Page 3 of Doomsdate

Maybe next year.

As I walk down my hallway, the door to 2F opens suddenly, startling me back. I clutch the folder to my chest as my neighbor Tyler sways in the doorway, eyes bleary and bloodshot. His perpetually backward baseball hat lies slightly askew. I brace myself, but he stands there, frowning.

“Hey,” he mumbles. “Thought you were the delivery guy.”

I shake my head quickly.

He squints at me, eyeing my outfit up and down. “A jumpsuit? Pretty impractical for a shitting virus.”

“I’m fine.”

“Well, you won’t be for long, weirdo. Everyone’s getting it.” Grunting, the old frat bro disappears back into 2F, the door swinging not quite shut behind him, and I scurry down the hall.

I knew Tyler and Samson have the virus—I’ve heard nothing but moaning and flushing on repeat through the thin wall that separates our apartment bathrooms for the last twenty-four hours—but Tyler didn’t hit on me, then insult me, his usual one-two combo. He must be really sick.

Cold unease flares in my chest. Is everyone sick except me? Maybe I really should cancel.

I settle back at the radio, feeling unnerved, and press the talk button. “Frank didn’t find anything. Everett’s clean, Gramps.”

Gramps harrumphs into the microphone. “The best criminals always are, Maisie-girl.”

I sigh, hating how there’s no winning against a prepper’s anxiety. We produce mistrust as readily as carbon dioxide, and I can’t even be mad at Gramps about it because I’m just as bad. The fact is, this date is risky, a word I’ve avoided my whole life.

“Will this professor be able to take care of you when the shit hits the fan?” Gramps’s insistent voice warbles through the speakers. “That’s what you’ve gotta ask yourself, Maisie-girl. When doomsday arrives, who do you want by your side?”

“Gramps, I don’t need some man to take care of me.” At least, not in the way Gramps is referring to. I desperately need a man to take care of me in the more primal sense. “And besides, I’m lonely. Did you know that people who are lonely have a thirty percent increased risk for early death? Studies show that loneliness is as lethal as smoking fifteen cigarettes every day for your entire life.”

“Don’t I know it. Which is why you should get in your rig right now and head to my bunker instead of going on a first date on the eve of the damn apocalypse!”

“For the hundredth time, it’s not the apocalypse, Gramps. It’s just a nasty GI virus, and finding someone to spend the lockdown with is worth a little diarrhea.” Little might be an understatement, though, based on next door’s marathon of flushing.

“What? Diarrhea? Your transmission broke up, girl—did you say you’re sick?”

I can practically hear Gramps’s blood pressure rising through the speakers.

“No, no, no. I’m perfectly healthy, and I know you’re worried, but we’re going to Gatherers. There hasn’t been a single outbreak of the virus connected to that chain.”

Gramps snorts into the mic, which is worse than clearing his throat. “Because it’s run by the evil vegans, that’s why.”

I roll my eyes. “Have you been on Reddit again?”

“Consider the facts, Maisie! An ultra-contagious GI virus hits the U.S. like a ton of bricks, with outbreaks connected to every major restaurant, poultry farm, processing plant, and ranch, and yet the vegans are fine? They’ve done something to the meat supply!”

“Then why are vegetarians getting sick, too?” My tone is gentle, though firm. Anxiety is the common denominator in the prepper community, the undercurrent fueling our collective determination to be ready, and for some, like Gramps, it’s easier to cope with the fear by assigning it to a boogeyman.

And in the case of the great gastrointestinal distress of 2027?

Evil vegan boogeymen.

“Animal products! Casein is in everything these days—that’s why the parakeets are sick! It’s in their bird food!” Gramps clucks his tongue. “What did those li’l birdies ever do to the vegans? It’s criminal!”

“Listen, Gramps, I’ve got to go.” I glance at the five episodes of Dreamsdate cued up on my laptop. “Got a lot to do. Did you take your meds today?”

The staticky air on the other side is telling.

“…yes?”

“Can’t have a heart attack in an underground bunker in the middle of nowhere, Pennsylvania, and survive the evil vegan apocalypse, can you? Go take them now.”