, Granny’s favorite:

The Lord is my light and my salvation; whom shall I fear? The Lord is the strength of my life; of whom shall I be afraid? When the wicked, even mine enemies and my foes, came upon me to eat up my flesh, they stumbled and fell. Though a host should encamp against me, my heart shall not fear: though war should rise against me, in this will I be confident.

It had become Hazel’s favorite as well. Mostly because she had adored her one and only grandparent; but it was also the only psalm she’d known in the second grade, when she and Granny had stitched it together. Hazel’s stepfather had not been overly fond of attending services and her mother didn’t much care for the female half of the population, which dominated their local congregation. So, Granny simply put herself in charge of Hazel’s immortal soul, and quickly determined that Psalm 27 taught the child everything she’d ever need to know about human nature.

Then shortly after her tenth birthday, Hazel had gotten a chocolate birthday cake and orders to memorize every psalm. That was the year her mother got religion. Or rather, had gotten the notion that Hazel was in desperate need of it.

Granny had passed the winter before, so Hazel had been unprotected the year a slightly handsome and mildly charming Bible salesman made his way across their broken-up front porch one sultry Texas afternoon. With a melting smile, he’d offered to leave her mother a copy on credit.

Ma’am, it just don’t seem right that a fine lady such as yourself should find herself without a proper family Bible. This quality publication was hand-bound with genuine leather. You won’t find better anywhere; you mark my words.

Alice had shifted her best side forward and smiled. I suppose it’s only fitting that my daughter should have her own copy. But it’s the end of the month, you understand--

For you, ma’am, it’s payable in weekly installments. With a token deposit today, I could come by next week, at your convenience.

The man had used Hazel as an excuse for his generosity, patting her page boy mop of curls with the distant affection of a relative at a twenty-year family reunion, while his avid gaze lingered on her mother’s bosom. Even at the fresh new age of ten, Hazel had recognized an excuse when she heard one.

Mister, my stepdaddy is the proud owner of a beloved twelve-gauge shotgun. He is a shrewd man, a fine shot, and overly fond of my mother. Now, you being something near to a man of the cloth, he might hesitate, he might not. Who can truly say which way the Good Lord will lead him? But if it were me, I’d show up next week with the sole intent of getting paid in full, and not to try and finagle a date out of my mother. In place of any balance due.

The man had snatched his hand back, whether from Hazel’s words or the look in her eyes, she was never sure. He pulled out a spotless handkerchief and blotted the perspiration from his temples, dislodging his combover to reveal that telltale patch of impending baldness.

Well, I never intended to—

Her mother had blessed the man with a huge smile and a wink through professionally dyed lashes, all while holding her new and about-to-be-free Bible to her fantastic bosoms.

Isn’t she precocious? she’d cooed, shoving Hazel into the house as the screen door slammed shut. You can feel proud you came just in time, she said through the tattered webbing. She’s young yet, and a few afternoons spent with the Old Testament should do her a world of good. We can’t thank you enough, sir.

Her mother shut and locked the front door, before twirling around in a too snug floral gaberdine number she had made herself.

Young lady, she began, arms crossed and three-inch black pumps tapping. What do you have to say for yourself? I certainly never taught you such poor manners, and to a guest in our home.

He wasn’t a guest, ‘cause he wasn’t invited. He got past the dog ‘cause you tied Bruno up. And then he used an excuse of selling a Bible to stare at your—

When her mother laughed and patted her curls, Hazel stomped her foot. That idiot was about to tell a bald-faced lie with his hand on a full stack of shrink-wrapped Bibles. Isn’t there something in that book about not lying?

Her mother’s unlined face pulled a small frown. There most definitely is. And it seems I’ve neglected your upbringing if you have to ask.

Hazel placed both hands behind her back, not liking the look in her mother’s eyes.

Here, she said, handing the good book over to her daughter. Read ten pages a day. To match your age.

Why am I being punished? What about that salesman?

Her mother’s left eyebrow rose to new heights. On better thought, you should memorize a psalm a day. After you’ve read your ten pages.

What if I have questions? Hazel had asked in a sulky voice.

You can ask Reverend Johnson.

To save them both from the consequences of that lie, she had never admitted any questions or doubts to her mother. She did read the Old Testament, though, cover to cover, and in the years since, she took her questions to the Rabbi at the university whenever he held office hours. She got a fine debating partner with the Rabbi, and no guilt.

Hazel shook off the memory, and flipped the cross stitch over, making a mental note to rehang the frame as tiny flakes of drywall skittered across the floor.

She trailed one ragged cuticle down the checklist. She had made it for her mother in the third grade, with express instructions to follow it, in the event a surprise visit from Child Protective Services was announced while Hazel was at school.

She decided to tackle item number two first, and headed for the bathroom.

She dumped everything out of her mother’s medicine cabinet into a trashcan, which she double bagged and set on the toilet. She then replaced the contents with believable, and more acceptable discoveries. The recently departed set of matching glass bongs was replaced with a nearly empty Xanax prescription.

Where did I hide this last time? she muttered out loud, pulling the bag out of the can and making a slow circle of the tiny bathroom. Her dark blue eyes skimmed past the ancient wall heater, then darted back to the knob barely holding the rusted metal grate in place.

That’s right.

She squatted down and reached for the knob. She unscrewed one, then started on the second, wondering if the old bat would find it this time? On the County’s last surprise visit, Hazel had been sucker-punched when the Old Lady had brought company. The fresh-faced redhead had stuck out her hand before the door had finished its swing.

Hi. My name’s Janet Wilder. I’m an intern and it’s my first week on the job.

Every last drop of spit had dried up in Hazel’s mouth, while her palms started sweating. She thought about locking the door and pulling the blinds, but luckily Uncle Bill hadn’t panicked.

He quickly dragged her mother out the back, dumping her on the nearest bale of hay in the neighbor’s barn, where she had blissfully slept through a three-hour session with the new CPS case worker. The girl was fresh off the university treadmill and hell bent on saving her first assignment. The Old Lady put up her feet in Mama’s recliner and napped while her trainee did all the work.

Janet had searched the house, but lacked the experience of her mentor. She’d flagged the report as missing the presence of the mother, a less than perfect housekeeper, but no indications of drug use.

Hazel was worried two clean reports in a row would raise more flags than one strategically noted bong. And Janet might have gotten some pointers on where to search after February’s suspiciously perfect report. Should she stick with the heater or play it safe and stuff the trashcan so the ladies wouldn’t miss it?

What the hell, she thought. Can’t risk a county supervisor paying attention to a flagged report. April 1st was the due date for annual budget submissions, which meant the county bureaucrats were doing their once a year read through. And nothing would cause her more grief than reducing their kid count in next year’s budget.

The trash it is, Lester, she said to the dog, who’d wandered in from the kitchen. She gave the basset a good scratch behind his chewed up left ear before heading to her mother’s bedroom.

She left the bed unmade – didn’t pay to be too perfect. CPS agents spent their days in trailers, trash, and addict alley. The sudden appearance of a Martha Stewart disciple would bring the entire sheriff’s station to their door.

She applied an extra layer of non-skid tape around the edge of the basement hatch, lining up the rug with great care so the glare from the grow lights didn’t show through.

Next, she straightened the photos lining the wall – one carefully staged family dinner photo corresponding precisely to each CPS visit from age seven to age thirteen. Age seven centered around a paper plate of stuffed mushrooms. If only the Old Lady had realized exactly what type of mushrooms Hazel had cooked. Since Alice hadn’t been to the grocery store in weeks, it was the only edible Hazel’d had on hand, at such short notice.

Her mama left cash after that, and her Uncle Bill found excuses to check their cupboards whenever he visited.

When Hazel turned thirteen, she took matters into her own hands. She blackmailed one of Alice’s regulars and got a fake ID. She immediately applied for a credit card in her own name.

Raised eyebrows were the only acknowledgement the postman had made when a monthly statement to a non-existent eighteen-year-old started arriving on a regular basis. The postman had been their postman for forty-six years before retiring last May. A leftover from the more rural days of the town, before the University slowly spread its weight, Mr. Ableton had been raised right. He minded his own business, and placed the wellbeing of his neighbors above that of some postmaster general two-thousand miles away.

Crap, she cursed loudly, where did I leave the mail?

She mumbled through the checklist, so used to being alone she spoke nearly everything out loud, if only to get a reply from the dog. She located the mail under her discarded sweatshirt, and quickly shoved the pile of envelopes into a desk drawer, all except the SSI letter addressed to the widow of Mr. Harold Ward, which she pocketed for later.

Hazel then arranged her carefully crafted C-minus essay, along with a B+ math quiz on the kitchen table. She could make up for the deliberate miss by acing her final exam. Between CPS and her mother’s current boyfriend, she’d found a sustainable balance in her world. She was determined to be an engineer, but perfect grades might make CPS suspicious, and it would definitely bring out the nastiness of Pete the Rodeo Clown. Her mother’s latest boyfriend mostly liked that Hazel did well in math, since it meant she could keep the books for him. Not only did he save the cost of paying a real accountant, it ensured her silence. Even if she’d been stupid enough to try and turn him in, she wouldn’t have been allowed to testify as a relative of his latest partner.

Hazel reached for the cookie jar and gave it a good shake.

Slim pickins, boy, but the county’s not completely dry. She pried open the lid and pulled out the second to last homemade dog biscuit. Made with love, just for you.

The two-year-old hound sniffed the peanut butter and carrot biscuit, before giving it a single desultory lick. The dog sighed and turned two limpid eyes in her direction, before picking up the biscuit and trotting over to the living room rug. He’d been giving her attitude over his normal treats, ever since her mother’s shit for brains boyfriend had fed him the latest product of ‘Shrooms are Us.

The idea for magic biscuits had come to the twenty-something part time rodeo rider just last month. He'd been studying his competition videos when her mother’s yappy chihuahua-pom mix had gone on a one-sided rampage with Lester over the last Milk Bone. When the quarter-beast wouldn’t stop barking, Rodeo Pete had tossed him a bit of Gymnopilus Luteofolius. The impromptu snack had kept the dog placid for days, and soon thereafter, the Yapper Napper was born.

Hazel only had a mild twinge of conscience writing website content for her mother’s business. She even found she had a knack for it:

Problems with your neighbors calling the cops?

Is your landlord threatening eviction over chewed up floors?

No need to maim your beloved pup with debarking.

Try the Yapper Napper instead.

Made with the finest, all organic ingredients right here in the USA, these delicious biscuits will give your pet fine doggie dreams while you’re away at work.

She was practical and figured a daily nap was a better fate than the pound.

But the day Rodeo Pete had volunteered her dog for his ‘clinical trial’, she put her foot