Page 95 of Doomsdate

“Every American survivor we’ve met has some kind of special diet. Vegan, gluten-free, carnivore, diabetic, low-FODMAP. And without fail, every survivor thinks it’s their diet that protected them from the infection and gave them immunity. That meat’s the problem, or gluten, or poor misunderstood nightshades. But how does that explain our healthy Korean brothers and sisters that operate our neighborhood’s Asian food market, who eat all of those things? How does that account for the fact that Chinatown is thriving right now?” Corinne shakes her head again. “There’s only one commonality I can find.”

Everett’s eyes widen slightly. “They’re not eating the standard American diet.”

Corinne nods. “Personally, I’m a nutritionist, and our family limits our exposure to processed foods.”

Beatriz straightens, standing behind her mother. “Three or more ingredients, and we don’t play with that,” the young girl says, a knife-edge to her tone.

“And here we are, safe,” Corinne adds. “Something’s in American processed foods, and that, coupled with the virus, has killed off the majority of the country.”

“So if you don’t eat some special, fussy, difficult diet because you don’t have the resources, or the time, or frankly, the energy to eat better, you die?” Everett says, his face twisting in disgust. “That’s so—so unfair.”

Corinne huffs. “Living in America has never been fair. Why would dying be any different?”

My head whips to Everett. “The patents. From the Oval Office.”

“What patents?” Corinne leans over.

“We found a stack of chemical patents, all filed by the same corporation, in a file about the zombie outbreak in the Oval Office,” I explain. “We thought it might be for a cure, but maybe they were looking for whatever’s in the food supply that did this.”

“Where are they?” Corinne asks, her voice louder. “If I could see them, I could maybe identify the ingredient—we’d be able to expand our food rations to include safely processed foods!”

Everett winces. “We left them in our rig.”

“But we’ll figure out a way to share the information with you,” I add quickly. “Somehow.”

“Even if you could make it back safely, we’re leaving soon.” Corinne’s shoulders deflate, a resigned look to her jaw. She gazes up at her daughters flanking her. “The birds have taken over Prospect Park, and it’s only a matter of time before they infest Queens, too. The rats are getting bolder, and soon even daytime won’t be safe for travel. We have to leave before it comes to that.”

“Where will you go?” I ask.

“Our group’s headed to West Point,” Corinne replies, and Everett nearly falls out of his chair.

“What?” he sputters.

“The military’s established a settlement there that’s guarded and secure, with far greater food stores than we have here. We’re packing up as much food and supplies as we can safely transport, then heading out day after tomorrow.”

Everett’s mouth opens, but no words come out. Corinne frowns at him, then looks to me to explain.

“That’s where we’re headed, too. Everett’s family is supposed to be there, but we haven’t been able to contact them. We didn’t realize there’d be a whole settlement.”

Corinne’s head lifts in understanding. “I see. We’re in communication with Colonel Greer, one of the leaders of the outfit. Would you like me to ask about your family before you leave? You can speak to her yourself if you like. The radio is in the back.”

Everett makes a choking sound, and wordlessly, Beatriz fills a glass of water and hands it to him. He takes several long drinks while Corinne and her two daughters stare at him incredulously.

“He’s processing,” I explain.

“I’m definitely processing,” he manages. “Colonel Greer is my mother.”

Corinne’s eyebrows rise. “So, the other Colonel Greer is—”

“My father, yes.” Everett looks miserable. “Have they mentioned my sister, Dr. Gemma Greer? She’s the only one I—is she okay?”

“Yes,” Corinne says gently, taking in everything Everett’s not saying, too. The change of his last name. The way he’s clutching my hand. The clear and unmistakable fact that he’s softhearted and lovely and meant for the indoors, decidedly not military material.

“I spoke to her yesterday. She’s heading up their research lab.”

“That’s our Gemma.” Everett smiles half-heartedly but looks relieved all the same. “Listen, if you talk with them again before tomorrow night, would you mind not mentioning me? I need more…time. Before I decide what to do.”

And there it is again, that stab of hope. Everett doesn’t want to go back to West Point. But that doesn’t mean he wants what I could give him instead—life in a bunker, tending to an old, ornery man, learning how to farm with none of the creature comforts that made life worth living for him before. And that’s if I could convince Gramps to let Everett stay. He’d be furious if I just showed up with Everett. Exposing the location of your bunker is the highest form of betrayal to a prepper. But how would Gramps ever believe me when I say that I trust Everett? Yes, it’s only been a week, and yes, my feelings have gotten involved, but I trust him. And more than that, I want to trust him. I want to give him everything.