Page 34 of Doomsdate

“Listen, Everett—this is a GI virus that went fatal overnight! Almost everyone died at home. Do you think that means there’s just an abundance of empty houses lying around that we can break into without coming into contact with sick people, dead people, or undead people?”

Everett raises both his hands. “Okay, you’re getting a little scary right now, and I think the important thing is that I will die from exposure tonight, so camping is out.”

I curse and turn the wheel so suddenly that Everett’s head bangs into the window and Chicken hisses from her carrier. We careen into the parking lot of a strip mall, where I come to a screeching halt outside the REI store and park right up on its sidewalk, because who’s going to stop me? I grab my machete, then thrust a baseball bat at Everett’s shocked face.

“Come on. We’re going shopping.”

“In there?” His eyes fill with alarm.

“Public places will be safer than residential areas right now, since everyone sick died at home on the toilet.”

“Not everyone! Not retail workers. Remember COVID and how our country forced the lowest-paid workers to accept the highest risk just so pandemic deniers could still shop at Target?”

I tilt my chin to the side. He has a point.

“Fine. If there’s anyone in there, I’ll take care of it. You get what you need, and we’ll be in and out.” I raise both eyebrows. “Or you can freeze tonight. Your choice.”

Everett looks like he’s about to puke, but after several deep breaths, he unlocks the car door and follows me in.

The REI is empty except for a string of drooling, white-eyed zombies standing at the front cash registers. Like the zombies outside, the light from the cashiers’ eyes is dull. A flat, filmy coating instead of the burning headlamps I saw last night. They don’t even move as we step into the store, our weapons raised high.

“Are you sure about this?” Everett whispers, his knuckles blanched white around the bat’s handle.

“They’re completely lifeless right now. See?” I tap my machete against a metal sign proclaiming fifteen percent off. The loud clang reverberates through the store, but the only one who jumps is Everett.

“Jesus, Maisie!”

I start rattling off the list of basic survival items he needs. “You need base layers for both top and bottom, and get the wool kind—no reason to skimp now. Get an insulated coat that packs up small, no parkas, and some good socks and boots, too.” When Everett doesn’t immediately move toward the men’s section, I nudge him forward with my elbow. “Go—I’ve got your back with the cashiers.”

A second, more pointed nudge seems to wake Everett up from his fear stupor. I guess it’s one thing to stare at the sluggish, docile daytime zombies through your car window, and another to go shopping in plain sight of them, but then he’s off, hurrying through the menswear, grabbing items from my list as fast as he can. When he returns, his arms are full.

I point to the base layers, thick thermal shirt, and water-resistant, thick-lined sweatpants in his arms. “Go ahead and put these on.”

“I can’t here,” Everett whispers, his eyes trained on the zombie cashiers. “They’ll—see.”

“Oh my god, fine.” I stomp, machete leading the way, over to the dark dressing rooms and flick on the lights. “I’ll keep guard, but hurry—we’re losing daylight.”

Everett steps into the dressing cubicle and starts to disrobe. He threads his brown leather belt back through the buckle, then glances up to find me still staring. The image of him standing there, the swoop of his wavy brown hair falling over one brow while his large hands gather at his waist, is so jarring that I have to force myself to close my mouth.

Everett’s smile quirks up, and I feel myself heating to one thousand degrees. I whip back around and swing my machete a few times for practice.

“This is the weirdest shopping date I’ve ever been on,” Everett says lightly to my back as his belt buckle clatters against the floor.

I clear my throat. “Look for a weapon before we leave, too. Something you can train with later at the campsite.” I say the word pointedly, trying to summon all the annoyance that flooded my bloodstream at the mention of memorabilia. I can’t sexualize a man who packs memorabilia.

After last night’s frantic make-out, followed by his intense rejection, rescuing him from a horde of zombies, and teaming up to road-trip through apocalyptic America, I have no clue where Everett and I stand. But no matter what, I can’t afford to be distracted right now.

Everett screams. I twist around in time to see him stumble out of his dressing room, dressed only in tight black trunks that hug the round curves of his ass. A figure shambles after him, sightless beneath a giant red parka that’s been thrown over its head, hands outstretched.

See? Distracted!

Also, that parka’s way too thick. Did he listen to me at all?

Everett takes off out the dressing room’s exit, the zombie on his tail. I leave from the dressing room’s entrance, looping back through the store to cut the zombie off. This one’s moving faster than the daylight zombies, but slower than nighttime ones. Even with its head covered, it follows Everett’s mad, half-naked zigzag through the store.

Hmm. Is its sense of smell enhanced somehow? Or hearing?

I pounce between two racks of sensible thermal shirts, ending the chase with a decisive, arcing blow to the zombie’s neck. It sprawls face-first on the floor. One more chop, and its head is severed, lying wetly in the parka. It stops twitching. I look up to see Everett on top of a bench in the shoe section, panting down at me. The rapid rise and fall of his chest, the way the muscles in his abdomen tense and release with each breath…