Feed n-1

by Mira Grant

  Damn. “Right,” I muttered, and removed my glasses. Forcing myself to keep my eyes open despite the pain, I turned to press my face into the retinal scanner being held by the second member of Senator Ryman’s private security team. They would compare the scan results to the ocular patterns in my file, checking for signs of degradation or decay that could signify a recent viral flare. Not that they’d get any useful results from me; retinal KA means my eyes always register as if I were harboring a live infection.

  Buffy and Shaun were going through the standard version of the same process with their own detachments of black-suited security representatives just a few feet away from me. I was willing to bet theirs hurt less.

  The light at the top of the retinal scanner went from red to green, and the man pulled it away, nodding to his companion. “Hand,” said the first man.

  I took a few precious seconds to slide my sunglasses back into place before holding out my right hand, and managed not to grimace as it was grabbed and thrust into a closed-case blood testing unit. Clinical interest took over, wiping away my distaste for the process as I studied the unit’s casing.

  “Is that an Apple unit?” I asked.

  “Apple XH-224,” he replied.

  “Wow.” I’d seen the top-of-the-line units before, but I’d never had the opportunity to use one. They’re more sophisticated than our standard field units, capable of detecting a live infection at something like ten times the speed. One of those babies can tell you that you’re dead before you even realize that you’ve been bitten. Which didn’t make the process of getting tested any more enjoyable, but it definitely made it more interesting to observe. It was almost worth the pain. Almost.

  Five red lights came on along the top of the box, beginning to blink as needles pricked the skin between my thumb and forefinger, at my wrist, and at the tip of my pinkie. Each time, the bite of the needle was followed by a cool blast of antiseptic foam. When all five lights had gone from red to green, the agent pulled the box away and smiled genuinely for the first time.

  “Thank you for your cooperation, Miss Mason. You’re free to proceed.”

  “Thanks,” I said, and pushed my sunglasses farther up the bridge of my nose. My headache settled back into its previous grumble. “Mind if I wait for the rest of my crew?” Buffy was sticking her hand into the box, and they were waiting for Shaun’s retinal check to complete. He has retinal scarring in his left eye from a stupid incident with some crappy Chinatown fireworks when we were fifteen, and that makes his scans take longer than they should. Mine may be weird, but they’re a standard weird. His confuse just about every scanner we’ve ever met.

  “Not at all,” the agent said. “Just don’t cross the quarantine line, or we’ll have to start over.”

  “Got it.” I stepped back and studied the area, careful to keep my feet well away from the red line marking the edge of the defined “safe” zone.

  We’d been expecting increased security around the campaign, but this was more than I’d been bargaining for. They picked us up from Buffy’s house; the senator’s security dispatch wasn’t even willing to let us near their cars unless they were collecting us from a secured location, which took our place out of the running. Given that they gave us blood tests before they said hello, I don’t quite get the reasoning. Maybe they didn’t want to deal with a zombie attack before lunch. Or maybe they were avoiding our parents, who were practically panting at the idea of a photo opportunity with the senator’s men.

  Once in the cars, we were transported to the Oakland Airport, where we had to take another blood test before they loaded us and our portable gear onto a private helicopter. We flew to what was supposedly an undisclosed location but I was pretty sure was the city of Clayton, near the foothills of Mount Diablo. Most of that area was purchased by the government after the original residents evacuated, and it’s been rumored for years that they were using some of the old ranches as short-term housing. It’s a nice place, assuming you don’t mind the occasional threat of zombie coyotes, wild dogs, and bobcats. Rural areas offer a lot where privacy is concerned, but not so much if what you’re looking for is safety.

  Judging by the stables around the perimeter, our destination started life as a working farm. Now it was clearly a private residence, with electric fences spanning the spaces between buildings and barbed wire strung as far as the eye could see. Factor in the helipad and it didn’t take any great leap of logic to conclude that this place confirmed the rumors about the government setting up hidey-holes out in the abandoned boonies. Nice digs, if you can get them. I smiled as I continued looking around. Our first day, and we already had a scoop: Government Use of Abandoned Land in Northern California Confirmed. Read all about it.

  Buffy picked up her bags and walked over to me, looking flustered. “I don’t think I’ve ever been poked that many times,” she complained.

  “At least now you know you’re clean,” I said. “Cameras rolling?”

  “There was a minor EMP band at the entrance that took two and five off-line, but I anticipated for that and built in redundancies. One, three, and four, and six through eight, are all transmitting live and have been since pickup.”

  I looked at her flatly. “I didn’t understand a word of that, so I’m just going to assume you said ‘yes’ and move on with my life, all right?”

  “Works for me,” she said, waving at Shaun as he joined us. “You’re done?”

  “They know Shaun can’t be a zombie,” I said, adjusting my sunglasses. “You need a brain to reanimate.”

  He elbowed me amiably and shook his head. “Dude, I’m amazed they didn’t strip search us. They should’ve bought us dinner first, or something.”

  “Will lunch do?” asked a jocular voice. All three of us turned, finding ourselves facing a tall, generically handsome man whose carefully cropped brown hair was starting to gray but had been left just long enough in the front to fall across his forehead and create the illusion of boyishness. His skin was tan but relatively unlined, and his eyes were very blue. He was casually dressed in tan slacks and a white shirt, with the sleeves rolled up around his elbows.

  “Senator Ryman,” I said, and offered him my hand. “I’m Georgia Mason. These are my associates, Shaun Mason—”

  “Hey,” interjected Shaun.

  “—and Georgette Meissonier.”

  “You can call me Buffy,” said Buffy.

  “Of course,” the senator said, taking my hand and shaking it. He had a good grip, solid without being overwhelming, and the teeth he revealed when he smiled were straight and white. “It’s a pleasure to meet all three of you. I’ve been watching your precampaign preparations with interest.” He released my hand.

  “We had a lot to accomplish and not much time to accomplish it in,” I said.

  “A lot to accomplish” verged on understatement. We had seven baby bloggers contact us before we finished eating dinner, all wanting to know if we were planning to schism. Once people knew the size of the story we’d landed, there was no way striking out on our own would have been a surprise, so we didn’t try to make it one. The folks at Bridge Supporters were sorry to see us go and pleased by our severance offer: We took exclusive rights to all campaign-trail stories to our new site, but we allowed them to keep running two of Buffy’s ongoing poetry series, gave them first rights on any continuations to Shaun’s series on exploring the ruins of Yreka, and guaranteed two op-ed pieces from me per month for the next year. They’d get click-through reads from the folks following us on campaign, and we’d get the same in return as existing Bridge Support readers found their way to our new site through the shared material. My friend Mahir had been looking to move on to new challenges, and he was glad to sign on to help me moderate the Newsies. Shaun and Buffy had their own hiring to do, and I left it to them.

  Finding a host for our new site was disturbingly easy. One of Buffy’s biggest fans runs a small ISP, and he was willing to put us up and online in exchange for a minimal fee and a lifet
ime membership to our exclusive features, once we had some to offer. Less than twenty minutes after calling him, we had a URL, a place to put our files, and our very first subscriber. The baby bloggers who contacted us the first night were quickly joined by two dozen others, and that gave us the liberty to pick and choose, looking for people who fit a profile other than “available.” We wound up with twelve supporting betas, four in each major category, already producing content for a site that hadn’t even officially launched yet. Never in my wildest dreams did I believe it could be that easy to get everything you’d ever wanted… but it was.

  After the End Times went live six days after we got the notice that we had been chosen to accompany Senator Ryman’s campaign, with my name on the masthead as senior editor, Buffy listed as our graphic designer and technical expert, and Shaun responsible for hiring and marketing. Whether we sank or swam, there was no going back; once you make alpha, you can never be a beta again. Blogging is a territorial world, and the other betas would eat you alive if you tried.

  I hadn’t slept more than four hours a night in two weeks. Sleep was a luxury reserved for people who weren’t trying to design their futures around a meal ticket that might still prove to be a rotten apple. I just had to hope the dirt we found on the campaign trail would be enough to support us, or our careers would be short, sour, and too interesting by far.

  “Still, you seem to have done all right,” Senator Ryman said. His Wisconsin accent was stronger than it sounded on the newscasts; either he didn’t realize we were filming, or he figured there was no point in playing fake around the people who were going to be sharing his quarters over the next year. “If you’ll come with me, Emily has a nice lunch going, and she’s been looking forward to meeting you.”

  “Is your wife coming with you for the whole campaign?” I asked. He started to walk toward a nearby door, and I followed, gesturing for the others to do the same. We knew the answer already—Emily Ryman was going to be staying on the family ranch in Parrish, Wisconsin, during most of the year, taking care of the kids while her husband did the moving and shaking—but I wanted him to say it for our pickup recordings. The best sound clips are the ones you gather for yourself.

  “Em? I couldn’t make her come the whole way if I used a tractor pull,” the senator said, and opened the door. “Wipe your feet, all three of you. There’s no point to making you go through another damned blood test—if you’re this far past the gate and you’re not clean, we’re dead already. May as well be friendly about it.” Then he was inside, bellowing, “Emily! The bloggers are here!”

  Shaun gave me a look, mouthing “I like him.” I nodded. We’d just met the man, and he was probably a master of political bullshit, but I was starting to like him, too. There was something about him that said “I know how pointless all of these political circuses are. Let’s see how it long it takes for them to realize that I’m just playing along, shall we?” I had to respect that.

  He might be playing us for a bunch of saps, but if he was, he’d slip eventually, and we’d take him apart. That would be almost as much fun as getting along with him, and definitely better for our market share.

  The interior of the house was decorated with a distinctly Southwestern flare, all bright, solid colors and geometric patterns. Southwestern art has shifted in the last twenty years; before the Rising, any house with that many potted cacti and Native American–style throw rugs would have boasted a coyote statue or two and possibly a polished steer’s skull, complete with horns. I’ve seen pictures—it was pretty morbid stuff. These days, representations of any animal that weighs more than forty pounds have a tendency to make people uncomfortable, so coyotes and steers are both out of fashion, unless you’re dealing with a serious nihilist or some kid playing “creature of the night.” Only the painted deserts remain. An enormous picture window took up half of one wall, marking the house as having been put up before the Rising. No one builds windows like that anymore. They’re an invitation to attack.

  The kitchen was defined by raised counters rather than walls, spilling tile flooring into the hall and attached dining room in an almost organic fashion. Senator Ryman was standing by the big butcher’s block at the center when we entered, arms around the waist of a woman in blue jeans and a flannel lumberjack’s shirt. Her brown hair was pulled back in a high, girlish ponytail. He was murmuring something in her ear, looking a good ten years younger than he had when we met outside.

  Shaun and I exchanged a glance, debating the merits of retreating and allowing them this private time. My journalistic instincts said “stay,” and I certainly wasn’t turning off the cameras, but my sense of ethics told me that people deserve a chance to unwind before starting on something as huge as a full-on political campaign.

  Luckily, Buffy saved us from the conundrum by barreling straight ahead, sniffing the air appreciatively, and asking, “What’s for lunch? Wow, I’m starving. That smells like shrimp and mahimahi—am I close? Can I do anything to help?”

  Senator Ryman stepped away from his wife, exchanging an amused look with her before turning a grin on Buffy, and said, “I think things are pretty much in hand. Besides which, Emily’s too territorial to share her kitchen with another woman. Even if it’s a borrowed kitchen.”

  “Quiet, you,” said Emily, jabbing him in the ribs with a wooden spoon. He winced theatrically, and she laughed. The laugh was bright, perfectly in keeping with the practical, elegantly simple kitchen. “Now, let me see if I can guess which of you is which. I know you have two Georges and a Shaun—how is that fair?” She put on an exaggerated pout, not looking a bit like a senator’s wife. “Three boys’ names for two girls and a boy. It puts me at a disadvantage.”

  “We didn’t get to choose our own names, ma’am,” I said, fighting a smile. Shaun and I don’t even know what names we were born with. We were orphaned in the Rising, and when the Masons adopted us, we were both listed under “Baby Doe.”

  “Oh, but one of you did,” she said. “One of the Georges is also a Buffy, and if I remember my pop culture right, it should be the blonde one.” She turned, extending a hand toward Buffy. “Georgette Meissonier, correct?”

  “Absolutely,” Buffy said, taking her hand. “You can call me Buffy. Everyone else does.”

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you,” Emily replied, and released her hand, turning toward Shaun and me. “That must make you the Masons. Shaun and Georgia. Yes?”

  “Got it,” Shaun said, saluting her. Somehow, he kept the gesture from looking like he was making fun. I’ve never understood how he does that.

  I stepped forward, offering her a hand. “George is fine by me, or Georgia. Whichever is easier for you, Mrs. Ryman.”

  “Call me Emily,” she said. Her grip was cool, and the glance she cast toward my sunglasses was understanding. “Are the lights too bright for you? They’re all soft bulbs, but I can dim the window a bit more if you need me to.”

  “No, thank you,” I said, eyebrows rising as I studied her face more closely. Her eyes weren’t dark, as I had first assumed; what I had taken to be deep brown irises were actually her pupils, so dilated that they pushed the natural muddy hazel of her eyes into a thin ring around the edges. “Wouldn’t you know if the lights were a problem?”

  She smiled, wryly. “My eyes aren’t as sensitive as they used to be. I was an early case, and there was some nerve damage by the time they figured out what was going on. You’ll tell me if the lights get to be too much?”

  I nodded. “Sure will.”

  “Wonderful. You three make yourselves comfortable. Lunch will be up in a few minutes. We’re having fish tacos with mango salsa and virgin mimosas.” She raised a finger to the senator, adding playfully, “I don’t want to hear a word of complaint from you, Mister. We’re not getting these nice reporters drunk before things even get started.”

  “Don’t worry, ma’am,” Shaun said. “Some of us can hold our liquor.”

  “And some of us can’t,” I said dryly. Buffy weighs
ninety-five pounds, soaking wet. The one time we took her out drinking, she wound up climbing onto a table and reciting half of Night of the Living Dead before Shaun and I could pull her down. “Thank you, Mrs…. Emily.”

  Her smile was approving. “You can be taught. Now all of you, go sit down while I finish taking care of business. Peter, that means you, too.”

  “Yes, dear,” said the senator, kissing her on the cheek before moving to take a seat at the dining room table. The three of us followed him in an obedient, slightly ragged line. I’ll challenge senators and kings for the right to know the truth, but far be it from me to challenge a woman in her own kitchen.

  Watching the places everyone took around the table was interesting in a purely sociological sense. Shaun settled with his back to the wall, affording him the best view of the room. He may seem like an idiot, but in some ways, he’s the most careful of us all. You can’t be an Irwin and not learn some things about keeping your exits open. If the zombies ever mob en masse again, he’ll be ready. And filming.

  Buffy took the seat nearest the light, where the cameras studded through her jewelry would get the best pickup shots. Her portables work on the principles defined during the big pre-Rising wireless boom; they transmit data to the server on a constant basis, allowing her to come back later and edit it at her leisure. I once tried to figure out how many transmitters she actually had on her, but wound up giving up and wandering off to do something more productive, like answering Shaun’s fan mail. He gets more marriage proposals a week than he likes to think about, and he lets me handle them all.

  The senator took the seat closest to the kitchen and his wife, thus conveniently leaving me the chair with the highest degree of shadow. So he was a family man and someone who understood that consideration was a virtue. Nice. I settled, asking, “You provide home-cooked meals for all your news staff?”

  “Just the controversial ones,” he replied, his tone easy and assured. “I’m not going to beat around the bush. I read your public reports, your op-ed pieces, everything, before I agreed to your application. I know you’re smart and won’t forgive bullshit. That doesn’t,” he held up a finger, “mean I’m going to be one hundred percent straight with you, because there are some things no reporter ever gets to be privy to. Mostly having to do with my home life and my family, but still, there are no-go zones.”