by Mira Grant
“I did. She said something about you and me heading to Berkeley to kill your parents?”
“That’s not quite what I said, but I guess it’s close enough. We’re going to Berkeley to ask the Masons if they’ll tell us how to find a clear route into the Florida hazard zone.”
“And what will you be giving them in return?” asked Mahir.
I sighed. “You know, I really kind of miss the days when I could just e-mail a memo to the team, and everybody would know what was going on, and I wouldn’t have to repeat things seventeen times.”
Not that you ever remembered to send the memos, said George.
“Because you did that so often,” said Becks, saving me from the need to respond to someone no one else could hear. Again.
“I could have done it, if I’d wanted to,” I countered. “That made the endless repetition a choice, and hence way less irritating. I’m going to tell them how to unlock the flat-drop of all our files. The one I had Alaric send while we were running from Memphis.”
“And when they post our research far and wide? What happens then?” Mahir didn’t sound annoyed, just curious. Even so, I was relieved when Becks crunched her empty soda can in her fist and chucked it into the trash can against the wall, where it landed with a rattling clunk.
“If the Masons post the things we’ve been withholding, they’ll be the target of the firestorm that follows,” she said. She sounded utterly calm. Her calm continued as she added, “Which means we can’t let them do it.”
“Hey!” I frowned at her. “I thought you were supposed to be on my side here.”
“I’m on the side that doesn’t get us slaughtered, Mason. Think about this for thirty seconds, why don’t you? We give them the key to the files. They unlock them, and go all kid in a candy store over the contents, since hey, their stupid son just gave them the scoop of the century. They toss it all online. And people everywhere stop shooting zombies because they think their loved ones might get ‘better.’ ”
I grimaced. “Not good.”
“Not good at all. And then the government will lean on the Masons to tell them where to find us, so we can be used to ‘prove’ that it was all a hoax.”
“Lovely,” said Mahir.
Becks shrugged. “If you’re going to think like a paranoid, you need to really commit to thinking like a paranoid.”
Mahir looked at her quizzically. “What makes you so good at it?”
“I’m from Connecticut,” said Becks. “It’s not a bad idea—going to the Masons may be the fastest way to get ourselves access to a reasonably safe way through some pretty bad territory, and since I’m not leaving the van without dipping myself in DDT, I’d like it if we could make the trip in reasonable safety. But you’re going to need another carrot to dangle in front of your freaky parents. Telling them how to get at our data isn’t the way.”
Yes, actually, said George, very quietly. It’s exactly the way.
“What are you—” I began, and froze. “Oh, no. No, you can’t be serious.”
You know I’m serious. It’s the best shot you’ve got.
“I won’t.”
You will.
Mahir and Becks had gotten good at knowing when I wasn’t actually talking to them. They watched me with varying degrees of impatience, waiting until I stopped protesting before Mahir broke in, asking, “What does Georgia say we should do?”
“You know, addressing my crazy by name doesn’t exactly help me stay sane,” I said.
“Nothing can help you stay sane at this point, Mason,” said Becks. “That ship has sailed. Now what does she say?”
I took a deep breath. “She wants me to sign her unpublished files over to the Masons. The stuff they were willing to take me to court over.” I stopped, waiting for them to protest. Neither of them said a word. I scowled. “Well?”
“It’s not a bad idea,” said Mahir slowly. “I mean, it’s true that her unpublished op-ed pieces were reasonably lucrative when we were able to publish regularly, but her news articles have been timing out at a fairly high rate. We’ve had our exclusive. If what’s left can be used to benefit us—”
“You’re fucking with me, right?” I stood, glaring at them, barely aware that my hands were balled into fists. I could hear George at the back of my head, telling me sternly to calm down, but I didn’t pay any attention. That was nice, in its way. I so rarely felt like I could ignore her anymore. “Those files are her private thoughts. They’re the last privacy she has left in this world. And you want me to just sign it over to those… those… those people?”
“Yes,” said Mahir, sounding utterly calm. “That’s exactly what we want. And I’d wager it’s what Georgia wants as well, or you’d not be so angry about it. You’d be laughing it off.”
“We’ve been using her private thoughts for our gain since she died,” said Becks. “I’ve been okay with that, because you’re okay with it. But, Shaun, you’re the one who really knows what she would have wanted. You’re the one who really knows her. If she were alive, would she be saying no, no way, not going to happen? Or would she be suggesting we stop fucking around and get our asses to Berkeley with the transfer papers already?”
George didn’t say anything. George didn’t need to say anything. I forced my fingers to unclench, waiting until I could feel my palms again before I looked away from Becks and Mahir, and said, “I’ll get the transfer papers drawn up before we leave. That way, all we have to do is hand them over and get the hell out of town.”
Thank you, murmured George. I felt the shadow of a hand brush my cheek, and shivered. I don’t believe in ghosts. Never have, never will. George is a figment of my overactive imagination, nothing more, and nothing less. But moments like that, when she touches me with other people in the room…
At moments like that, I genuinely believe that I’m haunted.
“You’re doing the right thing,” said Mahir. I glanced up, meeting his eyes without meaning to. He smiled. Just a little. Enough for me to see that he meant it. “You’re a crazy bastard, Shaun Mason, and I think sometimes you’re not going to be happy until you’ve managed to get every last one of us killed, but you’re a good man, all the same.”
“Remind me to have that inscribed on my urn,” I said, and Becks laughed, and things felt like they might be okay again. We had a direction. I didn’t like it; I didn’t have to. All I had to do was follow it, and let it lead me to whatever the next step on this increasingly insane journey would prove to be.
“Can I help you finish getting the van ready?” asked Becks. “Since we’re going to be sleeping in the thing for God only knows how long, I want to be absolutely sure that there are no old tuna sandwiches moldering under the seats.”
“Be my guest,” I said, waving toward the open van doors. “Mahir, tell Alaric and Maggie we’re rolling out in the morning. Team meeting at five.”
Mahir grimaced. “A.M.?”
“Naturally.”
“I take back what I said about you being a good man.”
“Too late. There are no take-backs in real life.”
Becks chuckled darkly. “Ain’t that just the truth?”
“Sadly?” I asked. “Yes. It is. Now let’s get back to work. We have a lot to get done, and not much time to do it in.”
Mahir was opening his mouth to answer when a scream rang out from the other side of the garage door, followed by the sound of gunfire. In the brief pause between the first volley of shots and the second, we could all hear the moaning coming from inside.
“Never a dull moment, is there?” I asked. Grabbing my pistol, I ran for the door. Becks was there just ahead of me. She pushed it open, and we ran together into chaos.
Dr. Abbey gave me a dressing-down this morning for yelling at her staff. “They didn’t sign up for this.” That’s what she said. Like it made all the difference in the world, somehow. “They didn’t sign up for this. Don’t treat them like they did.”
You know what, lady? None of us signed up
for this. Not me, not Mahir, not George, not anyone. And I definitely didn’t sign up for keeping my mouth shut while a bunch of amateurs treat zombies like lab rats.
Zombies are dangerous. Science doesn’t protect you from that reality. If anything, science makes it worse.
I didn’t sign up for that, either.
—From Adaptive Immunities , the blog of Shaun Mason, July 23, 2041. Unpublished.
Yes. You were right.
We will proceed.
—Taken from a message sent by Dr. Danika Kimberley, July 23, 2041. Recipient unknown.
Seven
Dr. Shaw’s tests were actually soothing, despite the partial nudity and the being touched by strangers. She was calm and professional, leading her team with an unwavering precision that gave them a degree of serenity I hadn’t previously encountered at the CDC. Everyone else I’d dealt with had been uneasy when forced to come into direct contact with my skin, like being a clone was somehow catching. Dr. Shaw’s assistants showed no such discomfort. They affixed their sensors without hesitation, even peeling them loose and sticking them back down in new configurations. It was so matter-of-fact and impersonal that it was almost wonderful.
I didn’t realize I was starting to drift off until Dr. Shaw cleared her throat and said, “It would help us measure your waking brain wave patterns if you would do us the favor of remaining awake while they’re being recorded.”
“Oh.” I opened my eyes, offering her a sheepish smile. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s understandable. You’ve been through a great deal. Still, the cause of science must take precedence over comfort.” She leaned forward to affix a sensor to my forehead. Her lips almost brushed my ear as she murmured, barely audible even at that range, “The locks will be reset tonight at midnight. You can answer many of your questions then, if you’re quick about it.”
Pulling back before I could react, she pressed the edges of the sensor down and said, “Begin the next phase, James, if you would be so kind.” One of her assistants nodded. Dr. Shaw turned away, attention seemingly fixed on the machine in front of her.
Right. Information exchange time was over, at least for the moment. Her words had definitely had one effect, at least—there was no way I was going to start nodding off again.
All the tests I’d been through since I’d woken up had been different. That was unusual, all by itself. Blood tests, muscle memory response tests, even psychological exams performed by people who didn’t seem to understand the questions, much less the answers I was giving. The medical teams changed constantly, and each was directed by a different administrator. So what did that mean, exactly? What were they looking for that didn’t require a single supervising doctor to find?
Dr. Shaw was the first to outright admit to measuring my brain waves. I was reasonably sure she wasn’t the first one to do it. The chance to study a cloned brain that was actually functional and responsive had to be irresistible to them—and despite my fervent wish to believe otherwise, I knew my brain was as cloned as the rest of me. Nothing else made sense. When the virus went live in my original bloodstream, it attacked the brain with a ferocity unequaled by any naturally occurring pathogen. I’d been able to feel my memories eroding as I typed up the final entry on my blog. If they’d placed my infected old brain in my clean new clone body, I would have gone straight into amplification, and all their hard work would have been for nothing.
I watched the colored lines representing my brain’s activity spike and tangle on the monitor across from me. None of them made a damn bit of sense. I never studied medicine, beyond the first aid required for field certification. Mahir might have been able to decode the peaks and valleys, turning them into comprehensible data. Mahir wasn’t with me.
One of Dr. Shaw’s assistants was trying to peel the sensor from my left biceps. I lifted my arm, tightening the muscle to give him more traction. He shot me a relieved look. “Thanks,” he said. “This bio-adhesive can be tricky.”
“What is it?” I asked, half from sincere curiosity, and half to keep him talking to me. It’s easier to get information from people who think you’re interested in the same things they are.
“Slime mold,” said the assistant. He sounded happy about it, too.
“Oh,” I said, unable to quite mask my dismay. Then again, I was the one who had living goo smeared on something like fifteen percent of her skin. I think I was allowed a little dismay. “That’s… special. What happens to it when you’re done with me?”
“We’ll dust it with a powder that makes it go dormant, and then just roll it off your skin,” he said. “Can you relax your arm for me?”
“Sure.” I let my arm drop back to its original position. He attached the sensor to the inside of my elbow. “I guess that makes sense. No residue, no medical waste…”
“It’s self-cleaning, so even if it gets bloody, it’s safe to use again after eight hours. It also reacts to the presence of live virus.”
“Really?” I asked, blinking. “How?”
“It tries to ooze away.”
This time, I couldn’t suppress my shudder. Several alarms went off on the machines connected to the various sensors, earning me dirty looks from a few of the assistants. “Sorry!” I said.
“George, please refrain from making the subject wiggle,” said Dr. Shaw, not looking away from the monitor she was studying.
The assistant—George—reddened. “Sorry, Dr. Shaw.”
I waited for him to get the sensor on my elbow firmly seated, then asked, “So you’re another George, huh? The original form?”
“George R. Stewart,” he replied. “And yes, the ‘R’ stands for ‘Romero.’ My parents were grateful, not creative.”
“Georgia, here,” I said. “One of my best friends was a Georgette.”
“Georgette Meissonier, right?” George caught my startled expression and reddened again. “I, um. I’m a big fan of your work. Your last post was… it was amazing. I’ve never read anything like it.”
I wasn’t sure whether I should feel flattered or embarrassed. I wound up mixing both reactions as I said awkwardly, “Oh. So you know the part where I’m dead.”
“The dead have been walking for a quarter century.” He moved to my other side, adjusting another sensor. Dr. Shaw’s other assistants all seemed to have machines to tend, leaving George with the dubious honor of working with the living equipment. Me, and the slime mold. “I’m glad you’re back. If anyone deserves to be back…”
“Let’s hope the rest of the world feels the same way when I start doing the celebrity blog circuit,” I said, putting a lilt in my tone to show that I was joking. I wasn’t joking.
“They’re waiting for you,” he said, cheeks getting redder still. He stopped talking after that, focusing all the more intently on the sensors he was shifting. I blinked a little, watching him. I’d expected a lot of reactions. That wasn’t one of them. My last post… it made me another name on The Wall, but that was all, wasn’t it?
Wasn’t it?
The idea that I’d become some sort of symbol worried me. I’m a realist. I’ve been a realist since the day I looked at the Masons—who’d been Mommy and Daddy until that moment—and realized that Shaun was right, and they didn’t love us.
I’d already known the CDC was never going to let me go. Whatever they brought me back for—blackmail or science project or just because I was the most convenient corpse when they decided to prove they could do it for real—it wasn’t going to include opening the doors and telling me to go on my merry way. I was a prisoner. I was a test subject. I was, in a very real way, as much a piece of lab equipment as the machines that I was connected to. The only difference was that the machines couldn’t resent the fact that they had no choice in their own existence.
And if I was a symbol, I was also a weapon, whether I wanted to be one or not.
“Are any of them pinching you?” asked George.
“No,” I said, resisting the urge to shake my head. I didn’
t want to trigger any more alarms if I didn’t have to. “I think we’re good to continue.”
“We’re almost done,” he said, and offered one more awkward, almost worshipful smile before moving away.
The remainder of the tests passed without incident. More living slime was applied to my limbs and torso, sometimes by George, sometimes by one of the other assistants; more sensors were attached or moved, allowing Dr. Shaw’s equipment to record a detailed image of everything going on inside me. I resisted the urge to spend the whole time staring at the monitors. I didn’t understand them. All I could do was upset myself more by watching them.
I’d almost managed to drift off again when the assistants began pulling the sensor pads off, letting George sprinkle what looked—and smelled—like baby powder on the sticky green residue the sensors left behind. True to his word, the green stuff rolled into tight little balls, which he scraped off me with the edge of his hand, gathering it all into one gooey-looking mass.
“Please don’t forget to feed the slime mold,” said Dr. Shaw, moving to disconnect the sensors at my temples. “I have no desire to listen to a week of complaints because we have to culture ourselves a new colony.”
“Yes, Dr. Shaw,” said George, and hurried off with his handful of inert green goop. Most of the other assistants followed him, leaving me alone with Dr. Shaw and Kathleen, the assistant who had initially brought me my currently discarded robe. She was holding it again, face a mask of patience as she waited for Dr. Shaw to finish freeing me from their equipment.
“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.
