Page 55 of Doomsdate

With my heartbeat thudding in my ears, I toss the knapsack down, searching its pockets, then dump it out and riffle through the contents. Still nothing.

I throw open the door, ready to bang against Everett’s, but his is already open. The bed neatly made, all his things gone.

Ice floods my veins. I grab my machete and thunder down the stairs.

“Everett?” I yell. “Everett!”

The house is silent. The kitchen clean and empty. Did he leave me?

Is he trying to get away from me?

I race to the front door and quickly glance through its window, making sure no zombies await me on the steps, then yank the door open.

My rig’s still there, right where I parked it yesterday, and I finally breathe out. But Everett’s sitting in the driver’s seat, the car door open. I jump down the steps, running through the snow, machete raised high.

“Stop!” I shriek like a banshee.

Everett looks up, surprised. “Maisie?” he begins, but then I’m at his door, pushing it farther open with my hip as I brandish the machete at his face.

“What are you doing?!”

Everett raises both hands, his eyes round and alarmed. “Packing the car?”

“You took my keys!”

“They were on the counter, so yeah, I took them,” Everett says, his voice higher-pitched than usual, “to pack the car!”

I stare at him, unsure what to believe. He gestures at the console, where a thermos of hot tea sits, along with a banana and one of my homemade granola bars, my preferred road breakfast. “I thought I’d get us all packed up so we could leave on time.”

I thrust out my free hand. “Give them to me. Now.”

“Did you think I was going to—” His brow furrows, hurt. “Jesus, Maisie.”

“Give them to me.”

He slowly dips into his pocket and pulls out the keys, then hands them to me. I snatch them back, relief rushing through my entire body, and collapse against the car. Chest still heaving, I notice the thermos once again. The dual impulses to cry and laugh battle inside of me.

“You made me breakfast?”

“Yes,” he says, his voice still wobbly. “Could you lower your machete now?”

“Oh, right.” I retreat a few steps, my machete arm going limp at my side. Everett slides out of the driver’s seat and quickly backs away from me.

“Thanks for packing the car,” I offer lamely.

“That’s not an apology.” His voice is sharp. “Try again. Maybe start with ‘I’m sorry for assuming you’re an absolute villain.’ ”

“You took my keys without asking! Your room was packed up, everything was gone. What was I supposed to think?”

“Oh, I don’t know, how about ‘Everett’s trying to help’ instead of jumping to ‘Everett’s trying to steal my car’?”

“I don’t know what you’re trying to do!” I spit out. “I don’t even know you! I know Sandeep.”

“No, you know me, Maisie,” he says, his voice insistent. “A handful of DMs doesn’t matter after what we’ve already gone through together! You just don’t trust yourself enough to believe your own feelings. But that’s not my fault, and I don’t deserve this presumption of guilt you hang over everything and everybody.”

My mouth drops open a degree. “That’s not fair!”

He pushes his hair off his forehead, holding his hand there. “No. What’s not fair is that I’ve put every bit of trust I have in you, but two minutes ago, you looked ready to skewer me with that machete based on nothing but your own paranoid suspicions.”