by Mira Grant
After an hour and a half of questions, more than half of which originated in the auditorium—a campaign first—the senator stood, wiping his forehead with the handkerchief he’d produced from a back pocket. “Well, folks, much as I’d like to stay and chat a while longer, it’s getting on late, and my secretary has informed me that if I don’t start cutting off these evening discussions, I’m going to seem a little dull to the folks I’m visiting in the morning.” Laughter greeted this comment. Relaxed laughter; sometime in the previous hour, he’d managed to ease the audience out of their fear and into the sort of calm most people don’t experience outside of their homes. “I want to thank you for having me, and for all your questions and viewpoints. I sincerely hope I’ll have your vote when the time comes, but even if I don’t, I have faith that it will be because you managed to find someone who was better for this great land.”
“We’re following you, Peter!” shouted someone from the back of the room. I twisted around in my seat and blinked, realizing that the shouter wasn’t someone from the campaign; it was a woman I’d never seen before, holding up a hand-painted Senator Ryman for President sign.
“The campaign has groupies,” observed Shaun.
“Always a good sign,” said Buffy.
The senator laughed. “I certainly hope that you are,” he said. “You’ll have the chance to make me put my money where my mouth is soon enough. In the meantime, good night, and God bless you all.” Waving to the audience, he turned and walked off the stage as “The Star-Spangled Banner” began to play from speakers around the room. The applause wasn’t exactly thunderous—there wasn’t enough audience for that—but it was enthusiastic. More so than it had been at the last engagement, and that one had been more enthusiastic than the one before it, and so on, and so on. Maybe you couldn’t tell by looking at it, but the campaign was gathering steam.
I stayed where I was, observing the audience as they rose, and, surprisingly, began to talk among themselves rather than fleeing the hall for the safety of their cars. That was a new development, just like the applause. People were talking. Face-to-face, real-time talking, inspired by the senator and the things he had said.
More and more, I was beginning to feel like we were following a president.
“Georgia?” said Buffy.
“Go ahead and check the backstage feeds,” I said, and nodded toward the knot of chattering attendees. “I’m going to go see what the buzz is.”
“Make sure you’re recording,” she said, and started for the stage, gesturing for Shaun to follow. Grumbling good-naturedly, he snagged his chain mail and went.
I walked toward the group of attendees. A few of them glanced over at my approach, took note of my press pass, and went back to talking. The news is either invisible or something to be avoided, depending on what’s going on and how many cameras the people around you can see. Since I didn’t have any visible recording equipment, I was just part of the scenery.
The first cluster was discussing Senator Ryman’s stance on the death penalty. That’s one that’s been going around since the dead first started getting up and walking. If you’re killing someone for the crime of killing people, doesn’t it sort of contradict the spirit of the thing if their corpse is going to get up and immediately start killing more people? Most death-row inmates stay there until they die of natural causes, at which point the government seizes their shambling corpses and adds them to the ongoing research on the cure. Everybody wins, except for the unlucky prisoners who get eaten by the newly deceased before they can be recovered.
The next group was talking about the potential candidates. Senator Ryman was definitely getting a favorable reception, since they were calling his closest competition respectively “a cheap show-biz whore”—that would be Congresswoman Wagman—and “an arrogant tool of the religious right”—that would be Governor Tate, originally of Texas, and currently the single loudest voice claiming the zombies would only stop eating good American men and women when the country got back to its moral and ethical roots. Whether this would stop the zombies from eating people of different national backgrounds never seemed to come up, which was a pity, since I liked the idea of zombies checking your passport before they decided whether or not they were allowed to bite down.
Satisfied that I wasn’t likely to hear anything new in this crowd, I started casting around for a conversation worth joining. The one nearest the doors looked promising; there was a lot of scowling going on, and that’s usually a sign that interest is warranted. I turned, walking close enough to hear what was going on.
“The real question is whether he can keep his promises,” one man was saying. He looked to be in his late fifties, old enough to have been an adult during the Rising and part of the generation that embraced quarantine as the only true route to safety. “Can we trust another president who won’t commit to an all-out purge of the zombie population of the national parks?”
“Be reasonable,” said one of the women. “We can’t simply wipe out endangered species because they might undergo amplification. That kind of rash action isn’t going to do anything to make the average man safer.”
“No, but it might keep another mother from burying her children after they get attacked by a zombie deer,” countered the man.
“Actually, it was a moose, and the ‘children’ were a group of college students who crossed a proscribed stretch of the Canadian border looking for cheap weed,” I interjected. All heads turned my way. I shrugged. “That’s a Level 1 hazard zone. It’s forbidden to almost everyone outside the armed forces and certain branches of the scientific community. Assuming you’re talking about the incident last August and I didn’t somehow miss an ungulate attack?” I knew I hadn’t. I religiously follow animal attacks on humans, filing them under one of two categories: “We need stricter laws” and “Darwin was right.” I don’t think people should be allowed to keep animals large enough to undergo amplification, but I also don’t believe wiping out the rest of the large mammals in the world is the answer. If you want to go foraging into the wilds of Canada without proper gear, you deserve what you get, even if that happens to include being attacked by an undead moose.
The man reddened. “I don’t think I was talking to you, miss.”
“Fair enough,” I said. “Still, the facts of the event are pretty well documented. Again, assuming I didn’t miss something.”
Looking mildly amused, one of the other men said, “Well, come on, Carl, did the young lady miss an attack, or are you referring to the incident with the moose?”
He didn’t need to answer; his glare was answer enough. Turning his back pointedly on the three of us, he moved to join a vigorous condemnation of the senator’s stance on the death penalty that was going on just a few feet away.
“I don’t think I’ve ever seen him deflated with facts before,” said the woman, and offered her hand. “I’ll have to remember that. Rachel Green. I’m with the local SPCA.”
“Dennis Stahl, Eakly Times,” said the remaining man, flashing his press pass in a brief show of solidarity.
Relieved that my sunglasses would cover the more subtle points of my expression, I took Ms. Green’s hand, shook once, and said, “Georgia Mason. I’m one of the bloggers covering Senator Ryman’s campaign.”
“Mason,” said Ms. Green. “As in…?”
I nodded.
She winced. “Oh, dear. Is this going to be unpleasant?”
“Not unless you’re in the mood for a debate. I’m here to record reactions to the senator’s agenda, not forward my own. Besides,” I nodded to Carl’s back, “I’m not as hard-line as some. I just have strong opinions about large animals being kept in urban areas, and I think we can agree to disagree on that point, don’t you?”
“Fair enough,” she said, looking relieved.
Mr. Stahl laughed. “Rachel gets a lot of flack from the local media for what she does,” he said. “How’s the campaign trail
treating you?”
“Are you saying you haven’t been reading our reports?” I asked the question lightly, but I wanted to hear the answer. Journalistic acceptance is one of the last things any blog gets. We may be accepted inside the community, but it’s not until the traditional news media starts to take our reports seriously that a new feed can honestly be said to have established itself.
“I have,” he said. “They’re good. A little rough, but good. You care about what you’re reporting, and it shows.”
“Thanks,” I replied, and glanced to Ms. Green. “Did you enjoy the presentation?”
“Is he as sincere as he seems?”
“I haven’t seen any signs that he’s not,” I said, and shrugged. “Illusions of journalistic objectivity aside? He’s a nice guy. He has good ideas, and he presents them well. Either he’s the best liar I’ve ever met, or he’s going to be our next President. Not that the two are mutually exclusive, but still.”
“Mind if I quote you on that?” asked Mr. Stahl, with a sudden predatory intensity that I recognized quite well from my peers.
I smiled. “Go right ahead. Just make sure to give your readers a link to our site, if you would be so kind?”
“Of course.”
The three of us chatted for a bit longer, eventually exchanging pleasantries and going our separate ways. I resumed moving from group to group, now mostly listening, and was amused to see that Carl—no last name given or requested—continually moved away from me, as if afraid that I’d taint his ranting with more of my unfortunate facts. I’ve encountered his type before, usually at political protests. They’re the sort who would rather we paved the world and shot the sick, instead of risking life being unpredictable and potentially risky. In another time, they were anti-Semitic, antiblack, antiwomen’s liberation, anti-gay, or all of the above. Now, they’re antizombie in the most extreme ways possible, and they use their extremity to claim that the rest of us are somehow supporting the “undead agenda.” I’ve met a lot of zombies. Not as many as Shaun and Mom have, but I’m not as suicidal as they are. In my experience, the only “undead agenda” involves eating you, not worming their way into public acceptance and support. There will always be people for whom hate is easier when it’s not backed up by anything but fear. And I will always do my best to hoist them by their own petards.
The hallway lights dimmed once before returning to their original brightness, a sign that moving along was requested by the management. I glanced at my watch. It was a quarter to ten. Most zombie attacks occur between the hours of ten and two. Allowing people to gather during the “high risk” period can triple your insurance rate, especially if you live in an area with recently documented outbreaks. That includes much of the Midwest, where coyotes, feral dogs, and farm animals create a constant low-grade threat.
It doesn’t take much to get most people moving after they realize they’ve managed to stay out past the unspoken world curfew. The conversational groups broke up as people grabbed their coats, bags, and traveling companions and turned to head for the doors. All of them had someone to walk with, even Carl. We are a nation equally afraid of gathering together and being alone. Is it any wonder that the average American is in therapy by the age of sixteen?
My ear cuff beeped, signaling a call. I reached up and tapped it on. “Georgia.”
“You coming to join the party soon, or should I drink this beer by myself?” I could hear laughter in the background. The senator’s entourage was celebrating another series of political minefields navigated with grace and charm. They were right to celebrate. If the numbers we’d been getting were anything to go by, Senator Ryman was a shoo-in for the Republican Party nomination once the convention rolled around.
“Just finishing out here, Shaun,” I said. The hall lights began coming up from their ambient “event” setting, heading for the blazing fluorescents that would keep things lit for the cleaning crew. I squinted my eyes closed, turning to walk toward the stage exit. “Let folks know I’m coming through?”
“On it,” he said. My ear cuff beeped again, signaling disconnection. I’m not much for jewelry, but disguised cellular phones are another matter. They’re more convenient than walkie-talkies and have a longer battery life, with an average talk time of fifty hours before the battery gives out. Once the batteries go, it’s cheaper to buy a new phone than it is to pay to have the case cracked and a new battery installed, but we all have to pay the price of progress. I have at least three phones on me at any given time, and only Shaun has all the numbers.
Two of the senator’s security guards were waiting by the door, dressed in identical black suits, with sunglasses covering their eyes and blotting out most of their expressions. I nodded to them. They nodded back.
“Steve, Tyrone,” I said.
“Georgia,” said Tyrone. He produced a portable blood testing unit from his pocket. “If you would?”
I sighed. “You know they’re just going to test me again before they let me into the convoy.”
“Yes.”
“And you know that a clean result now would be a clean result after the five-minute walk to the buses.”
“Yes.”
“But you’re still going to make me prick my damn finger, aren’t you?”
“Yes.”
“I hate protocol.” My ritual grumbling finished, I extended my hand, pressing my index finger against the contact pad. The lights on the top of the box flashed in the familiar red-green pattern, settling on a steady, uninfected green. “Happy?”
“Overjoyed,” Tyrone replied, a faint smile on his lips as he withdrew a biohazard bag from his other pocket and dropped the test kit into it. “Right this way.”
“How gracious,” I said. Steve smothered a wider smile, and I smiled back, starting across the parking lot toward the distant lights of the convoy. The bodyguards fell into step beside me, flanking me as we walked. Being escorted through every open area we encountered had been a little annoying at first, but I was getting used to it.
The senator’s crew—Shaun, Buffy, and I included—had been traveling in a convoy consisting of five luxury RVs, two buses, our van, and three converted military transport Jeeps, which were ostensibly for scouting runs before entering open territory but were mostly used for off-road rallies in whatever fields presented themselves. There were several smaller vehicles, ranging from my bike to the more substantially armored motorcycles favored by the bodyguards. With as much equipment as we need to carry to meet legal safety standards, it wouldn’t make sense to break camp and check into hotels for anything less than a four-day stay, and so we often found ourselves spending a lot of nights “roughing it” in mobile homes that were better outfitted than my room back home.
Shaun, Buffy, and I had been assigned to share one of the RVs, although Buffy usually slept in the van with her equipment, claiming that the perpetual gloom of my special lights gave her, quote, “the heebie-jeebies.” The senator’s crew had been taking it as another sign that our resident techie is a little bit unhinged, and Shaun and I hadn’t been making any efforts to discourage them, even though we knew that it was less of an obsessive-compulsive desire to protect the cameras and more of an ongoing quest for something resembling privacy. Unlike most of our generation, Buffy is an only child, and life in the convoy had been getting on nerves she may not have known she had.
Life in the convoy was also creating a new issue: her religion, and our lack thereof. Buffy prayed before she went to sleep. Buffy said grace before she ate. And Shaun and I… didn’t. It was better to avoid the conflict by letting her have a little space. Besides, that gave Shaun and me the sort of privacy we were accustomed to—the kind that never actually leaves you alone, but doesn’t put people in your personal space when you don’t want them there, either.
Two more guards waited at the perimeter gates. Unlike Steve and Tyrone, who kept their pistols concealed beneath their jackets, these two openly held a
utofeed rifles I vaguely recognized from Mom’s magazines. They could probably hold off the average zombie mob without outside assistance.
“Tracy, Carlos,” I said, and extended my hand, palm down. “I’m tired, I’m filthy, and I’m ready to get drunk with the rest of the good boys and girls. Please confirm my uninfected status so that I can get on with it.”
“Bring me a beer later, and it’s a deal,” Carlos replied, and shoved one of the tester units over my hand, while Tracy did the same for Steve. Tyrone stepped back, waiting his turn. These were midrange units, performing a more sensitive scan and taking a correspondingly longer time to return results. It would be possible for the finger-prick test to declare someone clean and for the full-hand unit to revoke that status less than five minutes later.
My results came back clean, as did Steve’s. Tyrone stepped up to start his own tests and waved us off, toward the third RV in the chain. I could claim that my finely honed journalistic instincts told me which way to go, but they didn’t have nearly as much to do with my choice of destinations as with the fact that it was the only RV with an open door, and was definitely the source of the pounding rock music that was assaulting our ears. The Dandy Warhols. The senator is a man who loves his classics.
Senator Ryman was standing on a coffee table inside the RV with his shirt half-unbuttoned and his tie draped over his left shoulder, saluting the room with a bottle of Pabst Blue Ribbon beer. People were cheering too loudly for me to tell what he was saying, but from the look of things, I’d just walked into the middle of a toast. I stopped by the door, stepping out of the way to let Steve get inside behind me, and took a wine cooler offered by one of the interns. I’ve given up trying to keep them straight; this was one of the brunette ones, which made her a Jenny, a Jamie, or a Jill. I swear, they should come with name tags.