Blackout n-3

by Mira Grant

  There was always a catch.

  Dr. Shoji didn’t seem to notice our dismay, and neither did Dr. Kimberley. They kept on walking, pushing those unsecured doors open to reveal an underground parking garage, and the big black SUV that was waiting at the curb.

  There’s a certain shape of car that just screams “I belong to a private security force.” They’re always big and black and solid-looking, with run-flat tires and bulletproof glass in the windows. And then there are the cars that belong to the Secret Service. The differences are subtle, but you can see them if you know what to look for. Wireless relay webbing built into the rear window, for those times when cell service is compromised. Thin copper lines through the rest of the glass, ready to be turned on and cut off all service, cellular or otherwise. The glass in a Secret Service car isn’t just bulletproof, it’s damn near indestructible. A group of Irwins who modeled themselves after a pre-Rising TV show called MythBusters managed to get hold of a decommissioned Secret Service vehicle a few years ago. They set off six grenades inside the main cabin. The explosions didn’t even scratch the glass.

  I once asked a member of Senator Ryman’s security crew whether the Secret Service had a sign on the wall somewhere counting off the number of years since a sitting president had been eaten on their watch. He laughed, but he didn’t look happy about it. I think I was right.

  “I miss Steve,” I said quietly, looking at the car.

  “Me, too,” said Shaun.

  The passenger-side door of the SUV opened, and a big blond mountain of a man unfolded himself, straightening until his head and shoulders were higher than the car’s roof. “It’s good to be remembered,” he said. “Shaun. Georgia.”

  Shaun’s mouth fell open as a grin spread across his face. “Steve, my man! What the fuck are you doing here?”

  “I could ask you the same thing. Last time I saw you, you were in no condition to be causing this much trouble.” Steve turned his face toward me, expression unreadable behind his government-issue sunglasses. I hate it when people use my own tricks on me. “You, on the other hand, were in an urn. Because it was your funeral.” His tone telegraphed what his expression didn’t: He was deeply uncomfortable about my presence.

  I shrugged. “Sorry. I guess I was just too stubborn to stay dead for long.”

  “Mad science,” said Alaric. “What can’t it do?”

  Shaun shook his head, snapping out of his delight over Steve’s appearance. “Sorry, man, I got distracted. Steve, this is Alaric Kwong, one of the site Newsies, and this is Rebecca Atherton, one of our Irwins.”

  “Call me Becks,” said Becks. “Everyone else does.”

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you,” rumbled Steve. “If you’d all get in the car, please? I have instructions regarding your destination.”

  “I’m afraid this is where we leave you,” said Dr. Shoji. “I’ll see you again, but I can’t arrive with you. That would be suspicious.”

  “And I’m on house arrest,” said Dr. Kimberley. She smiled at Steve. “I couldn’t even have come this far if we hadn’t been sure of who was going to be coming to collect you.”

  “Always glad to help, Dr. Kimberley,” said Steve. He opened the rear passenger door. “We need to get moving. The security changes at midnight, and it will be best if we’re past the checkpoints before that happens.”

  “Where are we going?” asked Becks.

  Steve didn’t answer. He just folded his arms, and waited.

  “Come on,” I said, and started for the car. Working with Steve during the Ryman campaign taught me a lot of things about professional security. Chief among them was that once Steve made up his mind about something, that was the way things were going to go. He’d explain where we were going on the way.

  Becks and Shaun followed me. Alaric stayed where he was, looking unsure. I waited until the others were in the car before turning on my heel and crossing back to him.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “This seems a bit… convenient, don’t you think?”

  I surprised us both by laughing, a single, sharp expression of both amusement and regret. “This has all been ‘convenient,’ Alaric. They’ve been herding us since Seattle. Maybe before, I don’t know. I wasn’t with you to see the signs. At this point, what’s one more leap of faith between friends?”

  “Seems like it might be a long fucking way to the bottom,” he said.

  “So what?” I shrugged. “If we’re going to fall, let’s do it with style. Now come on. That’s an order.”

  He blinked, and then smiled. “You’re not my boss anymore, you know.”

  “Alaric Kwong, I will always be your boss. Now get in the damn car.”

  I followed Alaric to the SUV. He climbed in ahead of me, and I paused to wave to Dr. Shoji and Dr. Kimberley before getting in. Steve closed the door as soon as I was inside, and the locks engaged automatically. There were no handles inside. We wouldn’t be getting out unless someone decided to let us out. Becks and Alaric had gravitated to the far back, leaving Shaun and me closer to the partition that separated us from the driver’s cabin.

  “Isn’t this cozy?” said Becks. “If they fill this thing with gas and kill us before we know what’s happening, I swear, the first thing my reanimated corpse eats will be your face, Mason.”

  “I’m pretty sure I could kick your ass even if we were all dead,” said Shaun.

  Becks shrugged. “You won’t reanimate. It won’t be a contest.”

  The two of them continued teasing each other, using sharp comments and verbal barbs as a way to keep calm. Irwins. They all have a few basic personality traits in common, and one of them is a strong dislike for being pinned in small spaces that they don’t control. That sort of thing is a death trap most of the time, and Shaun and Becks were both well trained enough to know it. I ignored the bickering as much as I could, squinting at the black glass divider between us and the front of the car.

  If I had still had retinal Kellis-Amberlee, I would have been able to see through that glass and tell who was driving the car. I would have had at least a little more information to use in determining whether or not we were being driven to our deaths. If you’d asked me before I died whether I liked my eyes, I would have looked at you like you were insane. Now that I was someone different, I missed their familiar limits and capabilities. Maybe it was just a matter of firsthand experience—Georgia Mason had it, and I didn’t. Regardless of what it was, or wasn’t, I kept squinting at the glass, wishing I could see what was on the other side.

  I was still squinting at the glass when it slid smoothly downward, revealing the shoulders of Steve and our driver. Shaun and Becks immediately stopped sniping at each other, straightening. My shoulders locked, going so tense that it hurt. Shaun grabbed my hand where it was resting against the seat, squeezing until my fingers hurt worse than my shoulders did.

  Steve twisted to look at us. “We’re almost there,” he said. There was an odd tightness in his voice, like he wanted to say something, but knew he couldn’t get away with it. That tightness hadn’t been there before, when we were at the EIS—when we weren’t in the car.

  Lowering my sunglasses enough to let him see where I was looking, I glanced toward the window. He shook his head. I tried again, this time slanting my gaze toward the dome covering the overhead light. Steve nodded marginally. We were bugged. I looked to Shaun, and saw him nodding, too. Everyone who’d come with me was a trained journalist. They all knew what that exchange had meant.

  “Going to tell us where ‘there’ is, big guy, or do we get to try and guess?” Listening to Shaun trying to pretend that he was still the careless thrill seeker who’d signed up to follow the Ryman campaign was almost painful. That man was dead. As dead as the real Georgia Mason.

  We were both pretending. We were just doing it in different ways.

  “You’ll know it when you see it,” said Steve. “There are a few ground rules I need you to understand. I advise listening closely. Anyone violating th
e terms will be shot. Your bodies will never be found.”

  “Wow. That’s… direct,” said Becks. “What are they?”

  “First, you will not broadcast or record anything that happens after leaving this car.”

  Yeah, right. “Will there be an EMP shield up to prevent it?”

  “Yes, for broadcast, but we’re trusting you on the recording.” He smirked a little. “I managed to convince my superiors that you didn’t need to be searched for recording devices, mostly by showing them the list of what we never managed to take off you when we were on the campaign trail. I suppose they don’t want to be here taking your transmitters off until dawn.”

  “Got it, no recording,” said Shaun. “What else?”

  “Second, you will not in any way initiate physical contact with anyone who does not initiate physical contact with you.”

  “Shake a hand, get shot?” asked Alaric. When Steve nodded, he looked faintly ill. “This gets better and better with every day that passes.”

  From the look that crossed Steve’s face, Alaric had no idea just how bad things had gotten. I filed the expression away for later. Whatever was happening here, Steve didn’t like it. That could be useful.

  “Third, you will ask questions only when given permission to do so.”

  We all stared at him. Telling a carload of reporters not to ask questions was like telling a volcano not to erupt; not only was it pointless, it was likely to end with someone getting hurt. Steve sighed heavily.

  “These rules weren’t my idea. I know better. Then again, you coming here wasn’t my idea.” He shook his head. “This is going to end badly. Please try to postpone that as long as possible.” Steve pulled back, and the divider slid upward again, blocking the cabin from view.

  “I want to punch someone,” said Shaun conversationally.

  “Do it with the hand that’s currently crushing my fingers,” I suggested. “You’re endangering my ability to type.”

  Shaun let go of my hand, grimacing. “Sorry.”

  “Don’t be sorry. Just be ready for whatever’s coming.”

  “He didn’t say anything about weapons,” said Becks. “Bets that they’re going to take our weapons away?”

  “No bet,” said Alaric. “These pig-fucking sons of diseased dock workers aren’t going to let us out of this car armed.”

  I raised an eyebrow. “You’re really enjoying the possibilities of the English language today, aren’t you?”

  “Just wait,” said Becks. “When he gets really worked up, he swears in Cantonese. It’s like listening to a macaw having a seizure.”

  Alaric glared at her. She grinned at him. And the car stopped moving.

  All levity fled, the four of us assuming wary positions that made our earlier tension look like nothing. Shaun put one hand on my shoulder; the other, I knew, would be going to his gun. We’d started out among friends. Now we had no idea where we were.

  The car door swung open, revealing the bulky shape of Steve. He stepped aside, letting us see the man who was standing behind him.

  “Hello, Georgia,” said Rick, smiling as he offered me his hands. “I know we’ve never actually met before, but I have to tell you… it’s been a long time.”

  The concierge just came to tell me my parents have landed at the Seattle/Tacoma International Airport, and will be at the Agora in less than an hour. I look like hell. My hair doesn’t even bear thinking about. But oh I am so glad they’re coming.

  Mahir and I have discussed what to tell them, and we’ve settled on the only thing they’re likely to accept: the truth. He’s pointed out (a few too many times) that they’re in medtech, they have contracts with the CDC, and they could be on the wrong side. I can’t find a way to explain that I don’t care. If they’re on the wrong side now, they’ll change when they find out what happened—what that bad, bad side was willing to do to me.

  I have hidden the truth from them for too long. It’s time I started living up to the mission statement that Georgia Mason chose when she founded After the End Times. It’s time for me to start telling the truth.

  But ah, it hurts.

  —From Dandelion Mine , the blog of Magdalene Grace Garcia, August 6, 2041. Unpublished.

  The lab is very quiet.

  I’m not sure that I like it anymore.

  I miss you, Joe.

  —From the private files of Dr. Shannon Abbey, August 6, 2041. Unpublished.

  SHAUN: Thirty-four

  Rick had more gray in his hair than I remembered. It would make him look distinguished in the right circumstances. At the moment, it just made him look old. He was wearing a tailored suit that probably cost as much as three rescue missions into the Florida hazard zone, and his shoes were shiny and tight. He’d never be able to run from a zombie mob in those shoes.

  Then again, he wouldn’t have to—not with two Steve-sized Secret Servicemen flanking him, each of them wearing their firearms openly on their belts.

  “Rick?” George got out of the car. Her movements were jerky, like she wasn’t sure what she was supposed to do. She grabbed the edge of the door as she stood. “What are you—?”

  The question was cut off as the Vice President of the United States—our former colleague and one of the only bloggers to survive the Ryman campaign—swept her into a hug. She made a squeaking noise, clearly startled, and her arms stayed down, but she didn’t pull away. For George, that was practically a passionate embrace.

  Becks shoved against my hip. “Hey, Mason. Move out of the damn way.”

  “What?” I tore my eyes away from Rick and George. I hadn’t realized I was moving, but I apparently had; I was standing, blocking Alaric and Becks from getting out of the car. I stepped to the side. “Oh. Sorry about that.”

  “Sure you are.” Becks stood, moving far enough to the side for Alaric to squeeze out, and eyed Rick suspiciously. “So that’s Richard Cousins, boy reporter.”

  “Pretty sure we’re supposed to call him ‘Mr. Vice President’ now, but yeah, that’s him.” Becks was already with the After the End times when Rick joined us, but they’d only met once, at Georgia’s funeral. Rick had just been asked to stand with Ryman. He’d been in shock, and so had the rest of us.

  Becks looked at him critically, finally saying, “I could take him.”

  “And I could take you,” said Steve. “Let’s not get into a pissing contest. We both know who’d come out the winner, so there’s no point.”

  “Sometimes the contest is the point,” said Becks piously.

  Rick pushed George out to arm’s length, eyes avidly scanning her face. That was going to keep him distracted for a few more seconds at least. The fact that George hadn’t pulled away from him yet meant she wanted us to be studying something else—namely, our surroundings.

  I turned to look around, not bothering to be subtle about it. Let Alaric and Becks be subtle; I’d play the happy buffoon, a role I’ve been practicing since I was a kid. People underestimate you if they think your only interests in life involve poking zombies with sticks and getting that perfect camera angle.

  We were in an underground garage. There was a row of SUVs identical to the one that drove us from the airfield parked nearby, presumably waiting to be needed. The lights were smooth and clear, and the doors weren’t just gated; they were sealed with metal sheeting that looked almost like blast protection. This place was locked down tighter than a bank vault.

  Oh. Crap. Feeling like an idiot, I turned to Steve and said, “I’ve never been to the White House before. Do you think we’ll get some of those cool souvenir key chains before we leave? I’ve wanted one of those ever since I saw a video of this one dude from Newfoundland using his to pop a zombie’s eye out.”

  Spreading it a little thick, don’t you think? asked Georgia.

  I forced myself to ignore it and keep on smiling. Crazy doesn’t go away overnight. Especially not crazy you’ve watered and tended yourself. But wow was this not the time to have an incident.

  �
�I don’t think this is a souvenir key chain kind of visit, but man, it’s good to see you,” said Rick. I turned to see him walking toward me, leaving George behind. He kept talking as he stuck out his right hand, clearly expecting me to shake it. “There were a few points where you went quiet, and I was afraid—let’s just say I’ve had reasons to be worried about your welfare.”

  “Really?” I took his hand, squeezing his fingers until that big politician’s smile he’d acquired somewhere started to look strained. “Because it seems to me that if you knew we were having problems, you could maybe have answered your fucking e-mail and helped us.”

  “No. I couldn’t have.” His smile died as he pulled his hand away. “And just so you’re aware, if it were up to me, I would have stuck a bow on her and delivered her to your doorstep on your birthday. I never wanted things to be this way.”

  Dr. Wynne. Buffy. Rick. How many of the people we considered allies were never allies at all? “But they are,” I said.

  Rick sighed. “True enough.” He turned, starting toward the sealed blast doors behind him. His Secret Servicemen continued facing forward, watching us with what I could only describe as suspicion. They were waiting for one of us to do something.

  Instead, we just stood there. Finally, Alaric asked, “Are we supposed to go with you?”

  “What? Oh. Yes.” Rick waved for us to follow him. “Right this way.”

  “Blood tests…?” asked Becks.

  “We don’t bother with the security theater here,” said Steve. There was a deep disdain in his voice—less, I thought, for the lack of security in this garage, and more for the idea that the security everywhere else in the world was flawed.

  And it was flawed. I used to believe in that level of security, in blood tests every ten minutes and checking your reflexes and response rates constantly. Even as an Irwin, I swore by following the rules. And then I met Dr. Abbey, who maintained the absolute minimum where security was concerned, and I learned that half the tests we take on a daily basis are useless. If you haven’t been exposed or gone outside, what’s the point of sticking another needle in your finger? Those tests didn’t tell us anything we didn’t already know… but they reinforced the idea that we had to be afraid, always, that our humanity was fleeting, maintained only by a constant web of government oversight.