Page 27 of Doomsdate

I’ve never been fond of blood. Unlike Everett, I don’t watch horror movies, and the virtual EMT training I forced myself through left me nauseated and unsettled. And that was nice, healthy, red blood. The blood of the living.

What explodes out of the old woman’s neck is dark and sticky like syrup, filling the room with the sickly-sweet stench of rotting fruit. I gag into my hand as the head lands first, rolling somewhere near the stairs, followed by the slow, slumping tumble of the zombie’s body. Her mouth still emits that terrible rasping sound, but after a second, she stills completely. There’s an old plaid comforter draped over the couch, which I haul off and throw over the zombie’s remains. The cat hair settles over the scene a second later, like dust motes in the air.

A low groan rises up behind me, and I whirl around.

Everett. He’s still passed out, his body lying half inside the house. I check my watch and sigh. This road trip just started, and I’m already behind schedule.

After I slide Everett’s heavy body fully into the entry hall, I close the front door and begin a sweep of the house. I have a hunch Velour Granny was on her own—no more emerged after the scuffle—but I’m not taking any chances.

What I find is worse.

Pictures everywhere, the house one big gallery of them. It fills me with a bone-deep jealousy. This house is full of memories, full of the kind of living that I’ve never done. I had my apartment for almost ten years, and all I have is Walter the Pothos to show for it. But it’s the picture on the mantel that makes my stomach drop. Everett’s profile picture, from the dating app. But in this larger, uncropped version, he’s holding a beautiful red-haired woman by his side.

Who is she?

There she is again. Everett and the redhead by a Christmas tree, howling with laughter as a cat dressed as Santa launches from her arms. A picture of the happy couple staring lovingly at each other in front of a wedding arch. My heart begins to race.

Suddenly the house looks too nice, too put together. The soft green pattern on the curtains accentuates the creamy down couch, the mustard-yellow chairs facing them in perfect conversational setup. Not all huddled around the TV like the old bros had. There’s not a gaming computer or Joker poster in sight.

Everett’s married.

My jaw snaps closed. I grab his left hand off the floor. Sure enough, there’s a white band of untanned skin where a wedding ring should be. I fling his hand down. “You asshole!”

In a stunningly bad choice, Everett picks this moment to rouse. “Hrmph? Maisie?” He pulls his mask off and winces as he presses a hand to his temple. “What…happened?”

“Your coat stand tried to kill you, then I had to save you, again, from some old lady I had to behead, all so I can find out you’re married? You’re an asshole, that’s what happened!”

“You—beheaded—a lady?”

“An undead one, but yes!” I press my palm to my forehead. “So stupid! I should’ve known!”

Everett tries to rise to all fours, wobbly as a newborn giraffe, stumbling and shoving coats off all the while. Small periwinkle-blue wool sleeves mix with larger charcoal-gray ones, then a rich camel bouclé number slides off, which can only belong to his very fashionable, very normal wife.

I feel sick.

“Maisie, I’m not married.” Everett manages to get to his feet, then slumps into the wall. “Or I was, but I guess I’m—I’m not anymore.” He sounds so dejected, my heart goes ahead and pities him without my brain’s consent, which just makes me angrier.

“You guess?” I stare at him incredulously. “What does that mean—you’re in a fight? Separated? Divorced?” I jab a finger at him before he can respond. “You do realize that if you’re divorced, this is just as bad, right?” I gesture to the framed display of wedding photos, the fashionable coats strewn across the floor, the everyday clutter of living with a woman on every surface. He’s either cheating on her or isn’t over her, and while one explanation makes him less of a scumbag, both make me want to walk out the door and never see him again.

I decide to do just that.

“Maisie, wait—” He pushes off the wall to follow me, then sees the slick of red coating his palm and trickling down his arm. “Oh…blood.”

And then, he faints, landing on top of the coats this time.

A groan exits me with gale force. I march over, staring down at him. “Did you just faint? Really?”

He doesn’t answer. Telling.

I should leave him here. He’ll probably come to in a minute or so with nothing more than a bad headache and a dry mouth, which is the least he deserves for having a secret hot wife. Besides, she could come back any minute. Let her take care of him—this sprawling, long-legged, absolutely useless professor. Maybe she’ll chew him out for bleeding all over her fancy coats and beheading the neighbor.

I swallow, then squat down beside his still frame. He is still bleeding. The gash at his temple doesn’t look too serious, but what if the smell of his blood summons a horde of zombies like chum in the water? What if they beat down the door while he’s still unconscious?

I squeeze my eyes shut.

I told you not to trust him! Mom says. People exist only to hurt you. Give ’em an inch, and that’s what they do. Now leave his sorry ass and start worrying about saving your own!

I breathe in and out, halting the loop of Mom-chatter in my head by sheer will. Maybe it’s not foolproof, but when in doubt, I try to do the opposite of what her voice tells me. And asshole or not, staying until he’s at least awake feels like the right thing to do.