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Twenty-seven

George’s blood didn’t all dry at the same rate.

Some of the smaller streaks dried almost immediately, staining the wall behind her ruined monitor. The gunshot collapsed the screen inward, safety-tempered glass holding its form as well as it could, even when the plastic casing shattered. It was like looking at some modern artist’s reinterpretation of an old-school disco ball. “The party’s in here, and we’re just getting started.” As long as you didn’t mind the blood on the glass, that was. I minded the blood on the glass. I minded the blood on the glass a lot. I just didn’t see a way to put it back where it belonged.

The bigger splashes were drying slow and sticky, the color maturing from bright red to a sober burgundy, where they seemed content to stay. That bothered me. I wanted the blood to dry, wanted it to settle in funeral colors and stop taunting me. I’m a good shot. I’ve been on firing ranges since I was seven years old, in the field—legally—since I was sixteen. Even if the virus still allowed her to feel pain, George didn’t have time for pain. It was just the roar of the gun, and then she was slumping forward, face-first on her keyboard. That was the only real mercy. She landed face-first, so I didn’t have to see what I’d… so I didn’t have to see. She didn’t have time to suffer. I just have to keep telling myself that, now, and tomorrow, and the next day, for as long as I can stay alive.

The sound of the gun fired inside the van would’ve been the loudest thing I’d ever heard if it hadn’t been followed by the sound of George falling. That’s the loudest thing I’ve ever heard. That’s always going to be the loudest thing, no matter what else I hear. The sound of George, falling.

But I’m a good shot, and there was no shrapnel unless you wanted to count the aerosolized blood released when the bullet hit my… when I shot… not unless you counted the blood. I had to count the blood because it was enough to turn the entire damn van into a hot zone. If I was infected, I was infected—too late to worry about that kind of shit now—but that didn’t mean I needed to make my chances worse. I moved as far away as I could and sat down with my back against the wall, the gun dangling loose against my left knee, to watch the blood dry, and to wait.

George turned the security cameras on before things got too… before it was too late to worry about that sort of stuff. I watched the Center’s security forces rush around with the senator’s men and some dudes I didn’t recognize. Ryman wasn’t the only candidate working Sacramento. There was no sign of Rick. Either he got dead or he got out of the quarantine zone before things went to hell. And things had gone to hell. I could spot at least three of the infected on every monitor, about half of them being gunned down by frantic guards who’d never dealt with a for-real-and-true zombie before. They were shooting stupid. They would have known they were shooting stupid if they’d paused to think for five seconds. You’re not a sharpshooter, you don’t go for the head, you go for the knees; a zombie that’s been hobbled can’t come at you as fast, and that leaves more time to aim. You’re out of ammo, you leave the field. You don’t reload where you stand unless there isn’t any choice. When you’re fighting a disease, you have to fight smarter than it does, or you may as well put down your weapons and surrender. Sometimes they just bite enough to infect if you don’t put up a fight and if the pack’s too small. You can avoid being eaten if you’re willing to defect to the enemy’s side.

Part of me wanted to get out there and help them, because it was clear they were pretty fucked without some sort of backup. Most of me wanted to stay where I was, watching the blood dry, watching the last signs of George slipping away forever.

My pocket buzzed. I slapped at it like it was a fly, fumbling out my phone and clicking it on. “Shaun.”

“Shaun, it’s Rick. Are you okay?”

It took me a moment to recognize the high, wavering sound in the van as my own distorted laughter. I clamped it down, clearing my throat before I said, “I don’t think that word applies at this point. I’m alive, for now. If you’re asking whether I’m infected, I don’t know. I’m waiting until someone shows up to get me before I run a blood test. Seems a little pointless before that. Did you get out before the quarantine came down?”

“Barely. They were still reacting to the explosions when I got to Georgia’s bike; they hadn’t had time to do anything. I think they closed the gates right behind me. I—”

“Do me a favor. Don’t tell me where you are.” I let my head tilt back to touch the van’s wall and discovered more blood I’d need to keep an eye on. This was on the ceiling. “I have no idea how tapped our phones are or who might be listening. I’m still in the van. Doors are probably locked anyway, since we confirmed an infection in here.” The van’s security system wasn’t going to trust any attempt to open it from the inside, even if I registered uninfected. It would need an outside agent to free me. That or a rocket launcher, and even I don’t pack that heavy for a little political rally.

Rick’s reply was subdued. “I won’t. I… I’m sorry, Shaun.”

“Aren’t we all?” I laughed again. This time the high, strangled sound seemed almost natural. “Tell me her last transmission got out. Tell me it’s circulating now.”

“That’s why I called. Shaun, this is—it’s insane. We’re getting so many hits that it’s swamped two of the servers. Everyone is downloading this; everyone is propagating it. Some folks started the usual ‘it’s a hoax’ rumors, and Shaun, the CDC put out a press statement. The CDC.” He sounded awed. He damn well should. The CDC never puts out a statement with less than a week to prepare it. “They confirmed receipt of her test results with a time stamp and everything. This story doesn’t just have legs—it has wings, and it’s flying around the world.”

“The name on the press release. It wasn’t Wynne, was it?”

“Dr. Joseph Wynne.”

“Guess our trip to Memphis did some good after all.” The blood on the ceiling was more satisfying than the blood on the walls. It was thinner up there. It was drying so much faster.

“She didn’t die for nothing. Her story—our story—it got out.”

Suddenly, I was tired. So goddamn tired. “Sorry, Rick, but no. She died for nothing. No one should have died for this. You get away from here. Far as you can. Dump your phones, dump your transmitters, dump anything that could be used to bounce a signal, stick Georgia’s bike in a garage, and don’t call again until this is over.”

“Shaun…”

“Don’t argue.” A bitter smile touched my lips. “I’m your boss now.”

“Try not to die.”

“I’ll think about it.”

I hung up and chucked my phone across the van, where it shattered against the wall with a satisfying crunch. Rick was out of the quarantine, and he was still running. Good. He was wrong—George damn well died for nothing—but he was also right. She would have thought this justified things. She would have said this was enough to pay for my being forced to put a bullet through her spine. Because she put the truth ahead of absolutely everything we ever had, and this had been the biggest truth of all.

“Happy now, George?” I asked the air.

The silence supplied her answer: Ecstatic.

The sound of beeping intruded on my contemplation of the bloody ceiling some ten minutes later. The fight outside was winding down. Bemused, I looked toward my shattered phone. Still broken. There were countless things in the van that could be beeping like that, about half of them on George’s side. Hoping whatever it was happened to be voice activated, I said, “Answer.”

One of the wall-mounted monitors rolled, the body of a dead security guard and the two infected feasting on his torso being replaced by the worried face of Mahir, my sister’s longtime second and our secret weapon against government shut-down. Guess that cat didn’t need to stay in the bag any longer. His eyes were wide and terrified, the whites showing all the way around, and his hair was disheveled, like he’d just gotten out of bed.

“Huh,” I said, distantly pleased. “Guess it was voice activated after all. Hey, Mahir.”

His focus shifted down, settling on where I sat against the wall. It wasn’t possible for his eyes to get any wider, but they tried when he saw the gun in my hand. Still, his voice struggled to stay level as he said, with great and anxious seriousness, “Tell me this is a joke, Shaun. Please, tell me this is the most tasteless joke in a long history of tasteless jokes, and I will forgive you, happily, for having pulled it on me.”

“Sorry, no can do,” I said, closing my eyes rather than continuing to look at his worry-stricken face. Was this how it felt to be George? To have people looking at you, expecting you to have the answers about things that didn’t involve shooting the thing that was about to chew your face off? Jesus, no wonder she was tired all the time. “The exact time and cause of death for Georgia Carolyn Mason has been registered with the Centers for Disease Control. You can access it in the public database. I understand there’s been a statement confirming it. I’m gonna have to get that framed.”

“Oh, dear God—”

“Pretty sure God’s not here just now. Leave a message. Maybe He’ll get back to you.” It was nice, looking at the inside of my eyelids. Dark. Comfortable. Like all those hotel rooms I fixed up for her, because her eyes got hurt so easy…

“Shaun, where are you?” Horror was overwhelming the anxiety in his tone. He’d seen the van wall. He’d seen the gun. Mahir wasn’t an idiot—he could never have worked for George if he’d been stupid—and he knew what my surroundings meant.

“I’m in the van.” I nodded, still letting myself take comfort in the dark. I couldn’t see his face. I couldn’t see the blood drying on the walls. The dark was my friend. “George is here, too, but you can’t really say hi just now. She’s indisposed. Also, I blew her brains out all over the wall.” The giggle escaped before I could bite it back, high and shrill in the confined air.

“Oh, my God.” Now there was nothing but horror in his tone, wiping everything else away. “Have you activated your emergency beacon? Have you tested yourself? Shaun—”

“Not yet.” I found myself beginning to get interested against my better judgment. “Do you think I should?”

“Don’t you want to live, man?!”

“That’s an interesting question.” I opened my eyes and stood, testing my legs and finding them good. There was a moment of dizziness, but it passed. Mahir was watching me from the screen, his dark complexion gone pale with panic. “Do you think I should? I wasn’t supposed to. George was supposed to. There’s been a clerical error.”

“Turn on your beacon, Shaun.” His voice was firm now. “She wouldn’t want it this way.”

“Pretty sure she wouldn’t want any of this. Especially not the part where she’s dead. That would be the part she liked the least.” My head was starting to clear as the shock faded, replaced by something cleaner and a lot more familiar: anger. I was furiously angry because it wasn’t supposed to be this way; it was never supposed to be this way. Georgia would attend my funeral, give my eulogy, and I would never live in a world she wasn’t a part of. We agreed on that when we were kids, and this… this was just plain wrong.

“Regardless, now that she’s gone and you’re not? She’d want you to make at least a small effort to stay that way.”

“You Newsies. Always bringing the facts into things.” I crossed the van, keeping my eyes away from the mess at my sister’s terminal and the surrounding walls. The beacon—a button that would trigger a broadcast loop to let any local CDC or law enforcement agents know that someone in the van had been infected, and that someone else was alive—was a switch on the wall next to what had been Buffy’s primary terminal, before she went and died on us.

First Buffy, now George. Two down, one to go, and the more I forced myself out of the comfort of my shock, the more I realized that the story wasn’t over. It didn’t have an ending. George would have hated that.

“It is, as you might say, our job,” Mahir said.

“Yeah, about that.” I flipped the switch. A distant, steady beeping began, the beacon’s signal being picked up and relayed by the illegal police scanner in the sealed-off front seat. “Who are you working for right now?”

“Ah… no one. I suppose I’m a free agent.”

“Good, ’cause I want to hire you.”

Mahir’s surprise was entirely unfeigned as he demanded, “What?”

“This day can’t be good for your blood pressure,” I said, crossing to the weapons locker. The revolver wasn’t going to cut it. For one thing, it was probably contaminated, and they’d take it away when they let me out of the van. For another, it lacked class. You can’t go hunting United States governors with a generic revolver. It simply isn’t done. “After the End Times has found itself with a sudden opening for a new Head of our Factual Reporting Department. I mean, I could hire Rick, but I don’t think he’s gonna have the guts for the job. He’s one of nature’s seconds. Besides, Georgia would’ve wanted me to give it to you.” We’d never discussed it—the topic of her dying was so ludicrous that it never came up—but I was sure of what I was saying. She would’ve hired him if she had any say in the matter. She would’ve hired him, and she would’ve trusted him to take over the site if my death followed hers. So that was all right.

“I… I’m not sure what you…”

“Just say yes, Mahir. We have so many recorders running right now that you know a verbal contract will stand up in court, as long as I don’t test positive when they come to let me out of here.”

Mahir sighed, the sound seemingly summoned up from the very core of him. I glanced up from the process of loading bullets into Georgia’s favorite .40, and saw him nod. “All right, Shaun. I accept.”

“Good. Welcome back onboard.” I’ve done my own hiring and firing from the start and I know what it takes to activate a new account or reactivate an old one. Leaning over the nearest blood-free keyboard, I called up an administrative panel and tapped in his user ID, followed by my own, my password, and my administrative override. “It’ll take about ten minutes for your log-in to turn all the way back live.” Just about as long as it had taken Georgia’s typing to degrade. “Once you can get in, get in. I want you monitoring every inch of the site. Draft any-damn-body you can get your hands on—I don’t care what department they belong to, you get them working the forums, watching the feeds, and making the goddamn news go. You need to hire people, you hire people. Until I come back, you’re in charge. Your word is law.”

“What’s the goal here, Shaun?”

I looked toward the screen, teeth bared in a grin, and he recoiled. “We’re not letting them kill my sister’s story the way they killed her. She gets buried. It doesn’t.”

For a moment, it looked as if he might protest, but only for a moment. It passed as quickly as it had come, and he nodded. “I’ll get on that. Are you about to do something foolish?”

“You could say that,” I agreed. “Good night, Mahir.”

“Good luck,” he said, and the screen went black.

I had just finished loading Georgia’s gun when the intercom buzzed. “Answer,” I said, pulling down my Kevlar vest and slamming the weapons locker shut before starting to fasten the buckles around my chest.

“—there? I repeat: Shaun, are you in there?”

“Steve, my man!” I didn’t have to feign my delight at the sound of his voice. “Dude, you’re like a cat! How many lives you got, anyway?”

“Not as many as you,” Steve replied, the rumble of his voice not quite hiding his concern. “Georgia in there with you, Shaun?”

“She is,” I said, sliding a Taser into my pocket. It wouldn’t stop someone who’d amplified all the way, but it would slow them down. The virus doesn’t like to have the electrical current of its host messed with. “She’s not really interested in talking, though, Steve-o, on account of the bullets I put through her spinal column. If you’re not infected, and you’d be good enough to open the doors, I’d be greatly obliged.”

“Did she bite, scratch, or come into contact with you in any way after exposure?”

They were routine questions. They’d never made me so angry in my life. “No, Steve, I’m afraid she didn’t. No bites, no scratches, no hugs, not even a kiss good night before that Bible-thumping bastard’s assassins sent my sister off to the great newsroom in the sky. If you’ve got a blood test unit and you’ll open the doors, I’ll prove it.”

“You armed, Shaun?”

“You gonna leave me in here if I say yes? ’Cause I can lie.”

The pause that followed was almost enough to make me think Steve had decided safe was better than sorry and was leaving me in the van to rot. That was a goal, sure, but not yet. The story wasn’t done until the last of the loose ends were tied off, and one of those loose ends was slated to be George’s honor guard. Finally, voice low, Steve said, “I haven’t read her last entry all the way. I read enough. Stand back from the door and keep your hands where I can see them until you’ve tested out clean.”

“Yes, sir,” I said, and stepped backward.

The air that rushed in when the door opened was so fresh it almost hurt my lungs. The scents of blood and gunpowder were heavy, but not as heavy as they’d been inside the van. I took an involuntary step forward, toward the light, and stopped as a large dark blur raised what I could only assume was an arm and said, “Don’t come any closer until I’ve moved away.”

“You got it, Steve-o,” I said. “You guys dealt with the little outbreak you had going out here? Sorry I didn’t come to join your party. I was preoccupied.”

“It’s been contained, if not resolved, and I understand,” said Steve, coming into focus as my eyes adjusted. He knelt, placed something on the ground, and retreated, allowing me to approach the object. As expected, it was a blood testing unit. Not the top of the line, but not the bottom, either; solidly middle of the road, enough to confirm or deny infection within an acceptable margin of error. “Acceptable.” That’s always seemed like such a funny word to use when you’re talking about whether somebody lives or dies.

It weighed less than a pound. I broke the seal with my thumb, looking toward Steve as I did. “He doesn’t walk away from this,” I said.

“I promise,” Steve replied.

Good enough for me. “Count of three,” I said. “One…”

Inside my head, Georgia said, Two…

I slid my hand into the unit and pressed the relays down, watching as the lights started cycling through the available colors. Red-yellow-green, yellow-red-green. Every damn one of those lights danced between red and gold for a few seconds, long enough to make me sweat, before settling on a calm and steady green. You’re fine, son; just fine. Now go and be merry.

“Merry” wasn’t exactly in my plans. I held up the testing unit, letting Steve get a good long look. “This good enough?”

“It is,” he said, and tossed me a biohazard bag. “What the hell happened, Shaun?”

“Just what George said. Some sick fucker killed Rick’s cat and rigged our trailers to blow. When the blast didn’t kill us, they hit George with one of those hypodermic darts like the one that triggered the outbreak at the Ryman place. Shit, I wish we’d been looking for the things back at Eakly. I bet we would’ve found one.”

“I bet we would have, too,” said Steve, watching as I dropped the testing unit into a biohazard bag. He was holding his sunglasses loosely in one hand, and his eyes were the eyes of a man who’s looked into hell and found he couldn’t cope with what he was seeing. I wouldn’t have been willing to bet that my eyes were any better. “You got a plan from here?”

“Oh, the usual. Get a vehicle, head for whatever site they have the candidates under lockdown at—”

“Right where you left them,” Steve interjected.

“Well, that’s convenient. I know the security layout there. Anyway, head back to the candidates and have a chat with Governor Tate.” I shrugged. “Maybe blow his brains out. I don’t know. The plan is still in the formative stage.”

“Need a ride?”

I grinned, the expression feeling foreign on my face. “I’d love one.”

“Good. Because my boys and I—what’s left of my boys—wouldn’t like to see you get hurt just because you felt like being stupid and going it alone.”

The ludicrousness of it all was enough to make me laugh. “Wait, you mean this was all I had to do to get myself a bigger security detail?”

“Guess so.”

“Get your boys.” The laughter faded as I looked at him. “It’s time we got on the road.”

Twenty-eight

The outbreak was still going strong. The infected weren’t actually everywhere; it just seemed that way, as they lurched and ran out of the shadows, following whatever weird radar signals the virus uses to tell the active hosts from the ones where the potential for infection is still just that, potential, sleeping and waiting for a wake-up. The scientists have been trying to figure out that little trick for twenty years, and as far as I know, they’re no closer than they were the day Romero movies stopped being trashy horror and started being guides to staying alive. I should have been thrilled—it’s not every day I get to walk through the center of an actual outbreak—but I was too busy being angry to really give a damn. Zombies didn’t kill George. People did. Living, breathing, uninfected people.

I recognized a lot of faces among the infected. Interns from the campaign; a few security staffers, one long-faced man with thinning red hair who’d been traveling with us for about six weeks writing speeches for the senator. No more speeches for you, buddy, I thought, and put a bullet through the center of his forehead. He fell soundlessly, robbed of menace, and I turned away, nauseated.

“If I get out of this alive, I may need to look for another line of work.”

“What’s that?” asked Steve, between breathless radio calls to his surviving men. He was pulling them back to the motor pool. Several were moving slowly due to the need to herd less-well-armed survivors, going against the recommended survival strategies for an outbreak as they responded like human beings. You want to stay alive in a zombie swarm? You go alone or in a small group where everyone is of similar physical condition and weapons training. You never stop, you never hesitate, and you never show any mercy for the people that would slow you down. That’s what the military says we should do, and if I ever meet anybody who listens to that particular set of commands, I may shoot them myself just to improve the gene pool. When you can help people stay alive, you help them. We’re all we’ve got.

“Nothing,” I said, with a shake of my head. “How’re we looking for support?”

His mouth drew down in something between a wince and a scowl before he said, “Our last call from Andres came while I was on my way to get you. He was backed against a wall with half a dozen of the aides. I don’t think we’ll be seeing him again. Carlos and Heidi are at the motor pool; that zone’s relatively clear. Mike… I haven’t heard from Mike. Not Susan or Paolo, either. Everyone else is either on the way to meet with us or holding fast in a safe zone.”

“Andres—crap, man, I’m sorry.”

Steve shook his head. “I never was very good at partners.” He turned and fired into the shadows at the side of a portable office. Something gurgled and fell. I gave him a sidelong look, and he actually smiled. “You thought we wore these sunglasses for our health?”

“I have got to get a pair of those.”

We kept walking. What started as a pleasant, well-configured camp for visiting politicians had become a killing ground, full of cul-de-sacs and blind alleys that could hold almost anything. Complacency had long since destroyed the functionality of the layout. I couldn’t blame them—there hadn’t been an outbreak in Sacramento in years—but I didn’t appreciate it, either. Luck was on our side: With the senator and most of his senior staff off the grounds for the keynote speech, we had fewer bodies to deal with than we might have otherwise. Our chances of survival had gotten better with every person who left the compound. “Just wish we hadn’t come back,” I muttered.

“What’s that?” asked Steve.

I started to answer but was cut off as something hit me from behind, the momentum forcing me to the ground as hands clawed at my shoulders. Steve shouted. I was too occupied with trying to shake the zombie off to understand what he was saying. It was tearing at my back, trying to bite through the Kevlar. It would move up before too much longer, and my scalp was unprotected. The idea of having my brain literally eaten was really failing to appeal.

“Shaun!”

“Busy now!” I rolled to the left, ignoring the growls behind me as I struggled to get the Taser out of my belt. “Can you shoot it?”

“It’s too close!”

“So get it off me before it figures out where to bite!” The Taser came free, almost falling into my hand. I twisted my arm as far behind me as I could, praying the thing wouldn’t catch the unprotected flesh of my lower arm before the electricity could do its job. “Dammit, Steve, grab the fucking thing!”

Electricity spat and arced as the Taser made contact with the zombie’s side. Luckily for me, it had been an intern, not a security guard; it wasn’t wearing protective clothing. The thing screamed, sounding almost human as the viral bodies powering its actions became disoriented in the face of an electric current greater than their own. I hit it again, and Steve finally moved, grabbing the zombie and yanking it off. I rolled onto my back, reaching for Georgia’s .40, and starting to fire almost as soon as I had it drawn. My first shot hit the zombie high in the shoulder, rocking it back. The second hit it in the forehead, and it went down.

My heart was pounding hard enough to echo in my ears, but my legs were steady as I scrambled back to my feet. Steve looked a lot more shaken. Sweat stood out on his forehead, and his complexion was several shades paler than it had been before I fell. I glanced around. Seeing that nothing else was about to rush me, I bent, picked up the Taser, and replaced both it and the gun in my belt. “You okay over there, Steve-o?”

“Did you get bit?” he demanded.

There was a predictable response. “Nope,” I said, raising my hands to show the unbroken skin. “You can test me again when we hit the motor pool, okay? Right now, I think we should stop being out here, like, as soon as possible. That wasn’t my favorite thing ever.” I paused, and added, almost guiltily, “Besides, I didn’t have a camera running.” George would’ve kicked my ass for that, after she finished kicking my ass for getting that close to a live infection.

“You don’t need the ratings,” said Steve, and grabbed my arm, hauling me after him as he resumed moving, double-speed, toward the motor pool.

Maybe it was because Carlos and Heidi had access to an entire ammo shed, and maybe it was because the motor pool wasn’t a popular hangout for the living, but the infected tapered off as we moved toward it, and we crossed the last ten feet to the fence without incident. Good thing; I was almost out of bullets, and I didn’t feel like trusting myself to the Taser. The gate in the fence was closed, the electric locks engaged. Steve released my arm, reaching for the keypad, and a shot rang out over our heads, clearly aimed to warn, not wound. Small favors.

“Stop where you are!” shouted Carlos. I looked toward his voice and watched as he and Heidi stepped out from behind the shed, both bristling with weapons. I clucked my tongue disapprovingly. Sure, it looked good, but you can’t intimidate a zombie, and they had so many things piled overlapping that they’d have trouble drawing much of anything when their primary guns ran out of bullets.

“Overkill,” I muttered. “Amateurs.”

“Stand down,” barked Steve. “It’s me and the Mason kid. He tested clean when I picked him up.”

“Beg your pardon, sir, but how do we know you test clean now?” Heidi asked.

Smart girl. Maybe she could live. “You don’t,” I said, “but if you let us through the fence and keep us backed against it while you run blood tests, you’ll have the opportunity to shoot before either of us can reach you.”

She and Carlos exchanged a look. Carlos nodded. “All right,” he said. “Step back from the gate.”

We did as we were told, Steve giving me a thoughtful look as the gate slid open. “You’re good at this.”

“Top of my field,” I said, and followed him into the motor pool.

Carlos chucked us blood testing units while Heidi reported on the status of the other units, still remaining at a safe distance. Susan was confirmed as infected; she’d been tagged by a political analyst as she was helping Mike evacuate a group of survivors to a rooftop. She stayed on the ground after she was bitten, shooting everything in sight before taking out the ladder and shooting herself. About the best ending you could hope for if you got infected in a combat zone. Mike was fine. So, surprisingly, was Paolo. There was still no word from Andres, and three more groups of security agents and survivors were expected to reach the motor pool at any time. Steve absorbed the news without changing his expression; he didn’t even flinch when the needles on his testing unit bit into his hand. I flinched. After the number of blood tests I’d had recently, I was getting seriously tired of being punctured.

Heidi and Carlos relaxed when our tests flashed clean. “Sorry, sir,” said Carlos, walking over with the biohazard bags. “We needed to be sure.”

“Standard outbreak protocol,” Steve said, dismissing the apology with a wave of his hand. “Keep holding this ground—”

“—while we break quarantine,” I said, almost cheerfully. George snorted amusement in the back of my head. All for you, George. All for you. “Steve-o and I need to take a little trip. Loan us a car, give us some ammo, and open the gates?”

“Sir?” Heidi sounded uncertain; the idea of leaving a quarantine zone without military or CDC clearance is pretty much anathema to most people. It’s just not done, ever. “What is he talking about?”

“One of the armored SUVs should do,” said Steve. “Find the fastest one that’s still on the grounds.” Carlos and Heidi stared at him like he’d just gone into spontaneous amplification. “Move!” he barked, and they moved, scattering for the guard station where the keys to the parked vehicles were stored. Steve ignored their burst of activity, leading me to the weapons locker and keying open the lock. “Candy store is open.”

“So all you have to do to break quarantine is shout ‘move’?” I asked, beginning to load my pockets with ammunition. I considered grabbing a new gun, but dismissed the idea. Nothing but George’s .40 was going to feel right in my hand. “Wow. Normally, I need a pair of wire cutters and some night-vision goggles.”

“Gonna pretend you never said that.”

“Probably for the best.”

Carlos emerged from the guard station and tossed a set of keys to Steve, who caught them in an easy underhand. “We can unlock the rear gate, but once the central computer realizes the seal’s been broken—”

“How long can we have?”

“Thirty seconds.”

“That’s long enough. You two hold your ground. Keep anyone who makes it here safe. Mason, you’re with me.”

“Yes sir!” I said, with a mocking salute. Steve shook his head and pressed the signal button on the key fob. One of the SUVs turned its lights on. Showtime.

Once we were inside, belts fastened and weapons secured, Steve started the engine and drove us to the gate. Carlos was already waiting, ready to hit the manual override. The manual exits exist in case of accidental or ineffective lockdown, to give the uninfected a chance to escape. They require a blood test and a retinal scan, and breaking quarantine without a damn good reason is a quick way to get yourself sent to prison for a long time. Carlos was risking a lot on Steve’s order.

“That’s what I call a chain of command,” I said to myself, as the gate slid open.

“What’s that?” asked Steve.

“Nothing. Just go.”

We went.

The roads outside the Center were clear. That’s standard for the time immediately following a confirmed outbreak in a noncongested area. The people inside the quarantine zone will survive or not without interference; it’s all up to them the minute the fences come down. So the big health orgs and military intervention teams wait until the worst of it’s had time to burn itself out before they head in. Let the infection peak. Ironically, that makes it safer, because it’s trying to save the survivors that gets people killed. Once you know everyone around you is already dead, it gets easier to shoot without asking questions.

“How long since the quarantine went down?” I asked.

“Thirty-seven minutes.”

Standard CDC response time says you leave a quarantine to cook for forty-five minutes before you go in. Given our proximity to the city, they wouldn’t just be responding by air; they’d be sending in ground support to make sure nobody broke quarantine before they declared it safe. “Shit.” With eight minutes between us and the end of the cooking time, we needed to get out of sight. “How good’s the balance on this thing?”

“Pretty good. Why?”

“Quarantine. It’s going to be forty-five minutes since the bell real soon here, and that means we’re gonna have company. Now, I’ve got a way out, but only if you trust me. If you don’t, we’re probably gonna get the chance to tell some nice men why we’re out here. Assuming they don’t just shoot first.”

“Kid, I’m already committed. Just tell me where to go.”

“Take the next left turn.”

Being a good Irwin is partially dependant on knowing as many ways to access an area as possible. That includes the location of handy things like, say, railroad trestle bridges across the American River. See, they used to run trains through Sacramento, back when people traveled that way. The system’s abandoned now, except for the automated cargo trains, but they run on a fixed schedule. I’ve had it memorized for years.

Steve started swearing once he realized where we were going, and he kept swearing as he pulled the SUV onto the tracks and floored the gas, trusting momentum and the structure of the trestle to keep us from plunging into the river. I grabbed the oh-shit handle with one hand and whooped, bracing the other hand on the dashboard. I couldn’t help myself. Everything was going to hell, George was dead, and I was on my way to commit either treason or suicide, but who the hell cared? I was off-roading across a river in a government SUV. Sometimes, you just gotta kick back and enjoy what’s going on around you.

We were halfway across the river when the first CDC copters passed overhead, zooming toward the Center. Three more followed close behind, in closed arrow formation. Fascinated, I leaned over and clicked on the radio, tuning it to the emergency band. “—repeat, this is not a drill. Remain in your homes. If you are on the road, remain in your vehicle until you have reached a safe location. If you have seen or had direct contact with infected individuals, contact local authorities immediately. Repeat, this is not a drill. Remain in—”

Steve turned the radio off. “Breaking quarantine is a federal offense, isn’t it?”

“Only if they catch us.” I settled back in my seat. “Doesn’t bother me much, and they’re not looking down.”

“All right, then.” He hit the gas again. The SUV rolled faster, hitting the end of the trestle and blazing onward toward the city. He glanced at me as we drove, saying, “I’m sorry about your sister. She was a good woman. She’ll be missed.”

“That’s appreciated, Steve.” The idea of looking at his face—it would be so earnest, if his words were anything to judge by, so anxious for understanding—made me tired all over again. There was nothing I could do now, nothing I could do until we got to the hall and to the man who had killed my sister. So I looked at my hands as I cleaned and reloaded Georgia’s gun, and I was silent, and we drove on.

Twenty-nine

Quarantine procedures hit different social and economic classes in different ways, just like outbreaks. When Kellis-Amberlee breaks out in an urban area, it hits the inner cities and the business districts the hardest. That’s where you have the largest number of people coming and going, experiencing the closest thing we have these days to casual contact. Interestingly, you tend to have more fatalities in the business districts. The slums may not have the same security features and weaponry, but they’re mostly self-policing and fewer people try to conceal injuries when they know amplification isn’t just going to cost them their coworkers; it’s going to cost them their families. Inner cities and business districts turn into ghost towns when the quarantines come down. If you pass through while they’re under quarantine, you can feel the inhabitants watching you, waiting for you to make a move.

Middle-class zones also tend to seal themselves off, but they’re less blatantly aggressive about it; windows too small or too high for a person to get in through can be left open, and not every glass door has a steel shield in front of it. You can enter those areas and still believe people live in them, even if those folks aren’t exactly setting out the welcome mats. They’ll kill you as quickly as anyone else will if you try to approach them. If you don’t, they won’t interfere.

The hall where they held the keynote speech was far enough from the Center that it wasn’t technically in the quarantine zone. Street traffic was down to practically zero, but there were no retractable bars over the windows and no steel plating over the doors. Local businesses were open, even if there weren’t any customers. I looked around as Steve pulled up to the first checkpoint, and I hated these people for being able to ignore what was going on outside their city. George was dead. Rick and Mahir said the whole world was mourning with me, but that didn’t matter, because the man who did it—the man I intended to blame—wasn’t even inconvenienced.

If the guard thought there was something odd about us arriving in a dusty, dented SUV over an hour after the Center went into lockdown, he didn’t say anything. Our blood tests came back clean; that was what his job required him to give a damn about, and so he just waved us inside. I clenched my jaw so hard I almost tasted blood.

Calm down, counseled George. It’s not his fault. He didn’t write the news.

“Go for the writers,” I muttered.

Steve shot me a look. “What’s that?”

“Nothing.”

We parked next to a press bus that had doubtless been loaded with reporters who were now thanking God for their timing, since being on assignment with a bunch of political bigwigs meant they weren’t available to be sent out to report on the quarantine. Local Irwins would be flocking to the perimeter, getting footage of the CDC men as they locked and secured the site. I would’ve been with them not that long ago, and been happy about it. Now… I’d be just as happy if I never saw another outbreak. Somewhere between Eakly and George, I lost the heart for it.

Steve and I got into the elevator together. I glanced at him as he keyed in our floor, saying, “You don’t have a press pass.”

“Don’t need one,” he said. “The Center’s under quarantine. By contract, I’m actually obligated to circumnavigate any security barricade between myself and the senator.”

“Sneaky,” I said, approvingly.

“Precisely.”

The elevator opened on a sickeningly normal-looking party. Servers in starched uniforms circulated with trays of drinks and canapés. Politicians, their spouses, reporters, and members of the California elite milled around, chattering about shit that didn’t mean a goddamn thing compared to George’s blood drying on the wall. The only real difference was in their eyes. They knew about the quarantine—half of these people were staying at the Center, or worked there, or had a stake in its continued success—and they were terrified. But appearances have to be maintained, especially when you’re looking at millions of dollars in lost city revenue because of an outbreak. So the party continued.

“Poe was right,” I muttered. The man with the blood tests was waiting for us to check in. I slid my increasingly sore hand into the unit he held, watching lights run their cycle from red to yellow and finally to green. I wasn’t infected. If being shut in a van with George’s body didn’t get me, nothing was going to. Infection would have been too easy a way out.

I yanked my hand free as soon as the lights went green, held up my press pass, and ducked into the crowd. Steve was right behind me. I dodged staff and guests, arrowing toward the room where I had last seen Senator Ryman. They wouldn’t allow him to leave after the Center went into lockdown, and if he couldn’t leave, he wouldn’t have left the room where he had his surviving staff and supporters gathered. It just made sense.

People recoiled as I passed them, eyes going wide and suppressed fear surging to the front of their expressions. I paused, looking down at myself. Mud, powder burns, visible weapons—everything but blood. Somehow, I’d managed to avoid getting George’s blood on me. That was a good thing, since she’d died infected and her blood would have made me a traveling hot zone, but still, it was almost a pity. At least then she would have seen the story find an ending.

“Shaun?”

Senator Ryman sounded astonished. I turned toward his voice and found him half standing. Emily was beside him, eyes wide, hands clapped over her mouth. Tate was on his other side. Unlike the Rymans, the governor looked anything but relieved to see me. I could read the hatred in his eyes.

“Senator Ryman,” I said, and finished my turn, walking to the table that looked like it held all the survivors of the Ryman campaign. Less than a dozen of us had been at this stupid speech; less than a dozen, from a caravan that had swelled to include more than sixty people. What kind of survival rate were we looking at? Fifty percent? Less? Almost certainly less. That’s the nature of an outbreak, to kill what it doesn’t conquer. “Mrs. Ryman.” I smiled narrowly, the sort of expression that’s always been more Georgia’s purview than my own. “Governor.”

“Oh, God, Shaun.” Emily Ryman stood so fast she sent her chair toppling over as she threw her arms around me. “We heard the news. I’m so sorry.”

“I shot her,” I said conversationally, looking over Emily’s shoulder to Senator Ryman and Governor Tate. “Pulled the trigger after she started to amplify. She was lucid until then. You can increase the duration of postinfection lucidity with sedatives and white blood cell boosters, and first-aid classes teach you to do that in the field. So you can get any messages they may have for their family or other loved ones.”

“Shaun?” Emily pulled away, looking uncertain. She glanced over her shoulder at Governor Tate before looking back to me. “What’s going on here?”

“How did you get out of the quarantine zone?” asked Tate. His voice was flat, verging on emotionless. He knew the score. He’d known it since I walked through the door. The bastard.

“A little luck, a little skill, a little applied journalism.” Emily Ryman let me go entirely, taking a step backward, toward her husband. I kept my eyes on Tate. “Turns out most of the security staff liked my sister more than they ever liked you. Probably because George tried to help them, instead of using them to further her political ambitions. Once they knew what happened, they were happy to help.”

“Shaun, what are you talking about?”

The confusion in Senator Ryman’s voice was enough to distract me from Tate. I turned to blink at the man responsible for us being here in the first place, asking, “Haven’t you seen Georgia’s last report?”

“No, son, I haven’t.” His expression was drawn tight with concern. “Things have been a bit hectic. I haven’t had a site feed since the outbreak bell rang.”

“Then how did you—”

“The CDC puts out a statement, that tends to go around in a hurry.” Senator Ryman closed his eyes, looking pained. “She was so damn young.”

“Georgia was assassinated, Senator. Plastic dart full of live-state Kellis-Amberlee, shot straight into her arm. She never had a prayer. All because we figured out what was really going on.” I swung my attention back to Tate and asked, more quietly, “Why Eakly, Governor? Why the ranch? And why, you fucker, why Buffy? I can actually understand trying to kill me and my sister, after everything else, but why?”

“Dave?” said Senator Ryman.

“This country needed someone to take real action for a change. Someone who was willing to do what needed to be done. Not just another politician preaching changes and keeping up the status quo.” Tate met my eyes without flinching, looking almost calm. “We took some good steps toward God and safety after the Rising, but they’ve slowed in recent years. People are afraid to do the right thing. That’s the key. Real fear’s what motivates them to get past the fears that aren’t important enough to matter. They needed to be reminded. They needed to remember what America stands for.”

“Not sure I’d call terrorist use of Kellis-Amberlee a ‘reminder.’ Personally, I’d call it, y’know. Terrorism. Maybe a crime against humanity. Possibly both. I guess that’s for the courts to decide.” I drew Georgia’s .40, and aimed it at Tate. The crowd went still, honed political instincts reacting to what had to look like an assassination attempt in the making. “Secure-channel voice activation, Shaun Phillip Mason, ABF-17894, password ‘crikey.’ Mahir, you there?”

My ear cuff beeped once. “Here, Shaun,” said Mahir’s voice, distorted by the encryption algorithms protecting the transmission. Secure channels are only good once, but, oh, how good they are. “What’s the situation?”

“On Tate now. Start uploading everything you receive and download Georgia’s last report directly to Senator Ryman. He needs to give it a glance.” Governor Tate was glaring. I flashed him a smile. “I’ve been recording this whole time. But you knew that, didn’t you? Smart guy like you. Smart enough to get around our security. To get around our friends.”

“Miss Meissonier was a realist and a patriot who understood the trials facing this country,” said Tate, tone as stiff as his shoulders. “She was proud to have the opportunity to serve.”

“Miss Meissonier was a twenty-four-year-old journalist who wrote poetry for a living,” I snapped. “Miss Meissonier was our partner, and you had her killed because she wasn’t useful anymore.”

“David, is this true?” asked Emily, horror leeching the inflection from her voice. Senator Ryman had taken out his PDA and seemed to be growing older by the second as he stared at its screen. “Did you… Eakly? The ranch?” Fury twisted her features, and before either I or her husband could react, she was out of her chair, launching herself at Governor Tate. “My daughter! That was my daughter, you bastard! Those were my parents! Burn in hell, you—”

Tate grabbed her wrists, twisting her to the side and locking his arm around her neck. His left hand, which had been under the table since I arrived, came into view, holding another of those plastic syringes. Unaware, Emily Ryman continued to struggle.

The senator went pale. “Now, David, let’s not do anything rash here—”

“I tried to send them home, Peter,” said Tate. “I tried to get them off the campaign, out of harm’s way, out of my way. Now look where they’ve brought us. Me, holding your pretty little wife, with just one outbreak left between us and a happy ending. I would have given you the election. I would have made you the greatest American president of the past hundred years, because together, we would have remade this nation.”

“No election is worth this,” Ryman said. “Emily, be still now, baby.” Looking confused and betrayed, Emily stopped struggling. Ryman lifted his hands into view, palms upward. “What’ll it take for you to release her? My wife’s not a part of this.”

“I’m afraid you’re all a part of this now,” Tate said, with a small shake of his head. “No one’s walking away. It’s gone too far for that. Maybe if you’d disposed of the journalists,” the word was almost spat, “it could have gone differently. But there’s no use crying over spilled milk, now, is there?”

“Put down the syringe, Governor,” I said, keeping the gun level. “Let her go.”

“Shaun, the CDC is piggybacking our feed,” said Mahir. “They’re not stopping the transmission, but they’re definitely listening in. Dave and Alaric are maintaining the integrity, but I don’t know that we can stop it if they want to cut us off.”

“Oh, they won’t cut us off, will you, Dr. Wynne?” I asked. I was starting to feel a little light-headed. This was all moving so damn fast.

Keep it together, dummy, hissed George. You think I want to be an only child?

“I’ve got it, George,” I muttered.

“What’s that?” asked Mahir.

“Nothing. Dr. Wynne? You there?” If it was him, the CDC was with us. If it was anybody else…

There was a crackle as the CDC broke into our channel. “Here, Shaun,” said the familiar southern drawn of Dr. Joseph Wynne. Mahir was swearing in the background. “Are you in any danger?”

“Well, Governor Tate’s holding a syringe on Senator Ryman’s wife, and since the last two syringes we’ve seen have been full of Kellis-Amberlee, I’m not betting this one’s any different,” I said. “I’ve got a gun on him, but I don’t think I can shoot before he sticks her.”

“We’re on our way. Can you stall him?”

“Doing my best.” I forced my attention back to Governor Tate, who was watching me impassively. “Come on, Governor. You know this is over. Why not put that thing down and go out like a man instead of like a murderer? More of one than you already are, I mean.”

“Not exactly diplomatic, there, Shaun,” said Dr. Wynne in my ear.

“Doing the best I can,” I said.

“Shaun, who are you talking to?” asked Senator Ryman. He looked edgy. Having a crazy dude holding a syringe of live virus on his wife probably had something to do with that.

“Dr. Joseph Wynne from the CDC,” I said. “They’re on the way.”

“Thank God,” breathed the senator.

“Want to put it down now, Governor?” I asked. “You know this is over.”

Governor Tate hesitated, looking from me to the senator and finally to the horrified, receding crowd. Suddenly weary, he shook his head, and said, “You’re fools, all of you. You could have saved this country. You could have brought moral fiber back to America.” His grip on Emily slackened. She pulled herself free, diving into her husband’s embrace. Senator Ryman closed his arms around her and rose, backing away. Governor Tate ignored them. “Your sister was a hack and a whore who would have fucked Kellis himself if she thought it would get her a story. She’ll be forgotten in a week, when your fickle little audience of bottom-feeders moves on to something more recent. But they’re going to remember me, Mason. They always remember the martyrs.”

“We’ll see,” I said.

“No,” he said. “We won’t.” In one fluid motion, he drove the syringe into his thigh and pressed the plunger home.

Emily Ryman screamed. Senator Ryman was shouting at the top of his lungs, ordering people to get back, to get to the elevators, behind secure doors, anything that would get them away from the man who’d just turned himself into a living outbreak. Still looking at me, Governor Tate started to laugh.

“Hey, George,” I said, taking a few seconds to adjust my aim. There was no wind inside; that was a nice change. Less to compensate for. “Check this out.”

The sound of her .40 going off was almost drowned out by the screams of the crowd. Governor Tate stopped laughing and looked, for an instant, almost comically surprised before he slumped onto the table, revealing the ruined mess that had replaced the back of his head. I kept the gun trained on him, waiting for signs of further movement. After several moments had passed without any, I shot him three more times anyway, just to be sure. It never hurts to be sure.

People were still screaming, pushing past each other as they rushed for the doors. Mahir and Dr. Wynne were trying to shout over each other on our open channel, both demanding status reports, demanding to know whether I was all right, whether the outbreak had been contained. They were giving me a headache. I reached up and removed my ear cuff, putting it on the table. Let them shout. I was done listening. I didn’t need to listen anymore.

“See, George?” I whispered. When did I start crying? It didn’t matter. Tate’s blood looked just like George’s. It was red and bright now, but it would start to dry soon, turning brown, turning old, turning into something the world could just forget. “I got him. I got him for you.”

Good, she said.

Senator Ryman was shouting my name, but he was too far away to matter. Steve and Emily would never let him this close to a hot corpse. Until the CDC showed up, I could be alone. I liked that idea. Alone.

Taking two steps backward, I pulled out a chair and sat down at a table that would let me keep an eye on Tate. Just in case. There was a basket of breadsticks at the center, abandoned by fickle diners when the trouble started. I picked one up with my free hand and munched idly as I kept George’s gun trained on Tate. He didn’t move. Neither did I. When the CDC arrived to take command of the site fifteen minutes later, we were still waiting, Tate with his pool of slowly drying blood, me with my basket of breadsticks. They seized the site, sealed it, and ushered us all away to quarantine and testing. I kept my eye on him as long as I could, watching for some sign that it wasn’t over, that the story wasn’t done. He never moved, and George didn’t say a word, leaving me alone in the echoing darkness of my mind.

Was it worth it, George? Well, was it? Tell me, if you can, because I swear to God, I just don’t know.

I don’t know anything anymore.