by Mira Grant
“Almost there,” said Rey. The Jeep felt like it was going to shake apart around us. He was doing a remarkably good job of keeping it under control—and then I saw the lights of the fence up ahead of us, and stopped giving much of a damn about the Jeep. As long as we reached that beautiful fence line, everything was going to be all right.
“We’re going to take a pounding tonight,” said Olivia.
“Do you mean us, specifically, or the fence?” I asked.
“Both,” she said. “Look.” She pointed to the fence. I squinted and realized that I could see guards through the glare. They seemed to be lined up, waiting for us.
I groaned. “I’m getting deported.”
“Look at it this way,” she said. “It’ll make a great story.”
Rey continued driving straight for the fence, stopping with the bumper only a foot or so away. He cranked down his window, leaned out, and shouted, “Open the gate! This is an official research vehicle!”
“There are no research trips scheduled for tonight, sir,” shouted a voice—Rachel. She sounded bloody pissed. I couldn’t quite find it in myself to blame her.
“Come on, Rachel, open the gate,” shouted Jack. “There’s a mob behind us!”
“You could be infected, then,” she said. “It seems like a huge risk.”
“Rachel, please,” said Rey.
“You are all arseholes,” she snapped, following it with: “Open the gate! Guns ready! This is not a drill!”
Slowly—too slowly for my liking—the section of fence in front of us slid up, until Rey was able to drive the Jeep through the opening. The guards moved to surround us, keeping their guns trained on the break in the fence until the gate had closed again. Then they turned to train their guns on us instead. Much more reassuring.
Guards walked up with blood testing units in their hands. “Very slowly, without letting your hands slip out of view at any point, I want you to each exit the vehicle and take a blood test,” said Rachel. “If any of you test positive, you’re all going into quarantine.”
“Same old Rachel,” said Olivia amiably, and slid out of the car. The rest of us followed her.
It was almost reassuring to be going through the old familiar “take test, prick finger, wait for the lights to stop flashing” routine. The infected kangaroos arrived about halfway through the process, beginning to fling themselves against the fence. None of the people I was with paid them any mind, and so neither did I, although it took actual effort on my part. One by one, our tests came back clean and were placed into the waiting biohazard bags.
The last to get a clean test result was Juliet, whose reservoir condition doubtless confused things a bit. When her lights finally turned green, she dropped her unit into its bag before extending her hands in front of her, wrists together.
The nearest guard promptly handcuffed her. “Juliet Seghers-Ward, you are under arrest for poaching,” he said. “Please come with me.”
“See you at the arraignment,” she said.
“See you at the wedding,” Jack said, and leaned in quick, stealing a kiss.
Juliet was still laughing as she was led away. It seemed like there was nothing else she could do. The rest of us stood there, the kangaroos attacking the fence behind us, and watched her being taken.
8.
“Let me get this straight,” I said slowly, struggling to keep my temper in check. “Because Juliet was the only one to harm an animal, she’s the only one who’s actually in legal trouble, but she could be deported?”
“Assuming a convenient Australia natural doesn’t somehow find his way into her cell and marry her, thus renewing her citizenship, yes,” said Rachel.
I paused, my temper dimming as I perceived the overall shape of her plan. “Ah,” I said.
“Naturally, I would need to be distracted for that to happen.”
“Naturally,” I agreed. “Olivia is waiting outside. Would you care to walk with me?”
“Since you’ve proven yourself to be a dangerously seditious element, yes, I believe I would,” said Rachel. She stood, walking around her desk, and moved to open the door. “Is your life always this exciting?”
“Only when I’m very, very unlucky,” I said, and stepped outside…only to find myself facing what appeared to be another incipient riot. I groaned. “Such as now.”
Rachel stepped out behind me. “Again?”
“Funny, that’s just what I was thinking.” I trotted the few steps to where Olivia was standing. “Now what?”
She turned to face me. “They’re saying the kangaroos attacked last night. That Juliet’s missing because the kangaroos got her.”
“But that’s just stupid,” I said.
Olivia rolled her eyes. “Try telling them that.”
I paused. “All right,” I said finally. “I will.”
“Wait, Mahir, I didn’t mean—”
But I was already striding toward the crowd. When I reached the edge, I clapped my hands. Most of them ignored me. I clapped my hands again before cupping them and shouting, “May I please have your attention?”
The noise around me stopped. A few heads turned. No one looked terribly impressed. I lowered my hands.
“Er, hello,” I said, suddenly self-conscious. “My name is Mahir Gowda. I’m a visiting journalist with After the End Times. I came to learn more about your fence. It’s a marvel, really. I never dreamed that there could be anything like it. I’ve also learned quite a bit about your country. And one of the things I’ve learned is that you’re all being bloody idiots right now.”
That got a bit more attention. Irritated grumbles ran through the crowd.
“I mean it! You have more freedom than anywhere else on the planet. You can be outside! In the sun, in the grass, where there are birds and weird little mammals and—and no one else gets that anymore, do you understand me? People who’ve chosen to abandon the cities, maybe, but they have no government support. They have no guards or soldiers to support them. They have no fences. You’ve got the best of both worlds. You’re free enough to get bored and make up stories about danger, while everyone else on this planet is legitimately terrified. The kangaroos can’t get through the fence! We’d all be dead if they could, but they can’t, and you know it. That’s why you feel safe making a big deal of ‘what if.’ You know what happens when you make too much of ‘what if’?”
“No, what?” shouted someone belligerently. I couldn’t see who…but it sounded suspiciously like Rey.
“Someone believes you,” I said. The grumbles stopped. “Someone believes you, and that’s when the real fences come. That’s when the gates get locked, and the testing panels go in above every door. That’s when you start trading in your freedom for feeling safe. But you’ll never feel safe, not all the way, because every time you narrow the cracks that danger can come in through, the cracks that remain will seem just that much wider. Is it worth it? Is it worth looking at one of the last free places in the world, and giving it all away?”
No one said anything. I looked at them, and they looked back at me, and somehow, no one needed to say anything. We all knew what the answer had to be.
Part VI:
Going Home
Australia is a wild place, full of dangers that the rest of the world has forgotten. Australia is a tame place, full of people who live ordinary lives, lives that any among us would recognize. It is passionate and strange, it is boring and mundane, and it is beautiful. I dare any person in this world to stand upon Australia’s soil and not think, “Oh, how green this land, oh, how blue this sea; I must have been very good to have been allowed to come here.”
I must have been very good indeed.
—Mahir Gowda
1.
“You’re sure you’ll be all right?”
“I’ll be in the very capable hands of Virgin Atlantic,” I said. “If they can’t get me home safely, no one can.”
Olivia smiled. “I’m sorry Jack and Juliet couldn’t be here.”
“Honeymoons and court cases take priority,” I said. “Hotaru’s shortbread is consolation enough.”
“Thanks again for coming. It was…nice to work with you.” Olivia hesitated before flinging her arms around me. Voice muffled by my shoulder, she added, “I’ll miss you.”
“Oh, I’ll come again,” I said, returning her embrace. “Can’t let you have all the fun, now can I? And I look forward to seeing your follow-up reports.” We never did find out who’d been taking shots at the local kangaroos. My money was on Karen, who was happier believing that an impartial force had taken her child than the more realistic possibility of a human kidnapper. As a father, I couldn’t blame her for that.
“You mean it?” Olivia asked, pulling away.
“I do. Although I may wait until Sanjukta is a little older.” The image of her running freely through the tall Australian grass, unafraid of infection, was almost intoxicating. I wouldn’t want her to grow up here, but I wanted her to see it. Just once. Just long enough to understand. I smiled at Olivia. “Everyone should have the opportunity to see the world without a fence in the way, don’t you think?”
“Yeah,” she said. She wiped her eye with the back of her hand. “Safe flight.”
“I’ll do my best,” I said, and turned to walk toward the line for security. I had seen a different world, and I would never forget that, but some things, no matter where you go, will remain the same. Thank God for that. It is our similarities that make the differences matter, even when those differences include a fence extending as far as the eye can see, cutting a razor line across the horizon. Maybe, in the end, especially then.
Meet the Author
Born and raised in California, Mira Grant has made a lifelong study of horror movies, horrible viruses, and the inevitable threat of the living dead. In college, she was voted Most Likely to Summon Something Horrible in the Cornfield, and was a founding member of the Horror Movie Sleep-Away Survival Camp, where her record for time survived in the Swamp Cannibals scenario remains unchallenged.
Mira lives in a crumbling farmhouse with an assortment of cats, horror movies, comics, and books about horrible diseases. When not writing, she splits her time between travel, auditing college virology courses, and watching more horror movies than is strictly good for you. Favorite vacation spots include Seattle, London, and a large haunted corn maze just outside of Huntsville, Alabama.
Mira sleeps with a machete under her bed, and highly suggests you do the same. Find out more about the author at www.miragrant.com or follow her on twitter @seananmcguire.
Author photo by Carolyn Billingsley.
Also by Mira Grant
PARASITOLOGY
Parasite
THE NEWSFLESH TRILOGY
Feed
Deadline
Blackout
“Countdown” (e-only novella)
“San Diego 2014: The Last Stand of the California Browncoats” (e-only novella)
Writing as Seanan McGuire
Rosemary and Rue
A Local Habitation
An Artificial Night
Late Eclipses
One Salt Sea
Ashes of Honor
Chimes at Midnight
Discount Armageddon
Midnight Blue-Light Special
If you enjoyed
HOW GREEN THIS LAND, HOW BLUE THIS SEA,
look out for
PARASITE
PARASITOLOGY VOLUME 1
My darling ones, be careful now, and don’t go out alone.
—Simone Kimberley, Don’t Go Out Alone
Here there be monsters.
—Dr. Shanti Cale
August 17, 2015: Time stamp 15:06.
[The recording is crisp enough to look like a Hollywood film, too polished to be real. The lab is something out of a science fiction movie, all pristine white walls and gleaming glass and steel equipment. Only one thing in this scene is fully believable: the woman standing in front of the mass spectrometer, her wavy blonde hair pulled into a ponytail, a broad smile on her face. She is pretty, with a classic English bone structure and the sort of pale complexion that speaks less to genetics and more to being the type of person who virtually never goes outside. There is a petri dish in her blue-gloved hand.]
dr. cale: Doctor Shanti Cale, Diphyllobothrium symbogenesis viability test thirty-seven. We have successfully matured eggs in a growth medium consisting of seventy percent human cells, thirty percent biological slurry. A full breakdown of the slurry can be found in the appendix to my latest progress report. The eggs appear to be viable, but we have not yet successfully induced hatching in any of the provided growth mediums. Upon consultation with Doctor Banks, I received permission to pursue other tissue sources.
[She walks to the back of the room, where a large, airlock-style door has been installed. The camera follows her through the airlock, and into what looks very much like an operating theater. Two men are waiting there, faces covered by surgical masks. Dr. Cale pauses long enough to put down her petri dish and put on a mask of her own.]
dr. cale: The subject was donated to our lab by his wife, following the accident which left him legally brain dead. For confirmation that the subject was obtained legally, please see the medical power of attorney attached to my latest progress report.
[The movement of her mask indicates a smile.]
dr. cale: Well. Quasi-legally.
[Dr. Cale crosses to the body. Its midsection has been surrounded by a sterile curtain; the face is obscured by life support equipment, and by the angle of the shot. She pulls back the curtain to reveal the gleaming interior of the man’s sliced-open abdomen. The skin has been peeled back, and the blood has been suctioned away, revealing a wide array of colors. Liver brown, intestinal green and glistening white, and the smooth pink sac of the stomach. Calmly, she reaches into the man’s body, pushing organs aside until the surface of the small intestine is revealed.]
dr. cale: Scalpel.
[One of the masked men passes her the requested tool. She takes it, pressing down against the man’s intestine. He does not move. Her hand does not tremble.]
dr. cale: I am not following strict sterile protocol, in part because infection is not a risk. The subject’s immune system has been supplemented. D. symbogenesis eggs were introduced to the subject’s system six days ago, fed into his body along with the nutrient paste we have been using to preserve basic biological functions.
[The surface of the intestine splits, spilling a thin film of brownish liquid over the surrounding organs. Dr. Cale ignores it as she sets the scalpel aside and thrusts her hand into the man’s body. He still does not move as she digs through his small intestine. When she finally retracts her hand, she is clutching something. She pulls down her mask with her free hand and directs a beatific smile toward the camera.]
dr. cale: I am pleased to report that we have multiple fully-formed proglottids present in the subject’s body, as well as some partial strobila.
[She holds out her hand. The camera zooms in on the white specks writhing against her gloved fingers.]
dr. cale: D. symbogenesis is capable of maturing when cultured inside a living human host. Ladies and gentlemen…at long last, it’s alive.
[The film ends there. There are no notes in Dr. Cale’s progress reports relating to the eventual fate, or original identity, of the first human subject used to culture D. symbogenesis. The medical power of attorney referenced in the recording has never come to light.]
[End report.]
June 23, 2021: Time stamp, 13:17.
This is not the first thing I remember.
This is the first thing that I was told to remember; this is the memory that has been created for me by the hands and eyes and words of others. The first thing I remember has no need for hands, or eyes, or words. It has no need for others. It only needs the dark and the warm and the distant, constant sound of drums. The first thing I remember is paradise.
This is not the first thing I remember. But
this is the first thing you will need to know.
Sally Mitchell was dying.
She was up against an army—an army that had begun with paramedics, moved on to doctors, and finally, to complicated life support machines that performed their function with passionless efficiency—but none of that seemed to make any difference. She had always been determined, and now, she was determined to die. Silently, and despite everyone’s best efforts, she was slipping farther and farther away.
It was not a swift process. Every cell in her body, damaged and undamaged alike, fought to retain cohesion. They struggled to pull in oxygen and force out the toxins that continued to build in her tissues and bloodstream. Her kidney function had been severely impaired in the accident, and waste chemicals had ceased to be automatically eliminated. She no longer responded in any meaningful way to external stimuli. Once she was removed from the machines that labored to keep her body functional, her life would come to an end in very short order.
Sally Mitchell existed in a state of living death, sustained by technology, but slipping away all the same.
Her hospital room was crowded—unusually so, for a woman standing in death’s doorway, but her doctor had hoped that by bringing her family to see her, he could better plead his case for taking her off life support. The damage from the accident had been too great. Tests had shown that Sally herself—the thinking, acting girl they remembered—was gone. “Clinical brain death” was the term he used, over and over again, trying to make them understand. Sally was gone. Sally was not coming back. And if they kept her on artificial life support for much longer, more of her organs would begin to shut down, until there was nothing left. If her family approved the procedures to harvest her organs now, her death could mean life for others. By pairing her organs with splices taken from her SymboGen implant, the risks of rejection could be reduced to virtually nothing. Dozens of lives could be saved, and all her family had to do was approve. All her family had to do was let her go.
