by Mira Grant
I stepped up to the server rack and started to disconnect drives and flip the switches to transfer as much of our data as possible to secured off-site backups. There are some files we try never to keep live on an out-facing network, including most of the research we’ve done into the conspiracy that killed my sister. Even that data gets backed up daily, both to the drives I was shoving into my pockets and to other, off-site drives, stored in safety deposit boxes, hidden caches, and stranger places all over the Bay Area. I feel I’ve earned my paranoia.
I could hear the reassuring sound of Becks loading her rifle behind me, underscored by the equally reassuring sound of Alaric emptying the contents of the primary weapons locker onto the apartment floor. He might not be a field man, but he’s one of the most well-informed weapons geeks I’ve ever met. That’s not a contradiction in terms. Being comfortable on the firing range doesn’t mean you’ll have a damn clue what to do when a zombie comes at you. The belief that the two skill sets translate directly gets a lot of people killed.
You’re getting distracted, chided George. She sounded anxious. I couldn’t blame her. Focus, asshole. This would be a stupid way to die.
“I know, I know.” I shoved the last of the drives into my pocket. Time to start moving.
The sound of my voice snapped Kelly out of her fugue. “What do we do?” she asked, in a low, tightly controlled voice. Her gaze darted around the apartment like she expected zombies to come bursting through the walls. She’d probably never been in an actual outbreak before. Talk about your trial by fire: from illegal cloning and faking your own death to trying to survive your personal slice of the zombie apocalypse in just one afternoon.
I’m man enough to admit that under most circumstances, I might have enjoyed watching the biological error messages flash across Kelly’s face. Maybe it’s cruel, but I don’t care. There’s nothing funnier than seeing somebody who thinks of the infected as somebody else’s problem realize that they, too, could join the mindless zombie hordes. Most medical personnel fall into that category; by the time they have hard proof that they’re not somehow above all harm, they’re usually either dead or infected. Either way, they’re not exactly making reports after that.
There’s a time and a place for laughing at the suffering of others. This wasn’t either. “We get the hell out of here,” I said, striding toward Dave. “What’s the situation at the parking garage? Do we have vehicle access, or are we just fucked?”
“They managed to take out the human security, but the autolockdown kept them from getting inside,” Dave reported, his eyes never leaving the screen. His fingers flew across his keyboard and the ones to either side of it like a concert pianist in the middle of a symphony, never missing a beat. The screens connected to the secondary keyboards flickered windows and blocks of code so fast that they were almost strobing. None of it seemed to bother Dave. This was his element, and he was damn well in control of it. “The tunnel’s clear—for the moment. The building’s automated defense systems include bleach and acid sprayers. I’ve managed to suppress the acid. I can’t stop the bleach.”
“That’s what gas masks and goggles are for. You sure there’s nothing in the parking garage?”
“It should be clear all the way to the van.” His hands didn’t slow down once. “Outer perimeter hasn’t been breached yet. I give it fifteen minutes if they keep slamming on the doors the way they are. Ten minutes if anybody gets bitten, panics, and drives their car into one of the fuse boxes on the street.”
“How likely is that?”
“Move fast.”
“Got it.” I turned. “Alaric, Becks, status?”
“Almost ready.” Becks tossed me a grenade. I clipped it to my belt. “We could blast our way out of anything, but…”
“But we need to assume the entire population of Oakland now wants to eat us. I know the drill. Alaric, how are we for gas masks?”
“Good.” He looked up, face flushed. “Kelly, what’s your weapons rating?”
She blanched. “I—it wasn’t a priority for lab work, and so I didn’t—”
All activity stopped as people turned to stare at her. Even Dave’s fingers ceased their tapping. The screams and sirens from outside seemed louder without our preparations to blur them.
“Please tell me you didn’t let it expire,” I said, quietly.
“It wasn’t necessary for lab work,” she said, her voice practically a whisperhei
I didn’t need to swear. George was doing it for me, loudly and with great enthusiasm. The fact that no one else in the room could hear her was purely academic; it was making me feel better, and at the moment, that was all I gave a shit about. “That changes things,” I said. “Alaric, you’re on Kelly. Where she goes, you go, at all times. And Kelly, before you make the privacy protest, there are no potty breaks during a zombie outbreak.”
Becks raised her eyebrows, looking at me.
“You’ve got another job to take care of.” Dave’s typing resumed as I spoke. The sound took the edge off the screaming from outside. Gesturing toward the pile of weaponry, I said, “Suit up, take what you need, and hit the garage. I want that tunnel absolutely secured, and I want a thorough sweep of the vehicles before we get out of here. You’re going to be taking the van.”
Her eyes widened as she realized what I wasn’t saying. “Oh, no.”
“Oh, yes.”
“Shaun, you’re not driving a motorcycle out through an active outbreak. That’s not just stupid; that’s suicidal.”
“You’ve all been saying I was suicidal for months now, so I guess it’s time I proved you right.” I shook my head. “This isn’t open for negotiation. Get ready, and get moving. Alaric, after you’re done dealing with the ammo, go up and check the roof, see if any of our neighbors are up there, and check for helicopter evacuations on the nearby buildings. Once you’ve got an idea of the situation, regroup downstairs next to the door to the parking garage.”
“Got it,” he said, nodding once. He didn’t argue with my orders or try to negotiate for leaving Kelly behind; he just stood and headed for the door. George trained her people well, and Alaric started out as one of hers.
Kelly hesitated on the cusp of following him into the hall, clutching the police baton Becks had shoved into her hands against her chest like a child would clutch a teddy bear. “Where are you going?”
“My apartment.” I grabbed the rifle I’d taken from the closet, resting it against my shoulder. “I need to get something.”
Dave glanced away from his keyboard. “Shaun—”
“Don’t. Stay here, keep the network traffic moving, keep shifting the files we’re going to need later, and just don’t.” Kelly stepped out into the hall, following Alaric. I looked from Dave to Becks, shaking my head. “I’ll be right back.”
I don’t believe you just said that.
“I’ve been saying it all my life,” I muttered, and left the apartment.
The emergency lights were on all the way along the hall, bathing it in bloody red light that was supposed to “convey a feeling of urgency” while “reducing the mental trauma of possible biological contamination.” Government doublespeak for “red freaks people out so they move faster” and “it’s harder to see what you’re stepping in that way.” o make matters worse, the emergency shutters on our building had activated, at least in the public areas where we hadn’t bothered to install any overrides. The shutters blocked out the screaming. They also blocked out the daylight.
Leave it, Shaun. It’s not that important.
“Pretty sure me being the one with the body means I get to decide what’s important.” The stairs were clear. I took them two at a time, ready to start shooting if anything moved in a way I didn’t like. Nothing did.
Shaun—
“Shut up, George,” I said, and opened my apartment door.
Every blogger keeps a black box in case something goes wrong. No, that’s not right. Every good blogger keeps a black box in case something goes w
rong. Every sane blogger keeps a black box in case something goes wrong. Every blogger you should be willing to work with keeps a black box, because every blogger you should be willing to work with understands that “things going wrong” isn’t an if. It’s a when.
Black boxes take a lot of forms. They’re named after the boxes the FAA puts on airplanes to record information in the event of a crash. The idea behind a blogger’s black box is basically the same: That’s where we record the information that we need to survive when nothing else does. George’s black box was built to withstand every known decontamination protocol, and a few that were still just theoretical. It was the first thing I got back from our van after she died. Becks and the others might think it wasn’t worth going out into the open for, but they’d be wrong. It was the only thing worth going out into the open for.
George and I basically grew up online. What with the Masons cheerfully exploiting our childhoods for ratings and our own eventual entry into the world of journalism, we never had many secrets. Everything we ever did wound up in somebody’s in-box. Almost everything, anyway. There were always the things we didn’t want to share, or didn’t know how to. That’s why we kept paper journals. It was the only way to steal ourselves a little privacy. That “we” is intentional, by the way; George was always the thinker, while I was always the doer, but we kept one diary between us for almost twenty years. We still do. I write my pages, and then I close my eyes and let her take care of hers.
I don’t read them anymore. It’s better if I just imagine that they’re real.
The black box contained our paper journals. Her medical records, her extra sunglasses, her first handheld MP3 recorder, and data files from the start of the campaign up until the point where she stopped recording. Her bottles of expired pain medication. All together, it was the most physical part of my sister that I had left, and there was no way I was going to run off and leave it behind.
Getting my shit together took less than five minutes. I crammed the black box into a duffel bag, along with all the weapons I could grab, and crammed extra ammo into the space remaining. There was a picture of us on my bedside table. I grabbed it and slipped it into the pocket of my jacket. Whenever you have to evacuate, there’s always the chance that you won’t be able to come back. Take whatever you’re not willing to live without.
I paused at the door, glancing back at the boxes and the barren walls. Everything I cared about could fit in one bag, the pockets of my coat, and my head. There was something tragic about that. Or there would be, if I let myself think about it.
Don’t, whispered George in the back of my head, almost too softly for me to hear.
It’s scary when she fades out like that. It reminds me that, technically, her presence makes me crazy, and sometimes, crazy people get sane again. “I won’t,” I said brusquely, and pulled the door shut as I hurried toward the stairs.
My headset connector started beeping angrily when I was only halfway there. I unsnapped it from my collar and jammed it into my ear, demanding, “What?”
“We’ve got a problem.” Dave sounded so calm that he might as well have been telling me to update the shopping list. “Alaric just got back from the roof.”
“That was fast.” I kept walking, stretching my legs until I was taking the stairs three at a time. It still didn’t feel fast enough. It was the best I could do.
“Well, it turns out that he’s had enough field training to know that when you open the roof door on a mass of the infected, you should stop and turn around.”
My toe caught on the lip of the stair I was stepping over, sending me tumbling forward. I grabbed the railing, banging my elbow in the process. “What?!” I barked, in almost perfect unison with George.
“There’s a mob up there. Kelly says twenty, Alaric says eleven, I’d say the real number is somewhere in the middle.” Dave paused. “He got a positive ID on Mrs. Hagar before he slammed and barred the door. The rest didn’t come from this building.”
“Meaning what?” I asked, picking myself up and resuming the trek toward the third floor.
Meaning this “outbreak” is somebody’s idea of cleaning house.
“Somebody had to put them there,” said Dave, unknowingly supporting George’s statement. “There’s no way our building is generating spontaneous zombies.”
Swearing steadily now, I took the last of the steps in four long strides, kicking open the door to the apartment. Kelly jumped, staggering back against Alaric. She was as white as a sheet. Alaric’s complexion was too dark to let him pull the same trick; he was settling for turning a jaundiced yellow-tan. Dave didn’t even turn around. He just kept typing, hands moving across his conjoined keyboards like he was conducting the world’s biggest orchestra.
“Prep for evac,” I snapped. “We’re out of here as soon as Becks gets back.”
“Why don’t we go meet her?” demanded Kelly, a thin edge of hysteria slicing through her voice. “Why do we have to wait up here? There’s a live outbreak on the roof! Those people, they’re infected!” The hysterical undertones were getting louder, like she wasn’t sure we understood that this was supposed to be a big deal
Deep breaths, counseled George. Count to ten if you have to.
I actually had to count to thirteen before I felt calm enough to speak without shouting. “We’re aware of outbreak protocol, Dr. Connolly,” I said. My tone was cold enough to make Dave glance away from his screen and shake his head before going back to work. “Rebecca is currently confirming whether it’s safe for us to proceed, or whether we need to find an alternate route. The rooftop door is locked, and the front of the building is sealed. We’re safer sitting here than we would be rushing blindly toward what we think might be an exit.”
“The building design makes that tunnel a perfect kill-chute,” added Dave. “If there’s anything down there, Becks is probably clearing it out before she reports back. If not, she’s confirming that we can get out of the garage without dying.”
“Actually, she’s right behind you.”
We all turned toward the sound of Becks’s voice. She was standing in the doorway, smelling of gunpowder, with a grim set to her expression. I raised my eyebrows in silent question. Becks held up a bagged blood testing kit, lights flashing green, and tossed it to the floor next to the biohazard bin. That was an answer in and of itself: She wouldn’t have ignored proper biological waste disposal protocols if she thought there was any chance we’d be staying.
“Three guards and two civilians who had no good reason to be there, all infected. None of them made it within ten feet of me. The rest of the garage is clear, and our transport’s prepped and ready.”
“Excellent.” I glanced around the apartment one last time, looking for things we might have missed. Our outbreak kits have always been well-maintained and ready for something to go wrong. That doesn’t stop the feeling that something major has been forgotten. “Everyone, grab your masks and goggles. We’re out of here.”
Suiting up for a run through a tunnel that might or might not fill with bleach while we were inside it took only a few minutes—God bless panic, the best motivator mankind has ever discovered. Kelly looked oddly calmer once she had her goggles on and a gas mask bumping against her collarbone, waiting to be secured over her nose and mouth. Maybe it reminded her of being back at the CDC, where all the “outbreaks” were carefully staged and even more carefully controlled. She’d need to get over that eventually. Now wasn’t the time. If pretending this was all a drill would keep her calm, I was all for it.
We left the apartment in a tight diamond formation. I was on point and Becks was at the rear, with Dave and Alaric flanking Kelly in the center. If there were any other people in the building, they didn’t show themselves as we descended. That’s the right thing to do when you’re caught in an outbreak and don’t have an evacuation route: stay put, stay quiet, and wait for the nice men with guns to come and save you. Sometimes they’ll even show up in time.
We were halfw
ay down the last flight of stairs when the sirens changed, going from a continuous shriek to a rising series of piercing air-horn blasts, like a car alarm with rabies. Alaric stumbled, knocking Kelly into Becks and nearly sending all three of them sprawling. I took two more stepsof get out of the way, and then turned, looking back toward the others.
That’s not a good sound.
“I know,” I muttered, before saying, more loudly, “Dave? What’s going on?”
Dave might as well have been a statue. He was standing frozen, eyes gone wide in a suddenly pale face. My question startled him back into the moment. He blinked at me twice, shook his head, and whipped his PDA out of his pocket, fingers shaking as he tapped the screen.
“We should be moving,” said Becks.
“We should be waiting,” I replied.
“We should be praying,” said Dave, glancing up. “This block has been declared a loss.”
Alaric closed his eyes. Becks started swearing steadily in a mixture of English, French, and what sounded like German. Even George got into the action, uttering some choice oaths at the back of my head. Only Kelly didn’t seem to share the group’s sudden distress. Sweet ignorance.
“Meaning what?” she asked. “Why are we stopping?”
“Meaning they salt the ashes,” said Becks, before starting to swear again.
Dave swallowed, squaring his shoulders as he looked at me. “Boss…”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“There’s got to be another option.”
There isn’t, said George, quietly. You know that. You have to let him.
“I can delay the lockdown. Not forever, but long enough.”
I shook my head. “No. There’s got to be—”
“There’s not,” said Alaric. I turned toward him, not quite fast enough to miss the mixture of terror and relief washing over Dave’s face. Alaric had pulled off his goggles, presumably so we could see his eyes. He was looking at me with something close to pity in his expression. “The computers in the apartment are wired into the building’s security systems. They can’t be controlled remotely, but they work just fine if you’re tapped directly into the cable. He can do it. But only if he does it from up there.”
