Page 108 of Doomsdate

“At the very least, not without our oversight,” Maisie says, seriously considering the situation. “You can’t just hand over control of the nation’s power resources to another country.”

“Exactly.” Mom eyes Maisie with clear approval and takes her seat next to Dad across the table from us, gesturing for us to sit as well. She proffers me a dish of rolls.

“With the Canadian threat crossing into our territory, we need to quickly establish control over the region. While a decent portion of West Point’s student population survived thanks to the new meal-plan requirements we implemented, we are short senior military officials with the smarts and potential to lead our young cadets. We’d like to offer you both positions in our military government.”

“Um, what?” The roll freezes on its way into my mouth.

Maisie frowns. “What positions?”

I whip my head around to stare at her.

“You’ve spent a week out in the jungle, and thanks to your intel from the Oval Office, Gemma’s about to crack this subterfuge wide open. You’re both smart, resourceful, and we trust you. Accordingly, we’d like you to be on our strategic leadership team.” Mom folds her hands, in pure negotiation mode.

I blow out a deep breath, almost afraid to look at Maisie. I knew I should’ve talked to her before my parents had the chance to pounce.

“Thank you both, I’m very honored, but I have a…family member a few hours from here. He’s elderly, and I’m on my way to check on him.”

“We can bring him here,” Dad says. “We’d be glad to house him.”

“He hates the government,” Maisie says, a bit sheepish. “Military’s even worse.”

“Ah,” Mom says. “Is he a vet?”

Maisie nods.

“But Gemma said…” Mom trails off, looking between us. “We thought you two were dating?”

“We’re married, actually,” I supply, feeling a dopey smile bloom on my face as I lock eyes with Maisie, because for the first time, it’s not a lie. “Unofficially officially.”

She returns the smile full force.

“Married? Really?” Dad says, and Mom elbows him hard. “I mean, that’s amazing, son! Congratulations!” He pushes back from the table so hard his chair nearly topples. He reaches our side of the table in three quick strides, gathering Maisie and me up in a tight hug.

Mom’s eyes have gone red, and she dabs at them with a napkin. “Oh, son. That is wonderful news.”

“It means that whatever I’ll be doing next, it’s going to be with Maisie.” I tense, traumatized by these moments where I shatter my parents’ expectations for me. “And we still have to figure that out.”

Dad returns to his seat and exchanges a long look with Mom.

“We are disappointed to hear you two won’t be staying,” Mom begins, her voice stiff, but not unkind. “And we’ll respect it. But please, consider West Point a place where you’re loved and you can return, whenever you want or need. The jobs will always be open to you, too. That goes for both of you.”

I sigh, releasing the stress that’s been accumulating all day. “Thank you, Mom. Dad. We will.”

Gemma takes over the conversation from there, discussing the afternoon’s discoveries in the lab. The patents are all for the same core compound, it turns out, just with slightly different bonding mechanisms.

“So, it turns out that the catalyst is a preservative.” Gemma throws her head back and cackles. “The brand name is Re-Fresht!”

“I…why is that funny?” I frown at her.

“Because, doofus, it unlocks the virus’s super-virus potential so that it kills you, but then it brings you back to life. It preserves you. Re-Fresht. Get it?” Her laughter dies down into exhausted resignation. “It’s in literally every shelf-stable food processed for U.S. consumption in the last year.”

“So we do have you to thank.” Maisie’s eyes widen. “I remember seeing that preservative in your newsletter.”

“I included it on my list of new ingredients to avoid, yes, mostly because of its structural similarities to forever chemicals.” Gemma rakes her fingers through her hair, looking frustrated for the first time all day. “I didn’t know enough to put it on the top danger list.”

“All of us are here because of you,” Mom says, aiming a fork at her daughter. “We based West Point’s meal plan off your recommendations and stripped the canteen of everything from your lists. Don’t beat yourself up for not predicting an actual zombie apocalypse, Gemma Diane Greer.”

“Yes, Mom,” Gemma says dutifully.