Page 6 of Doomsdate

Unknown Number: Your pre-scheduled Lyft ride has arrived!

Please meet your driver Jaxon at the designated location.

“I cannot believe you.” I look up at him, but his smirk is gone, replaced by a sad smile. He places Chicken gently on the floor, then stands.

“I’d take you myself, but I’m feeling a little dodgy.” He runs a hand over his stomach and grimaces. “Plus, I figured you’d have a harder time demanding a stranger turn around than me.”

He’s not wrong. My thumb hovers over the cancel-ride button.

“Come on, Everett. I want my best friend back.” Sandeep holds my coat out to me. “His story isn’t done.”

Unknown Number: Your driver Jaxon is waiting.

Do you need to cancel ride? Y/N.

I sigh and take my coat, and Sandeep grabs me up into a long, tight hug.

Chapter Two

T Minus Two Hours and Five Minutes

Until Shit Hits the Fan

Everett

“Jaxon?” I peer through the tinted windows of the battered electric Chevy Spark with oversize tires parked outside my house. The window rolls down an inch, just enough so I can see the top of the man’s industrial-strength respirator-mask-and-goggles combo. He thumbs a garden-gloved hand toward the back seat, so I climb in, quickly adjusting my own N95 as I do. Being that the mask requirements came down just yesterday, Jaxon’s getup seems a little much.

Jaxon passes back an empty white paper bag, which I stare at blankly.

“For vomiting, man.”

“Ah, thanks.” I glance around the back seat, unnerved by the damp feel to the cloth seats. “Has that been…happening a lot?”

His eyes find mine in the rearview mirror, his furry eyebrows lifted beneath the goggles.

“Right,” I say to myself more than him, my eyes catching on something shiny in the front seat. An aluminum baseball bat juts up from the floorboard, in grabbing distance.

Well. That’s ominous.

Durham’s streets are strangely empty for a midsemester Friday night, but I guess that’s to be expected when the NCAA postponed March Madness “indefinitely.” Rumors among the faculty are that GI-27 is currently decimating the Tar Heels star lineup, which, if my last class’s abysmal turnout is any indicator, is probably true. I haven’t paid much attention to the virus outbreak. To be fair, I haven’t paid much attention to anything, but now I’m wondering if I should have. Tonight, the quaint downtown looks unnaturally gray, as though a vampire drained all the life from its red, rusty bricks and evergreen awnings. One storefront, though, glows with a supernatural yellow-green neon sign spelling Gatherers in loopy cursive. I sigh a fog into my mask, tickling the short stubble that perpetually lines my jaw. At least Sandeep got the choice of restaurant right. I’ve been living off Gatherers takeout for years.

“Thanks.” I slap the top of the car as I close the door, but Jaxon’s window rolls down another inch.

“Be careful out there, man.” Behind the faceted Plexiglas shield, Jaxon’s small smile is refracted back at me, more insectile than human. A shiver runs down my spine—a feeling. I marvel at it. It’s the same thrill of unease a great horror movie seeds in the first few minutes.

Unfortunately, I don’t like horror movies anymore.

Jaxon waggles his hand in the hang-ten surfer sign, the words “no pukies!” trailing out his window as his tiny car hums down the road.

“No pukies,” I mumble in return, then try the door to Gatherers. It doesn’t budge. I try again until a light tap on the window from inside calls my attention upward. A masked hostess on the other side of the glass gestures at the buzzer, which I press.

“Welcome to Gatherers! When was the last time you had diarrhea?” her bright voice, tinny through the speakers, burbles at me.

“Oh, um.” I run a hand through my hair, blushing furiously beneath my mask. “Last year, maybe?”

“Do you currently have runny stools?”

I shake my head quickly.