by Mira Grant
“Governor, you saw action in the Canadian Border Cleansing. I’d expect you to understand why Alaska had to be abandoned.”
“And I’d expect you to understand why a true American never lets go of what’s his. We should have fought. Under my leadership, we will fight, and we will by God win.”
I suppressed the unprofessional urge to shudder. His voice held all the hallmarks of a fanatic. “You’re requesting relaxation of Mason’s Law, Governor. Is there a particular reason for that?”
“There’s nothing in the Constitution that says a man can’t feed his family however he sees fit, even if that way isn’t exactly popular. Laws that limit our freedoms are needless as often as not. Why, look what happened when the Democrats stopped fighting for their unconstitutional gun control laws. Did gunshot deaths climb? No. They declined by forty percent the first year, and they’ve been dropping steadily ever since. It stands to reason that relaxation of other antifreedom legislation would—”
“How many of the infected are killed with guns every year?”
He paused, eyes narrowing. “I don’t see what bearing that has on our discussion.”
“According to the most recent CDC figures, ninety percent of the Kellis-Amberlee victims that are killed in clashes with the uninfected are killed by gunshot.”
“Guns fired by licensed, law-abiding citizens.”
“Yes, Governor. The CDC has also said that it’s virtually impossible to tell a murder victim killed by a shot to the head or spinal column from an infected individual put down legally in the same fashion. What is your answer to critics of the relaxed gun control laws who hold that gun-related violence has actually increased, but has been masked by the postmortem amplification of the Kellis-Amberlee virus?”
“Well, Miss Mason, I suppose I’d have to ask them for proof.” He leaned forward. “You carry a gun?”
“I’m a licensed journalist.”
“Does that mean yes?”
“It means I’m required to by law.”
“Would you feel safe entering a hazard zone without it? Letting your kids enter a hazard zone? This isn’t the civilized world anymore, Miss Mason. The natives are always restless now. Soon as you get sick, you start to hate the folks who aren’t. America needs a man who isn’t afraid to say that your rights end where the grave begins. No mercy, no clemency, and no limits on what a man can do to protect what’s his.”
“Governor, there have been no indications that infected individuals are capable of emotions as complex as hate. Further, they’re not dead. If rights end where the grave begins, shouldn’t they be protected by law like any other citizen?”
“Miss, that’s the sort of thinking you can afford when you’re safe, protected by men who understand what it means to stand strong. When the dead—sorry, the ‘infected’—are at your door, well, you’ll be wishing for a man who speaks like me.”
“Do you feel that Senator Ryman is soft on the infected?”
“I don’t think he’s ever been put into a position to find out.”
Nicely said. Cast doubt on Senator Ryman’s ability to fight the zombies and imply that he might be overly sympathetic to the idea of “live and let live”—a concept that gets floated now and then by the members of the far left wing. Usually for about fifteen minutes, until another lobbyist gets eaten. “Governor, you’ve spoken on wanting to do away with the so-called Good Samaritan laws that currently make it legal to extend assistance to citizens in trouble or distress. Can you explain your reasoning?”
“Simple as pie. Someone in distress likely got that way for a reason. Now, I’m not saying that I don’t feel terrible for anyone who winds up in that sort of a position, but if you rush to my aid when I’ve been bit, and you violate a quarantine line to do it, well, odds are good that you’re not saving me anyway, but you’ve also just thrown your own life aside.” The governor smiled. It might have seemed warm if it had come close to reaching his eyes. “It’s always the young and the idealistic who die that way. The ones America needs most of all. We have to protect our future.”
“By sacrificing our present?”
“If that’s what it takes, Miss Mason,” he said, smile widening and turning beatific. “If that’s what America requires.”
* * *
Now that I’ve had my long-delayed meeting with the man, there’s one question on everybody’s mind: What did I think of Governor David “Dave” Tate of Texas, elected three times in a landslide of votes, each time from voters from both sides of the partisan fence, possessed of an incredible record for dispensing justice and settling disputes in a state famed for its belligerence, hostility, and political instability?
I think he’s the scariest of the many frightening things I’ve encountered since this campaign began. And that includes the zombies.
Governor Tate is a man who cares so much about freedom that he’s willing to give it to you at gunpoint. He’s a man who cares so deeply about our schools that he supports shutting down public education in favor of vouchers distributed only to schools with government safety certifications. A man who cares so deeply about our farmers that he would reduce the scope of Mason’s Law to allow not only large herding dogs but livestock up to a hundred and thirty pounds back into residential neighborhoods. Governor Tate wants us all to experience the glories of his carefree youth, including, it would seem, pursuit by infected collies and zombie goats.
To make matters worse, he has a good speaking manner, a parochial appearance that polls well in a large percentage of the country, and a decorated history of military service. In short, ladies and gentlemen, he is a legitimate contender to hold the highest office in our nation, as well as being the man who seems most likely to escalate the unending conflict between us and the infected into a state of all-out war.
I can’t tell you to choose Senator Ryman as the Republican Party candidate just because I don’t like Governor Tate. But I can tell you this: The governor’s biases, like mine, are a matter of public record. Do your research. Do your homework. Learn what this man would do to our country in the name of preserving a brand of freedom that is as destructive as it is impossible to secure. Know your enemy.
That’s what freedom really means.
—From Images May Disturb You, the blog of Georgia Mason, March 14, 2040
Twelve
“ George?”
“Yeah?” I didn’t look up. Editing Governor Tate’s remarks into a coherent interview was easy, especially since I wasn’t forcing myself to be evenhanded. The man didn’t like me; there was no reason to pretend it wasn’t mutual. Compiling everything into a readable format took less than fifteen minutes, and we were already getting a satisfactory number of hits. It was the follow-ups that were taking time. Not only did I have a lot of photographs and video footage to wade through, but the phenomenal amount of gossip and hearsay posted about the man bordered on appalling. The folks running the convention were about to start calling the votes—we’d have a formal party nominee inside the hour—and I wasn’t anywhere near prepared to leave my computer.
“No, seriously, George?”
“What?”
“There’s a man.”
Now I did look up, squinting in the glare from the open office door before I reached for my sunglasses. The room faded into a comforting monochrome. Anyone who values colors has never had to deal with a KA-induced migraine. “You want to try that again? Because you almost told me something, and I’m thinking you might want to obfuscate your verbiage just a little more. Just for, y’know, giggles.”
“He says you invited him here.” Shaun leaned forward and smirked, his tone dripping with affected smarm. “Got a little election night itch you want scratched? I mean, he’s not completely hideous, although I didn’t think the corn-fed farm boys were your type—”
“Wait. Sandy brown hair, about your height, blue eyes, older than us, looks like butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth?”
“Or anywhere else you wanted to shove it,” Sha
un confirmed, eyes narrowing. “You mean you really did tell him to come here?”
“He’s a defector from Wagman’s press corp. She’s pulling out, and he’s bringing everything he’s got, providing it nets him a spot with us for the duration of Ryman’s campaign.”
Shaun’s eyebrows rose. “Public domain materials?”
“Or he wouldn’t be trying to bribe us with them. Buffy!” I hit Save and stood, looking toward the closet our resident Fictional had drafted as her private office. The door cracked open, and her head poked out. “Drop me all the personnel files you can pull on Wagman’s press corps and get out here. We have an interview to conduct.”
“Okay,” she said, and withdrew back into the closet. My terminal beeped a moment later, signaling receipt of the files I’d requested. We’re nothing if not efficient.
“Good.” I looked to Shaun. “Let’s find out whether the man’s wasting our time. Go get him.”
“Your wish, my command,” Shaun said, and turned, closing the door behind him.
Buffy emerged from her closet, moving to take the seat next to me. She had her hair skimmed back in a loose ponytail and was wearing a blue button-up shirt I was reasonably sure belonged to Chuck. She looked about as professional as your average fifteen-year-old, which was close to perfect: If this guy couldn’t handle us in our natural working environment, he didn’t really want to work with us.
“You really thinking of hiring this guy?” she asked.
“Depends on what he’s got and what his credentials say,” I said.
She nodded. “Fair enough.”
Further conversation was forestalled as the door swung open. Shaun stepped into the room, followed by the man from the press room. He was carrying a sealed folder under one arm, which he tossed to me as soon as he was clear of the door. I caught it and raised one eyebrow, waiting. Buffy sat up a little straighter, attention fixed on the newcomer.
“That’s everything,” he said. “Video, hardcopy, data files. Six months of following Wagman, plus the details on the deals she cut as she made for the door. Your boy’s getting confirmed tonight, and it’s going to be partially because of the amount of pull she tossed his way.”
“I doubt she shifted the balance,” I said. Handing the folder to Buffy, I said, “Run this. See if there’s anything we can use.”
“Got it.” She stood and paused, tossing a studied, impish grin toward the newcomer. “Hey, Rick. You’re looking all downtrodden and desperate.”
The newcomer—Rick—returned the smile with one that looked substantially more sincere, and even, I thought, slightly relieved. “Ah, Buffy,” he said. “You, meanwhile, look like you’re wearing your boyfriend’s clothes again. I hope this one is at least a Catholic?”
“That’s between me and my prayers,” she said, blowing him a kiss.
I turned to eye him, pulling my sunglasses far enough down my nose to make my expression plain. “I take it you two know each other?”
“No, I just call every strange blonde I see ‘Buffy.’ You’d be amazed how often I’m right.” He offered his hand. Buffy snorted, amusement evident, and retreated to her closet.
I could pursue that line of questioning later. “Well, you’ve tagged our Fictional, and I know you know who I am. Care to even the odds?” I took his hand and shook it.
His grip was firm, but not overly so. “Richard Cousins—Rick to my friends. Newsie, currently unaffiliated, although I’m hoping we’re about to change that; my biases are registered with Talking Points and Unvarnished Truth.”
“Huh,” I said, releasing his hand. Talking Points and Unvarnished Truth are two of the larger blogger databases; anyone can register a bias page with them and get it certified. Still, their signal-to-noise ratio is surprisingly good, largely because they self-police on a constant basis, looking for people who claim one set of biases while espousing another. “License level?”
“A-15. Wagman required it when she started aping your boy.” He produced a data pad from inside his coat. “My credentials are there and ready for link, along with my most recent medical records and blood test results.”
“Fabulous.” I slid the data pad into the docking slot on my terminal. Files promptly filled my screen. I skimmed them as I unhooked the pad and passed it back to him. “No publications before two years ago, but you’re already reporting at an A-15 level? I don’t know whether that’s impressive or suicidal.”
“I vote ‘blackmailed the license committee,’” contributed Shaun.
“Actually—” said Rick.
“Open the file on his print media pubs,” said Buffy, emerging from the closet. “That’ll explain everything. Won’t it, Ricky?”
“Print media?” Shaun’s eyebrows shot upward. “Like magazines?”
“Try newspapers,” said Buffy, eyes on Rick. I had to give him this much: He was taking her poking with good grace, and he wasn’t squirming. Yet. “That’s why he’s such a golden oldie.”
“Newspapers,” I repeated, disbelieving, and pulled up the next page in his file. The rest of his credentials filled the screen. I slid my glasses back up to cover my surprise. “Here we go—Buffy’s right. Staff writer, St. Paul Herald, five years. Field reporter, the Minnesota News, three years. How old are you?”
“My recertification to virtual media was fully processed eighteen months ago. I got on Wagman’s team fair and square,” said Rick, before adding, “And I’m thirty-four.”
“Fair and square means, what, you got on by waiting for her to realize Ryman had the right idea and then chasing her ambulance?” asked Buffy sweetly.
“All right, that’s enough.” Removing my glasses, I looked from Rick to Buffy and back. “What’s the story, you two?”
“Richard ‘Rick’ Cousins, Newsie, stated biases are left-wing Dem without crossing any lines into actual psychosis, solid writer, good with deadlines, not too adept at use of imagery, and the bastard beat me in an essay contest six years ago,” Buffy said.
“You can’t hold that against me,” Rick protested. “It wasn’t a teen competition. You were sixteen.”
“I can hold anything I want against you,” said Buffy, glowering at him before her face split in a wide grin. “You didn’t say you wanted the files on Rick, Georgia. Finally looking for a real story, you perverted ambulance chaser?”
“Don’t flatter yourself, Buffy. Any story you’ve had your hands on can’t possibly be real,” Rick countered.
Shaun and I exchanged a look. “Think they know each other?” he asked.
“Getting the feeling. Buffy?”
She looked, briefly, like she didn’t want to explain. Then she shrugged and said, “After Rick beat me, we started writing. He’s a pretty cool guy, once you get past the part that he’s older than the dawn of time.”
“I choose to take that in the spirit in which it was offered,” said Rick. “Especially since it comes from someone who thinks Edgar Allen Poe is socially relevant.”
Buffy sniffed.
“Right, you know each other,” I said. “How’s his bribe? Do we hire him?”
“He’s got good footage of Wagman from the last six months, a couple exclusive interviews, and a full recording of her chief of staff making the resignation calls,” Buffy said.
I shot Rick a startled look.
He grinned. “He didn’t say I had to stop taping.”
“If I was interested in boys, I’d kiss you right now,” said Shaun, deadpan. “George, in Newsie-speak, what does that mean for ratings?”
“Three percent increase for starters, more if he can write well enough to sustain an audience. Rick, we can take you as a beta, you get your own byline but you run everything through me or my second, Mahir Gowda, no direct access to the candidate; if Ryman doesn’t get the nomination, you’re on a six-month base contract. I can e-mail you the legalese.”
“And if he does get the nomination?”
“What?”
“If he gets the nomination—which he will—w
hat do I get?”
I smiled. “You get to stay with us until the bitter end, or until I fire your ass, whichever comes first.”
“Acceptable.” He held out his hand.
I shook it. “Welcome to After the End Times.”
Shaun clapped him on the back before he had a chance to let go. “More testosterone on the field team! My man! What do you think about poking dead things with sticks?”
“It’s a good way to get ratings and commit suicide at the same time,” Rick said.
I snorted. “All right. You can stay.”
There was a knock at the door. It opened before any of us had a chance to react, and Steve entered, sunglasses obscuring the majority of his expression. I stood.
“Is it time?” I asked.
Steve nodded. “Senator asked me to make sure you were ready.”
“Right. Thanks, Steve.” Grabbing my bag, I hooked a thumb toward our newest addition. “Rick, you’re with me; we’re on the floor. Buffy, I need you here, working the terminals. Hit my remotes and tell them we’re streaming raw footage starting in ten minutes, and they should be ready to start doing the forum-facing clean and jerk.”
“Editorial power?”
“Fact only, no opinions until I log on and start setting the baselines.” I was checking equipment as I spoke, hands moving on autopilot. My recorder was charged, and the readout on my watch indicated that all cameras were operating at seventy percent or above. “See if you can rouse Mahir, and yes, I know what time it is in London, but I need someone sane stomping on the trolls. Shaun—”
“Outside the convention hall with my skateboard and my stick, watching to see if the protestors and picketers do anything worth reporting on,” Shaun said, snapping an amiable salute. “I know my strengths.”
