Page 71 of Doomsdate

“Just when I think you can’t get any more badass, you go and assassinate the zombie president and redefine the term all over again.”

I smile, his words blooming in my chest.

After we grab all our things, plus the papers, space suits, and foodstuffs we decided to take, too, we exit the West Wing to the employee parking lot and the beautiful, sunny morning beyond. We have a little less than thirty minutes until I need to drive Everett over to the South Lawn helipad before his parents arrive. My throat has gone strangely tight.

I hoist the box of food higher in my arms, finally daring to ask what I’ve been wanting to since I realized that whatever we have between us isn’t just an arrangement. It’s something more. Inside my pocket is a note with a frequency I picked out, just for us. His military family surely has a ham radio setup. Maybe after the dust settles, we could find each other again. “Listen, Everett. I was wondering—”

Something foul and chemical is pressed hard against my nose and mouth, and the last thing I see is Everett’s body dropping beside me before a black, scratchy darkness is pulled over my head, the sound of dry beans pattering around us like rain.

Chapter Sixteen

Everett

There’s something about the smell of sweat and rubber that makes me feel fundamentally inadequate. That is how I know, before I even open my eyes, that we’re in a gym.

“Maisie,” I croak, rolling toward her where she’s sprawled next to me on the mats, still unconscious. On her other side is Chicken’s carrier, and from the loud yowl inside, she’s pissed.

Me, too, girl. I have no idea what time it is, but judging by the way my head aches and the bleary feeling behind my eyes, we’ve been out for some time. My heart sinks.

My parents. Gemma.

When I didn’t show at the helipad, they must’ve thought I was dead.

I squeeze my eyes shut. I don’t know what’s happening right now, but my hands are tied behind my back. There’s not much I can do except inch toward Maisie on my side, and awkwardly at that.

“Maisie!” I’m close enough now that I can peck at her shoulder with my nose, like an actual chicken. “Wake up!”

Her eyelids flutter once, twice, and then her forehead creases in pain, no doubt experiencing the same terrible headache I am. Then she shoots up to sitting, her eyes wide as she clocks the fluorescent lighting, the tall ceilings, the pyramids of color-coded barbells, then me, still scooting like an inchworm toward her.

“We’re in a gym,” she says, her voice low and utterly baffled. “Why are we in a gym?”

“Judging by the whole drugged-and-tied-up bit, I’m guessing we’ve entered the captured by evil survivors portion of this zombie apocalypse. Can’t explain the gym part.”

As if on cue, a man’s throaty voice yells, “Team! Our guests have woken up!” He claps his hands once, hard. “Assemble!”

A crew of twelve extremely fit people jog over to the mats, forming a half circle around us. Hands placed on hips, they stare down with utter nonchalance in skintight workout gear.

What in the creatine-fueled hell is this?

Maisie’s already on her feet, despite her hands being tied behind her back, because she has a tight set of abs that work. My ascent takes more effort, and the crew watches, vaguely disgusted, as I finally manage to sit up.

“Who are you, where are we, and why have you taken us here?” Maisie spits the words out, sounding scarier than I’ve ever managed to in my whole life.

“Whoa, calm down, ma’am.” Throaty man approaches with his palms up. He’s white, sunless-tanning-lotioned to a crisp tangerine, and thanks to his T-shirt with its gaping arm holes, we have front-row seats to his gleaming, chiseled obliques. His crew parts to let him through like the Red Sea did for Charlton Heston in The Ten Commandments. He is, without a doubt, the bro in charge. And if the condescending, gaslighting smile he’s giving us now is any indicator, I’m guessing he’s a fairly demented one.

“I’m Coach Connor, and this is my gym. We’ve brought you here to help you, of course, and introduce you into our community of survivors. Welcome to our home.”

“Funny, I don’t feel very welcome right now.” I grunt as I manage to get one knee beneath me on the ground, then the other. An unwilling, sweating supplicant before the gym god. “More like kidnapped.”

Connor’s bullshit smile melts to something more disdainful as his eyes fall from Maisie to me. “Whether you’re welcome remains to be seen.” He turns back to Maisie. “Fixer-uppers like your friend here aren’t usually worth our investment. You understand.”

I try to launch to my feet, but my shins are too long, and I end up back on my butt, panting. “What do you mean, ‘fixer-upper’?”

“Don’t be ridiculous. He’s not my friend,” Maisie says, her voice defiant. The words puncture my heart like a needle—easy, sharp, devastating. What is she doing? Trying to disassociate from the dead weight I clearly am here? My head swivels toward her, beseeching her to look at me, to rethink this. We’re supposed to be a team. Her eyes dart to mine, apologetic, then back to Connor just as fast.

“And he’s not a fixer-upper.” She lifts her chin, as if daring Connor to question this bold assertion. “He’s my husband.”

My mouth falls open, but I shut it just as fast.