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by Mira Grant

  My helmet speaker crackled. “On,” I said to activate the connection, following it with, “Georgia here.”

  “It’s Rick. What do you think about dinner?”

  “The sun went down an hour ago, and dinner is traditionally the evening meal, so I think dinner is logically our next stop. What are we looking at?”

  “GPS says there’s a truck stop about two hours up the road that has a pretty decent diner.”

  “Any record on their screening protocols?” We’d run into multiple truck stops where the security agents wouldn’t let us eat because their blood tests weren’t good enough to guarantee we wouldn’t have to worry about an outbreak between the coffee and the pie. I’d been driving all day. If we stopped, I wanted it to be for more than fifteen minutes and an argument.

  “They’re government certified. All their licenses up to date, all their inspection scores posted.”

  “Sounds good to me. I’ll see if I can rouse Shaun and let him know what the plan is. You call Steve and the guys, give them the address, and tell them we’ll meet there.”

  “Deal.”

  “Coffee’s on me. Georgia out.”

  “Rick out.”

  “Great.” I followed it with, “Disconnect and redial Shaun Mason.” The speaker beeped acknowledgment, and began to ring as it signaled my brother.

  He never picked up the call. He didn’t have the time.

  I didn’t hear the gunshots until I went back to review the tapes and turned the low-level frequencies up enough to undo the work of the silencers. Eight shots were fired. The first two trucks, the ones containing the campaign guards and lower-level personnel, passed by unmolested. They were rolling ahead of the rest of the crew and passed out of the shallow valley without incident. The gun didn’t start going off until Rick’s car pulled into the ideal position, halfway between the valley’s entrance and its exit.

  Two shots were fired at Rick’s little blue armadillo, two more were fired at the van, and the two after that were fired at my bike. The last two shots were fired at the equipment truck at the back of the caravan, the one Chuck was driving, with Buffy riding shotgun. The shots were very methodical, one following the other as fast as the skill of the shooter would allow. I’d have been impressed if they hadn’t been aimed so effectively at me and mine.

  The first shot fired at my bike punched a hole in my front tire, sending me weaving out of control. I screamed and swore, fighting with the handlebars as I tried to steady my trajectory enough to keep me from becoming a stain on the side of the road. Even with my body armor, falling wrong would kill me. I was focusing so hard on not toppling over that my driving became impossible to predict, and the second shot went wide. Maybe that’s why I was able to believe I’d blown a tire as I let momentum carry me off the edge of the road, rolling onto the uneven ground beyond the shoulder.

  I finished steadying myself, dumped speed, and wrenched the bike to a stop twenty yards after I left the road. Panting, I kicked the stand down and unsealed my helmet before turning to stare at the carnage that had overwhelmed the road.

  Rick’s car was still at the front of the pack, but now it was lying stranded on its back, wheels spinning in the air. The tires on the right-hand side were nothing but shredded rubber stretched over bent steel. The equipment truck was on its side fifty or so yards behind him, smoke oozing from its shattered cabin.

  There was no sign of the van.

  Suddenly frantic, I fumbled my ear cuff from my pocket and shoved it onto my ear with enough force to leave a bruise that I wouldn’t feel until later. “Shaun? Shaun? Pick up your goddamn phone, Shaun!”

  “Georgia?” The connection was poor enough that his voice crackled in and out, but the relief was unmistakable; it would have been unmistakable even if the connection had been worse. He never called me by my full name unless he was angry, scared, or both. “Georgia, are you okay? Where are you?”

  “Twenty yards off the road on the left-hand side, near some big rocks. I’m between the car and the equipment truck. There’s smoke, Shaun, has anyone else tried to—”

  “Don’t make any more calls. I don’t know if they can trace them. You stay right there, Georgia. Don’t you fucking dare move!” The connection cut with a sharp, final click. In the distance, I heard tires squealing against the road.

  Shaun had sounded panicked. Rick and Buffy were out of communication, the truck was on fire, my bike was down, and Shaun was panicking. That could only mean one thing: It was time to take cover.

  Slamming my helmet back over my head, I ducked behind my bike and started surveying the surrounding hills. Short of a rocket launcher, there wasn’t much that stood a viable chance of killing me in my body armor. Hurting me, yes, but killing me, not really.

  There was nothing. No lights, no signs of motion; nothing.

  “—ia? Come in, Georgia?”

  “Rick?” I nodded to the right, confirming the connection. “Rick, is that you? Are you okay? Are you hurt?”

  “I’m fine. Air bag stopped me from hitting the roof.” He coughed. “Chest’s a little banged up, and Lois is pissed as hell, but otherwise, we’re okay. You?”

  “Didn’t dump the bike. I’m fine. Any word from Buffy?”

  There was a pause. Finally, he said, “No. I was hoping she’d called you.”

  “Did you try to call her?”

  “No word.”

  “Damn. Rick, what happened?”

  “You mean you don’t know?” He sounded genuinely surprised. “Georgia, somebody shot out my damn tires.”

  “Shot? What do you mean, sh—” Shaun came blasting around the curve of the road and off the pavement, moving so fast that our hydraulically balanced and weighted van nearly rocked onto two tires. “Shaun’s here. We’ll be right there to get you. Georgia out.”

  “Clear.” The connection clicked off.

  I pulled my helmet back off and climbed to my feet, waving my hands in the air. Shaun spotted the motion and turned the van toward my location, screeching to a stop beside me. The doors unlocked, and Shaun was throwing himself out of the driver’s-side door, his heels slipping on the gravel-covered ground as he ran over to throw his arms around me. I let him crush me against his chest, taking a deep breath.

  “You okay?” he asked, not letting go.

  “You didn’t get a blood test before coming over here.”

  “Don’t need one. If you were infected, I’d know,” Shaun said, and let me go. “I repeat, you okay?”

  “I’m okay.” I climbed in the open van door, sliding over to settle in the passenger seat. Shaun got in behind me. “You okay?”

  “Better now,” Shaun said, turning the engine back on and slamming his foot down on the gas. The van leapt forward into a wide curve, rocketing toward Rick’s car. “You hear the shots?”

  “Bike was too loud. How many?”

  “Eight. Two for each of us.” He glanced at me. For a brief moment, I saw the raw worry in his eyes. “If they’d nailed both your tires…”

  “I’d be dead.” I leaned forward to open the glove compartment and pull out the .45 I keep there. Suddenly, being outside without a gun in my hand didn’t seem like a good idea. “If whoever did this had done their damn homework, you’d be dead, too, so let’s not dwell. Word from Buffy?”

  “None.”

  “Great.” I pulled back the slide, checking the chamber. Satisfied by my bullet count, I let the slide rack back into place. “So, is this enough excitement for you?”

  “Maybe a bit much,” he said. For once in his life, he sounded like he meant it.

  It was true, though. If our attackers had done their homework, Shaun wouldn’t have been driving; he’d have been dying. Normal tires blow when they take a bullet. Even armor plating won’t prevent that. But some vehicles are too damn valuable to lose just because you lose a tire, and most vehicles in that class are the sort likely to draw he
avy gunfire. So scientists developed a type of tire that doesn’t give a damn about gunshots. They’re called run flats: You put a bullet in them, and they keep on rolling. I might have skipped them—I did skip them on my bike, where they made the ride unbearably choppy—but Shaun insisted. He bought a new set every year.

  For the first time since we got the van, it didn’t seem like a waste of money.

  Shaun focused on driving, and I focused on trying to page Buffy and Chuck, using every band and communications device we had. We knew communications weren’t being jammed; at least some of my messages should have made it through. There were no replies on any channel. I’d been terrified. That’s when I started to get numb.

  Shaun pulled up next to Rick’s car. “Think there’s still a shooter out there?”

  “Doubtful.” I slid the gun into my pocket. “This was a targeted operation. They only took out our cars. If they’d been sticking around to make sure they killed us, you’d have kept taking bullets. And I made a damn good target when I first stopped my bike.”

  “Hope you’re right,” said Shaun, and opened his door.

  Rick watched our approach through the car window, waving his arms to show that he was still alive. He was half-pinned by the air bag and blood was dripping into his hair from a small cut on his forehead, but other than that he looked fine. Lois and her carrier were strapped into the seat next to his. I didn’t want to be the one to let that cat out of the box.

  I knocked on the glass, calling, “Rick? Can you open the door?” Despite the urgency of the situation, I couldn’t help but be impressed by the structural integrity of his little car. It had to have rolled at least once before coming to a stop on its roof, and yet it wasn’t showing any dents: just scratches and a crack in the passenger-side window. The folks at VW really knew what they were doing.

  “I think so!” he called back. “Can you get me out?”

  Mirthlessly, I echoed, “I think so!”

  “Not the most encouraging answer,” he said, and twisted in the seat, movements constrained by seat belt and air bag, until he could kick the door. On his second kick, I grabbed the handle and pulled. I didn’t have to pull that hard; despite the car’s inverted position and the beating it had taken, the door swung open easily, leaving Rick’s foot dangling in the air. He pulled it back into the car, saying, “Now what?”

  “Now I get your belt, and you get ready to fall.” I leaned into the car.

  “Hurry up, George,” said Shaun. “I don’t like this.”

  “No one does,” I said, and unsnapped Rick’s belt. Gravity took over from there, sending Rick thumping against the roof of the car.

  “Thanks,” he said, reaching over to unhook Lois’s carrier before climbing out. The cat hissed and snarled inside the box, expressing her displeasure. Straightening, Rick eyed his car. “How are we supposed to flip that back over?”

  “Triple A is our friend,” I said. “Get in the van. We need to check on Buffy.”

  Paling, Rick nodded and climbed in. Shaun and I were only a few feet behind him. I noted without surprise that Shaun had his own pistol—substantially larger than my emergencies-only .45—with specially modified ammo that did enough damage to human or posthuman tissue that it was illegal without a disturbing number of licenses, all of which Shaun obtained before he turned sixteen—out and at the ready. He wasn’t buying my glib assurances of our safety. That was fine. Neither was I.

  Shaun took my assumption of the driver’s seat with just as little surprise and didn’t bother fastening his belt as I slammed the gas pedal down, sending the van racing across the hard-packed ground between us and the still-smoking equipment truck. The truck wasn’t likely to burst into flames; that only happens in the movies, which is almost a pity, given the number of zombies that arise from automotive accidents every year. Buffy and Chuck could die from smoke inhalation if we dawdled… assuming they weren’t dead already.

  Rick braced himself against the seat. “Has there been any word from Buffy?”

  “Not since the truck went down,” Shaun said.

  “Why the hell didn’t you go for her first?”

  “Simple,” I said, steering around a chunk of rubber torn from the truck’s tires. “We knew you were alive, and we might need the backup.”

  Rick didn’t say anything after that until we pulled up alongside the equipment truck. Shaun reached between the seats and pulled out a double-barreled shotgun which he passed to Rick. “What am I supposed to do with this?” Rick demanded.

  “You see anything moving that isn’t us, Chuck, or Buffy, you shoot,” Shaun said. “Don’t bother checking to see if it’s dead. It’ll be dead after you hit it.”

  “And if I hit emergency personnel?”

  “We’re stranded, and we’ve been the victims of a malicious attack in possible zombie territory,” I said, stopping the engine and opening my door. “Cite Johnston’s, and you’ll get a medal instead of a manslaughter conviction.” Manuel Johnston was a truck driver with several DUIs on his record, but when he gunned down a dozen zombies in highway patrolmen’s uniforms outside Birmingham, Alabama, he became a national hero. Since Johnston, it’s been legal to shoot people for no crime more defined than existing in rural hazard zones. We usually curse his name, since the precedent he set has gotten a lot of good journalists killed. Under the circumstances, he was a savior. “Shaun and I have the truck. You’ve got point.”

  “Got it,” said Rick, grimly, and climbed out the van’s side door as Shaun and I got out and moved toward the still-smoking truck.

  It was obvious that the equipment truck had taken the worst of the beatings. Lacking the maneuverability of my bike, the armor of Rick’s car, or the paranoia-fueled unstoppability of our van, it had taken two bullets to the front left tire and completely lost control. The cabin was half-smashed when the truck went over. The smoke had thinned without clearing, and that lowered visibility as we started toward the cab.

  “Buffy?” I called. “Buffy, are you there?”

  A piercing scream was the only answer, followed by a pause, a second scream, and silence. Zombies can scream. They just generally don’t.

  “Buffy? Answer me!” I ran the rest of the way to the truck and grabbed the handle of the nearer door, wrenching it as hard as I could. I barely noticed removing a layer of skin from my palms in the process. It didn’t matter; the door was mashed in when the truck fell, and it wasn’t budging. I tried again, yanking even harder, and felt it shudder on its hinges. “Shaun! Help me over here!”

  “George, we have to make sure we’re covering the area in case of—”

  “Rick can do the goddamn covering! Help me while there’s still a chance that she’s alive!”

  Shaun lowered his pistol, cramming it into the waistband of his pants and moving to put his hands over mine. Together, we counted, “One, two, three,” and yanked. My shoulders strained until it felt like I would dislocate something. The door groaned and swung open, creaking along the groove of the broken frame. Buffy tumbled out onto the glass-sprinkled pavement, coughing hard.

  That cough was reassuring. Zombies breathe, but they don’t cough; the tissue of their throats is already so irritated by infection that they ignore little things like smoke inhalation and caustic chemical burns, right up until they render the body unable to function.

  “Buffy!” I dropped to my knees next to her, feeling glass crunch through the reinforced denim of my jeans; I’d have to check for slivers before I put them on again. I put my hand against her back, trying to reassure her. “Honey, it’s okay, you’re okay. Just breathe, sweetheart, and we’ll get you away from here. Come on, honey, breathe.”

  “Georgia…”

  Shaun’s voice was strained enough that he sounded almost sick. I looked up, my hand still flat against Buffy’s back. “What—”

  Shaun gestured for silence, attention fixed on the interior of the truck’s cab. His right h
and was moving with glacial slowness to the gun shoved into the belt of his jeans. Whatever he was looking at was outside my range of vision, and so I stood, leaving Buffy coughing on the ground as I reached up to remove my sunglasses. The smoke wouldn’t irritate my eyes more than they already were, and I’d see better without them.

  At first there seemed to be nothing but motion inside the cab of the truck. It was slow and irregular, like someone trying to swim through hardening cement. Then my pupils dilated that extra quarter-centimeter, my virus-enhanced vision compensating for the sudden change in light levels, and I realized what I was looking at.

  “Oh,” I said, softly. “Crap.”

  “Yeah,” Shaun agreed. “Crap.”

  Buffy fell out of the cab when we opened the door; Buffy hadn’t been wearing her seat belt. Buffy never wore her seat belt. She liked to ride cross-legged in her seat, and seat belts prevented that. Chuck, on the other hand, was a law-abiding citizen who obeyed traffic regulations. He fastened his seat belt every time he got into a moving vehicle. He’d fastened it before the convoy pulled out that morning. He was still wearing it now that he was too far gone to remember how to work the clasp, or even what a clasp was. His hands moved against the air in useless clawing motions as his mouth chomped mindlessly, stimulated by the presence of fresh meat.

  There was blood around his mouth. Blood around his mouth, and blood on the seat belt, and blood on the seat where Buffy had been sitting.

  “Cause of death?” I asked, as analytically as I could.

  “Impact trauma,” said Shaun. The creature that had been Chuck hissed at him, opening its mouth and beginning to moan. Unconcerned, Shaun raised his pistol and fired. The bullet hit the zombie square between the eyes, and it stopped trying to reach us, going limp as the message of its second, final death was transmitted throughout the body. Continuing as if he’d never paused, Shaun said, “It must have been instantaneous. Chuck was a small guy. Amplification would have been over in minutes.”

  “Source of the blood?”

  Shaun looked toward me, and then back to Buffy, who was still down on her knees in the broken glass, hugging herself and coughing. “He didn’t have time to bleed.”