by Mira Grant
“Kathleen, what is our time situation?” asked Dr. Shaw, working a thumbnail under one of the sensors on my forehead. Either these had been pressed down harder, or they’d used a particularly robust batch of slime mold to glue them to my head and neck; it felt like she was trying to chip her way through concrete.
“We have fifteen minutes remaining in your original research appointment,” said Kathleen serenely. “We have ninety-three seconds of previously untransmitted sensor data, which James is now feeding through the main uplink. It will remain unquestioned for approximately fifty-four more seconds.”
I was still blinking at her in confusion when Dr. Shaw nodded, said, “Good,” and ripped the recalcitrant sensor from my forehead. I yelped, clapping a hand over the stinging patch it left behind. Dr. Shaw watched me, calm appraisal in her eyes. “Are you paying attention?”
“Yes!” I gasped, half glaring at her. “I was paying attention before you tried to scalp me!”
“There will be an accident with the building’s EMP shield tonight, at six minutes past midnight. The shift change will have occurred an hour previous, and you will have a thirty-minute window before anyone realizes they’ve lost the visual feed to your quarters.” The certainty in her voice told me this wasn’t the first time she’d had to give this little spiel. “Your contact will come to collect you. There’s something we feel you need to see.”
“Eleven seconds,” said Kathleen.
“Do you understand?” asked Dr. Shaw.
I understood that they’d obviously timed this little window of stolen security so as to leave me no room for asking questions. “Yes,” I said. “I understand.”
“Good.”
“Four seconds.”
Dr. Shaw bent to remove the last sensor from the underside of my jaw. This time, her fingers were gentle, and the slime mold let go without resistance. The professional chill was back in her eyes as she stepped back, saying, “You may get dressed now. We appreciate your cooperation.”
“Yeah, well, you’re welcome,” I said, standing. My legs were surprisingly shaky; I’d either been sitting still for longer than I thought, or there was some form of muscle relaxant engineered into their adhesive slime. Possibly both. Kathleen passed me the robe, and I leaned against the side of the chair to shrug it back on. Being clothed didn’t make me feel any better. As the tests Dr. Shaw and her team had been running proved, I was always naked here. What difference did fabric make when these people could look inside my body, and understand it in ways that I didn’t?
Kathleen and Dr. Shaw waited as I got my balance back. “Better?” asked Dr. Shaw.
“I think so.”
“Good. Make yourself decent; I’ll go unseal the door before Dr. Thomas decides to knock it down.” She almost smiled as she turned and walked away from us, her heels clacking against the floor.
“This way,” said Kathleen, motioning for me to follow her—in case, I supposed, I had somehow managed to forget where I left the screen that was protecting my flimsy CDC-issue pajamas… and the gun Gregory had somehow managed to smuggle to me. That was the last thing I was going to forget.
Becoming a licensed journalist requires passing basic gun safety and marksmanship exams; even if you’re planning to do nothing but sit at home typing to an anonymous audience, having the phrase “accredited journalist” after your name means having a carry permit. Becoming a licensed field journalist, like I am—like I was—means taking a lot more exams, and learning how to handle a lot more varieties of weapon. I never shared Shaun’s interest in the more esoteric firearms. The basics suited me just fine, and I’d been carrying at least one gun at pretty much all times since I got my first permit. I was twelve that summer. Knowing that I had a gun again, that I had a means of protecting myself if I needed it… that made a lot of difference. The robe didn’t make me feel any less naked. The gun would.
Kathleen waited outside the screen while I went behind it and put my pajamas back on. The small plastic gun tucked easily into the top of my right sock, not even creating a noticeable bulge once my pants were on. As long as I could act natural, Dr. Thomas would never know that it was there. That was probably what Gregory was counting on.
Gregory, and the EIS. There was no way Dr. Shaw wasn’t working for them, and if she was one of theirs, her assistants probably were, too. Definitely Kathleen; no one who was loyal to the CDC would have stood there calmly counting down our privacy window. Not unless she was a double agent hidden in the EIS, and that idea was too James Bond for me to worry about, since there was nothing I could do if it was true. The CDC had been infiltrated. The EIS might not be the good guys by any objective measure, but given the choices I had in front of me, I was going to go with the team that gave me firearms and told me Shaun wasn’t dead.
Dr. Thomas and the guards were standing just inside the lab when I emerged. His eyes widened at the sight of me, and then narrowed. “What have you done to her hair?” he demanded, attention swinging back toward Dr. Shaw.
She watched him with cool, if evident, amusement, and said, “It was interfering with the placement of my sensors. As none of the tests scheduled for the remainder of the month required uncut hair, I thought it best to eliminate the issue in the most efficient manner possible. Is there a problem?”
“No, but…” Dr. Thomas stopped, obviously torn as to how to complete that sentence. Finally, looking almost sullen, he said, “You should have consulted with me before cutting her hair. Sudden changes to her environment can be stressful at this stage in her recovery.”
Dr. Shaw’s laugh was surprisingly light and delicate, like it belonged to someone much younger and less put together. “Oh, come now, Matthew. You can’t really expect me to believe that you consider a haircut a sudden change in her environment. I understand the necessity of controlling all variable factors while she gets her strength back, but no sensible young woman would take something this simple and medically necessary as a new source of stress.”
“I like it,” I contributed, before Dr. Thomas could say anything else. He turned to frown at me as I made my way across the lab to where he was waiting for me. “It’s going to be a lot easier to brush. I’ve never tried to deal with long hair before.”
“I suppose the convenience will make up for the aesthetic failings,” he said stiffly.
I frowned. I couldn’t stop myself, and quite frankly, I didn’t want to. “This is the length I prefer my hair to be,” I said. “The only ‘aesthetic failing’ is that I keep taking bleach showers without access to hair dye. I’m going to wind up blonde if this keeps up much longer, and that’s not a good look for me.”
“We all have our trials in this life,” said Dr. Shaw. “Georgia, thank you for your cooperation today. You were very easy for us to work with, and I appreciate it.”
“No problem, Dr. Shaw,” I said. “It was my pleasure.”
“It’s time for us to go, Georgia,” said Dr. Thomas. There was an edge to his voice that I normally heard only when I was pushing for privileges he didn’t want to give. My curious look just seemed to fluster him. He scowled, cheeks reddening. “It’s time to go,” he repeated.
“Okay,” I said, trying to look unconcerned as I followed him out the door. He hadn’t put the handcuffs back on me, and with every step, it became a little harder not to panic. I’d been so sure I could get the gun back to my room without getting caught, but now… now…
I made it to the hall without either of the guards so much as batting an eye. I’d done it. Maybe not forever—maybe not even until the next day—but I’d done it. I had a weapon, and I was loose in the halls of the CDC. For one brief, drunken moment, I fantasized about opening fire and running like hell, heading for the nearest exit and never looking back. It would never have worked. It would have been a poor way to repay Dr. Shaw and Gregory for arming me. But God, I wanted to do it.
The only thing that stopped me was knowing that Shaun really was alive, somewhere. If I ran, they’d shoot me. I was smart
enough to know that. And then Shaun would be alone again, in a world where people would do this sort of thing to a girl who’d been innocently going about the business of being dead. He needed to be warned. I needed to survive long enough to be the one who warned him. They could make another Georgia Mason if I didn’t survive… but I wanted it to be me. Not some other girl who shared my memories. Me.
Dr. Thomas scowled all the way back to my room. He didn’t say a word, and neither did the guards. Once we were there, he slapped his palm against the exterior sensor to open my door, and spoke his first words since we left the lab: “Do you need to use the lavatory?”
“Not right now,” I said. “I am hungry, though.”
“Your diet is still restricted, but I’ll see about having some soup sent.” His eyes flicked to my hair, expression hardening. “You may have to wait. I recognize that you have little experience with waiting.”
“I didn’t ask her to cut my hair,” I said, too annoyed by the way he was looking at me to watch what I was saying. “She did it so she could get the sensors to stay on. Sensors she glued down with slime mold, mind you. I think I’ve paid for this haircut.”
“I’m sure you didn’t argue with her either, Georgia. If you don’t need to use the facilities, you can enter your room now.”
“Thank you,” I said sourly, and kept my head up as I walked inside. The door slid shut behind me, leaving me with the appearance of solitude. It was a lie—it was always a lie. I was being watched, possibly even by Dr. Thomas, who could be standing on the other side of that stupid mirror for all that I knew. I never thought I’d miss my fucked-up eyes. Then I died, and I learned that there are things a lot worse than needing to wear sunglasses all the time. Things like being spied on, knowing you’re being spied on, and not being able to do a damn thing about it.
Lacking anything else to do to distract myself, I climbed into bed. Eventually, the lights were dimmed. I closed my eyes, feigning sleep, and waited.
False sleep turned into the real thing at some point. I awoke to the sound of the door sliding open. Sitting bolt upright, I squinted into the glare from the hall, trying to make out the figure standing there. Even shading my eyes with my hand couldn’t turn him into anything more than an outline.
“It’s all right, Georgia,” said a familiar voice—Gregory. He motioned for me to get up, the gesture clear even without fine details. “Come on. If you want to understand what’s really going on here, you need to come with me.”
“I’m coming,” I said. Taking a breath to steady my nerves, I slid out of the bed and walked to the door, where the chance to get my answers was waiting.
BOOK II
Lost Souls
Fuck survivor’s guilt. I’m not supposed to be the guilty one here. The people who made me the last man standing… they’re the guilty ones. And they’re the ones who should be afraid.
—SHAUN MASON
There are three things in this world that I truly believe in. That the truth will set us free; that lies are the prisons we build for ourselves; and that Shaun loves me. Everything else is just details.
—GEORGIA MASON
Tomorrow morning, my boss and Becks will be heading to Berkeley to deal with his crazy parents. Why? So they can get a map to lead them past the government barricades between here and Florida. Maybe. If my boss’s crazy parents don’t sell them out for the ratings boost. And once they get there, they’ll have to deal with government patrols, rampaging zombies, killer mosquitoes, and God knows what else, all of which are going to try to kill them. Why are they doing all this?
To get my sister safely back to me. I don’t know whether to be grateful to them for going, or ashamed of the fact that I’m genuinely glad it’s not going to be me out there. I’m even glad I’m not going to Seattle with Maggie, and I think I’m about halfway in love with her.
I guess I’m a coward after all.
—From The Kwong Way of Things, the blog of Alaric Kwong, July 23, 2041. Unpublished.
Let us, who are the lost ones, go and kneel before the dead;
Let us beg them for their mercy over all we left unsaid,
And as the sun sinks slowly, the horizon bleeding red,
Perhaps they’ll show us kindness,
Grant forgiveness for our blindness,
Perhaps they’ll show us how to find the roads we need to tread.
Let us, who are the lost ones, ask the fallen where to turn,
When it seems that all the world is lost, and we can only burn,
For in dying they have learned the things that we have yet to learn.
Perhaps they’ll see our yearning,
And may help us in returning
To the lands where we were innocent, that we have yet to earn…
—From The Lost Ones, originally posted in Dandelion Mine, the blog of Magdalene Grace Garcia, July 23, 2041. Unpublished.
Eight
Becks slammed her back against the open door, keeping it pinned against the wall. That gave her a good vantage position on the rest of the room, while defending her against rear attacks. She held her pistol in front of her in a classic shooting stance that would have sold a thousand promotional posters for her blog if she’d been wearing something other than jeans and a bleach-spotted gray tank top.
I couldn’t admire the precision of her pose; I had issues of my own to worry about, like the screaming lab technicians running for the doors. Half a dozen of our previously captured zombies were shambling after the fleeing technicians. Three former technicians were shambling with them, only their increased speed and bloody lab coats distinguishing them from the rest of the mob. All the zombies were moaning in a pitch that made my bones itch. No one knows why zombies moan. They just do, and it’s enough to drive you crazy if you listen to it too long.
Mahir stopped behind me, managing only a startled “Oh dear Lord…” before I whirled and shoved him back.
“Get in the van,” I snapped. “Lock the doors, engage the security. If we don’t come back for you, drive. Drive until you get back to England, if you have to.”
“Shaun—”
“You’re not made for fieldwork! Now get back in there!”
“Don’t argue, Mahir,” said Becks. Her tone was calm, like she was asking us not to raise our voices during a business meeting. “I need his gun, and you’re not equipped for this.”
Mahir’s mouth set in a thin line, and for a moment, he looked like he was seriously pissed. Someone else screamed in the main room, the sound cutting off with a gurgle that told me the infected had stopped trying to spread the virus, and started trying to feed.
“Get the others on the com,” I said, more gently. “Make sure they’re safe, and that they’ve managed to get themselves under cover. I don’t want to lose anyone today.”
The line of Mahir’s mouth softened slightly as he nodded. “Be careful,” he said, and turned to walk toward the van. I watched him just long enough to be sure he was actually going to get inside.
“Any time now, Mason,” said Becks. The moaning was getting louder. So were the screams. The fact that we hadn’t been attacked yet was nothing short of a miracle—one we could probably attribute to the fact that we were standing relatively still in a room full of much more active targets. Faced with a choice between someone who isn’t moving and someone who is, a zombie almost always goes for the runner. It’s something in their psychology, or in what passes for psychology inside the virus-riddled sack of goo that used to be a human brain.
“On it,” I said, and turned to face the main room, bracing myself in the doorway. As long as we held our positions, we knew we had a clear line of retreat.
“About fucking time,” said Becks, tracking the progress of one of the infected with her gun. As soon as one of us fired a shot, they’d stop looking at us like furniture and start looking at us as potential meals. That would be bad. Even if I was immune, Becks wasn’t, and immunity wouldn’t stop them from tearing me apart. “Got any bright idea
s?”
“Prayer would be good, if either of us believed in a higher power.”
Becks’s eyes widened, disrupting her carefully schooled expression. “I don’t say this often, but you’re a genius.”
“Because I don’t believe in God?” I trained my gun on another of the infected, one that was drawing a bit too close to our position for me to be comfortable. The screams seemed to be getting quieter. I had to hope that was because most of the technicians were out of danger, and not because most of them were dead.
“No. Because there is a higher power at work here.” Becks removed one hand from her gun long enough to tap her ear cuff, saying in a calm, clear voice, “Open general connection, main lab.” There was a single loud beep.
Too loud. The nearest of the infected looked up from her meal—the torso of a technician whose name had either been Jimmy or Johnny; I wasn’t sure, and it didn’t matter now. Her eyes searched the area, looking for new prey, and settled on Becks. With a low moan, she stood.
“Becks, whatever you’re doing, do it fast,” I muttered, adjusting my stance so that I was aiming directly at the standing infected. “Once the shooting starts, this is going to turn into one hell of a duck hunt.”
“I can handle myself,” she said. More of the infected were turning to face us, their attention attracted by the strange silence of the one nearest our position.
Steady, cautioned George. I thought I felt her fingers ghost across the back of my neck, and that was more frightening than anything else about our situation. If I started hallucinating during combat, there was no telling who I’d shoot, or what I’d let get past me.
