Blackout

GEORGIA: Thirty-nine

Everyone stared at the needle sticking out of Shaun’s chest, their expressions showing varying degrees of shock and horror. I put the safety back on my borrowed gun and slowly lowered it, shoving it into the waistband of my pants.

No one said anything. One of the Secret Service agents pulled President Ryman back, putting more distance between him and Shaun. I tried to force myself to swallow. I remembered being hit by a similar needle in Sacramento, although mine had been attached to a syringe. “Shaun?” I said, very softly.

“The CDC weaponized Kellis-Amberlee a while ago,” said Shaun. He grimaced as he pulled the needle out of his chest. “Okay, fucking ow. Could we go with a slightly less ouch-worthy doomsday weapon next time? Not that I don’t appreciate it failing to, you know, puncture my lung or something, but that stings.”

“Put the needle down and step away from the president,” said one of the Secret Service agents. His gun was in his hand, and from his tone, he meant business.

“Shaun…” said President Ryman.

“Oh, right. You guys didn’t get the memo, did you? See, part of why they’re so into killing the people with the reservoir conditions—like, you know, George, or your wife, or Rick’s wife, who probably didn’t kill herself, and isn’t that a bitch?—part of why they’re so into that is because of whatchamacallit—”

“Antibody transference,” said Alaric. He relaxed as he spoke, some of the tension going out of his shoulders.

“Yeah, that. Turns out the reservoir conditions are sort of like, the middle step in us learning how to live with our cuddly virus buddies. People with reservoir conditions get better because they’re making antibodies. And then people who spend a lot of time with those people get something even better.” Shaun grinned at me. “We get to be immune.”

“What?” said President Ryman.

“What?” said Gregory.

“Can I get a biohazard bag over here?” said Shaun. He grimaced again. “And maybe some gauze or something? This really stings.”

“This is impossible,” said one of the Secret Service agents. He leveled his handgun on Shaun. “Sir, we need to get you out of here.”

“No,” said President Ryman. We all turned to look at him, even Shaun, who still looked perfectly lucid. Conversion takes time, but he should have been showing some of the outward signs of infection after being shot with that large a dose of virus.

“Sir?” said the Secret Service agent.

“I said no. We brought these people here because we were looking for a Hail Mary. If they’re going to give us one, we’re not going to turn our backs on them.” President Ryman’s gaze settled on Gregory. “I’m sorry, son. I didn’t catch your name.”

“Dr. Gregory Lake, sir. EIS.” Gregory produced a testing kit from his lab coat pocket, tossing it to Shaun. “If I may be so bold, this might help keep these nice gentlemen from shooting you before we can get out of here.”

“Practical and prepared. That’s what I like to see in a public servant.” President Ryman turned to Shaun. “Shaun…”

“I know, I know. Prove that this isn’t just preamplification crazy.” Shaun sighed as he popped the lid off his testing kit. “You know, George, if you’d just listened when I said I wanted to skip the presidential campaign and petition to go to Yellowstone instead, none of this would have happened.” He stuck his thumb into the opening.

I managed to smile. It wasn’t easy. “But imagine all the fun we’d have missed. Meeting Rick, that town hall in Eakly…”

“Burying Buffy. Burying you. I would have been okay with missing the fun.” The lights on his test unit seemed to be confused. They were flashing, returning to yellow over and over again. Finally, the green light stopped flickering, and the red and yellow began to oscillate, like the unit was trying to make up its mind. The Secret Servicemen drew their guns.

I could see what came next as clearly as if it had already happened. Blood on the floor; Shaun falling, and no handy CDC madmen to bring him back to me. “Stop!” I shouted, putting both my hands up in front of me. “It hasn’t stopped yet!”

It hadn’t stopped. The light was still flashing between red and yellow—and as I watched, the green came back into the rotation. The flash began holding there, a little bit longer each time. “Fascinating,” murmured Gregory.

“You can’t dissect him,” I said.

“No, but can we have some blood? Say, a gallon? For starters?”

“We’ll see.” The light wasn’t flashing red at all anymore; instead, it was flickering between yellow and green. Then the yellow cut out entirely, and it was just green, uninfected, safe. I let out a slow breath, only then feeling the terror that had been burning in my veins the whole time. Shaun was safe. Shaun was going to be okay.

Shaun was holding up the green-lit test unit with an expression of vague amusement on his face as he asked, “Well? Does that clear me? Or do I need to do a little dance, too?”

“A little dance is never amiss,” said Alaric, straight-faced.

I started to move toward Shaun. Gregory grabbed my shoulder, stopping me. “Don’t.”

“What?” asked Shaun and I, in unison.

Gregory shook his head, not letting go. “He may be immune, but you’re not. If the virus on his clothing is live, it could cause you to amplify.”

“This gets better and better.” Becks glared at the body of man from the CDC. “I should have taken the headshot.”

“Maybe next time,” said Shaun.

“In the meantime, Mr. President, your wife and children are safe,” said Rick. “We can get out of here. We can find a way to make this right.”

“It’s going to be a little harder than we thought.”

The sound of Steve’s voice was a surprise. We turned to see him standing in the door, with plaster on the shoulders of his formerly immaculate black suit and the bin holding our equipment in his arms.

“Steve?” said Shaun.

“The building is surrounded,” said Steve. He moved to put the bin on the table. “I took the liberty of retrieving your weapons. We may be shooting our way out.”

“Surrounded?” asked Becks, as she moved to rummage through the bin. “By what, political protestors?”

“No,” said Steve. “Zombies.”

“It’s always zombies,” complained Shaun. No one laughed. He frowned. “Tough crowd.”

“What is it about you two and massive outbreaks?” asked Steve. “We were outbreak-free until you got here.”

“Just lucky, I guess,” I said. “Where’s everyone else?”

“With Dr. Shoji. I doubled back when I saw the moaners on the lawn.”

At least something was going right. The Secret Service agents with President Ryman looked stunned, although whether it was at the zombies or our flippancy, I couldn’t have said. They weren’t with us on the campaign trail. They didn’t understand that this was how we coped.

“Can’t we get out through the tunnels?” asked Rick.

“Only if you enjoy being zombie-chow,” said Steve.

“The CDC is nothing if not efficient.” Shaun took his gun from Becks, careful not to touch her hand. “Is there any route out of here that doesn’t get us eaten?”

“We go through the parking garage to the covered motorway,” said Steve. “We may still get eaten, but we’ll have a better shot at getting out alive.”

President Ryman was starting to look distinctly unhappy. Poor guy. Leader of the free world—and unwilling tool of an international conspiracy—one minute, potential zombie-food the next. “How did this happen?” he demanded.

“Our extraction of your wife may have trigged some alarms,” said Gregory. “Between that and the situation here… the CDC is taking steps to resolve the matter. Congratulations. We are all expendable.”

“Cheer up, everybody,” said Shaun, and grinned—the grin of a manic Irwin getting ready to shove his way into danger. “This is going to be great for ratings. Let’s go.”

We went.