Chapter Sixteen
Everett
There’s something about the smell of sweat and rubber that makes me feel fundamentally inadequate. That is how I know, before I even open my eyes, that we’re in a gym.
“Maisie,” I croak, rolling toward her where she’s sprawled next to me on the mats, still unconscious. On her other side is Chicken’s carrier, and from the loud yowl inside, she’s pissed.
Me, too, girl. I have no idea what time it is, but judging by the way my head aches and the bleary feeling behind my eyes, we’ve been out for some time. My heart sinks.
My parents. Gemma.
When I didn’t show at the helipad, they must’ve thought I was dead.
I squeeze my eyes shut. I don’t know what’s happening right now, but my hands are tied behind my back. There’s not much I can do except inch toward Maisie on my side, and awkwardly at that.
“Maisie!” I’m close enough now that I can peck at her shoulder with my nose, like an actual chicken. “Wake up!”
Her eyelids flutter once, twice, and then her forehead creases in pain, no doubt experiencing the same terrible headache I am.
Then she shoots up to sitting, her eyes wide as she clocks the fluorescent lighting, the tall ceilings, the pyramids of color-coded barbells, then me, still scooting like an inchworm toward her.
“We’re in a gym,” she says, her voice low and utterly baffled. “Why are we in a gym?”
“Judging by the whole drugged-and-tied-up bit, I’m guessing we’ve entered the captured by evil survivors portion of this zombie apocalypse. Can’t explain the gym part.”
As if on cue, a man’s throaty voice yells, “Team! Our guests have woken up!” He claps his hands once, hard. “Assemble!”
A crew of twelve extremely fit people jog over to the mats, forming a half circle around us. Hands placed on hips, they stare down with utter nonchalance in skintight workout gear.
What in the creatine-fueled hell is this?
Maisie’s already on her feet, despite her hands being tied behind her back, because she has a tight set of abs that work. My ascent takes more effort, and the crew watches, vaguely disgusted, as I finally manage to sit up.
“Who are you, where are we, and why have you taken us here?” Maisie spits the words out, sounding scarier than I’ve ever managed to in my whole life.
“Whoa, calm down, ma’am.” Throaty man approaches with his palms up.
He’s white, sunless-tanning-lotioned to a crisp tangerine, and thanks to his T-shirt with its gaping arm holes, we have front-row seats to his gleaming, chiseled obliques.
His crew parts to let him through like the Red Sea did for Charlton Heston in The Ten Commandments.
He is, without a doubt, the bro in charge.
And if the condescending, gaslighting smile he’s giving us now is any indicator, I’m guessing he’s a fairly demented one.
“I’m Coach Connor, and this is my gym. We’ve brought you here to help you, of course, and introduce you into our community of survivors. Welcome to our home.”
“Funny, I don’t feel very welcome right now.” I grunt as I manage to get one knee beneath me on the ground, then the other. An unwilling, sweating supplicant before the gym god. “More like kidnapped.”
Connor’s bullshit smile melts to something more disdainful as his eyes fall from Maisie to me. “Whether you’re welcome remains to be seen.” He turns back to Maisie. “Fixer-uppers like your friend here aren’t usually worth our investment. You understand.”
I try to launch to my feet, but my shins are too long, and I end up back on my butt, panting. “What do you mean, ‘fixer-upper’?”
“Don’t be ridiculous. He’s not my friend,” Maisie says, her voice defiant.
The words puncture my heart like a needle—easy, sharp, devastating.
What is she doing? Trying to disassociate from the dead weight I clearly am here?
My head swivels toward her, beseeching her to look at me, to rethink this.
We’re supposed to be a team. Her eyes dart to mine, apologetic, then back to Connor just as fast.
“And he’s not a fixer-upper.” She lifts her chin, as if daring Connor to question this bold assertion. “He’s my husband.”
My mouth falls open, but I shut it just as fast.
Husband?
Warmth cascades through me. She isn’t ditching me—she’s saving me, again. Linking her destiny to mine.
Shit, I think I’m tearing up.
“Oh, forgive me,” Connor says, his palms raised again. “I didn’t see wedding rings.”
“They were stolen,” Maisie blurts. “By bandits.”
Less convincing, but okay.
“Our name is—Shenandoah. Maisie and Everett Shenandoah.”
Wow. The lore grows. Are we hippies? I think we’re hippies. My insides go impossibly soft as I gaze at her, my wife. My weird, hippie wife.
But Connor’s frowning at us both, clearly dismayed by Maisie’s inconvenient devotion to the fixer-upper. I hope she hasn’t doomed herself in trying to keep me safe.
I have to get us out of here.
I clear my throat. “Look, Connor—”
“Coach,” he cuts in, folding his arms.
“Sure, Connor. While we appreciate your, ah, recruitment efforts, we’re not interested in joining your whole…
thing.” I stare levelly up at Connor and his buff lackeys from the floor, having given up on standing.
Their physiques make me question what came first—their membership in this gym or in this cult?
“If you could unbind our hands, we’ll be on our way. No harm done.”
“Now, now, now, let’s not be rash.” Connor gives us that cajoling smile again, showing off his impeccably whitened teeth.
They look sharp under the fluorescent lights.
“There’s strength in numbers, and we haven’t shown you all we have to offer.
Based on our initial assessments”—he says this to Maisie—“we think you could make a valuable asset to our team. Now, I know the way we brought you in was disorienting, but I assure you, it was done only for the safety of our community, which is my top priority. Can’t have strangers learning the location of our home and resources before we ascertain whether they’re trustworthy, can we?
” He ducks his chin, the full brunt of his faux sincerity levied on Maisie.
“I’m sure you can understand the risks we’re taking by trying to help you, and also how we must balance those risks to protect our home. ”
I scoff under my breath. Connor sounds about as convincing as an infomercial salesman, but Maisie shocks me by actually nodding in agreement. When she sees me staring slack-jawed at her, she winces.
“It’s probably what I would do in his shoes.”
“This one gets it!” Connor’s face explodes into a grin.
“Come on. Let us show you a warm welcome before you make any decisions.” He snaps his fingers, and the woman in a pale lavender unitard on his right starts forward with shears.
She snips the thick cords binding our wrists together, and my arms flop to my sides, sore and tingling from the long-held unnatural position.
Maisie gives me a sheepish glance as she helps me up, and I try to communicate with my eyes Do NOT trust him, Maisie, he’s an evil gym rat overlord! ! But she just frowns, confused.
That was harder to intimate than I thought.
“Time for a tour, Shenandoahs! This is our main hub, the workout arena.” Connor gestures with his hands wide as we trail behind him. The squeak of rubber soles against mats makes me whip around. Behind us is his crew, in formation, creepy as all hell. They stare back without making eye contact.
“The body is our temple, and physical fitness is key to survival, so we take our conditioning very seriously. No letting up just because the world’s ending.
” Connor gazes at Maisie in a satisfied, discerning way, like a jeweler appraising the real thing.
It makes me want to punch him. “I think you agree?”
“Well, yeah.” Maisie frowns, clearly not liking that she agrees with this guy on anything, and I feel a little better.
“Training regimen?”
“I do mixed martial arts four days a week, core work the other three, and run five miles a day.” Maisie says this as though she’s reading a recipe instead of describing life on another, fitter planet.
“And you?” Connor asks me abruptly.
“I—play pickleball.” Dammit, I sound defensive, even to me.
“Right.” Connor smiles, and it’s as cloying and noxious as the artificial sweeteners I gave up years ago. “We believe our commitment to health is why our outpost has immunity to the zombie virus. All the lazy, undisciplined part-timers who couldn’t give up their Oreos bit it immediately.”
I scowl, disgusted on behalf of lazy, undisciplined part-timers everywhere by his callous, ignorant attitude.
I used to love Oreos—used to eat all kinds of delicious processed snack foods before Louise got her colon cancer diagnosis.
But when her doctors put her on an ultra-strict diet, I joined her in solidarity.
The more Gemma sent me about preservatives and thickeners and artificial everything and their links to the cancer eating my beautiful Louise from the inside, the less I could look at that food without a deep, crushing outrage.
At the corporations that design food to be addictive no matter the cost to our health, at the FDA for letting it happen, at the sheer gobs of privilege and effort and money it takes to conscientiously reject the easiest, cheapest, and often most palatable foods in favor of a damn rutabaga.
Because denying the capitalist food industry to prioritize our own health is a privilege, and anyone who doesn’t admit that is a fucking asshole.
“Coach.” A short, squat man who looks like he could bench me jogs up to his side. “A Crew is returning from clearing patrol.”
“Great, send them to the showers and then they can have their food rations. B Crew,” Connor turns and calls out behind us. Eight people step forward, their eyes haunted. “You’re up.”