Page 107 of Doomsdate

“Hank,” he supplies. “Call me Hank, please. Gemma’s fixing drinks—says there’s something we need to celebrate. How do you feel about old-fashioneds?”

“I feel…curious about them. I’ve never had one. What are they like?”

“Boozy but smooth, with a touch of citrus. If you try it and don’t care for it, no harm at all—it won’t go to waste around here.”

“Okay, then. Thanks.” She blinks, as surprised by this genteel, handsome silver fox of a host as I am. His kind, welcoming demeanor, the fondness in his eyes as he slaps me on the back, ushering us both inside, none of it gels with what I’ve told her about my father so far. I realize with a start that all those years my parents spent not knowing me, I spent not knowing them, too. This isn’t Hank the tyrant of my high school days. This is Hank the cocktail drinker. Hank the horror lover.

And based on how he’s treating Maisie right now, Hank the perfect father-in-law.

We walk into the living room, where Gemma’s waiting to press crisp old-fashioneds into our hands, her eyes bright and excited. Mom’s already sipping hers, but stops to come and greet Maisie, too, with a firm handshake and a kind nod.

“Now that everyone’s here, care to share your news, Gemma?” Dad’s eyes crinkle with pride. “You look like you’re about to burst.”

“Those patents you stole from the president are the catalyst we’ve been searching for—I’m ninety-nine percent sure of it!” The words bolt from her mouth. “My staff ’s running some experiments overnight to triple-check, but our first looks appear to confirm it.”

“Aw, honey, that’s amazing!” Dad booms. “But…what now?”

Mom flips to me. “You stole patents from the president?” Her neck bulges from the tight collar of her floral button-down. “You saw him?!”

Dammit, Gemma.

“The zombie president,” Maisie corrects, leaping in front of oncoming parental traffic for me. She slips her small, smooth hand into mine and squeezes. “I was the one who killed it, though.”

“You killed him?” Dad barks out, the first echo of my high school years since I’ve been home. It fills me with dread.

“It,” Maisie corrects. “We spent the night in the White House and searched the Oval Office before we left to meet up with you at the South Lawn helipad. The place was completely empty, but…we found it in the Oval Office’s bathroom, near an open tunnel hatch. There was nothing but groaning coming from below.”

Dad’s eyes lock on to Mom’s, and she sucks a deep breath through her nostrils. For a second, no one speaks, and a thousand different scenarios play out in my mind. What if they try to lock Maisie up or something? They’ve probably already declared martial law—there’d be no trial with the Colonels Greer.

“It was self-defense,” I say, heated, as I yank Maisie closer to my side. “The president—”

“Zombie president,” Maisie corrects again.

“—tried to eat her face, and she was only—” I pause mid-sentence. “What are you doing?”

It’s the weirdest thing, but Dad grins. It’s a crooked, open-mouthed affair, showing off the chipped tooth he got during his first tour of Iraq. “Irene, honey. Hear that? We’re officially in charge.”

Mom’s eyes positively sparkle. “Hoo-ah!” she breathes out, hoarse and defiant.

Dad whistles. “We’ve been trying to contact D.C. for days now, but we lost touch with them shortly after Z Day, when they entered the tunnels. Now that you’ve confirmed D.C. has fallen and the president is dead, we can officially take matters into our own hands. Canada must be stopped.”

“Wait, Canada?!” I race to keep up. “What’s Canada got to do with it? They still exist?” I frown for a second. “Maybe it was them on the phone.”

Mom huffs, then takes a long swig of her drink. “Oh, they’re fine across the border, son. As far as we know, they all are.”

“They all are?” Maisie repeats, her eyes wide. “What do you mean?”

“GI-27 was released in America only, and without the catalyst, the super-version of it hasn’t spread anywhere else. The rest of the world is watching, waiting for us to literally shit our brains out, so they can move in and seize whatever’s left.” Dad clenches his jaw so tightly the joints creak in protest through his skin. “Those sorry Canuck bastards are crossing the border as we speak.” He pronounces “sorry” the Canadian way, like soar-ee.

My eyebrows rise. It’s exceptionally petty.

“Where are they headed? What gear do they have? What’s their objective?” The questions tumble from Maisie’s mouth, one after another.

“They’re in military convoys and heavily armed,” Mom says. “Their stated objective is to emergency-man the nuclear power plants to protect Canadian citizens from fallout.”

“Um, so maybe we should let them do that?” My heart thumps hard in my chest. I hadn’t even considered how long a nuclear power plant could go unmanned. “That seems very, very important?!”

Dad growls. “Not on my watch.”