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by Mira Grant

  I held it out.

  Shaun pressed the twin needles to the thin skin at the bend of my elbow and a wash of coolness flowed into me as he pressed the plunger home.

  “Thanks,” I said, shivering.

  “That’s all we’ve got.” He opened a biohazard bag and dropped the used injector into it before sealing the top. “You’ve got half an hour, tops. After that—”

  “There’s no guarantee I’ll be lucid. I know.” He rose, walking stiff-legged across to the biohazard bin and dropped the bag inside. I wanted to run after him, wrap my arms around him, and cry until there weren’t any tears left in me, but I couldn’t. I didn’t dare. Even my tears would be infectious, and the sedatives he’d shot into my arm weren’t going to work any miracles. Time was short.

  I still had work to do.

  I swung back to my monitor, trying to swallow away the dryness as I heard Shaun moving behind me, taking one of the spare revolvers out of the locker by the door and loading it, one careful cartridge at a time. What was it the reports said? The dryness of the mouth was one of the early signs of viral amplification, resulting from the crystal blocks of virus drawing away moisture and bringing on that lovely desiccated state that all the living dead seem to share? That seemed about right. It was getting harder to think about that sort of thing. Suddenly, it was all just a little too immediate.

  My hands were still hovering above the keyboard while my mind struggled to find a beginning when I felt the barrel of the gun press against the base of my skull, cold and somehow soothing. Shaun wouldn’t let me hurt anyone else. No matter what happened, he wouldn’t let me hurt anyone else. Not even him. Not more than I already had.

  “Shaun…”

  “I’m here.”

  “I love you.”

  “I know, George. I love you, too. You and me. Always.”

  “I’m scared.”

  His lips brushed the top of my head as he bent forward and pressed them to my hair. I wanted to yell at him to get away from me, but I didn’t. The barrel of the gun remained a cool, constant pressure on the back of my neck. When I turned, when I stopped being me, he would end it. He loved me enough to end it. Has any girl ever been luckier than I am?

  “Shaun…”

  “Shhh, Georgia,” he said. “It’s okay. Just write.” And so I began. One last chance to roll the dice, tell the truth, and shame the devil. One last chance to make it all clear. What we fought for. What we died for. What we felt we had to do.

  I never asked to be a hero. No one ever gave me the option to say I didn’t want to, that I was sorry, but that they had the wrong girl. All I wanted to do was tell the truth and let people draw their own conclusions from there. I wanted people to think, and to know, and to understand. I just wanted to tell the truth. In the van that had carried us across a country, and through the last months of my life, with my brother standing ready to pull the trigger, my hands came down, and I wrote.

  Was it worth it?

  God, I hope so.

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  My name is Georgia Mason. For the past several years, I’ve been providing one of the world’s many windows into the news, chronicling current events and attempting, in my own small way, to offer context and perspective. I have always pursued the truth above all other things, even when the truth came at the cost of my own comfort and well-being. It seems, now, that I pursued the truth even when it would mean my life, although I was unaware of it at the time.

  My name is Georgia Mason. According to the time stamp on the field test unit (model XH-237, known for reliability and, God help me, accuracy), I legally died eleven minutes ago. But for now, at this moment, my name is still Georgia Mason, and this is… I guess you can call this my last postcard from the Wall. There are some things you need to know, and we don’t have much time.

  As I write this, my brother is standing behind me with the barrel of a gun pressed against the back of my neck, where a blast will sever the spinal cord with the smallest possible spray radius. In my bloodstream, a large dose of sedatives mixed with a serum based on my own immune system is running a race against the virus that is in the process of taking over my cells. My nose isn’t clogged and I can swallow, but I feel lethargic, and it’s hard to breathe. I tell you this so you’ll understand that this isn’t a hoax, this isn’t some sophomoric attempt to increase ratings or site traffic. This is real. Everything I am about to tell you is the truth. Believe me, understand, and act, before it is too late.

  If you’re viewing this from the main page of After the End Times, you’ll see a download link labeled “Campaign_Notes.zip” on the left-hand side of your screen. Possession of the documents behind that link may be considered treason by the government of the United States of America. Please. Click. Download. Read. Repost to any forum you can, any message board or photo-sharing site or blog that you can reach. The data contained in those files is as essential to our freedom and survival as the report of Dr. Matras proved to be during the Rising. I am not overstating the data’s importance. There isn’t enough time for that.

  Neither is there enough time for me to repeat the facts that are already codified and ready for you to download. Let this suffice for all the things I cannot say, do not have the time to say, will never say, and wish I could: They are lying to us. They are willfully channeling research away from the pursuit of a cure for this disease, and they are doing it under the auspices of our own government. I don’t know who “they” are. I didn’t live long enough to find out. Governor Tate served their interests. So, I regret to say, did Georgette Meissonier, previously a part of this reporting site.

  They want us to stay afraid.

  They want us to stay controlled.

  They want us to stay sick.

  Please, don’t let them do this to our world. I am begging you from the Wall, because it’s all that’s left for me to do. It’s all I can do. Don’t let them keep us frightened and hiding in our homes. Let us be what we were intended to be: human and free and able to make our own choices. Read what I have written, understand what they intend for us, for all of us, and decide to live.

  They made a mistake in killing me because, alive or dead, the truth won’t rest. My name is Georgia Mason, and I am begging you. Rise up while you can.

  Mahir I’m so sorry.

  Buffy I’m so sorry.

  Rick I’m so sorry.

  Shaun I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I didn’t mean it I would take it all back if I could but I can’t I cant I I I I I I I all fading words going cant do this cant Shaun please Shaun please I love you I love you I always you know I Shaun please cant hold on everything jfdh cant do this jhjnfbnnnn mmm have to my name my name is Shaun I love you Shaun please gngn please SHOOT ME SHAUN SHOOT ME N—

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  Burial Writes

  I’ve spent my whole life imagining worlds other than the one that I was born in. Everybody does. The one world I never imagined was a world without a Georgia. So how come that’s the world I have to live with?

  —SHAUN MASON

  I’m sorry.

  —GEORGIA MASON

  It is the sad duty of the management of After the End Times to announce the death of Georgia Carolyn Mason, the head of our Factual News Division, most commonly called “the Newsies,” and one of the original founders of this site.

  I’ve been trying to find the words for this announcement since I was asked to make it, some three hours ago. The request came with a promotion to which I never aspired, and a position made
bitter by the knowledge of what it cost. I would sooner have my friend than all the promotions in the world. But that option is not open to me, or to any of those who will mourn for her.

  Georgia Mason was my friend, and I will always regret that we never met in the flesh. She once told me she lived each day hoping and praying she would find the truth; that she was able to keep going through all life’s petty disappointments because she knew that someday, the truth would set her free.

  Good-bye, Georgia. May the truth be enough to bring you peace.

  —From Fish and Clips, the blog of Mahir Gowda, June 20, 2040

  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 towar
d 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…