Page 99 of Doomsdate

With Julio’s help, getting back to New Jersey is easy enough, even with Ellie in tow. She’s scrappy and capable, and rows far better than I do. We’re on the road by eleven. A mere fifty miles stretch between us and my parents, and the highways are distressingly clear. Not a roadblock or upturned vehicle in sight. Even the zombie herds stay mostly to the medians, their eyes dull and disinterested in our presence. Like it or not, fate is conspiring to deliver me swiftly and decisively into the hands of my controlling parents, and despite the chilly interior of Maisie’s car, hot beads of nervous sweat trickle down my back the closer we get.

And I don’t have anything figured out yet. I haven’t had a chance to talk to Maisie all morning, and the last thing I want is to show up to West Point and immediately get commandeered by my parents into whatever world-domination bullshit they’re up to now without knowing what she wants. If I had my way, we’d drop off Ellie and the Oval Office patents, snatch my sister, and hit the road again before nightfall. But the closer we get, the stronger my parents’ magnetic pull seems to become. What if they take us prisoner like Connor, too? I wouldn’t put it past them, though cults-with-benefits isn’t their style.

“So,” Ellie begins, suddenly appearing in the space between our seats. Chicken purrs contentedly from her arms. “How’d you two lovebirds meet, anyway?”

“Er, what?” I cough out the water I was attempting to drink, and a fine spray of it speckles the windshield.

Ellie grins. “I’m a romance podcaster, which means I’m addicted to love stories, and I’m professionally nosy. Even though you’re married, you’re clearly still obsessed with each other. We have some time to kill. Tell me everything.”

Maisie snorts. “We’re not obsessed with each other,” she says quickly, looking at me as though to rally support for her point. “Right? Honey?”

“Right.” I shrug.

Bullshit, my heart roars.

Ellie glances between us, smiling under her furrowed brow. “Okay. There’s definitely a story here.”

“No, there’s not,” we say in unison.

“Uh-huh.” Ellie squints at me, then Maisie, and settles back into her seat. “I see now. You two met a week ago. Two, tops. And you’re fake dating. Well, fake married,” she amends. “I’m guessing for safety? But like everyone who thinks they can fake a relationship, you’ve both caught feelings hard.” She chuckles to herself. “Typical.”

Maisie nearly veers off the road. “How do you know all that?”

This time, Ellie snorts. “Come on. No wedding bands? No stories last night of your life before the apocalypse? All your anecdotes are a week old. As I mentioned before, you’re clearly obsessed with each other. He hasn’t stopped touching you since you arrived—”

I snatch my hand off Maisie’s thigh as though scalded.

“—and you’re both in complete denial about how obvious you are,” Ellie concludes, smug. “Am I wrong?”

“Witch,” Maisie breathes in awe, locking startled eyes with mine.

“Nah, just a romantic,” Ellie counters. “So, what’s the plan? Is West Point your final stop for your happily ever after?”

I want to jump from this moving vehicle. This is not how I want to have this conversation. Still, I pin my gaze to Maisie, willing her to say the words my heart yearns for.

“I don’t know what our future holds.” She glances at me, then smiles softly. “But we’ll figure it out together.”

“Aww,” Ellie says, then sighs happily as she leans back, nuzzling my cat. “Love a fake-dating, forced-proximity, high-stakes romance plot. Take my money; five stars.”

“We’re here,” Maisie says, her voice low and cautious as a tall stone gatehouse appears up ahead, its entry barricaded and lined with soldiers.

Live ones. That’s nice.

We all straighten as two of the soldiers jog over to her window.

“Names?” a young cadet asks, peering into our car. When it’s my turn, I clear my throat.

“Dr. Everett Greer.”

My name sets off a cascade of reactions through the personnel guarding the gate, and when it reaches the woman in charge, she hurriedly radios the information into base.

“Proceed to first processing!” she yells, giving the order.

Processing is…well. Interesting. Before the gate opens, each person (and cat) in the car is subjected to an oral swab that’s tested right there on the side of the road.

They’ve already developed a zombie-virus test? Damn, Gemma. Outperforming me once again.

I shake my head. My parents are going to be insufferable.