Page 39 of Doomsdate

“But that is me. Prepping is who I am.”

“Or, counterpoint: Maybe prepping is just something you do. You’re still figuring out who you are.” I squeeze her hand. We’re quiet as the last lavender light becomes indistinguishable from the gray trunks of trees and night fully falls. I feel so bad for Maisie—for how much she’s missed. Sure, the world is cruel and unfair, but there’s also blowing out candles on your birthday cake and karaoke with friends and midnight showings of favorite movies. Thinking of the travel she’ll never get to do is even worse. Will airplanes ever cross the Atlantic again? Will Maisie get to enjoy the twinkling lights of Paris in spring, or a hot summer’s day in Istanbul? Or will her new passport remain untouched, the hellscape of Zombie America all she’ll ever see?

After a long, somber moment, Maisie straightens beside me. “So. What about that PowerPoint, Professor?”

“What?”

“Aren’t you going to teach me everything there is to know about zombies?” Maisie’s cheeks, already rosy from the cold, burn brighter.

“You know what? I am.” I pull out my laptop, the pocket projector, and my clicker and bustle around until a bright red square of light is projected onto the wall of snowy bushes behind us. It wavers a bit, like it’s underwater, but the text is still admirably legible.

“ ‘Zombie Apocalypses 101,’ ” Maisie reads. She looks impossibly charmed. “Should I take notes?”

“No, but audience participation is heavily encouraged.”

I stand before the bush, clear my throat, and click to the first slide: The Zombie as Symbol. “Zombies in story typically represent the death of the individual and the rise of groupthink. The idea that communist conformity is coming to turn us into mindless drudges is a uniquely American nightmare and mindset, which is probably why we make more zombie movies than any other country.”

“I did not know that,” Maisie says, folding her hands over her lap. “Though I do know a lot of people online that hate communists.”

I rub my chin. “Time will tell if this plays out in our own apocalypse. Is it somehow the conformity of millions that made them susceptible to the zombie virus? Are we special because we’re doing anything differently?”

“I thought maybe it was our diets at first,” Maisie says. “But all those people at Gatherers were getting sick, too.”

“Suffice it to say our immunity’s cause is to be determined.” I click to the next slide. Zombies: Basic Attributes in Film vs. Our Reality.

“Zombies classically eat brains, though the genre’s expanded this to any part of a living thing they can get their hands on. So far, so true.”

“They do eat food still, though,” Maisie says. “I saw a pack swarming a Tastykake truck before I picked you up.”

“The zombies were eating Tastykakes?”

“Oh, yes,” she says. “And the driver.”

“Fascinating. I can’t think of a single zombie movie where the zombies still eat food.”

Together we chat over each of the next few slides, and it’s the most relaxed I’ve seen Maisie yet. Thinking through swarm danger, safe shelter options, government as good versus bad guy, and our favorite rules from Zombieland’s code, she comes alive during my lesson. Maybe her years in the college classroom are the most experience she’s had relating to other people, the only place she felt she had a right to exist and could do so safely, more or less. The idea plucks at my heart that perhaps that’s why she felt safe enough to go out with me, a professor, in the first place.

I’m wrapping up the final slide on Zombie: Transmission when the light in her eyes dims. “What are the chances it’s only affected the United States?”

I take a deep breath. “If World War Z is to be believed, zero. And as infectious as GI-27 is? This has to be a worldwide thing, and if it’s not yet, it will be soon.”

She nods once, solemn. I hate that our fun discussion is ending on such a dour note, but that’s the problem with apocalypses, I guess. They fucking suck.

I pack up my gear, and when I finish, I realize Maisie’s been watching me closely. When our eyes meet, she doesn’t glance away.

“You’re a good professor, Professor,” she says, her voice thoughtful. “Kind. Patient.” She pauses. “Thorough.”

“Well, you’re a good student,” I say, taking my seat next to her on our bench and hoping she doesn’t see the blush forming on my cheekbones. Her compliments warm me on the inside as much as the fire does on the outside.

“There is something else I want to learn, though. If you’re up for it.”

“Okay, I’m listening.”

“I’m teaching you how to survive, right?”

“Yes?” I didn’t mean it as a question, but somehow it comes out that way. Tension vibrates between us, and I don’t know why. What is happening?

She takes my hand, and with a deep, shaking breath, places it high up on her thigh. I stare down at it in wonder before ripping my eyes back to hers.