Page 58 of Doomsdate

“I don’t want to put you at more risk than you need to be.”

“I get that, and I appreciate it.” Maisie releases a long breath. “But I’m trying to do what you said this morning—to listen to my feelings and trust my instincts? And they’re telling me to see this through. Besides, I’ve never been anywhere, Everett. I want to be brave, like Amélie. And if I get to be brave and help my friend and see just a tiny bit more of this world I’ve been too afraid to explore? That feels right to me. Risks and all.”

She looks at me, her face open and vulnerable and more beautiful than ever before. I hope I don’t let her down again. I hope she doesn’t regret this later. And I hope, I hope, that when we find Gemma, she doesn’t embarrass the hell out of me in front of Maisie.

Or maybe…I do. The idea of Gemma meeting Maisie sends a giddy, pleasant hum through my chest. And the relief pouring through me at having Maisie by my side, not only for safety in numbers but also for the sheer desire of her company, feels almost—dazzling.

My face breaks into a true smile. “Okay, survival partner. Let’s go.”

Maisie expertly weaves through the remaining traffic abandoned on the road, heading toward god knows what. At least we’re headed that way together.

For now.

But I try not to think about that.

She flips on her ham radio, then taps the buttons preset to certain frequencies until voices fill the car.

“So you mean to tell me that FEMA ain’t gonna bail my ass out?”

“Boy, those zombies are more likely to eat your ass out now!”

“Never tried that with the missus before, but I guess there’s a first time for everything!” Howls of raucous laughter echo over the airwaves, mixed with aggressive static.

“What is this?” I ask slowly.

“That’s Jeffy America, host of Jawin’ with Jeffy. It’s a prepper radio show, and Gramps mentioned they were still broadcasting, so I thought maybe they’d have something interesting to say…”

Her voice trails off as Jeffy cackles into his mic so hard he gags. “Never thought I’d miss the government, but here we are at doomsday, and ain’t nobody coming to save us.”

“I heard the president himself got turned. The Russkies got him.”

Jeffy moans a little into the mic, followed by a suspicious gurgling noise. “Hoo boy, the Russkies got me, too.”

“Reckon you got a few hours left?” the cohost, a man dubbed Dorcas Preparicus, says in an unexpectedly somber tone.

“Gonna talk to you sorry sons of bitches until the end,” Jeffy replies. “Then I’ll switch to groaning.” Their laughter starts up again, and Maisie switches the frequency until the cool, confident tones of a woman greet the air, strangely familiar.

“Reports are trickling in from survivors marooned in their homes and bunkers across the country, confirming the worst of what we expected. Power grids in major U.S. cities are beginning to fail. The last flight leaving America was either shot down or independently crashed. Individuals attempting border crossings are shot on sight. If help is coming, we do not know it yet.”

This time, Maisie turns the radio all the way off and winces at me apologetically. “Well, that was depressing. How about you tell me about Washington, D.C., instead? You used to live here, right?”

I blink, still reeling from the short burst of horror provided by those few minutes of radio. “Um, yeah. We lived here until I was thirteen and Gemma was nine. Mom and Dad were still rising through the military’s ranks then, and they were way less focused on us following in their footsteps and more on being a family. I loved it here.” The memories pelt my mind like a gentle rain, so faint and watery it’s hard to distinguish one from another. The kitchen table, doing my homework. Mom tucking us in at night. Saturdays at the National Mall, combing the museums with my parents. They seemed to know everything, back then. So strong, so sure, so steady—I never needed to be, because they had my back unconditionally.

A feeling of safety permeates those years, which is what made the ones that followed so much harder. My parents making colonel one after the other, then moving us to New York for their faculty appointments at West Point. Gemma and I thought things would be easier for our family there. No more active-duty tours. No more stressful summonses to the Pentagon. No more special assignments that’d take one of our parents away for months at a time.

We were wrong.

“What’s so great about D.C.?” Maisie asks.

I blink away the memories and return to the moment. “The museums, hands down. I loved being around all that history. So much cool stuff. Rockets. Dinosaur bones. They even had the Batmobile in the American History Museum for a while.”

Maisie arches an eyebrow. “A bat mobile? Do I want to know?”

I press a hand to my heart, pained on her behalf that she never experienced Michael Keaton at his baddest-ass, but grateful that she never had to see Arnold Schwarzenegger in blue makeup. It’s a mixed bag, really. “Cool car, lots of gadgets, from a comic-book-turned-movie franchise about a rich guy that fights criminals.”

She nods at the road. “Got it.”

We take the exit, and the roads begin to empty once more. Everyone’s at home. God, I hope Gemma still is, too. It’s Monday morning, squarely in the range we told her we’d arrive, and I have to hope that she’s been safe enough at home to make it this long.