by Mira Grant
“You can’t take your bike. You’d never make it out before the quarantine came down.”
I shrugged, somehow managing to smile a little. It almost hurt. “Well, then. Can we get a ride?”
Steve nodded gravely. “I thought you’d never ask.”
* * *
The best thing about my life is George. I don’t think she really understands that, but that’s okay, because I don’t need her to understand it; it doesn’t matter for anyone but me. As long as I know the truth, everything can keep on going the way it’s going, and that’ll be just fine.
I hate our parents. I want out of their house. I want to live my own life, with the friends that I choose, and with her. Always with her. But as long as this is what she wants, I’m here.
I’m here all the way to the end.
—From Postcards From the Wall, the unpublished files of Shaun Mason, June 19th, 2040.
Four: Georgia
The outbreak was still going strong as we fought our way toward the motor pool. The infected weren’t actually everywhere. It just seemed that way. The three of us moved in a back-to-back wedge formation, Steve taking point, while Rick and I took the sides. We had sufficient ammo to keep pressing forward, even with zombies charging us from all sides.
I knew some of them; I knew too many of them. And the only comfort I could find was that Shaun was not among them.
“Georgia? How are you for bullets?”
“Good for now,” I said, and fired again. “Rick?”
“I’m good. Steve?”
“I’ll live,” he said darkly.
That didn’t sound good. “Is there anyone who can come and provide backup?”
Steve’s lips tightened as he shook his head. “Our last call from Andres came while I was on my way to get you. He was backed against a wall with half a dozen of the aides. I don’t think we’ll be seeing him again. Carlos and Heidi are at the motor pool; that zone’s relatively clear. Mike… I haven’t heard from Mike. Not Susan or Paolo, either. Everyone else is either on their way to meet with us or holding fast in a safe zone.”
Andres was Steve’s latest partner, replacing Tyrone, who had died in Eakly. I winced. “I’m so sorry.”
Steve shook his head. “I never was very good at partners.” He turned and fired into the shadows at the side of a portable office. The zombie that had been lurking there gurgled and fell.
We kept walking, our formation allowing us to stop the infected before they could get too close. Thankfully, Carlos and Heidi knew we were coming, and they had access to all the ammunition that had been stockpiled at the motor pool. Thanks to their efforts, the infected tapered off as we got closer. We crossed the rest of the distance between us and the fence without incident. The gate was closed, the electric locks engaged. Steve reached for the keypad, and a shot rang out over our heads, clearly aimed to warn, not wound. Small favors.
“Stop where you are!” shouted Carlos. He and Heidi stepped out from behind the shed, both of them carrying too many weapons. Shaun would have yelled at them for that.
“Stand down,” barked Steve. “It’s me and the journalists. They tested clean when I picked them up.”
“Beg your pardon, sir, but how do we know you test clean now?” Heidi asked.
“If you’ll let us through the fence, you can keep us backed against it while you run blood tests,” I offered, hoping that the fact that I was still capable of coherent speech would be a point in my favor. “If any of us comes up infected, you’ll be able to shoot us before we amplify.”
She and Carlos exchanged a look. Carlos nodded. “All right,” he said. “Step back from the gate.”
We did as we were told, Steve giving me a thoughtful look as the gate slid open. “You’re good at this.”
“I’ve had a lot of practice,” I said. Rick and I followed him into the motor pool.
Carlos chucked us blood testing units while Heidi reported on the status of the other units, still remaining at a safe distance. Susan was confirmed as infected; she’d been tagged by a political analyst as she was helping Mike evacuate a group of survivors to a rooftop. She stayed on the ground after she was bitten, shooting everything in sight before taking out the ladder and shooting herself. About the best ending you could hope for if you got infected in a combat zone. Mike was fine. So, surprisingly, was Paolo. There was still no word from Andres, and three more groups of security agents and survivors were expected to reach the motor pool at any time. Steve absorbed the news without changing his expression; he didn’t even flinch when the needles on his testing unit bit into his hand. I flinched. After the number of blood tests I’d had recently, I was tired of being punctured.
Heidi and Carlos relaxed when our tests flashed clean. “Sorry, sir,” said Carlos, walking over with the biohazard bags. “We needed to be sure.”
“Standard outbreak protocol,” Steve said, dismissing the apology with a wave of his hand. “Keep holding this ground.”
“Sir?” said Heidi. “Won’t you be holding it with us?”
“We have somewhere we need to be,” I said quietly.
Maybe it was the look on my face, or the obvious anguish in my voice. Whatever it was, they didn’t argue.
“One of the armored SUVs should do,” said Steve. “Find the fastest one that’s still on the grounds.” Carlos and Heidi blinked at him. “Move!” he barked, and they moved, scattering for the guard station where the keys to the parked vehicles were stored. Steve ignored their burst of activity, leading me to the weapons locker and keying open the lock. “Candy store is open.”
“You’re a real people person, aren’t you?” asked Rick. “Prom King in school?”
“Four times,” Steve said.
I ignored them, focusing on grabbing boxes of bullets and shoving them into my pockets with a single-minded determination that was frightening, even to me. It felt like I was running on a countdown. As to what it was counting down to…
Carlos emerged from the guard station and tossed a set of keys to Steve. “We can unlock the rear gate, but once the central computer realizes the seal’s been broken—”
“How long can we have?”
“Thirty seconds.”
“That’s long enough. You two hold your ground. Keep anyone who makes it here safe. Mason, Cousins, you’re with me.”
“All the way,” I said, and followed him to the car.
Once we were all inside, belts fastened and weapons secured, Steve started the engine and drove us to the gate. Carlos was already waiting, ready to hit the manual override. The manual exits exist in case of accidental or ineffective lockdown, to give the uninfected a chance to escape. They require a blood test and a retinal scan, and breaking quarantine without a damn good reason is a quick way to get yourself sent to prison for a long time. Carlos was risking a lot on Steve’s order.
“You have good men,” I said.
“I know,” said Steve, and hit the gas.
The roads outside the Center were clear. That’s standard during a confirmed outbreak in a non-congested area. The people inside the quarantine zone will survive or not without interference; it’s up to them the minute the fences come down. So the big health orgs and military intervention teams wait until the worst of it’s had time to burn itself out before they head in. Let the infection peak. Ironically, that makes it safer, because it’s trying to save the survivors that gets people killed. Once you know everyone around you is already dead, it gets easier to shoot without asking questions.
“How long since quarantine was declared?” asked Rick.
“Twenty-seven minutes.”
Standard CDC response time says you leave a quarantine to cook for forty-five minutes before you go in. Given our proximity to the city, they wouldn’t just be responding by air; they’d be sending in ground support, to make sure nobody broke quarantine before they declared it safe. “Can we make it?”
“We’ll have to,” said Steve, and sped up.
We were just crossi
ng the Sacramento city limits when the first CDC copters passed overhead, zooming toward the Center. Three more followed close behind, in closed arrow formation. I leaned over and clicked on the radio, tuning it to the emergency band. “—repeat, this is not a drill. Remain in your homes. If you are on the road, remain in your vehicle until you have reached a safe location. If you have seen or had direct contact with infected individuals, contact local authorities immediately. Repeat, this is not a drill. Remain in—”
Steve turned the radio off. “You know that breaking quarantine is a federal offense, don’t you?”
“I don’t care right now.” I leaned back in my seat, closing my eyes. Rick’s hand settled on my shoulder, trying to offer comfort. If I didn’t think about it too hard, I could almost pretend that he was Shaun.
“All right, then.” He hit the gas again. The SUV rolled faster, hitting the end of the trestle and blazing onward toward the city. He glanced at me as we drove, adding, “I’m sorry about your brother. He was a good man. He’ll be missed.”
“Thank you.” The idea of looking at his face—it would be so earnest, if his words were anything to judge by, so anxious for understanding—made me tired all over again. There was nothing I could do now, nothing I could do until we got to the hall and to the man who killed Shaun. So I didn’t open my eyes, and I didn’t say anything, and we drove on.
* * *
…but they were us, our children, our selves,
These shades who walk the cloistered dark,
With empty eyes and clasping hands,
And wander, isolate, alone, the space between
Forgiveness and the penitent’s grave.
—From Eakly, Oklahoma, originally published in By the Sounding Sea, the blog of Buffy Meissonier, February 11th, 2040.
Five: Georgia
If the guard at the reception hall thought there was something odd about us arriving in a dusty, dented SUV over an hour after the Center went into lockdown, he didn’t say anything. Our blood tests came back clean; that was what his job required him to give a damn about, and so he just waved us inside. He didn’t ask any questions. I was relieved and angry at the same time. Maybe if people asked more questions, we wouldn’t be in this mess.
We parked next to an empty press bus, the three of us pausing only long enough to check the readiness of our weapons before we walked to the elevator. We all got in together, even Steve.
I glanced at him and frowned. “You don’t have a press pass.”
“Don’t need one,” he said. “The Center’s under quarantine. By contract, I’m actually obligated to circumnavigate any security barricade between myself and the Senator.”
“Good,” I said. I looked to Rick. “When we get inside, you let me talk to Tate. I want you staying out of the way.” I wanted him to survive this little adventure. I wanted one of us—just one—to make it out alive.
“Are you sure?” he asked.
I nodded. And then it was too late for conversation, as the elevator doors opened on what looked for all the world like a perfectly normal party. Servers circulated with trays of drinks and canapés. Politicians, their spouses, reporters, and members of the California elite milled around, talking like there was nothing wrong. The only signs of tension were in their eyes. They knew about the quarantine—half of these people were staying at the Center, or worked there, or had a stake in its continued success—and they were terrified. But appearances have to be maintained, especially when you’re looking at millions of dollars in lost city revenue because of an outbreak. So the party continued.
“I hate this,” I muttered. The man with the blood tests was waiting for us to check in. I slid my increasingly sore hand into the unit he held, watching lights run their cycle from red to yellow and finally to green. Next to me, Steve and Rick did the same.
As soon as the lights stabilized I yanked my hand free and ducked into the crowd, not waiting for my companions as I made a beeline for the room where I’d last seen Senator Ryman. They wouldn’t allow him to leave after the Center went into lockdown, and if he couldn’t leave, he would have stayed in the room with his surviving staff. He was that kind of a guy.
“Georgia? What are you doing here?”
Senator Ryman sounded astonished. I turned toward his voice and found him half-standing. Emily was beside him, eyes wide, hands clapped over her mouth. Tate was on his other side. Unlike the Rymans, the Governor looked anything but relieved to see me. I could read the hatred in his eyes.
“Senator Ryman,” I said, and finished my turn, walking to the table. “Mrs. Ryman.” I smiled narrowly. “Governor.”
“Oh, God, Georgia.” Emily Ryman stood so fast she sent her chair toppling over as she threw her arms around me. “We heard the news. I’m so sorry.”
“I left him outside,” I said, looking past Emily’s shoulder to Senator Ryman and Governor Tate. “He was infected, and he wouldn’t let me die with him, so I left him outside the van. I locked the doors. He held off the zombies until Steve could get to us.” Belatedly, I realized that I hadn’t explained who “us” was. “Rick’s here, too. We both lived. Shaun didn’t.”
“Georgia?” Emily pulled away, looking uncertain. She glanced over her shoulder at Governor Tate before looking back to me. “What’s going on here?”
“How did you get out of the quarantine zone?” asked Tate. His voice was flat, verging on emotionless. He knew the score. He’d known it since I walked through the door. Lies only last as long as no one’s questioning them.
“I’m good at my job.” Emily Ryman let me go entirely, taking a step backward, toward her husband. I kept my eyes on Tate. “Shaun was a good friend of most of the security staff. They were happy to help me. I guess sometimes you really do reap what you sow.”
“Georgia, what are you talking about?”
The confusion in Senator Ryman’s voice was enough to distract me from Tate. I turned to the man responsible for us being here in the first place, asking, “Haven’t you seen my last report?”
“No, I haven’t.” His expression was drawn tight with concern. “Things have been a bit hectic. I haven’t had a site feed since the outbreak bell rang.”
“Then how did you—”
“When the CDC puts out a statement, it tends to go around in a hurry.” Senator Ryman closed his eyes, looking pained. “He was so damn young.”
“Shaun was assassinated, Senator. Someone shot a plastic dart of live-state Kellis-Amberlee straight into his arm. He never had a prayer.” I swung my attention back to Tate, and asked, more quietly, “Why Eakly, Governor? Why the ranch? And why Buffy? I can actually understand trying to kill us, after everything else, but why?”
“Dave?” said Senator Ryman.
“This country needed someone to take real action for a change. Someone who was willing to do what needed to be done. Not just another politician preaching changes and keeping up the status quo.” Tate met my eyes without flinching. He’d been waiting for this moment. Maybe he was even, on some level, relieved that it was finally here. Everyone wants the chance to tell the truth. “We took some good steps toward God and safety after the Rising, but they’ve slowed in recent years. People are afraid to do the right thing. That’s the key. Real fear’s what motivates them to get past the fears that aren’t important enough to matter. They needed to be reminded. They needed to remember what America stands for.”
“How could you even… how could anyone ever believe that was the right way?” I drew my .40, aiming it at Tate. The crowd went still, honed political instincts reacting to what had to look like an assassination attempt in the making. “Secure channel voice activation, Georgia Carolyn Mason, ABF-175893, password ‘Krypton.’ Mahir, are you there?”
My ear cuff beeped once. “Here, Georgia,” said Mahir’s voice, distorted by the encryption algorithms protecting the transmission. Secure channels are only good once, but oh, how good they are. “What’s the situation?”
“I’m with Tate now. Please
start uploading everything you’ve received, and download my last post directly to Senator Ryman.” Governor Tate was glaring at me. I glared back. “I’ve been recording this whole time. But you knew that, didn’t you? You’re a smart guy. You know how this game works. Even if you didn’t know at first, I’m sure that working with Buffy taught you.”
“Miss Meissonier was a realist and a patriot who understood the trials facing this country,” said Tate, tone as stiff as his shoulders. “She was proud to have the opportunity to serve.”
“Miss Meissonier was a twenty-four year old journalist who wrote poetry for a living,” I snapped. “Miss Meissonier was our partner, and you had her killed because she wasn’t useful anymore.”
“David, is this true?” asked Emily, horror leeching the inflection from her voice. Senator Ryman had taken out his PDA and seemed to be growing older by the second as he stared at its screen.
“Did you… Eakly? The ranch?” Fury twisted her features, and before either I or her husband could react, she was out of her chair, launching herself at Governor Tate. “My daughter! That was my daughter, you bastard! Those were my parents! Burn in hell, you—”
Tate grabbed her wrists, twisting her to the side and locking his arm around her neck. His left hand, which had been under the table since I arrived, came into view, holding another of those plastic syringes. Unaware, Emily Ryman continued to struggle.
The Senator went pale. “Now, David, let’s not do anything rash here—”
“I tried to send them home, Peter,” said Tate. “I tried to get them off the campaign, out of harm’s way, out of my way. Now look where they’ve brought us. Me, holding your pretty little wife, with just one outbreak left between us and a happy ending. I would have given you the election. I would have made you the greatest American President of
