Chapter Twenty-Six
Two Weeks Later
Everett
“I’m scared,” Maisie whispers, clutching my hand tightly in hers. The mass of bodies inches forward.
“Of zombies? Or Canadians?”
She looks up at me, her eyes the palest blue topaz. “Both?”
We take another step forward in line.
“Chicken hasn’t hissed once since we entered the holding zone, and Canadians are notoriously goofy.
” I gesture to the long line of tables covered in platters of Tim Hortons donuts and carafes of coffee.
The decision to use disposable tablecloths decorated with dancing skeletons reflects questionable taste by the Land of Maple, but further proves my point.
“Come on. Would bad people give us donuts?”
“Yes!” she exclaims.
She has a point.
Her eyes flare wide. “You didn’t eat one, did you?”
“No, no,” I assure her, though I’d almost gamble my humanity for a Raspberry Filled right now. I’m starving.
We’ve been in the holding zone for the mandatory five-hour waiting period, having submitted ourselves to basic intelligence tests (zombies don’t know their ABC’s), blood tests (red is good), and some fairly invasive tooth scraping, thanks to my own personal contributions to our collective zombie-virus knowledge.
After Gemma convinced the Presidents Greer to engage diplomatically with the Canadian government instead of capturing the hazmat-suited scientists dispatched to run our nuclear facilities, the two countries began tentatively sharing knowledge and even created this program for Americans who wish to temporarily flee the rotting husk of their homeland while the new government gains control.
Maisie and I are in the first cohort to cross over, along with thirty or so other survivors who opted out of Mom and Dad’s military operations, including some familiar faces like Corinne and Julio’s little family, the Germans, and, weirdly enough, Jessica Hughes, the local news anchor who first broke the story in Durham.
Maisie was particularly starstruck when she recognized her standing in line behind us.
It wasn’t a hard choice for us to leave the United States behind.
After we buried Gramps in a beautiful glen not far from his bunker, Maisie and I spent a few days there, resting, recovering, and talking late into the night about our options.
About what we wanted for the rest of our lives.
For Maisie, it was simple—see as much of the world as she can, while she can.
For me, it was even simpler. I just want to be with her.
But also, not do war.
When Maisie and I returned to West Point after we said goodbye to Gramps and the bunker, Mom, Dad, Gemma, and Ellie caught us up on the latest developments.
“That seceding group of vegan hippies are calling for survivors to join their commune in New Oregon before the so-called Great Reset culminates,” Dad said, punching his fist into his hand. “We need to be ready.”
I arched an eyebrow. “Am I missing something? Why are we so worried about the peaceful vegan hippies?”
“Because,” Ellie piped up, “we linked Talitha Bones, the leader of those vegan homesteading influencers, through a corporate shell game all the way back to HE Enterprises, which is the owner of Re-Fresht’s patents, and strangely enough, of Gatherers, a popular vegan raw-food chain with boutique grocery stores around the U.S. ”
Maisie and I exchanged vaguely panicked glances.
“So you’re saying…what, exactly? It wasn’t an accident?” My mouth hung open, then dropped farther when Mom and Dad grimaced. “The virus’s release, its interaction with the preservative…you think this apocalypse was orchestrated on purpose?”
“Don’t you think it’s suspicious that the secret owner of the preservative that caused the downfall of America actively preaches against its use to her two million followers on social media and is now establishing her own country?
” Ellie sighed happily. “I’ve always wanted to get into true-crime podcasting. ”
“Huh. Evil vegans,” Maisie said, a note of wonder in her voice. She kissed her fingers and looked heavenward. “Sorry I ever doubted you, Gramps.”
“But what’s the Great Reset?” I blinked. “What do they even want?”
“We think,” Gemma began, “based on the progression of the zombie virus and some of the weird, coded messaging in Talitha’s broadcasts, that the Great Reset refers to when zombies have eaten everyone and everything viewed as corrupted, ridding the country of all contaminated food products, trash, even certain synthetic materials such as plastics, as well as those who do not share their extreme homesteading values.
They’re positing that the zombies will naturally biodegrade back into the environment at some point. ”
“A nationwide massacre that cleans up after itself,” Dad added grimly. “What will be left are empty frontiers, ready for these John Denver–loving homicidal-maniac plant eaters to do their worst.”
“Naturally,” Mom said, “this means war.”
“I keep telling them Talitha is a known pop girlie, but your dad’s really fixated on John Denver,” Ellie whispered to me.
After Mom and Dad explained their plans for invading Portland, Maisie and I politely declined involvement in their government again.
My parents looked far more upset at losing Maisie’s natural cunning than my encyclopedic knowledge of Portland-based bands I hoped were still alive but not evil, but they at least pretended to be equally disappointed I wasn’t interested.
We made it up to them by having a small ceremony to celebrate the marriage we’d been faking for weeks.
Gemma officiated, Mom hoo-ahed, and Dad cried.
Ellie caught the bouquet very good-naturedly even though it’s a bullshit patriarchal tradition, and Ayana and Julio made the cake.
We partied with our friends from Queens all night safely indoors, though the Battle of the Lusk Reservoir had largely cleared the area of the worst of the swarms.
I’ll never forget it. In her most badass jumpsuit, with a bouquet of spring wildflowers, Maisie looked gorgeous. And when she said “I do,” her blue eyes sparkling…well. I’ve been grinning ever since. Pretty impressive considering there’s an apocalypse on.
As our line shuffles closer to the guard station where they’re inspecting documents, Maisie looks increasingly nervous, and I wrap an arm around her shoulders.
Behind her, she’s dragging her Travel Baby Double Spinner Pro with Walter the Pothos bungeed on top.
Chicken’s on my shoulder, her preferred apocalypse perch, while I pull the rest of our luggage with only a minimal amount of movie memorabilia, pre-negotiated, inside.
Finally, it’s our turn.
“Well, hello there!” the Canadian guard says through the small window in his yellow, bite-proof hazmat suit. “Name and documents, please.”
“Maisie Bennett Shenandoah,” Maisie says proudly, her chest swelling as she hands the guard her pristine blue passport. She wipes happy tears away with the back of her hand.
“Oh, hey! You even have your passport! Aren’t you prepared,” the guard says, giving her an approving grin.
Maisie’s small, nervous smile grows as the guard stamps her booklet twice—once to show the temporary visa to relocate here, and second a skull-face, because god knows why, seriously, what the hell, Canada.
“You’re going to rub this apocalypse in our faces forever, aren’t you,” I ask, finally understanding as I marvel at the guard’s petty-ass stamp collection, which includes disembodied brains, reaching skeleton hands, and a comic-book bubble that simply says Oh, No! Zombies! in a classic horror font.
“Oh, yeah,” the guard says cheerfully, “you can bet on that.” He hands me back my own documents, which consist of my zombie-body-donation-for-science card and a letter written by my parents, since I lost my wallet somewhere in the Hudson, I think. He stamps the bottom with Bwaaaaains!
“Welcome to Canada, Shenandoahs!” he says, shaking Maisie’s hand enthusiastically, then mine. “Your happily ever after begins, oh, right about now.”
The End