by Mike Chen
Sunny didn’t seem particularly interested in what the grown-ups were talking about, and instead climbed on a chair to look out the window, the colors of the morning sun starting to beam in.
“The truth is that this cure we’re working on, it’s not going to last. MGS is the fastest-mutating virus we’ve ever seen. The thing that’s been unleashed, it’s going to be around for a really long time. All we can do is throw all of our resources onto it. People think the federal government is a puppet show, and it’s not. We are looking at the big picture: the survival of our species. Taxes, education, infrastructure, none of that matters if MGS goes wide again. That’s why population centers are under the watch of states because on a national level, we’ve got a bigger battle to fight, and we have to coordinate it with teams around the world. We knew this—we knew it coming out of quarantine. But internationally, it was agreed to keep it quiet under Project Preservation. Can you imagine people finally settling back into some type of normalcy, only to hear right away that something’s gonna happen, maybe soon? It’d be anarchy. It’d be like the wasteland gangs, but everywhere.
“No one wants to do another quarantine. The easiest thing in the world is status quo. Changing everything once was a damn miracle. Trying to do it again? Trying to make it a regular option? That’s pretty much impossible. We have to stay ahead of it. The only thing we can do is stay ahead of it. That’s what Hersh is going to tell people. That’s how we save lives.”
The rumors from the other Metronet feeds and discussion groups, they turned out to be true. Maybe not exactly true, but true enough that Uncle Dean’s revelation seemed more admission of guilt than whopping surprise.
Of course. If something affected the lives of that many people, it couldn’t simply be stuffed back into the bottle.
“There is no new normal. It’s going to keep changing, keep escaping from us. And our world needs everyone to know, to step up right now. Complacency isn’t an option. We have to move forward. We can’t waste a single second.”
Rob turned and looked at Sunny, kneeling on a chair, arms crossed across the windowsill. She looked at the sunrise, not down at the rioters stories and stories below. Sunny would grow up in this, knowing that MGS lurked around the corner. And yet looking around him, he saw Krista watching his daughter too. Moira reached over and locked her fingers into his.
The future, as it was, appeared more uncertain than ever before. Not necessarily death. Not necessarily life. But what they made out of it—and how they adapted to whatever might happen, past what might have been.
At least they could do that together.
“The, um, good news is that we have this cure in the hospital.” Uncle Dean moved to face Rob as he talked. “Sunny tells me your wife is awaiting treatment. If we hurry and she’s in isolation, we should have time, and I’ll personally make sure it’s delivered to her.”
The mention of Elena seemed to snap Sunny back into the conversation. “And once I talk to Mommy, I know she won’t be mad anymore. Then she’ll come home, and then we’ll have a wedding.” She hopped off the chair and tugged on his arm. “That’s my surprise for you,” she said, looking up.
Moira leaned over to whisper in his ear. “It’s okay. We’ll give you space.”
Rob watched, feeling as though he was floating above his body while Moira ushered Krista and Uncle Dean out. “We’ll be right outside,” she said, and the door hydraulics whooshed shut.
Rob lifted his daughter, sitting her on the table on the side of the room. “Sunny, I have to tell you something about Mommy.”
“Can I help pick out her dress?” She blinked and looked up at him, her eyes wide yet focused. “I learned about wedding planning from Krista.”
He’d come up with about a dozen ways to start this conversation, and none of them started with answering a question about Elena’s theoretical dress. “Yeah, about that.” He cleared his throat and took a breath; that wasn’t the right way to start. What was? Elena would know. In difficult discussions, she’d start off with one positive thing to set the tone, no matter how ridiculous it was.
Rob smiled, a flash only to himself. She was still with him. She’d always be—and with Sunny too. “Let’s back up a little bit.”
* * *
Through the small window in the door, Rob saw Krista talking animatedly to Uncle Dean. Her voice came to life as soon as he opened the door, and he realized that she’d been telling him about how they all happened to collide into one another. “That’s when the Family Stability Board decided—”
She stopped at the sound of the door and turned. Not to face Rob. But to drop down on her knees and meet Sunny.
Sunny looked up at Rob, her cheeks flushed from crying. He offered a smile, one that tried to signal that she was free to do whatever she needed to do.
She ran to Krista.
If things were normal, a choice like that would hurt him, a mix of bitterness and disappointment, first that he hurt his daughter, and second that he couldn’t be the one to comfort her. But instead, he watched Krista envelop the young girl in her arms, whispering in her ear.
Uncle Dean was wrong. There was a new normal.
This was the new normal.
“How’d it go?” Moira mouthed to Rob from across the room.
“As well as it could,” he said aloud.
“Sunny, I’m so, so sorry.” Krista pulled back, her hands wrapping around Sunny’s. “I know you’re upset. You have to know that your dad only did what he did because he wanted to protect you. He went about it wrong, but he did it for the right reason, and feels terrible about it. It’s the thought that counts, right?”
“It hurts. Everything hurts inside.”
“Believe me, I know what that feels like. I’ll help you through this. I’ll be here, and the hurt will go away, okay?”
Sunny nodded while Krista caressed her crimson cheek. “I wish I could have seen her.”
Uncle Dean’s phone buzzed. He glanced at it, then leaned over to Krista. “I need to get going,” he said softly.
“Give me one more second,” she said to him, then turned back to Sunny. “Sunny, I know you’re mad at your dad right now. But I hope you can forgive him at some point. When he’s earned it. Knowing him, that’ll be soon. He’s taken that first step.” Her eyes met Rob’s, then turned back to Sunny. “And then it’s up to you to decide. Okay? See, relations are people with the same blood. But family, that’s different. Family is about who gives you hope, who gets involved. And earns the right for forgiveness. Or at least starts down that path. Right, Uncle Dean?”
“That’s right, Krista,” Dean said, his voice low.
“You understand?” Krista said.
“I think so.” Sunny turned back to look at Rob. “I’m mad at him.”
“I get it. It’ll take some time. And that’s okay.”
“Krista, you promise me one thing.”
“What’s that, Sunny?”
“Don’t you go anywhere.” Sunny’s words came across as equal parts request and demand, and she stood unblinking while she awaited an answer.
“Don’t worry. I promise you, I’m getting involved.” She held her arms open again, and Sunny collapsed in, giving one of her trademark bear hugs.
Uncle Dean nodded at them. “Let me know if you need anything.” His words carried a solemn weight.
Moira had crossed the room and taken Rob’s arm as this unfolded. While they watched Uncle Dean start down the hallway, Rob turned to Moira.“I’ve got an idea,” he said to her quietly before calling out. “Hey, Dean?”
Uncle Dean stopped and turned in midstep.
“Would you mind writing something for me?”
Excerpt from President Tanya Hersh’s speech on the MGS 96 vaccine:
My fellow Americans. It is with great relief that I announce the end of the transportation lockdown as ne
cessitated by MGS 96. A cure for the infected has been achieved, and the most critical will receive the first batches. After that, inoculation stations will be set up around Metros. Reclaimed Territory citizens and those who live out in wastelands are welcome to receive vaccinations. Individual states will provide local instructions and guidelines.
However, while this is good news, I also must inform the public of recent discoveries made by our scientific team. The MGS virus is an evolving challenge, and it is the unanimous consensus of the international scientific community that our priority as a species is to stay ahead of this moving target.
To that end, we have committed our resources as an international community toward this goal; this is known as Project Preservation and has been ongoing since the end of quarantine. I am personally asking for every American to move forward with this in mind. For survivors of the initial pandemic and for future generations, it is time to understand that some things cannot be undone. In this situation, there is no reset. But we as a people can be smarter, better, and more focused on keeping it at bay.
All of us carry this responsibility. It will be hard but I’m confident in our resolve. God bless you, God bless the American people, and God bless every survivor of the MGS virus. We will persevere.
Part 5:
FAMILY
Chapter Fifty-Three
Moira
The woman leaned forward in her chair, and looked Moira in the eye. Bright lights beamed down from overhead. It felt uncomfortably familiar, but this situation was much different.
Here, Moira was in control.
“Take your time,” the woman said. “We’ll edit this later for broadcast.”
Moira glanced back at Rob who stood in the dark part of the studio next to some people in headsets running back and forth. He offered a thumbs-up and mouthed, “You got this.”
“My name is Moira Gorman,” she said. “I was born in a small village in southern England and given the name Johanna Hatfield. Popularly known as MoJo. I grew up in Manchester and trained to become a performer before the End of the World.”
“And about two months ago, your father began talking with the press about finding you,” the host said. She kept talking smoothly despite shuffling note cards in her lap. “He even offered a large reward and promoted it on live broadcasts. So why are you here now?”
Moira shifted in her seat, taking in the small studio space around her. On the surface, it looked like a setup from when she did press junkets. Cameras, cables on the floor, microphones, people. But when her eyes adjusted to the bright lights, other details came through. The equipment had signs of aging, from scuffs on its body to duct tape on its base. Bits of electrical tape acted as Band-Aids on cracked cable insulation. Even the overhead boom mic showed bits of fraying foam.
It wasn’t the same now. It was tired, dirtier. But in a way, more real. “I’d been a celebrity, a drunk, an outlaw—looter, I guess. After the quarantine, I guess my version of PASD was trying to be the most normal I could be. New name, new identity. I moved out here and sought a normal life. Or at least, what I thought was normal. When my dad made his announcement, it was like all those feelings I had as a teen came back. But with the last outbreak, I think it shook everyone.”
“‘Moira Gorman.’ How did that come to be?”
“Moira is my middle name. I’ve always liked it. And Gorman.” Moira pictured Chris, his eyes filled with empathy at a teen thrown to the wolves, all while chomping hard on gum. “It’s the name of someone who was special to me. He took care of me. My old manager, Chris.”
“And you like your life now? You won’t go back to being a performer?”
“No. I’m content. You know, Chris once told me, ‘Memories are meant to fade. They’re built with an expiration date.’ I don’t need to hide from my past. It’s just...part of me now.”
“The public found out about this interview yesterday, and today Evan Hatfield put out a statement saying that on the eve of the transportation lockdown, he and MoJo mutually agreed to put off her return until things settled. He claims that this interview is a hoax designed to capitalize on MoJo’s fame, and the real MoJo will be revealed soon. How do you respond to that?”
That was new information to Moira. She glanced over at Rob, who was already checking his phone, probably for any Metronet headlines about that. Their eyes met, but rather than concern or confusion or anything in between, she sent him a smile. Not the MoJo smile, but a simple turn of the mouth that signaled everything was fine.
“It really doesn’t bother me. He can do whatever he wants. I’m just going to live my life now.”
“Do you still sing?”
Behind Rob, Sunny crept forward, her short silhouette lingering next to her dad’s body.
“Yeah. Sometimes I do.”
* * *
Ten minutes later, a studio technician in a mask and gloves was removing the microphone pinned to Moira’s lapel when Rob and Sunny came over. “She’s right. Here’s the statement from your dad. It’s on the Metronet.” He held it up to show her but she waved it away.
“I’m okay. Really. MoJo is who he always wanted. Not me. So if he wants someone else to become MoJo, they can go right ahead.”
The sound of a buzzing phone interrupted her, and Rob looked down again. His eyebrows rose and he turned his phone to her. “This one, you have to see.”
Dear Mr. Donelly: The San Francisco Family Stability Board is pleased to inform you that your appeal has been received and accepted. The testimonial from Dr. Dean Francis has sufficiently demonstrated your commitment to your daughter’s well-being. We wish the best of luck to you and yours. A full report with findings and official discharge will be sent to your email.
Rob’s shoulders slumped, not from stress, but the final release of tension. Moira stood up, her foot getting caught in the microphone cord. Her arms wrapped around his shoulders, and Sunny joined in of her own volition. “Things might actually be fine,” he said, face buried in her neck.
“That may not be a lie,” Moira said, holding him tighter than she’d ever held another person. “For once.”
Chapter Fifty-Four
Krista
Sunny put the cheeseburger down, its supposedly kid-sized patty and buns looking like way more food than was fit for a child. She studied the half-eaten behemoth on her plate, then opted to go to the French fries instead.
“Gigantic, huh, Sunny?” Krista took a sip of her peanut-butter-and-chocolate milkshake while she watched Sunny nibble. Moira stared back at her—not in person, but the image of MoJo plastered on Sunny’s backpack next to her in the booth. If her own teenage mug had been ironed on a backpack, Krista probably would have burned the thing by now, then stomped on it and kicked the ashes around. Moira, though, seemed to have a greater tolerance for this stuff than she did. Maybe it was the new (or old) Moira, complete with now-permanent British accent.
“Yeah. But it was good.”
“Well, we’re making up for lost time. I’m glad your dad has stopped being so uptight about—” Krista stopped midsentence, the peace of their meal interrupted by a voice yelling at the TV above them.
“Bullshit,” a woman’s voice said. “That’s bullshit.”
“The success of the MGS ninety-six vaccine has been attributed to a worldwide effort at staying ahead of the virus’s evolution.” The news cut between footage of doctors administering shots and President Hersh talking and shaking hands with other world leaders. “While scientists acknowledge the continuing risk of MGS, the global community feels confident that they will be able to stem any widespread pandemic and keep casualties to a minimum.”
“Minimum. Ha.” The voice came from behind Krista, and she peered over her shoulder to see a frowning woman with close-cropped hair and a half-eaten salad on her plate. “More government propaganda,” she said, her voice low enough that it probably was meant to be a p
rivate comment. “What are you looking at?”
“Me?” Krista said. She blinked her eyes and feigned innocence.
“Yes, you. You think everyone’s being honest? There are more lies in this world than you can possibly imagine.”
“Don’t even get me started.” She turned back toward Sunny, giving her a quiet smile before sticking her tongue out. Sunny’s laugh overtook the blare of the TV.
Sure, Krista worried about MGS. Everyone did. But she also knew that her time with Sunny was precious.
More importantly, it mattered.
“You think this is funny?” The booth bumped as the woman slid out and moved to their table, hands on hips in full disapproval mode. “They lie to us. They’re out there to control us, and the more people act like you, the more they tighten their—”
“Lady,” Sunny said, her voice direct and clear with its usual sparkle, “you need to get over it.” The comment stunned Krista, probably more so than it did the angry woman, and she found herself speechless with pride.
“Young woman, did your mom teach you to be so rude?”
“That’s not my mommy. That’s Krista.”
“Guilty as charged,” Krista said, raising her hand. She sipped the last dregs of the milkshake, letting it gurgle loudly. The band of the woman’s silicone mask snapped as she put it on, and she slouched away, her grumbles disappearing into the din of voices and silverware.
“Nice job, Sunny.”
“Thanks.” Sunny’s response came in a simple, straightforward tone, like she hadn’t done anything particularly extraordinary.
The waitress returned, sliding the bill in between their plates.
Krista marveled at the funny little creature that had somehow become such a big part of her life. She unzipped her purse and reached in for her wallet but got the vibrating plastic of her phone instead. She pulled it out and checked the incoming text message from a strange number.
