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by Mira Grant

“Absolutely n—”

  “Yes,” said Emily. Her voice was weary but clear. “I’m happy to. I only wanted to be left out of things for the sake of… for the sake of my family.” Her voice broke. “That’s not a concern anymore.”

  “You aren’t worried about the safety of your younger daughters?” I asked.

  “They aren’t at the ranch. They have the best security in the world. They’re safe. If I can prevent people from going out and killing other people’s pets because of what happened to Rebecca and my parents, well.” She managed to muster a smile. “It’ll be worth the strain.”

  Senator Ryman reached for her arm. “Emily…”

  “Accepted.” I sat next to Shaun, ignoring the senator’s stricken look. “We’ll be setting up interview times with both of you later this afternoon. Now, I assume there’s a reason we’re all here?”

  “The senator would like to discuss the tragic evidence of tampering that your crew discovered at his family ranch, Miss Mason,” said Governor Tate smoothly, all traces of his earlier aggravation gone. The man was a natural politician; I had to give him that, even if I wasn’t willing to let him have anything else if I could help it. “Now, I realize this may seem as if I’m questioning your journalistic integrity—”

  “Hey, Rick, ever notice how dickheads only say that when they’re about to question your journalistic integrity?” asked Shaun.

  “Oddly, yes,” Rick said. “It’s like a nervous twitch.”

  The governor shot them a glare and continued. “Please understand that I don’t ask this for personal reasons, but simply because we need to determine the truth of the situation.”

  I looked at him. “You’re wondering if somehow, to drive up our ratings, we smuggled evidence of terrorist activity through the checkpoints and managed to plant it while our own cameras were broadcasting over a live feed to an audience that can be conservatively estimated, judging by yesterday’s ratings, as being somewhere in the millions.”

  “I wasn’t intending to put it in quite those—”

  I held up my hand to cut him off, turning to face Senator Ryman. “Senator, you know I’ll ask this again when I’m permitted to film the exchange, but in the interests of killing this line of questioning here and now, I’m going to sacrifice spontaneity in favor of clarity. Have the lab results come back on the syringe?”

  “Yes, Georgia, they have,” said the senator, jaw set in a hard line.

  “Can you tell us what those results were?”

  “I don’t see how that’s relevant to the original question,” said Tate.

  “Senator?” I said.

  “The contents of the syringe were determined to be a suspension of ninety-five percent live-state virus, common designation ‘Kellis-Amberlee’ or ‘KA’, isolated in iodized saline solution,” the senator said. “We’re waiting on additional information.”

  “Like the viral substrain?” I asked. “Right. Governor Tate, my crew and I were several hundred miles from the ranch at the time of the outbreak at the Ryman family home, and security records will support this. Further, with the exception of Mr. Cousins, we were all traveling with the campaign for months prior to the outbreak. Mr. Cousins was traveling with the convoy of Congresswoman Wagman, who should be able to vouch for his whereabouts. I’m not a virologist, but I’m fairly sure it takes special equipment to isolate the live virus without risking infection, and that said special equipment would not only be delicate, but would require special training to operate and maintain. Do you see where I’m going with this, Governor Tate, or should we draw you a diagram?”

  “She’s right,” said Emily. Governor Tate looked toward her, eyes narrowing. She met his gaze and said, “I took virology courses at college; they’re required for an animal husbandry degree. What Peter is describing is lab quality. You’d need a clean room and excellent biohazard protections just to isolate it, much less load it into any sort of a… a weapon. They just didn’t have the resources. You’d need something a lot more secure than a pressure cooker in a hotel room to do something like this.”

  “Furthermore,” I said, cutting Tate off before he could speak again, “even assuming we could somehow come up with the resources to do something like this, and had some sort of ‘silent partner’ we could get out to the ranch while we were occupied at the convention, we’d have to be idiots to turn around and be the ones who found the proof that the outbreak was man-made. So now that you’ve insulted our patriotism, our sanity, and our intelligence, how about we move on?”

  Governor Tate leaned back in his seat, eyes narrowed. I kept my own eyes wide, playing off just how disturbing the unbroken, too-too-blue of my contacts is to most humans. He looked away first.

  Satisfied, I turned toward Senator Ryman. “So now that we’ve had that little throwdown, what else did you feel needed to be handled behind a firewall?”

  To his credit, he looked embarrassed as he said, “We were wondering, given the circumstances, if, well… if it might not be the best idea for the four of you to go home.”

  I gaped at him. Rick did the same. Buffy, who had been uncharacteristically silent through the entire exchange with Tate, continued staring at her hands.

  In the end, it was Shaun who spoke, slamming his feet flat against the floor as he stood up and demanded, “Are you people fucking insane?!”

  “Shaun—” said Senator Ryman, raising both hands in a placating gesture. “If you’d just be reasonable here—”

  “Pardon me, sir, but you gave up your right to ask me to do that when you suggested we run out on the story,” Shaun snapped, voice tight. Out of everyone in the room, I was the only one who understood how much that degree of self-control was costing him. Shaun’s temper doesn’t show itself often, but when it does, “duck and cover” is the best approach. “Don’t you think we owe it to our viewers to finish what we started? We signed up for the long haul! We don’t get to cut our losses and run as soon as things start getting a little bit uncomfortable!”

  “My daughter died, Shaun!” said the senator. He was suddenly on his feet, leaving Emily abandoned and looking lost on the couch. “Do you understand that this is more than a story to us? Rebecca is dead! Telling the truth isn’t going to bring her back to life!”

  “Neither is telling a lie,” said Rick, his tone so calm that it seemed almost out of place among the heated exchanges. We all turned to look at him. His head was up, his expression clear as he looked from Senator Ryman to Governor Tate. “Senator, believe me when I say I understand your pain more than you can know. And I understand that concern is making you listen to bad advice,” he glanced toward the governor, who had the grace to redden and scowl, “that says we’re civilians, and you should get us out of harm’s way. But, sir, it’s too late for that. This is news. If you send us away, you’re just going to get other reporters sniffing around, looking for a story. Reporters who, if you’ll allow me to beg your pardon, you can’t control. Now, we have a working relationship, and you know we’ll listen to you. Can you honestly expect that from anyone else who might be attracted to this scoop?”

  “I think we should go,” said Buffy. I turned to her, eyes going wide. Still looking at her hands, she continued. “We didn’t sign up for this. Maybe Rick’s right, and maybe other people will come, but who cares?” She glanced up through the fringe of her hair and licked her lips. “If they want to come and die, that’s their problem. But I’m scared, and he’s right. We shouldn’t be here anymore. If we were ever supposed to be here at all.”

  “Buffy,” said Shaun, sounding stung. “What are you talking about?”

  “This is just a story, Shaun, and everywhere we’ve gone, horrible things have happened.” She raised her head, expression miserable. “Those poor people in Eakly. The thing at the ranch. Senator Ryman, I think you’re a wonderful man, but this is just a story, and we shouldn’t be in it. We’re going to get hurt.”

  “That’s exactly
why we have to stay,” I said. My disappointment didn’t show in my voice; I found that astonishing. I wanted to slap Buffy. I wanted to shake her and demand to know how she could be so blind to the importance of telling the truth after everything we’d been through together. Instead, I faced the room, and my voice stayed calm as I said, “Everything is ‘just a story.’ Tragedy, comedy, end of the world, whatever, it’s just a story. What matters is making sure it’s heard.”

  “That attitude, young lady, is why it’s time for you to go,” said Governor Tate. “We can’t trust you to keep your mouth shut when you decide it’s time for the story to be told. Your judgment isn’t the yardstick here. National security is. And I don’t think you fully understand the dangers you could place us in.”

  “Now, David—” said the senator.

  “Nice stand for freedom there, Governor,” I snapped.

  “Can you believe this bullshit?” demanded Shaun.

  “On the plus side, ‘Faithful Reporters Fired from Campaign as Veil of Censorship Descends’ has a nice ring to it,” said Rick. “I figure that’s a rating spike, right there.”

  “Ratings! All you concern yourself with—”

  “Be quiet,” said Emily.

  “—is your precious by God ratings!” Governor Tate was getting into it now, his face flushing with religious fire. He’d found his latest opponents, now that Senator Ryman was off the menu. Us. “A little girl dies, a family is shattered, a man’s run to the presidency may not recover, and what do you care about? Your damn ratings! Well, you can take those ratings, and—”

  We never found out what we could do with our ratings. The sound of Emily’s palm striking Governor Tate’s cheek rang through the room like a branch breaking; the only thing that could have been louder was the silence that came after it. Governor Tate raised his hand to his cheek, staring at her like he couldn’t believe what he was seeing. I couldn’t blame him. I couldn’t believe what I was seeing either, and I wasn’t the one who’d been slapped.

  “Emily, what—” began Senator Ryman. She raised her hand for silence, and then slowly, deliberately, removed her sunglasses, eyes on Governor Tate the whole time. The unforgiving light flooding the room had caused her pupils to expand until her irises were entirely gone, drowning in blackness. I winced. I knew how much that had to be hurting her, but she didn’t flinch. She kept staring at Tate.

  “For the sake of my husband’s political career, I will be pleasant to you; I will smile at you at public functions, and I will, whenever a camera or member of the undiscriminating press is present, endeavor to treat you as if you were a human being,” she said, in a calm, almost reasonable tone. “But understand this: If you ever speak to these people in that sort of manner in my presence again? If you ever behave as if they have no judgment, no compassion, and no common sense? I’ll make you wish you’d never joined this ticket. And if I come to believe that your attitude is in any way changing my husband—not damaging his oh-so-precious career, but changing who he is as a man—I will repudiate you, and I will end you. Do we have an understanding, Governor?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” said Governor Tate, sounding about as stunned as I felt. A glance to Shaun showed that he was probably feeling much the same. “I think you’ve made yourself clear.”

  “Good.” Emily turned toward us. “Shaun, Georgia, Buffy, Rick, I hope you won’t let this unpleasant little scene sour you against my husband’s campaign. I speak for both of us when I say that I very much hope you’ll continue doing exactly what you’ve been doing for us.”

  “We signed on for the good and the bad alike, Mrs. Ryman,” said Rick. “I don’t believe any of us are planning on going anywhere.”

  Looking at Buffy, I wasn’t sure. “He’s right, Emily,” I said. “We’re staying. Assuming, of course, the senator wants us to…?” I looked his way, and waited.

  Senator Ryman looked uncertain. Then, slowly, he nodded and rose, moving to put his arm around his wife’s shoulders. “David, I’m afraid I’m going to have to vote with Emily on this one. I very much want them all to stay.”

  “Well, Senator,” I said, “I think our partnership is still good.”

  “Good,” he replied. Reaching out, he took my hand and shook it.

  * * *

  The trouble with the news is simple: People, especially ones on the ends of the power spectrum, like it when you’re afraid. The people who have the power want you scared. They want you walking around paralyzed by the notion that you could die at any moment. There’s always something to be afraid of. It used to be terrorists. Now it’s zombies.

  What does this have to do with the news? This: The truth isn’t scary. Not when you understand it, not when you understand the repercussions of it, and not when you aren’t worried that something’s being kept from you. The truth is only scary when you think part of it might be missing. And those people? They like it when you’re scared. So they do their best to sit on the truth, to sensationalize the truth, to filter the truth in ways that make it something you can be afraid of.

  If we didn’t have to fear the truths we didn’t hear, we’d lose the need to fear the ones we did. People should consider that.

  —From Images May Disturb You, the blog of Georgia Mason, April 2, 2040

  Seventeen

  We spent three weeks in Parrish before it was time for the campaign to get back on the road. The voters would forgive the senator taking time to mourn for his daughter, but unless he got out there and made sure people remembered him as more than the victim of a senseless tragedy, he’d never make up the ground he was already losing. Voters are a fickle bunch, and Rebecca Ryman’s heroic death was already yesterday’s news. Instead, the news was buzzing with Governor Blackburn’s exciting plans for heath-care reform, her suggestions for increasing school security, and her proposed alterations to the animal husbandry and care laws. In some ways, her campaign was using Rebecca as much as the senator’s was, because when she said “tougher restrictions on keeping large animals,” it was Rebecca’s face people saw. The senator needed to get rolling or there wouldn’t be anywhere for him to roll to.

  Unfortunately, our swift departure from Oklahoma City left the convoy of RVs and equipment trucks we’d been depending on to get us across the country several states behind us. This became an issue as we were preparing to set out from Wisconsin, especially since our newly tightened schedule didn’t leave time to go back and get them. How were we supposed to get ourselves, the senator, his staff, the security detail, and the equipment—some of which was new to the campaign, having joined us with Governor Tate—to our destination when we didn’t have a means of protected travel?

  The answer was simple: We weren’t. Instead, the senator, his wife, the governor, their respective campaign managers, and the bulk of the staff flew ahead to our next stop in Houston, Texas, where they could meet up with the convoy and really get things started. The rest of us were left with the exciting task of getting ourselves and the equipment that hadn’t been abandoned in Oklahoma to Texas via the overland express. There was no train from Parrish to Houston large enough to haul the additional equipment, but that worked out since Shaun and I were unwilling to abandon our vehicles. One way or another, we were driving it.

  We initially planned to make the drive alone: just the After the End Times crew, reconnecting with one another through the time-honored ritual of the road trip. This plan got shouted down on all fronts, starting with Senator Ryman and moving down the chain to Steve. The argument that we’d travel faster without a bunch of extra bodies didn’t hold water where they were concerned, but we managed to find a compromise after three days of shouting. We’d take a security team. We were exhausted enough after that fight to give in on the matter of Chuck, who needed to monitor the transportation of some of the more sensitive equipment. Besides, his presence might keep Buffy a little calmer, and we needed all the help we could get in that regard.

  The tension
between Buffy and the rest of us had been getting worse since our meeting with the Rymans and Governor Tate. None of us had expected her to endorse the idea that we should walk away. It was a betrayal of everything we worked for, and it came out of nowhere. Rick took it hardest. As far as I knew, he hadn’t spoken to Buffy since we got back to the hotel. Buffy looked at him sorrowfully, like a dog that knew it had done something wrong, and went back to the task of getting our equipment ready for the road. By the time we were ready to roll, I think she’d rebuilt every piece of camera equipment we owned at least twice, in addition to upgrading our computers and replacing the memory chips in my PDA.

  Shaun and I didn’t have anything that practical to concern ourselves with. I managed to stay distracted by conducting remote interviews with every politician I could get my hands on, working with Mahir to update our merchandising, and cleaning up the message boards. Shaun lacked those outlets. The government had banned him from going back to the ranch during the investigation, and Parrish was otherwise short of things for him to poke at. He was restless, unhappy, and making me insane. Shaun doesn’t handle idleness well. Make him sit still too long, and he winds up silent, sullen, and, above all, touchy as hell.

  Shaun’s crankiness, combined with everything else, was the reason for our caravan traveling arrangements. Rick was in his little blue armadillo with the barn cat, which he’d named “Lois” after it received a clean bill of health from the Ryman family veterinarian. Shaun was in our van, blasting heavy metal and brooding, while Buffy was riding with Chuck in the equipment truck at the rear of the convoy.

  My own place in the driving order was a little less predictable since I was on my bike and unconstrained by the shape of the road. I kept my cameras running the whole time, privately hoping I’d find a shambler for Shaun to amuse himself with. That was all he’d need to bring his spirits up. We’d been driving for two days, with another two still ahead of us, and the silence was starting to wear on me.