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by Mira Grant

  There was a big press pen at the back of the venue, for local bloggers or newspaper people who wanted to show up but hadn’t been able to secure a personal interview or permission to take photos from closer up. The small pen at the front was reserved for our team, the governor’s official photographer—Herc O’Halloran, who treated every photo shoot like it was going to win him a Pulitzer—and two junior bloggers who’d won a competition at their high school. They huddled together, terrified and elated in equal measure, eyeing the rest of us with the sort of wariness that I normally only saw in the feral cats that stalked our neighborhood. Both of them wanted to go into Factual News, and had been treating Ben like he was the second coming of Anderson Cooper. Ben was pretty confused by this sort of adulation, but he’d been going gamely along with it, probably in part because he didn’t have any other choice.

  With the candidate imminent, the two teen journalists had returned to their seats. One was taking rapid photos of everything around him, including, I suspected, the air, while the other was whispering into a handheld recorder, face pale and eyes darting from side to side like she expected an attack at any moment. I plopped myself down in the seat next to Ben, checking that my sundress was draping correctly over my knees before I crossed my ankles and flashed him a bright smile.

  “Hello, oh handsome savior of the journalistic world,” I said. “Have you passed the wisdom of your long, long lifetime on to your new acolytes?”

  “Stop,” he said, heatlessly.

  “She’s not going to,” said Audrey, as she took the seat on my other side. “You know she’s not going to. She never stops. She’s like the Energizer Bunny of being a pain in the ass. Why do you continue to try to make her?”

  “I believe in miracles,” he said.

  I looked around and frowned. “Where’s Mat?”

  Ben actually cracked a smile at that. “You’re not going to believe it,” he said. “I was here when it happened, and I almost don’t believe it.”

  “Mat has decided to retire from journalism and become a full-time makeup artist,” I guessed.

  “Mat has returned to their home planet,” said Audrey.

  “Ash is sort of right,” said Ben. “We were getting settled for the event when Chuck came over and asked Mat to come help with makeup.”

  I breathed slowly in as I pulled the mag from my pocket and got it seated on the bridge of my nose. It was almost time for the fun to begin, and I didn’t want to miss a frame. “You’re kidding.”

  “My hand to God,” said Ben, holding up his left hand like he was taking a Boy Scout oath.

  “Damn.” I shook my head. “We may lose Mat over this campaign after all.” Chuck was Governor Kilburn’s campaign manager. He made sure she was dressed for whatever event she was heading into, that her hair was always perfect, and that her makeup was never either too aggressive or too understated. He was, in short, the final arbiter of her public image, and if he was trying to sneak Mat away from us, we were going to be in for a fight.

  “Don’t worry,” said Audrey, bumping my shoulder with hers. “Mat might think they’d like to live the high life of movie stars and politicians, but the first time someone asks them why they’re taking apart the toaster, they’ll come running right back to us.”

  “We are a safe harbor of blessed madness in this wonderland of excessive sanity,” said Ben gravely.

  Three security staffers appeared at the front of the venue as if by magic, lining themselves up with the posts between the podium and the rose beds. They were trying to be unobtrusive. It was a nice trick for a group that averaged almost six feet in height, and came with more guns than the average bodybuilding competition. The music started a moment later, a twangy, country-accented cover of some pre-Rising pop song that I didn’t recognize but knew I’d heard before. It was always something I’d heard before. If you asked the politicians of the world, the age of good music ended in the summer of 2014, before Taylor Swift dropped her first heavily political album. They wanted to evoke a more innocent, less zombie-filled age. Maybe it worked. I didn’t know; I wasn’t the target audience.

  The applause followed the music after about thirty seconds, when Governor Kilburn appeared from the side of the rose garden and made her way toward the podium. She was casually dressed in jeans and a dark pink sweater with a draped neckline. I wondered how many of the people watching this live would recognize her red rose earrings as connected to the latest Sailor Moon resurgence. I tapped the arm of my mag, zooming in on her ears. Pop culture reporting wasn’t so much my thing, but we probably had a baby blogger on staff by now who would be happy to dig into the governor’s media tastes for a fluff piece. Or hell, maybe not so fluff. You could tell a lot about a person by what they chose to entertain themselves. If Governor Kilburn was a secret Sailor Moon fan, we could be looking at a girl-power campaign of celestial proportions.

  The applause died down as Governor Kilburn stepped into position and cast a practiced smile at the crowd. Someone from the back shouted, “We love you, Susan!” Her smile cracked, becoming less technically perfect and a hell of a lot more sincere.

  “I love you too, Portland,” she said, leaning a hairbreadth closer to the mic. “You have no idea how good it is to be home.” Cheering. “We would have made this a morning event, but I wanted to go by Powell’s before I had to pack and get on the road. There’s a lot of country to cover. I needed something to read—and hopefully, I’ll have a job soon that takes up a lot of my time.” More cheering, this time accompanied by laughter. It was clear she knew her audience. It wasn’t as clear whether she’d be able to work a crowd like this outside of Portland.

  It was almost too bad that we hadn’t come on to the campaign somewhere other than the West Coast. This was her home territory: This was where she was at her most comfortable, and most likely to succeed. We could learn a lot about her under ideal circumstances while we were here. Finding out how she performed under pressure, on the other hand—that was going to require a change of venue. We’d get it soon. The campaign was slated to leave for Montana in the morning, all of us either packing into the equipment trucks or hopping onto a chartered flight to our next stop. In the meanwhile, it was all about her comfort zone.

  The paperwork on Mallory’s RV was still going through. Audrey was planning to fly back and pick it up as soon as it was ready for us. It was going to be a few days, and the campaign needed to move.

  The cheers died, replaced by an expectant silence. Governor Kilburn had clearly been anticipating that. She smiled, a little ruefully, a little entertained—and I didn’t even want to think about how much time she’d spent practicing that combination in her mirror—as she leaned against the podium and said, “But I suppose you’re not here today to hear about my book-buying habits. You want to know what my plan is for this country. You want to hear my reasons for running, and your reasons for maybe casting a vote in my favor come November. So I guess I’d better get started.”

  The crowd laughed again, but it was a shorter, sharper sound: They were hungry to hear what she was going to say. These people weren’t her friends. Ben would probably be able to explain the social structure and political landscape of Portland to me later, and that was all well and good, because it would give me context. It also wasn’t important. You don’t survive as an Irwin without learning to recognize predators when they’re encroaching on your personal space. Every person here was a predator. Every person here wanted to rip something out of the governor.

  Even us. We wouldn’t have been in this pretty garden, surrounded by these pretty people, if we hadn’t wanted something. Maybe we were less predatory and more parasitic, here to feed off of her without killing her, but we were still looking for a free meal, just like everybody else. I needed to hold on to that. It wouldn’t do for me to start thinking that our goals were somehow noble.

  Besides, the governor was speaking. I wrenched myself out of my thoughts and back into the moment, trying to look like I had been fully present
the whole time, and not susceptible to woolgathering and distraction. Even though I totally was.

  The governor was talking about her economic plans for the West Coast in general and the Pacific Northwest in specific. The whole evergreen corridor had been ravaged by the Rising, which had left small towns abandoned and big ones severely damaged, while providing plenty of places for the infected to hide. The economy was still struggling to recover in all but the fanciest of areas. And I’m sure all that would have been absolutely fascinating if I’d cared in the slightest. The American political process was vague and irritating as far as I was concerned, filled with senseless posturing and even more senseless promises that neither side was intending to keep. Maybe it was disingenuous of me to agree to work with a politician when I didn’t care about politics. I didn’t mind. The whole “parasite” thing again. Ben and Audrey would get genuine career boosts from this. I would get exposure, and free transport to places I’d never seen, where I could poke at more zombies with sticks.

  I reached up and tapped my mag, zooming in on the roses behind the governor. They were lovely. Looking at them would keep me from zoning out completely, and since they were in the same general vicinity as she was, I’d even look like I was paying attention to her speech. Ben wouldn’t have to lecture me later about professional comportment, Audrey wouldn’t be disappointed, and I wouldn’t have to listen to the words “economic stimulus” more often than absolutely necessary. It was a win for everybody.

  Portland was the perfect environment for roses. They thrived here, in the cool and the damp. Even the variants bred to do well in more extreme environments thought Portland was the place to be, putting out more flowers than I’d ever seen before in one place. It was verdant and calculatedly wild, and I loved it.

  I was starting to wonder if Mat and I might have time to sneak away and do a quick photo shoot for my blog gallery, which was part slaughterhouse chic and part pin-up fashionista, when one of the roses moved. Not a lot. It didn’t crash to the ground or explode into petals. But it moved, and not in a way that could be explained by the wind. I sat up straighter, zooming further in on the patch of flowers. Nothing moved. Nothing even looked out of place.

  Until something did. A branch twitched aside for a moment, revealing what could have been a patch of dirt, or could have been a patch of dirt-covered skin. I looked around me, trying to be unobtrusive. Ben and Audrey were watching the governor, expressions rapt with concentration. The two junior journalists were even worse. The boy looked like he was witnessing the birth of a new religion, while the girl was actually crying, slow tears running down her cheeks as she was overwhelmed by the historical significance of the moment.

  Carefully, trying to look casual and not at all like I was about to go investigate a potential zombie in the roses behind the governor, oh no, not me, I stood. My mag was still magnifying everything on one side of the world, forcing me to focus more than normal on walking without falling down. Ben took his eyes away from Governor Kilburn long enough to give me a quizzical look. He wasn’t happy; that much was clear from the way his eyebrows drew down toward his nose, making him seem to be frowning even as his mouth remained in a neutral position.

  ‘Sorry,’ I mouthed, and mimed powdering my nose. Ben scowled. I was going to get a lecture later about not guzzling the pre–political speech lemonade just because it was there. That was fine. If he was giving me a lecture, I wasn’t being eaten by zombies, and everything was right with the world.

  I picked my way through the chairs to the back of the press pit. There was a narrow stone pathway there, wending its way deeper into the rose garden. I could slip away unnoticed from here. I still hesitated.

  Zombies almost never traveled by themselves when they had any choice in the matter. Numbers made them smarter, and made it easier for them to take down their prey. No one knew why quantity increased quality where the infected were concerned, but everyone knew it happened, and that zombies of different species were happy to work together after they were fully converted. Sure, I’d only seen one shape that might have belonged to a human being, but that didn’t mean there was only one zombie in the roses. Dogs, raccoons—anything capable of crossing the forty-pound threshold could be lurking in there. And I was wearing a sundress.

  My online persona was a carefully crafted blend of femininity and casual danger. The keyword there was “careful.” Yes, I climbed trees and filmed myself bare legged and fishing for zombies, but I had thick canvas trousers and steel-toed boots on standby. I never went into an active hazard zone without armor, even if I had no intention of using it outside of an emergency. Even the fancy shoes I sometimes wore had been designed for dancers, with thick, square heels that looked higher than they were, thanks to some tricks of paint and perspective.

  Most of our equipment was back in the truck, along with the rest of the governor’s security team. I considered walking over and asking them to accompany me. I dismissed the idea as quickly as it had come. If there was nothing out there, I would be seen as flighty and willing to waste everyone’s time. Not a good way to start our association with these people. I had my comfort revolver strapped to my thigh, and it had eight bullets, which would be more than enough to either get me out of trouble or notify everyone in earshot that they should be thinking about providing backup. I pulled the revolver from its holster and disengaged the safety.

  “Ash, what the hell?”

  I jumped, only years of training and discipline keeping my finger from seeking the trigger as I whirled to face Mat. They were standing behind me on the narrow path, a makeup bag over their shoulder and a quizzical expression on their face. Today’s eye shadow was all about green: pine green, emerald green, even the slightly too-bright shade that I had identified as matching the hills outside my hometown of Drogheda. Mat had blended them until they looked like a plume of bright feathers, creating a look that would have seemed wide-eyed and startled even if Mat hadn’t actually been surprised.

  “Mat,” I said, forcing my shoulders to unlock. “You startled me. You armed?”

  “Uh.” Mat looked nonplussed by my question. “I am outside and I have a blogging license, so yes, I am armed. But it’s a small three-shot ceramic gun, so maybe I’m not where you should be looking for firepower? Also the question is freaking me out, so maybe you should explain it a little bit?”

  Of all my backup options, Mat was the one I was least happy about. They were a Newsie and a shut-in, and while I trusted them to watch my back—mostly—I didn’t have much faith in their aim. Which looped me right back to “I can’t go looking for backup without getting accused of being a hysterical female,” and that sort of thing always pissed me off. Mat was going to have to do.

  “I saw something in the roses,” I said. “I’m going to check it out before I get anyone else involved. And you’re going to come with me. Congratulations!”

  Mat blinked. “I do not like this plan.”

  “I don’t like the plan where I say I saw something and it turns out to have been just a leaf, and they never trust me to do my job again.” I shook my head. “It’ll be fine. Worst-case scenario, there’s a zombie in the rose garden, and we put it down as quietly as we can. The governor’s speech doesn’t even get interrupted. Best-case scenario, it was a squirrel.”

  “A squirrel,” said Mat flatly.

  “Terror of the garden. Now come on.” I turned to start down the path, trusting Mat to follow me. They might not be the bravest of my teammates, but we worked together because we had each other’s backs. If I said I needed them, Mat would come.

  Sure enough, footsteps behind me on the path told me I had gambled correctly. I glanced back to see that Mat had drawn their gun and was holding it low against their hip, a grimace on their lips. I was going to have to apologize to them when this was over. Oh, well. Cookies and beer usually made up for whatever I’d done wrong this time.

  The path wound gently between the patches of roses, with their suddenly ominous-looking thorns. If th
ere was something dangerous out here, one scratch could be all she wrote for my existence as a thinking member of the human race. The roses were planted far enough back that we should have been safe, but I still stayed as close to the center of the path as I could, compressing my body to take up as little space as possible. Mat was staying in my wake, letting me forge the trail deeper into the garden. I didn’t blame them. I was the Irwin here, and they were just my backup as we walked into a potentially hazardous, definitely sketchy situation.

  Because of the curvature of the trail, I didn’t realize where we were in relation to the governor’s event until the sound of laughter and applause drifted back across the roses. We were almost directly behind the podium, some thirty feet back amongst the foliage. That meant that the movement I’d seen was about five feet ahead of us. I motioned toward that part of the garden before reaching up and tapping my mag, returning the world to normal magnification. If we found anything, I wanted to get clear footage. If we didn’t, well… we were about to start pushing into the bushes. I didn’t need a spider the size of a baseball suddenly projected in front of my eye.

  Mat nodded at my gesture, setting their mouth into a thin, hard line. They didn’t like this. They were still going to go along with it. I had definitely chosen the right team when I chose to go with Ben.

  Narrow dirt paths were beaten through the rose beds, making it possible for the gardeners to come and go without cutting themselves. I stepped gingerly onto the nearest of them, walking sideways as I made my way into the flowers. My skirt caught a few times, snagging the fabric, but pulled loose when I tugged. I kept on going. There had been no further movement, and nothing was making any noise. Whatever I’d seen had been nothing. We were going to be just fi—