Page 72 of Doomsdate

Husband?

Warmth cascades through me. She isn’t ditching me—she’s saving me, again. Linking her destiny to mine.

Shit, I think I’m tearing up.

“Oh, forgive me,” Connor says, his palms raised again. “I didn’t see wedding rings.”

“They were stolen,” Maisie blurts. “By bandits.”

Less convincing, but okay.

“Our name is—Shenandoah. Maisie and Everett Shenandoah.”

Wow. The lore grows. Are we hippies? I think we’re hippies. My insides go impossibly soft as I gaze at her, my wife. My weird, hippie wife.

But Connor’s frowning at us both, clearly dismayed by Maisie’s inconvenient devotion to the fixer-upper. I hope she hasn’t doomed herself in trying to keep me safe.

I have to get us out of here.

I clear my throat. “Look, Connor—”

“Coach,” he cuts in, folding his arms.

“Sure, Connor. While we appreciate your, ah, recruitment efforts, we’re not interested in joining your whole…thing.” I stare levelly up at Connor and his buff lackeys from the floor, having given up on standing. Their physiques make me question what came first—their membership in this gym or in this cult? “If you could unbind our hands, we’ll be on our way. No harm done.”

“Now, now, now, let’s not be rash.” Connor gives us that cajoling smile again, showing off his impeccably whitened teeth. They look sharp under the fluorescent lights. “There’s strength in numbers, and we haven’t shown you all we have to offer. Based on our initial assessments”—he says this to Maisie—“we think you could make a valuable asset to our team. Now, I know the way we brought you in was disorienting, but I assure you, it was done only for the safety of our community, which is my top priority. Can’t have strangers learning the location of our home and resources before we ascertain whether they’re trustworthy, can we?” He ducks his chin, the full brunt of his faux sincerity levied on Maisie. “I’m sure you can understand the risks we’re taking by trying to help you, and also how we must balance those risks to protect our home.”

I scoff under my breath. Connor sounds about as convincing as an infomercial salesman, but Maisie shocks me by actually nodding in agreement. When she sees me staring slack-jawed at her, she winces.

“It’s probably what I would do in his shoes.”

“This one gets it!” Connor’s face explodes into a grin. “Come on. Let us show you a warm welcome before you make any decisions.” He snaps his fingers, and the woman in a pale lavender unitard on his right starts forward with shears. She snips the thick cords binding our wrists together, and my arms flop to my sides, sore and tingling from the long-held unnatural position. Maisie gives me a sheepish glance as she helps me up, and I try to communicate with my eyes Do NOT trust him, Maisie, he’s an evil gym rat overlord!! But she just frowns, confused.

That was harder to intimate than I thought.

“Time for a tour, Shenandoahs! This is our main hub, the workout arena.” Connor gestures with his hands wide as we trail behind him. The squeak of rubber soles against mats makes me whip around. Behind us is his crew, in formation, creepy as all hell. They stare back without making eye contact.

“The body is our temple, and physical fitness is key to survival, so we take our conditioning very seriously. No letting up just because the world’s ending.” Connor gazes at Maisie in a satisfied, discerning way, like a jeweler appraising the real thing. It makes me want to punch him. “I think you agree?”

“Well, yeah.” Maisie frowns, clearly not liking that she agrees with this guy on anything, and I feel a little better.

“Training regimen?”

“I do mixed martial arts four days a week, core work the other three, and run five miles a day.” Maisie says this as though she’s reading a recipe instead of describing life on another, fitter planet.

“And you?” Connor asks me abruptly.

“I—play pickleball.” Dammit, I sound defensive, even to me.

“Right.” Connor smiles, and it’s as cloying and noxious as the artificial sweeteners I gave up years ago. “We believe our commitment to health is why our outpost has immunity to the zombie virus. All the lazy, undisciplined part-timers who couldn’t give up their Oreos bit it immediately.”

I scowl, disgusted on behalf of lazy, undisciplined part-timers everywhere by his callous, ignorant attitude. I used to love Oreos—used to eat all kinds of delicious processed snack foods before Louise got her colon cancer diagnosis. But when her doctors put her on an ultra-strict diet, I joined her in solidarity. The more Gemma sent me about preservatives and thickeners and artificial everything and their links to the cancer eating my beautiful Louise from the inside, the less I could look at that food without a deep, crushing outrage. At the corporations that design food to be addictive no matter the cost to our health, at the FDA for letting it happen, at the sheer gobs of privilege and effort and money it takes to conscientiously reject the easiest, cheapest, and often most palatable foods in favor of a damn rutabaga. Because denying the capitalist food industry to prioritize our own health is a privilege, and anyone who doesn’t admit that is a fucking asshole.

“Coach.” A short, squat man who looks like he could bench me jogs up to his side. “A Crew is returning from clearing patrol.”

“Great, send them to the showers and then they can have their food rations. B Crew,” Connor turns and calls out behind us. Eight people step forward, their eyes haunted. “You’re up.”

“Clearing patrol?” Maisie asks, the curiosity evident in her tone as A Crew’s dirty, gore-splattered members enter the gym, hang their array of machetes, baseball bats, and barbells on hooks on the wall, and promptly undress to nothing, depositing their filthy gear in a bin by the door. They march toward the back, where the locker rooms must be.