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by Mira Grant

  Several seconds later, Mahir’s sleep-muddled voice came over the line, saying, “This had better be good.”

  “You realize your accent gets thicker when you’re tired.”

  “Georgia?”

  “Got it.”

  “Georgia!”

  “Still got it.”

  “You’re alive!”

  “Barely, and we’re in CDC custody, so I need to make this fast,” I said. Mahir, being the good lieutenant that he is, shut up immediately. “I need you to download the footage from the external cameras on the van and my bike, check to make sure it’s complete, and then wipe the originals.”

  “I’m doing this because…?”

  “I’ll explain later.” When I wasn’t making the call from inside a government installation, where all communications were likely to be monitored. “Can you do it?”

  “Of course. Right away.”

  “Thanks, Mahir.”

  “Oh, and Georgia? I’m very grateful that you’re still alive.”

  I smiled. “So am I, Mahir. Get the footage and get some sleep.” I tapped my ear cuff, cutting off the call.

  Adjusting the collar on my jacket, I schooled my face back toward neutrality and left the changing room, heading for the duty station. The cameras. How could I have forgotten about them, even for a few minutes?

  We keep the external cameras recording constantly. Sometimes we’ve found things when we’ve gone back to do review, like the time Shaun was able to use some shots of a totally normal highway median to track a pack of zombies hunting near the Colma border. Depending on the angle the shooter was working from, we might be able to use the latest footage to find a murderer. Assuming, of course, that whoever it was hadn’t already been able to get to our hard drives, and that Buffy hadn’t told any of her “friends” about our filming habits.

  I was starting to feel like a conspiracy theorist. But that was all right because this was starting to feel very much like a conspiracy.

  Rick had less equipment than I did; he and Shaun were back at the duty station when I arrived, and Rick had acquired a mug of coffee from somewhere. I started to give it a longing look, and stopped as Shaun handed me a can of Coke, still cold enough to have condensation beading on the sides.

  “Truly, you are a God among men,” I said.

  “Now I’m a God, but tomorrow, when you have to stop me from playing with dead things again, you’ll be right back to calling me an idiot, won’t you?” Shaun said.

  “Yup.” I lifted the can, cracked the tab, and took a long drink before exhaling. “CDC has decent taste in soda.”

  “We try,” said Joe.

  That was the opening I needed. Lowering the can, I turned toward him, secure behind my sunglasses. “You received a call reporting us dead?”

  “Time stamp puts it at two minutes before your call came in. The report flashed my screen while I was talking to you.”

  That explained his request for detailed credentials. “Did you get a name? Or better, a number?”

  “Afraid not, on either,” Joe said.

  Shaun broke in: “It was an anonymous tip made from a disposable mobile phone.”

  “So the number’s in their records—”

  “But it doesn’t mean anything.”

  “Cute.” I continued watching Joe. “Dr. Wynne—”

  “Joe, please. A girl comes back from the other side of ‘legally dead,’ she gets to call me by my Christian name.” My surprise must have shown because he chuckled without amusement, saying, “The CDC gets a call that says you’re virus-positive, you’re dead until we confirm it’s a hoax. It’s a standard legal and safety precaution.”

  I stared at him. “Because it’s not like anyone would hoax the CDC.”

  “No one should be, and believe me, Ms. Mason, when we find the people responsible, they’ll be learning that lesson right well.” Joe’s smile drew down into a scowl. An understandable one: Most of the people who go to work for the CDC do it out of a genuine desire to better the human condition. If anyone’s going to find a cure for Kellis-Amberlee, it’s almost certainly going to be the Centers for Disease Control, with its near-global approval ratings and even more extensive pocketbooks. Young idealists fight tooth and nail over CDC postings, and only the best ever get them. That means the CDC employs a lot of very proud people, ones who don’t take things that besmirch the honor of the institution sitting down.

  “I’d be willing to bet that whoever made that call was also responsible for shooting out our tires,” I said.

  “Well, Ms. Mason—”

  “Georgia, please.”

  “Well, Georgia, it seems like a bit of a sucker bet, and I don’t customarily take those. It isn’t often someone tries to pull a fast one on the CDC, and a fast one that happens to center on a convoy that’s been attacked by snipers, well…”

  “Do we have any ballistics on the gun the shooter used?”

  Joe’s expression turned remote. “I’m afraid that’s classified.”

  I glanced at the senator. His own expression was equally distant, his eyes fixed on some point beyond our heads.

  “Senator?”

  “I’m sorry, Georgia. Doctor Wynne is right; information relating directly to the police investigation of this matter is classified.”

  I looked at him, grateful for the way my sunglasses concealed the bulk of my expression. Only Shaun was likely to realize how upset I was. “You mean it’s classified from the media.”

  “Now, Georgia—”

  “Are you seriously telling me that if I were some random Joe Public, you’d answer my questions, but because I work for a news site, you won’t?” His silence was all the answer I needed. “Goddammit, Peter. We are dying for you, and you won’t tell us what kind of bullets they’re using for the job? Why, because being reporters means we automatically have no sense of discretion? Is that it? We’re going to run right out and cause a public panic, because, gee, no one’s going to suspect a cover-up when one of our own gets dead and we don’t say anything but ‘Death sucks’!” I started stepping toward him and stopped as Rick and Shaun each grabbed me by an arm. “Screw you,” I spat, not bothering to fight their hold. “I thought you were better than this.”

  Senator Ryman looked at me, shaking his head in open bewilderment. “She’s dead, Georgia. Buffy’s dead. Chuck’s dead. You should be dead, all of you, dead and sanitized, not here and alive, shouting at me for not wanting you to rush right back out and keep getting yourselves killed! Georgia, I’m not keeping this from you because you’re a reporter. I’m keeping it from you because I’d rather you didn’t die.”

  “With all due respect, Senator, I think that’s a decision you have to let us make for ourselves.” I shook my arm free of Shaun’s grasp. As soon as Shaun released me, Rick did the same. We looked at Senator Ryman together, waiting for his answer.

  The senator glanced away. “I don’t want your deaths on my conscience, Georgia. Or on my campaign.”

  “Well, then, Senator, I guess we’ll just have to do our best not to die,” I said.

  He turned back to us. His expression was bleak. It was the face of a man who’d spent his life chasing a dream and was only now beginning to realize how much it might cost to get it.

  “I’ll have the reports sent to you,” he said. “Our plane leaves in an hour. If you’ll excuse me.” It wasn’t a question, and he didn’t wait for an answer. He just turned and walked away.

  … first time I met Buffy. Man, I didn’t even know I was meeting her, y’know? It was one of those types of things. Me and George, we knew we needed a Fictional if we wanted to get hired at one of the good sites because you can’t just log in and be like “Yo, we’re two-thirds of a triple threat, give us our virtual desks.” We needed a wedge, something to make us complete. And that was Buffy. We just didn’t know it yet.

  They do these online job fair thi
ngs in the blogging community, like Craigslist gone even more super-specialized. Georgia and I flagged our need for a Fictional at the next fair, opened a virtual booth, and waited. We were about to give up when we got a chat request from somebody who IDed herself as “B.Meissonier” and said she didn’t have any field experience but she was willing to learn. We talked for thirteen hours straight. We hired her that night.

  Buffy Meissonier was the funniest woman I knew. She loved computers, poetry, and being the kind of geek who fixes your PDA before you know it’s broken. She liked old TV and new movies, and she listened to all kinds of music, even the stuff that sounds like static and church bells. She played guitar really badly, but she meant every note.

  There are people who are going to say she was a traitor. I’ll probably be one of them. That doesn’t change the fact that she was my friend. For a long time, before she did anything wrong, she was my friend, and I was with her when she died, and I’m going to miss her. That’s what matters. She was my friend.

  Buffy, I hope they have computers and cheesy television and music and people laughing where you are now. I hope you’re happy, on the other side of the Wall.

  We miss you.

  —From Hail to the King, the blog of Shaun Mason, April 21, 2040

  Twenty

  The senator and his security team came from Houston to Memphis via the Houston CDC’s private plane. Every CDC installation has one fueled and ready at all times. Not because there could be an evacuation—any outbreak large enough to require evacuating an entire CDC installation would leave a distinct lack of uninfected people to actually evacuate—but for the transfer of specialists, patients, and, yes, politicians and other such notables from one location to another in a quick, efficient, and, above all, discreet manner. It wouldn’t do to set off a public panic because someone had seen, say, the world’s leading specialist in Kellis-Amberlee-related reservoir conditions being flown into a populated area. The nation is constantly poised on the edge of a riot, and the CDC is very aware of how easy it would be to be the match that starts the fire.

  The last time I was on a CDC plane and conscious of the experience, I was nine and on my way to visit Dr. William Crowell. Dr. Crowell was that “world’s leading specialist” I mentioned before, and he thought he might’ve found a cure for retinal KA. My parents, ever eager to do stupid shit in the name of a good story, flew me to Atlanta to let him test his treatment on me. His cure proved as artificial as his toupee and his “light therapy” left me seeing spots for a month, but I got to ride in an airplane and have an adventure without Shaun. For my nine-year-old self, that was almost enough.

  They give you more snacks when you’re nine. Also, airplane captains may be willing to let cute little girls in dark glasses hang out in the cabin, but they’re not as understanding of adult journalists who just want to get away from their traveling companions. When you added the fact that the senator wouldn’t look me in the eye, while Shaun spent the entire flight trying to take his seat apart with a screwdriver swiped from one of the guards, it’s no surprise that I was happy as hell to touch down at our destination, even though landing came barely an hour after taking off.

  My relief was partially fueled by the fact that CDC regulations forbade the use of wireless devices while in flight, and I hadn’t heard from Mahir before we left Memphis. I was switching things on before they even opened the cabin doors. Mail alerts began sounding immediately. I had more than five hundred pending mail messages, and none were the message I wanted.

  Six more guards were waiting on the runway, including Steve, who held a wicker cat carrier in one hand. Rick let out a wordless exclamation and pushed past Shaun to snatch the carrier, starting to make cooing noises at the wide-eyed, brush-tailed Lois.

  “Cat didn’t die,” I said, adjusting my sunglasses.

  Shaun shook his head. “Man needs a girlfriend.”

  “Hush. This is a touching reunion.”

  “I stand by my statement.” Shaun tilted his head back, looking up at Steve. “You brought the man his cat.”

  Looking amused, the enormous security nodded. “I did.”

  “So where’s my present?”

  “Will the location of your van do?”

  “I think so.” Shaun glanced to me. “George?”

  “I was planning on holding out for a million dollars, but as long as my bike’s included in the deal, I guess I can let you off easy. This time.” I flashed a thin smile. “Hey, Steve.”

  “Good to see you breathing, Georgia.”

  “It’s good to be breathing, Steve.”

  Robert Channing—who got elevated from “chief aide” to “Chief of Staff” as soon as it became apparent that the campaign might have a genuine shot at the White House—pushed past the substantially larger guards, arrowing in on Senator Ryman like a hunting dog going for the kill. “Senator! We have twenty minutes to get halfway across the city, and you can’t be late or Tate’s going to take the stage alone.” His tone implied that this would be a horror beyond all reckoning.

  “And we can’t have that, now, can we?” Senator Ryman grimaced, shooting an apologetic glance our way. “I’m sorry, but…”

  “The job comes first,” I said. “Rick, give me the cat.”

  Looking alarmed, Rick hugged the carrier to his chest. Lois yowled. “Why?”

  “Because despite recent events and rampant stupidity, we’re still reporters, assuming we’re still allowed to be.” I slanted a sidelong glance at the senator. He met my eyes and nodded. Turning back to Rick, I said, “You’re going with the senator to cover whatever sort of appearance this is supposed to be—”

  “Speaking to the Daughters of the American Revolution,” said Robert.

  “Right, whatever,” I said, waving a hand to indicate my lack of interest in the specifics. “Rick, you’re going to attend whatever sort of appearance this is supposed to be, and you’re going to find something interesting to say about it. We’re going to go check the equipment and see what sort of dive we’re supposed to be camping out at.”

  Rick nodded with obvious regret, holding the carrier out to me. I almost felt bad taking it from him. Only almost. I needed to talk to my brother, and loath as I was to admit it, I needed to do that talking alone. Rick and Buffy had a past; Buffy betrayed us; Rick was still in the equation. If we were going to keep working with the illustrious Mr. Cousins, we had to decide to do it together, and without Rick participating in the discussion. And if we weren’t, we needed to have all our ducks in a row before we invited him to seek employment elsewhere.

  Sounding affronted, Robert said, “You’re staying at the Plaza with the rest of us. It’s five stars, all the latest in amenities, and fully licensed security. Senator, I’m sorry, but there isn’t any more time to stand around and chat. Come on, please.” Not pausing to allow any further discussion, he grabbed the senator by the arm and began steering him toward the waiting car. Rick followed, along with all but two of the security guards.

  Steve was one of the guards remaining behind. The other was a Hispanic man I didn’t recognize but whose sunglasses were dark enough to either be prescription strength or render him effectively blind. He would have seemed tall next to anyone else; next to Steve, he looked like a normal human.

  Shifting Lois’s carrier to my left hand, I looked toward Steve. “Babysitters?”

  “Bodyguards,” Steve replied, without levity. “You folks came close to dying out there on the road. We’d like to see to it that you don’t do it again.”

  “So we don’t do any long-distance driving.”

  “Not good enough.”

  Shaun stepped up beside me. “Are you planning to stop us from doing our jobs?”

  “No. Just to keep an eye on you while you do them.”

  I could feel Shaun starting to bristle. Being an Irwin means frequently taking stupid chances for the amusement of the cameras. A good Irwin can make goin
g to the corner store for a candy bar and a Coke look death defying and suicidal. The idea of trying to post reports with a security guard looking over his shoulder was probably about as appealing to Shaun as the idea of censorship was to me. I put a hand on his arm.

  “So you’re saying our jobs have become so dangerous that we need to be protected not from the hazards of the living dead, but from the hazards presented by our fellow man?” I asked.

  “Not exactly how I would’ve put it, but you’re in the neighborhood,” said Steve.

  Shaun relaxed grudgingly. “I guess it’ll sound good in the headlines,” he said, his tone implying that it wouldn’t do anything of the kind.

  At least he was mollified. Leaving my hand on Shaun’s arm, I swung my head around until I was facing the second agent, not depending on my questionable peripheral vision. “I’m Georgia Mason; this is my brother, Shaun Mason. You would be…?”

  “Andres Rodriguez, ma’am,” he replied. His tone was level. “Do I pass muster?”

  “That’s a question for the grand jury. You can, however, take us to our hotel now.” Lois yowled. I amended: “Right now. I think someone’s getting cranky.”

  “The cat isn’t the only one,” Shaun said.

  “Behave,” I said. Keeping the hand that wasn’t holding the carrier on his arm, we turned and followed the agents to the car.

  Steve and Andres took the front, leaving us with the back seat. A sheet of soundproof safety glass cut us off from our bodyguards, turning them into vaguely imposing silhouettes that might as well have been in another car. It was a small blessing, even if I couldn’t quite bring myself to relax. I didn’t trust it. I didn’t feel like I really trusted anything anymore.

  Shaun opened his mouth when the engine started, but I shook my head, gesturing toward the overhead light. He quieted. Without Buffy and her tiny armada of clever devices, we had no way of knowing whether the car was bugged. It turned out that even with Buffy we’d had no real way of knowing whether the car was bugged, since she’d sold us out, but at least we’d believed we could protect our privacy.