Page 16 of Doomsdate

I’m too busy scrolling through the Wikipedia entry on Misery to listen, though. I release an angry sob, then slam my laptop shut. “I was going to Misery him! What’s wrong with me?”

“Misery him? Is that what he said? Listen, there is nothing wrong with you! Being prepared for disaster is the greatest gift anyone can give their loved ones. You’ll meet someone who sees that someday, Maisie-girl. I promise you that. You don’t need that dead weight. What was he a professor of, anyway? Something useless, probably. English? Poetry?”

“TV,” I mumble into the mic.

Gramps roars in outrage. “They let children major in television? No wonder the apocalypse has arrived!”

I sigh, too bereft to continue this conversation. Another lockdown, another…what? Year? Two years stuck inside alone? “Gramps, it’s late. I’m going to sleep. You should try to get some, too.”

“All right, rest up, you’ll feel better in the morning. Is your rig ready to bug out, just in case?”

“Mm-hmm.” I haven’t packed a thing, of course, though I promised Gramps I would earlier just to get him to stop nagging me about it. Instead, I ended up spending half the afternoon googling how to wax my own pubic hair for Everett.

To think I ripped out nature’s protection for that asshole.

“Good. Gotta be ready to get the hell out of Dodge any minute, Maisie-girl. Something awful weird going on with these death counts.”

“What do you mean?”

“For starters, they keep changing.” Gramps’s chair creaks as he leans closer to the mic, totally unnecessarily. “People s’posed to stay dead, Maisie.”

“Gramps…” The warning is clear in my voice. He knows how I feel about zombie conspiracies. There are so many real disasters that can rip you from your family, your friends, your home. I refuse to invent more.

“Just keep your news feeds on tonight, and the transceiver, too, in case we need to strategize. Promise?”

“Okay. I promise. Seventy-three, Gramps.”

“Seventy-three, Maisie-girl.”

I trudge to my bedroom with the prepper radio newscasts still babbling at my back, though I long to turn them all off. They’ve gone full haywire in light of the virus’s rising death counts, with each one claiming a different theory about what’s really going on. From vegan communists in Oregon, to Canada trying to weaken us before a land war, to aliens sprinkling human pesticide on us before colonizing our planet, I’ve heard it all tonight, and none of it is helpful. I grab my laptop and navigate to the nice, regular local news on its live channel and let it play while I get ready for bed. Anchors Jessica and Dave are admirably still on. They must be pulling an all-nighter, thanks to the juiciest news cycle we’ve had in years.

“GI-27 deaths have now been reported in every state in America. Canada and Mexico have closed the borders to U.S. citizens temporarily, until the contagion stabilizes. When asked for comment, the White House press secretary released the same message she did yesterday—stay calm and stay home, and let the virus run its course. But as death claims the first wave of virus victims, doctors are struggling to find new modes of treatment beyond comfort care to assist those still fighting the virus. Due to rapid mutation, new cases are moving on a much faster timeline, from onset to severe disease in hours.” Jessica’s game face is on, her voice serious and sure. Zero jiggling breasts.

Dave, on the other hand, is still simpering at the camera, though his skin has taken on a waxy gray sheen. He taps a stack of papers neatly into alignment before cocking his chin to the left while facing the camera head-on, his signature move.

“We don’t know how this nasty tummy bug is spread yet. Until transmission is understood better, the governor of North Carolina has issued a mandatory lockdown for the next three days. Sounds like a paid vacation to me! What do you say, Jessica? Little stay-home-and-rot sounds pretty good right now.”

He grins slackly at her temple, but Jessica has stopped acknowledging his weak banter and, really, him altogether. “Do not leave your homes, stay alert, and if you’re already sick”—she pauses to smile grimly at the camera—“good luck. It’s going to be a long night.”

I dimly wonder whether Jessica is a prepper as I climb into bed, Everett’s words “this was a mistake” repeating on loop in my mind as I drift to sleep.

Somewhere, someone’s calling my name.

“CQ, CQ, CQ, Maisie-girl?”

I sit up quickly in bed. According to my watch, it’s 4:49 a.m. The news is still on, though I muted it at some point. The studio looks…off.

“Maisie-girl, time to wake up and bug out. Sweetheart?” Gramps’s voice drifts down the hall from my prep room. I throw off the covers, my blood spiking with adrenaline. We talk about bugging out, of course, but we’ve always promised never to state it’s time until we are sure, without a doubt, that it’s do or die.

I press the push-to-talk button. “Gramps, I’m here. Are you okay? What’s happening?”

“I’m fine. Glad you got some rest, Maisie-girl, because you’ve got a long drive ahead of you. Still have my coordinates?”

“Of course I do. But what’s changed? Why do I have to leave?”

Gramps clears his throat. “Permission to use Maisie-forbidden terminology?”

My heart sinks. Gramps is prone to falling for all the nutjob conspiracy theories. Evil vegans, evil Canadian Mounties, evil everything. “I—sure. Just tell me what’s going on.”