Page 19 of Doomsdate

Fuck!

I can’t abandon the suitcase. But to go into the darkened apartment feels insanely foolish, and then there’s the matter of Tyler, who’s rising unsteadily to his feet. I raise the machete high, noticing for the first time the huge chunk missing from his neck, right where his jugular should be.

I swallow roughly, forced to concede that this new information might prove he’s a zombie. Or, at the very least, that he should be dead, and for some reason is not.

That’s easier, let’s go with that.

The body formerly known as Tyler lunges at me again, mouth cranked wide to bite whatever it can reach first. His teeth shine as unnaturally bright as his eyes. This time, I don’t have a suitcase to push between us, but I do have a foot. I bring it up in a fierce front kick. For one horrible instant, my heavy pack threatens to pull me backward, but I crouch into the kick, shifting the pack’s heft forward and putting even more power into the blow. Tyler’s body goes reeling into the wall, his skull cracking wetly against the corner of the metal box containing the fire extinguisher. The same glowing fluid in his eyes smears against the wall as he slumps onto the ground, body finally still.

Did I…kill him?

No, he was already dead, Mom says. You can’t kill someone who’s already dead.

Practical as always, that’s Mom.

“Sorry, Tyler,” I mumble, though the sentiment rings hollow, even to me. I step quickly around him into 2F, determined to grab my suitcase and go before the rest of the second floor tries to eat me.

“Oh, god.” I throw my arm over my nose, gagging into the fleece. It smells like wing sauce and alcohol problems, with a thick overlay of death on top. I’ve never been in the old bros’ apartment before, never gotten more than a peek through the open door as they retrieved their bags of Chinese delivery. The walls are lined with stained futons and neon rope lighting, and there are no fewer than three posters with some scary clown named Joker and a life-size cardboard cutout of a bald yellow cartoon man burping over a Duff beer. A polished paddle with the Greek letters of their frat burned into the wood is hung in the place of honor over the massive TV, which is where the Travel Baby has idly parked itself, as if it was invited over to watch the big game without me.

I grip the machete tightly as I walk through the reeking apartment, eyes flickering from left to right. This time, I see the figure barrel out of the shadows for me. Samson, his beer belly even bigger now. Distended. His eyes shine white-blue in the dark apartment, arms outstretched.

I’m ready for him.

I heave my side, pack first, straight into his oncoming form. It knocks him off course. His body crashes into the sound system, and Chumbawamba’s “Tubthumping” begins to play once more.

Jesus. What is it with this song?!

I hover over him, willing him to not get knocked down and get up again as I gear up to swing my machete down hard enough to separate Samson’s giant head from the mere inch of his exposed neck. But, as the soprano starts crooning about pissing the night away, I falter.

Can I do this? I don’t even like to squash spiders.

Then I see the leg lying on the floor.

Just a leg, severed at the calf and ending in a hot-pink running shoe that, I’m fairly sure, belongs to the woman from 2G. Dana, maybe? When we passed each other in the hall yesterday morning, she definitely had all of her appendages.

The realization that Tyler and Samson probably pulled her from her apartment sometime last night and ate her clicks, and something else takes over. Not anger, or fear, or even disgust. More like…resolve. Motivation. A to-do list you’re ready and able to tackle.

That’s my baby girl, Mom says. It’s survival time.

As the Chumbawamba man starts listing various alcoholic beverages, I bring the machete down hard and simultaneously learn what Samson’s severed spine looks like, up close and personal. When the rest of Dana from 2G crawls out of the shadows toward me on hands and stumps, hissing and snarling with her own headlamp eyes, I dispatch her easily as well.

Poor Dana. She’d be lost without running, anyway.

I grab my suitcase, and together we roll effortlessly out of 2F, my apartment building, and my nothing-of-a-life to date.

Turns out, it’s easier to say goodbye than I thought.

T Minus Four Minutes

Until Shit Hits the Fan

Everett

Fuck. I scrub my face with my palms, then rake my fingernails through my scruffy beard.

Maisie’s a doomsday prepper.

I knew she seemed a little culty, but beyond all the weirdness, Maisie was so…nice. Real. Unabashedly, unapologetically herself. It stood out compared to how today, everyone seems so edited. Filtered pictures. Botoxed foreheads. Carefully curated houses on display. People live more of their lives on social media than they do in the real world, and the gimmicks of one slowly bleed into the other until nothing feels quite real. After Louise died, I couldn’t keep up with it, and the world kept scrolling on without me. A few years out of the game, and I don’t know how to connect with people at all anymore. What pictures would I post? The piles of Louise’s things I can’t bear to box up? The same sad bus route I’ve taken to work at the university every day for years? A yellow-leafed tree, captioned I feel like I died, too?