Page 14 of Doomsdate

“How many do you think we’ll need?” Maisie calls from the bathroom. “Is five reasonable?”

I choke on my own spit. “Um, not really?”

She pauses. “Okay, I’ll get more.”

Oh, god, what if she was raised in a cult? Maybe she escaped, and that’s why she’s so anxious. What if she was slated to be some old polygamist’s child bride and ran away from the family compound, like the fifth season of Fargo? Or maybe she busted out from an underground-bunker doomsday cult like Unbreakable Kimmy Schmidt?

I press a palm to my galloping heart. I love Kimmy Schmidt.

That same rush of protective energy when I saw how nervous she was for our date floods my bloodstream again. So what if she’s a little weird? Whatever she’s running from, she’s not a part of it anymore, and all that remains is this sweet, emotionally vulnerable oddball who desperately wants to have “as many kinds and as much” sex as possible tonight, with me.

Oh, god. Am I actually going to go through with this? Sex?

No. I can’t. This is moving way too fast, and the last thing I need to do is start a sexual relationship with someone when I haven’t experienced an actual emotion in ages.

You did tonight, a knowing, smiling voice in my head says. One I haven’t heard in real life in three years.

Louise.

You felt things tonight, Everett. You like her.

It’s not an accusation, but it feels like one anyway. I blink, pressing my palm even harder to my chest, but it’s doing nothing to slow my escalating heartbeat. Am I having an anxiety attack? Complete numbness for years, then suddenly every emotion at once?

I stumble through the door, hoping to sit down where I can breathe for a minute, when a constellation of multicolor lights blinks at me. I fumble for the light switch and stare at what can only be described as a small armory. Tasers of varying lengths and zapping ability hang neatly from wall hooks, along with batons, clubs, and an honest-to-god mace. A long desk flanks the wall, its multilevel shelves stuffed with radio equipment, receivers and transmitters, a microphone on a boom arm hunching over a small, sleek laptop. A low hum of frenetic, excited voices escapes various speakers.

“Y’all, this is the big one—”

“—if you can get off yer shitter, it’s time to gather arms and bug out—”

“—the virus is mutating at an unreal pace, becoming more and more virulent as it ravages America—”

She listens to amateur newscasts?

A speaker to my right emits a staticky crackle, then an old man’s voice comes on.

“CQ, CQ, CQ, Maisie-girl, you back yet? Did the fella put out, or are you still a virgin?”

The old man cackles as I stagger back, my hand flying to the doorframe for support.

“Everett? What’re you—” Maisie’s voice cuts off behind me. I whip around, stumbling over my own too-large feet. Her eyes are wide, mouth hanging open, hands stuffed with condoms hanging limply at her sides. But the large whiteboard next to the door rips my gaze from hers, horror mounting as I scan the information, listing all manner of supplies, with calculations of pounds of foodstuffs, then doubled at the bottom with the words “Pandemic mate??” A few scribbles later: “Purchase zip ties.”

“Oh my god!” I try to swallow, but my throat is so dry, I sputter out a cough instead. “Are you—are you trying to Misery me?!”

“Misery you? What are you talking about?” Maisie frowns and takes a step forward, stopping abruptly when I throw my hands up to ward her off. The hurt in her eyes is sharp and sudden, and I feel like a massive asshole.

Then I remember the mace on the wall.

“Misery! The movie with Kathy Bates? The Stephen King novel that was adapted in 1990 into an absolute masterpiece of film?!”

“I haven’t seen it.” Maisie’s shaking her head, still confused. “Why?”

“CQ, CQ, CQ, Maisie-girl,” the old man tries again, and we both flinch back from the sudden intrusion of the invisible third participant in this conversation. “Dying to know if this professor’s bunker material, radio me when you get back.”

Bunker? Was Maisie going to seduce me, then transport me to some…some bunker?!

“This was a mistake, I knew this was a mistake. I have to go, now.”

Maisie’s perfect winter-morning eyes blink, filling with tears. Disoriented, she shuffles out of the doorframe to let me pass, thank god, and I squeeze by her, my stupid, massive erection accidentally grazing her hip as I go. The contact sends a stinging surge of need down my shaft, deep into my groin, as my idiotic cock sends ridiculous thoughts to my head, like maybe the story wouldn’t be called Misery if Maisie was the one holding you captive?