San Diego 2014

by Mira Grant

  The same cannot be said of Lesley Smith. Her last thought was of Unis, whose frenzied barking had stopped a few seconds before. Worrying about her dog made it a little easier to endure the teeth biting into her flesh—and then there was only pain, and darkness, and then there was nothing at all.

  No one on the convention floor noticed what was happening in the control room. By that point, they all had problems of their own.

  * * *

  12:09 A.M.

  Lynn came to join the group as they were preparing to move. Shawn’s phone was in her hand. She offered it to him, saying quietly, “The battery died. She said to tell you that she loves you.”

  “Thank you,” said Shawn, and took the phone, clipping it to his belt.

  Lynn nodded and looked around at the remains of their group. The screaming from the front of the hall was getting louder, but it wasn’t quite on top of them. Yet. “Where are we going?”

  “The food court,” said Shawn. “The parking garage clearly isn’t a viable exit, or Dwight and Rebecca would have contacted us by now. That means we need another way. There might be an employee door at the back of their little café—and if not, there’s the freezer. It could survive the bombing.”

  “And it’s better than sitting here waiting to be blown up,” said Leita.

  “Leita’s right,” said Lynn. “But if we’re going to move, it needs to be now. If we stand here too long, we’re not going anywhere.”

  “Then let’s go,” said Shawn.

  The five of them left the booth together, holding what weapons they could improvise or scrounge from the toolbox. Each of them knew that they would never be coming back, and carried what they thought was important: a backpack, a tote bag filled with merchandise, the cash box, the signed picture of Joss Whedon from the charity drawing. Shawn knew that some of the things people had chosen to carry would slow them down, but he didn’t say anything about it. There would have been no point. They were more likely to die trying to escape than they were to make it out of the building. If people felt better because they died holding their laptops or their favorite shirts, he wasn’t going to be the one who told them no.

  As for Shawn himself, he brought his phone, the hammer he’d been holding off and on since arriving at the convention center, and his wife. His daughter was already safe. Nothing else could possibly have mattered to him in that moment.

  Together, the last of the California Browncoats walked deeper into the hall, heading for the food court, hoping for a miracle.

  They weren’t going to get one.

  * * *

  12:11 A.M.

  The moaning outside was getting softer as the zombies moved away, pursuing easier prey along the aisles of the convention center. Elle realized she was giggling under her breath. She clapped a hand over her mouth. That just made it worse. She folded double, laughing and crying at the same time, struggling with the need to do both as quietly as possible.

  “What’s so funny?” asked Marty. He didn’t sound belligerent, just tired. They were all tired.

  “A friend of mine has—” Elle caught herself. If the lying was going to stop, the lying was going to stop right here and now. “My girlfriend has this shirt that says, ‘In the event of a zombie apocalypse, I don’t have to run faster than the zombies. I just have to run faster than you.’ I guess it’s more accurate than we ever thought.”

  Marty chuckled once, eyes narrowed. “I guess that’s true. But it doesn’t tell us what we’re going to do next.”

  “How bad is it out there?” asked Matthew. “We’ve been shut in here since the lights went out. We don’t really know what’s happening on the floor.”

  “It’s bad,” said Stuart unsteadily. “It’s really bad. Kelly…”

  “One of our friends got bitten, and then she became one of those things,” said Pris, a little unsteadily. She was still clutching her tablet. She looked down at it, blinking. She hadn’t realized that she still had it; she’d assumed it was lost during their flight down the aisles. Then she realized that she didn’t remember much about what happened when the zombies came. First Kelly was coming around the corner, and then the rest of them were running through the open door of the makeshift little house.

  “So we know it’s contagious,” said Elle. “What does that mean for us? Do we stay in here and keep hoping for rescue, or do we start trying to get the hell out of here?”

  The others started talking, some of them on top of one another, all trying to put forth the best idea for what came next. Matthew and Stuart were both in favor of staying put, since there was no way they could be locked inside forever, and at least they had a door that shut. Eric and Patty were in favor of getting the hell out. Elle and Marty were doing their best to get everyone to discuss things calmly.

  No one was looking at Pris.

  She put her tablet down on the nearest desk—realizing only in that moment that they were in a replica of the precinct office from Space Crime Continuum—and took a step toward the wall, turning her back to the group. Then she rolled up her sleeves and looked at her arms. There were no bite marks. She relaxed marginally.

  “Oh thank God,” she muttered, and turned back to the others.

  They were all watching her. “Pris? Was there something you needed to tell us?” Marty’s tone was gentle, almost sad.

  She shook her head. “I’m not bit. I blacked out a little bit during the run, but I’m not bit.”

  “Thank God,” said Eric.

  Pris smiled. “My sentiments exactly.”

  “I don’t feel so good,” said Stuart, and sat down on the edge of a nearby desk, bloody hands tightening around his borrowed spear. “And no, I’m not bit, either. I just don’t like blood and dying and running for my life.”

  “No one does,” said the little British man—Matthew, that was his name. Matthew. “Can we get back to the business of sorting out what happens next?”

  “I think we should stay here,” said Pris. “We have the wireless back on. We can keep transmitting our position to the authorities, and you guys are right; having walls between us and the rest of the hall is a luxury we can’t afford to give up.”

  The argument resumed. This time, it was Stuart who didn’t join in. He let his head loll forward, trying to figure out why he felt so dizzy. It had been coming on in waves since they left Kelly alone by the front wall, and the dizziness was just getting worse as time passed.

  None of them understood the Kellis-Amberlee virus: Understanding was something for the future, for the survivors of the Rising and the heroes at the CDC who would begin their multi-decade fight against an elegant work of accidental genetic engineering. But they understood zombies, and they knew that a bite, under these circumstances, could very well mean death.

  None of them considered that bloody hands carelessly touching the face, brushing against the mucus membranes of the nose and mouth, wiping tears away from vulnerable eyes, could be just as dangerous as a bite, if slightly slower-acting. They were smart people. By the standards of their time, they were well equipped to survive. But none of them had the knowledge they needed to understand what was going on inside Stuart’s body. Kellis-Amberlee was already with them in their little sanctuary; it had entered via the front door, and it was not leaving.

  Stuart clutched his spear a little tighter, and waited for the room to stop spinning.

  LORELEI TUTT’S APARTMENT,

  LONDON, ENGLAND, JUNE 1, 2044

  The rum is gone. Lorelei stopped drinking shortly after I did, and now stares into her empty cup like she expects it to start offering answers. I have barely needed to prompt her through the last segment of her story. Now that the floodgates are open, it is all rushing out.

  LORELEI: Vanessa had this program on her iPad. It was a little video recorder thing. She had it set to transmit everything to the server, so that even if she lost the physical tablet, she’d still have the recordings. I think it was supposed to be some sort of crime-prevention thing. Like if the iPa
d got stolen and the thief hit the wrong button, he’d find himself on Candid Camera. She turned it on when they left the booth. Everything recorded. Everything uploaded. And I watched it all.

  MAHIR: Do you still have the footage?

  LORELEI: I’ve tried to delete it a thousand times. I can’t. It’s my parents. It’s the last time they were alive anywhere in the world. They were less than ten miles away from me, and they were on camera, and I wasn’t there. I should have been there. I should have stayed. But I had to be a pissy little bitch and get myself sent to the hotel. I—

  MAHIR: Do you really think they would have held things together any better if you’d been in danger with them? My daughter is very young, Ms. Tutt. She’s not even walking yet, much less sulking off because she’s tired of me. And I’d sooner die than see her in danger. As a parent, I can assure you that your absence was the greatest gift you could possibly have given them.

  Lorelei looks at me, startled. Her eyes are very wide, and for a moment—only a moment, but it’s real—I can see the teenager she must have been, innocent enough to enjoy a weekend at a comic book convention with her parents, naive enough to think that nothing bad would ever happen to her. My heart breaks a little in that moment. Not for Captain Lorelei J. Tutt, United States Coast Guard, but for the Lorelei who might have been, the girl that was on that hot summer day at the beginning of the Rising. She died there as surely as her parents did, in everything but flesh.

  Finally, she speaks.

  LORELEI: Would you like to see the footage?

  MAHIR: Yes. I very much would. If you don’t think it would be too difficult for you.

  LORELEI: It will be. But it’s something I need to do. Come with me.

  She rises and leads me back to the living room, where she opens a cabinet beneath the television to reveal a stack of old-style DVD cases. She doesn’t need to look for what she wants: It’s right at the top. Without saying another word, Lorelei opens the case, extracts the disk, and slips it into the DVD player. The press of a single button turns on the television, and the video begins to play.

  The tall, bald man with the hammer in his hand and the broad shoulders must be her father, Shawn Tutt. A glance at Lorelei’s face confirms this; there are tears in her eyes, and when he says, “Come on, people. We need to pick up the pace,” her lips move along with the words.

  The other people with him both do and do not look like I pictured them. The short brunette woman with the determined eyes must be Lynn Tutt, Lorelei’s mother. I thought she’d be taller; Lorelei must get her height from her father’s side of the family. Leita is younger than I expected, with pale skin and dyed black hair. Her brother is younger still, clearly afraid, just as clearly determined that he will not be the first to break. Only Vanessa herself walks unseen, the woman behind the camera.

  I have friends who would have appreciated that role.

  “Are we sure this is the right way?” Leita is asking, a ragged edge of exhaustion and fear in her voice. “I don’t want—”

  12:15 A.M.

  “—to get stranded down a blind alley because nobody had a damn map.”

  “We get to the back wall, and then we walk toward the far end of the hall until we come to the food court,” said Shawn grimly. “Once we’re there, we deal with whatever gets in our way.”

  “What do you mean ‘deal with’?” asked Robert. He sounded nervous. They were all terrified; he was just the only one who couldn’t seem to stop himself from showing it.

  “I mean we deal with it,” said Shawn, hand tightening on the handle of his hammer.

  Leita put a hand on her brother’s arm. “Let it go,” she murmured. “This isn’t the time to start questioning the chain of command.”

  “I should have stayed home and played video games all weekend,” Robert muttered, and kept walking.

  “Vanessa? Are you all right back there?” Lynn twisted around to look at Vanessa, who was bringing up the rear.

  “I’m fine,” said Vanessa. “I’m just checking the news sites. I want to see if there’s anyone talking about the bombing. Maybe we can find out how long we have.”

  “Just watch your step,” said Shawn, after a very brief pause. He wanted her paying attention. He wanted information even more.

  “I’m watching,” said Vanessa, and kept tapping.

  Lynn paced alongside her husband, her own makeshift weapon—a length of timber that was intended to be part of the booth’s main structure—clutched tightly in her hands. She didn’t say anything at all. At this point, she didn’t want to tell lies, and she didn’t want to hear them, either. All the pretty reassurances and mealymouthed platitudes in the world wouldn’t change their situation. So they just walked on.

  The blockades around the webcomic district stopped them. “Now what?” asked Robert. “Do we go around?”

  “Not if we can help it.” Shawn stepped forward, rapping his hammer against the nearest makeshift wall. “Hey. We’re clean. We need to get to the wall. Let us through.”

  Silence answered.

  Shawn rapped again, a little harder. “Hey! We need to get to the back wall, and we don’t have time to go around you! Let us through!”

  This time, there was an answer from the other side: a single soft moan that made the hairs on the back of Lynn’s neck stand on end. She grabbed Shawn’s elbow before he could rap a third time, pulling him backward.

  “Shawn,” she hissed. “They’re not going to let us in, and I don’t think we want them coming out.”

  Shawn hesitated. Then, slowly, he nodded. “All right,” he said. “We go around.”

  The zombies trapped inside the carefully constructed borders of the webcomics district gathered by the barrier and moaned as the Browncoats turned and walked away. But they didn’t break through, and for the moment, it seemed like escape might still be possible.

  * * *

  12:37 A.M.

  A consensus had finally been reached, after a great deal of argument and some uncalled for swearing: They would stay put, monitor the social media feeds, and wait for rescue. Looking quietly relieved, Matthew sank down into one of the desk chairs, with Patty standing somewhat sulkily next to him. Elle sat back down on the replica of the precinct captain’s desk, head bowed in a combination of resignation and simple exhaustion. None of them had eaten, visited a bathroom, or really slept for hours. Pris, Eric, and Marty gathered together near one of the other desks, unconsciously illustrating the ongoing divide between the two groups.

  Only Stuart didn’t move. Stuart hadn’t moved for a while, sitting on the edge of a desk, resting most of his weight on the spear he’d taken from Kelly.

  Stuart didn’t feel good. And by that point, he knew that something was seriously wrong. He made a small sound, somewhere between a grunt and a moan. It had been long enough since he’d made any sounds at all that the others turned toward him, somehow hearing him above the screaming from outside.

  “Stuart?” said Eric. “You okay, buddy?”

  “You need…to go,” said Stuart. Forcing out the words seemed like more work than it should have been. He raised his head. That was even harder than speaking had been.

  Patty’s eyes widened. “Your nose is bleeding.”

  “You need…to go,” repeated Stuart. “What Kelly had. Think she gave it…to me. You can’t. Stay.”

  “Oh, God,” whimpered Patty, and plastered herself against Matthew.

  “Please,” said Stuart. “Please.”

  “But she didn’t bite him!” said Eric. “How the fuck did he get sick, huh?”

  “Does it matter?” asked Matthew. He got to his feet, tugging Patty along with him. “Come on, sweetheart. We need to go.”

  “There are more out there than there are in here,” said Marty. “I think the odds are still better if we stay put.”

  “And get blood everywhere, when we’ve just shown that the damn stuff is indirectly transmissible?” snapped Matthew. “No. If we’re going to be fucked no matter what
we do, I’d rather be fucked running than sitting still.”

  Stuart moaned, the spear falling from his hands. And then he lunged.

  Maybe it was the setting. The precinct was the office of the Time Police, after all; it was the place where Indiction Rivers fought the forces of evil, prevented paradoxes, and always had perfect hair, even in the middle of a firefight. Maybe it was instinct. Or maybe it was simply that Elle had put herself in charge of her little accidental group of refugees, and when they were put in danger, she had to react. Whatever the reason, she flung herself from the desk where she’d been seated and grabbed Stuart by the back of the neck before he could reach the shrilly screaming Patty.

  Whirling, Elle slammed Stuart against the nearest wall, using every technique she’d learned in her self-defense courses and in training for her role with the show to keep him pinned. “Go!” she shouted. “Get moving!”

  “We’re not leaving you!” said Marty.

  “You won’t have to! I’ll let him go when I have a clear shot at the door—but I’m not doing it before! Now move it!”

  The others moved.

  Stuart squirmed. Elle shoved him harder against the wall. “You seemed like a nice guy,” she said. “I’m sorry this happened to you.”

  The techniques Elle had learned were designed to restrain people without harming them, and worked partially because most people would not hurt themselves to get loose. They were never intended for use on people who no longer cared about pain. She was still holding Stuart in place when he twisted himself at an angle that dislocated his shoulder with an audible popping sound and sank his teeth into her upper arm.

  Elle screamed. Matthew, who had been escorting the others out the door, turned and stared at her in horror.

  “Go!” she shouted. “Just go!”