Page 26 of Doomsdate

“God, I hope not,” I murmur, staring at the door. The windows are dark, revealing nothing. I desperately do not want to go inside. I slowly click the release, and my seatbelt slides off reluctantly, like hands dragging across my chest. “Well,” I start too brightly, “thanks for the ride!”

Maisie’s brows pinch together. “I don’t think you should go inside.”

“It’s the only place I have left,” I croak.

“Do you want me to come with you?” she asks, still frowning between me and the door. “Help you secure the interior?”

“No, no—I’ve got it.” I throw my hands up in a weird double-finger-gun, then laugh awkwardly, though it’s the last thing I feel like doing. I’m not one of those guys who have to feel tough in front of women, and besides, that ship sailed with Maisie after she mistook me for a cat in distress, but I was raised by two colonels who teach war tactics for a living, and they beat into my skull to never, ever be a burden, only an asset. Maisie’s already saved me once today—I don’t want her risking her life for me again.

“You literally just said to assume there’s always a zombie waiting to surprise you.” Maisie stares me down. “You don’t even have a weapon. Don’t be ridiculous!”

I’m already half out the door. “Sure I do.” I glance about wildly, then grab the rusty rake I abandoned in my yard two years ago. “I’ll be fine. Seriously. And thank you.” I swallow, memorizing her pretty face. It may be the last human one I ever see. “Be careful out there, Maisie.” I give her a sad half smile, grateful I’m holding the rake so I don’t do the finger-guns again, and close the car door on her disbelieving face.

I turn toward the front door, the sliver of dark beyond filling me with dread. I take my first step up the walk. Maybe I really did leave it open by accident. I was in a hurry last night, and I definitely wasn’t thinking straight. The wooden porch creaks beneath my feet so loudly, it nearly stops my heart. I whip around and watch as Maisie, still frowning, puts her car in reverse.

That’s good. She doesn’t need to see this. She’ll have a nice life in a bunker somewhere, with a sexy G.I. Joe who knows how to tan deer hides and sterilize pond water. I grip the rake tighter and push open the door.

I’ll be fine.

It’s the last thought I have as a heavy thunk cracks against my head.

Everything goes dark.

Chapter Six

Maisie

Gramps always says to listen to your gut, especially if it’s hungry. He usually cackles after that and uses it as an excuse to get his beloved double cheeseburger, extra pickles, from the drive-through, but the words have stayed with me anyway. One wild thing I’ve learned about the real world is that women are told over and over to be careful, then have our fears and concerns dismissed just as quickly. He didn’t mean it. You misunderstood. It was a joke. You’re just paranoid. But there’s something so powerful about listening to your feelings. Mom knew it. Hell, she pulled us out of society over it, and while that seems like overkill most of the time, on humanity’s darker days, when I read about human trafficking and religious hate crimes and mass shootings?

It doesn’t.

Mom raised me to put just as much faith in my own intuition. Maybe that’s why I decide to pull back into Everett’s driveway as he tentatively walks across his front porch. With his rake gripped in his hands, broad shoulders tense, he looks terrified, and my gut is telling me to stay.

Or maybe I’m just hungry.

I sigh and let my head fall back against the headrest. So Everett apologized. He still saw the real me last night and ran away. Just because he’s hot and grateful I saved his life doesn’t mean he suddenly accepts me for who I am, ham radios and all.

He might be the last man you meet alive…a little voice says in my head, decidedly not my mother’s. An idea pulses beneath the thought and twists in my belly, back and forth, trying to wriggle free.

“Unlikely,” I say aloud, because why not? I have no one left to perform sanity for. “This apocalypse just began.”

What if he’s the last hot one? What if he’s the last one you want to bone? the little voice argues right back as I watch Everett push open the front door and step inside. You’re letting him go into that house all alone! With a stupid rake!

“So what? He can—shit!”

Something dark beyond the door strikes Everett, and he collapses on the floor. I grab blindly at the weapons stash in the back seat, pulling out the machete once more.

I slither out of my car, sticking close to the house’s perimeter, then run for the door and launch up the steps. He’s still lying on the floor. No zombies are feasting on his limbs yet.

Then what the hell knocked him out? And why is he covered in—I lean farther into the shadowy house, squinting in the darkness—coats? A metal coat stand lies crashed over on its side, the apparent culprit. I stare at it in bewilderment.

Everett just got taken out by a coat stand.

“Everett?” I nudge his unresponsive body with my foot, my machete held high as I quickly scan the house. It doesn’t take long to see the horror in the hallway. An old woman in a pink velour sweat suit staggers slowly forward, clutching a yowling cat like a giant furry hot dog. Her milky headlamp eyes, dimmer than the ones of the night mobs, seem just as surprised by Everett’s fall as I was. In her hesitation, the cat leaps free and bounds up the stairs.

I step over Everett’s body, grimacing at the blood leaking from his temple, and stand between him and the old woman. A harsh, rasping sound rattles from her throat, an exhale followed by nothing. No breath inward. No life left. Just hunger and impulse and reaching hands.

She stumbles toward me, slow and stiff.