Page 4 of Doomsdate

“Fine. But you keep an eye on the news and be ready to skedaddle up here at the first sign of societal collapse, you hear?”

“Ten-four, Gramps.” I smile, even though he can’t see me.

“Oh, and Maisie? There ain’t nothing wrong with being a virgin.”

I hang my head, face flaming. I’m simultaneously annoyed that Gramps knows me so well and weirdly glad, too. At least one person in this giant, terrifying world does. “Well, now you’re just lying.”

Gramps chuckles. “Seventy-three, Maisie-girl. This is Gramps, signing off.”

I repeat the goodbye signal, feeling my usual mix of grateful and humbled that my only friend is an elderly reclusive prepper I met online. Thanks to Mom, I never knew my real grandparents, and Gramps never had a real granddaughter. But somewhere along the way, between chatting about our favorite water-purification systems and rigging electric vehicles to be off-grid, we fell into this routine of…caring about each other. Checking in. Sharing our lives over the same ham radio frequency bit by bit, encouraged each time the other signed on and asked for more. Then, one day, Gramps sent me a coded message taped to the bottom of my favorite strawberry jam.

Coordinates.

It’s a big deal, telling someone the location of your secret bunker. The biggest deal, to a prepper. It’s throwing your lot in with someone else, the highest level of trust. We’ve been family officially unofficially ever since. Gramps has been trying for ages to get me to move up there before a shit-hits-the-fan scenario, but of course, I haven’t. I haven’t even visited. I can’t say why exactly, other than this feeling I have when someone gets too close. That apprehension that lives in the space between spotting a bird on your windowsill and it flying away. The question isn’t if you’ll scare it off, but when.

Just like every guy I’ve messaged on the dating apps, every co-worker, every friendly face at the gym. When people learn who I am, they always fly away.

But I can’t lose Gramps, so I’ve never wanted to risk it. That meddlesome, throat-clearing old man is all I have, and I love him.

After an afternoon spent watching reality television, grooming, and freaking out, it’s finally time to leave, and I’m proud of myself. Despite several close calls, I haven’t canceled, and I’m not going to. This is my last chance to find my Dream Date, to meet my goal and start living this life I’ve wasted for so long by spending it in fear.

My shaking fingers finally manage to slide a small golden hoop’s metal post through one ear, then I brush my short blond hair back and repeat on the other side. There. Earrings say I’m a normal woman who has definitely made it past a first date, right? My reflection stares back at me in my small handheld signaling mirror, the perpetual worry lines visible even in the three-inch stainless steel. I tuck the mirror into one of my jumpsuit’s cargo pockets.

This is going to be fine. I am going to be fine.

I check each of my hidden stashes to ensure they’re ready if I decide to bring Everett home. Switchblade under couch cushion. Taser in bathroom. Pepper spray under my pillow. I may have grown up in isolation, but I’ve spent the last ten years being a woman in America, and some boogeymen are real. After clicking a utility blade into my belt holster, I slide on my fleece while the local news plays on my laptop. I’m only half listening as the attractive news anchors banter about the rise of the “tummy bug” across the United States.

“And if you have to go out, don’t forget your mask and nitrile gloves, Dave!”

“That’s right, Jessica—scientists are divided on how the virus spreads, but you can’t be too safe. And maybe do your business at home, if you know what I mean!”

Jessica’s polite laughter echoes around my prep room when a bright red news ribbon starts scrolling across her jiggling breasts, catching my eye. Her laughter stops abruptly. She clutches her hidden earpiece closer, her eyes transforming to the flat, dead color of iron.

“This just in—the first death has been reported due to GI-27.”

T Minus Two Hours and Thirty Minutes

Until Shit Hits the Fan

Everett

There’s a special kind of desolation that results from scrolling on Netflix for forty-five minutes and finding nothing you want to watch. I’ve been lying motionless on my couch for so long, Chicken has evolved into her truest form, a furry gray meatloaf purring on my chest. I’ve had to rest the arm holding the remote control three times. I am motivationally bankrupt. Spiritually aloof. And when you’re a film professor who stopped caring about the art form you’ve dedicated your career to studying…well.

Add professionally fucked to that list, too.

Two perfunctory knocks and a sudden twist of metal unlocking metal, and my front door is thrown open with a bang. Sandeep peers inside, sniffing once warily, before stepping fully into my house.

Chicken and I don’t even look up.

Sandeep marches to the couch and stands over me, hands on his hips, mouth quirked into his crooked smile. “Hey, man.”

“Oh, no.” My eyes widen as I cower behind Chicken’s butt. “Whatever you want, the answer is no.”

“What are you talking about?” His tone is innocent, even though the intent is certainly malevolent.

“That’s your up-to-shit smile, Sandeep, and I don’t want any part of it. Chicken and I are enjoying a quiet night in, memorizing the Netflix menu, so if you could kindly go back to the home for meddlesome boys from whence you came, that’d be great.”

“Have you showered recently?” Sandeep eyes my hair in frank judgment. “Why do I even bother asking? Go shower.”