by Mira Grant
The mingled Ryman and O’Neil clans were dressed in the mourning editions of their Sunday best: all blacks and charcoal grays, with the occasional hint of off-white or cream in someone’s shirtfront or blouse. Even the little girls, Jeanne and Amber, were wearing black velvet. Shaun, Buffy, and I were the only attendees who weren’t related to the family; the senator’s security detail—a combination of the campaign agents and the new guys from the Secret Service—had stopped at the cemetery gates, guarding the perimeter without disturbing the ceremony. We were the privileged few, and everyone knew it. More than a few unpleasant looks had been tossed our way by the relatives as we moved into position.
Not that I cared. We were there for Peter, for Emily, and for the news. What the rest of the family thought didn’t matter.
“… and so we have come together, in the sight of God, to commend the mortal remains of His beloved children into His keeping, to be held in trust, no longer subject to the dangers of the world, until the day we may be reunited in the Kingdom of Heaven,” said the priest. “For His is the Kingdom, the life and the glory, and through His grace may we be granted everlasting life. Let us pray.” The family bowed their heads. So did Buffy, who was raised to a faith beyond “tell the truth, know the escape routes, and always carry extra ammunition.”
Shaun and I didn’t bow. Someone has to keep the lookout. After checking to make sure my shoulder cameras were still recording on an even keel, I turned my head, surveying the cemetery. It was completely indefensible; the low stone walls were more for delineation of boundaries than anything else and wouldn’t have kept a determined horde of zombies out for more than a few minutes. The gates were spaced widely enough to make the whole place little more than a big corral for humans. I shuddered.
Shaun caught the gesture and put a hand at the small of my back, steadying me. I flashed him a smile. He knows I don’t like being outside in poorly defended areas. He doesn’t feel the same way; open spaces just make him think something worth poking is bound to come along sooner than later.
The service was winding down. I schooled my expression back to grim serenity and turned to face forward as the priest closed his Bible. The family rose, many of them in tears. Most turned to head for the gates, where cars were waiting to take them to the reception at the funeral home. Nothing says “deeply in mourning” like canapés and free beer. A few remained, still looking toward the graves as if shell-shocked.
“I just feel so bad,” murmured Buffy. “How can things like this happen?”
“Luck of the draw?” Shaun shrugged. “Play with big animals, a little amplification is almost guaranteed. They’re lucky it waited this long.”
“Yeah,” I said, frowning. “Lucky.” Something wasn’t right about this whole setup. The timing, the scope—you need safety precautions on a scale most millionaires wouldn’t bother with to operate a horse ranch, even several miles from the nearest town, and you need to have them upgraded on a regular basis. If something went wrong, it would be contained in a matter of minutes. They might have to torch a barn, but they shouldn’t have lost anyone. Certainly not three family members and half the working staff. “Shaun, get Buffy back to the van, okay? I’m going to give my regrets to the family.”
“Shouldn’t we come, too?” asked Buffy.
“No, you go back to the van. Call Rick, make sure nothing’s caught fire while we were away from our screens.”
“But—”
Shaun reached around me to take Buffy’s arm. “C’mon, Buff. If she’s sending us away, it’s because she wants to poke something with a stick and see what happens.”
“Something like that,” I said. “I’ll be there in a few minutes.”
“Okay,” said Buffy, letting Shaun guide her toward the cemetery gates. I turned to study the remaining members of the family. Peter and Emily were there, along with several other adults who looked enough like one another to be close relations. Emily had one arm around each of her two remaining daughters. She didn’t look like she’d slept for a week, and both Jeanne and Amber looked like they were finding their mother’s embrace more than a little smothering. Peter seemed older, somehow, his farm boy good looks strained by the speed and severity with which everything had gone wrong.
He caught the motion of my head as I looked toward them. He nodded slightly, indicating that it was safe for me to approach. I answered with a thin smile, beginning to pick my way across the slushy ground.
“Georgia,” said Emily, as I reached them. Letting go of Jeanne and Amber, she put her arms around me in a too-tight hug. The girls moved to stand behind an elderly woman who looked like she might be their paternal grandmother, blocking their mother from grabbing them again once she was done with me. I couldn’t blame them; Emily’s grief had given her a measure of hysterical strength that seemed likely to crack one of my ribs. “We’re so glad you came.”
“I’m sorry for your loss,” I said, patting her awkwardly on the back. “Buffy and Shaun send their regrets.”
“Emily, let the nice girl go,” said Peter, tugging his wife’s arm until she released me. I stepped quickly backward, and both Jeanne and Amber cast understanding glances my way. They’d been their mother’s targets since she ran out of the convention to get to them. “Georgia.”
“Senator Ryman.” He didn’t try to hug me. I appreciated that. “It was a beautiful ceremony.”
“It was, wasn’t it?” He glanced toward the churned-up earth. “Becky hated these things. Said they were morbid and silly. She would’ve stayed home, if she weren’t a required attendee.” He laughed, bitterly. “She really wanted to meet you.”
“I’m sorry she never got the chance,” I said, pushing my sunglasses up to shield my eyes from the light glinting off the patchy snow. “Would you mind if I took you aside for a moment? It won’t take long.”
“No, of course not.” He kissed Emily on the forehead, and said, “You just get back to the girls, all right, sweetheart? I’ll only be a moment.”
“All right,” said Emily. She managed to force a wavering smile, and said, “We’ll see you at the reception, won’t we, Georgia?”
“Of course, Mrs. Ryman,” I replied.
The senator and I walked until we were about eight feet from the group, far enough that they couldn’t hear us, but close enough to maintain visual contact. “Now, Georgia,” he said, without preamble. “What’s this all about?”
I tilted my chin up until I was looking directly at him, and said, “Senator, if you don’t mind, my team and I would like permission to go up to the ranch and take a look around.” He was silent. I continued: “If we walk the grounds and post our footage…”
“You think it’ll reduce trespassers looking for a little excitement?”
I nodded.
Senator Ryman looked at me for a long moment. Then, shoulders sagging, he nodded his acquiescence. “I hate this, Georgia,” he said, in a voice that was a million miles away from the proud, self-confident man I’d followed most of the way across the country. “This is supposed to be the start of the most exciting fight in my career, and instead I’m standing here consigning my eldest unto God when I just want to shake the bastard until he gives her back to me. It’s not fair.”
“I know, Senator,” I said. Glancing back to where Emily had managed to recapture her surviving children, I added, “But you’re not the only one it isn’t fair to.”
“Are you telling me to mind my family, young lady?” he asked, with a mirthless chuckle.
“Sometimes family is all we have, sir.”
“Very true, Georgia. Very true.” He followed my gaze back to Emily and the girls. “I’ll tell Em I’ve given you folks permission to go to the ranch. She’ll understand. The guards, now…”
“We have the proper licenses.”
“Good.” Raking his hair back from his forehead with one hand, he sighed. “Ain’t this just one hell of a mess?”
“Very much so,” I agreed.
We made our good-by
es without much conviction; he needed to get back to the business of mourning, and I needed to get back to my team before Shaun decided to go hiking or Buffy took the wireless network off-line for upgrading. Rick hadn’t been with us long enough for me to know what I didn’t want him doing, but I was sure he’d come up with something. He was a journalist, after all, and we’re all incurably insane.
I walked toward the cemetery gates, tapping my ear cuff. “Shaun, what’s your twenty?”
“We’re parked behind the security vans,” Shaun said. Someone asked a question in the background, and he added, “Buffy wants to know if we need her or if she can go with Chuck. He’s pretty torn up, and she wants to get in some ‘couple time.’”
“Shaun Mason, you may be the only boy above the age of nine who still says ‘couple time’ like it was a dead rat.” I nodded to the guards as I passed through the gates and scanned the parking lot for the security vans.
“I do not,” said Shaun, sounding affronted. “I like dead rats.”
“Sorry. My bad. Tell Buffy she’s free to go, but I want her to have the field equipment ready, and she needs to be back for editing by nine.”
“The field equipment…?”
“I have Senator Ryman’s clearance. We’re heading for the ranch.” I grimaced at Shaun’s whooping and tapped my ear cuff again, cutting off the connection. The van was in sight; I could let him yell in my ear once I was inside, rather than putting up with it remotely.
Buffy was seated on a counter doing something arcane to a shoulder-mount camera when I stepped through the rear door. She’d changed out of her funeral clothes into something more comfortable, if still subdued, and when she looked up, it was obvious that she’d redone her makeup to match. “Hey.”
“Hey.” I looked around, starting to unbutton my jacket. “Where’s Shaun?”
“Up front checking his armor for holes.” She peered into the camera, blew lightly on the exposed circuitry, and snapped the cover back into place. “Chuck’s going to come pick me up, so you can leave me here when you head out. It’ll only take a few more minutes to review the field equipment.”
“Anybody call Rick?” I tossed my jacket onto a chair and started unbuttoning my dress shirt. I had a tank top under that; swap my skirt for jeans, add a Kevlar vest, my motorcycle jacket, and combat boots, and I’d be ready for a low-hazard field op. Most girls learn how to accessorize for dinner parties and dates. I learned to do it for hazard zones.
“He said he’d meet you at the ranch.” Buffy offered me the camera. “Here. This whole generation is on its last legs. We’re gonna need new ones sooner than later.”
“I’ll get it into the budget,” I said. Peeling off my shirt, I dropped it to the floor and took the camera, eyeing Buffy over my glasses. “Something on your mind, Buff?”
“No. Yes. Maybe.” She sat back on the counter, her gaze dropping to her hands. “You’re going to the ranch.”
“Yes.”
“It’s…”
“The area’s been downgraded. We have the licenses to enter, as long as we’re armed.”
Buffy’s head snapped up. “It’s disrespectful.”
Ah. The crux of the problem. “Disrespectful to whom, Buffy? To the dead?” She gave a small, almost imperceptible nod. “Buffy, the dead aren’t there. They’ve been buried.” After they were cremated to prevent their corpses from coming back to life and doing disrespectful things to the living.
“They died there,” she said, fiercely. “They died there, and now you’re going to turn it into more news.”
“We aired the attack.”
“That was different. That was something dangerous. This is just ghosts. Souls trying to sleep.” Her expression turned pleading. “Can’t we let them sleep? Please?”
“We’re not going to disturb them. If anything, we’re going so that they can sleep. The Rymans trust us to be respectful, and we will be, and by showing that there’s nothing of any interest in those buildings, we’ll keep less respectful journalists from breaking in looking for an ‘exposé.’” I might be wrong—journalists seeking a scoop will break into almost anything—but I needed to get in there, and I needed Buffy to stay calm. Without her to enhance any footage we got, we might well come up with less than nothing.
She sniffled. “You swear you’re not intending to upset their ghosts?”
“I’m not sure I believe in ghosts, but I swear we won’t do anything to disturb any spirits that might be resting there.” I put down the camera she’d handed me and shook my head as I opened the van closet and pulled out the rest of my field gear. I always keep a few pairs of thick denim jeans on hand, the kind with steel fibers woven into the fabric. “Be prepared” isn’t just the Boy Scouts’ marching song anymore. “Zombies are enough. I don’t need to add poltergeists to the ranks of ‘things that want to kill me.’”
She studied me for a moment before she nodded, offering a small smile. “All right. It just seems ghoulish to go there on the day of the funeral.”
“I know, but time is sort of important right now,” I said. A horn honked outside. I glanced over my shoulder toward the door. “Sounds like your ride’s here.”
“That didn’t take long.” Buffy slid off the counter. “Your kits are packed. I didn’t review the auxiliary batteries, but you’d only need those if everything else failed. Technically, they’re not even required.”
“I know,” I said. “Get out of here. Have a nice evening with Chuck, and I’ll see you at the hotel at nine for editing and data consolidation.”
“Work, work, work,” she complained, but she was almost laughing as she stepped outside. I caught a glimpse of Chuck waving from his rental car before the van door banged shut, blocking them from view.
“Have a nice date, Buffy,” I said to the closed door and pulled on my jacket before moving to assess the field kits.
Normally, Buffy would have done all the checks before she went anywhere. Normally, where she was going was “back to the van” or “home to her room,” not out with her boyfriend. It’s not like she’s never dated; she’s had at least six boyfriends since we met, and unlike a large percentage of our generation, they’ve all been face-to-facers, not virtuals. She doesn’t date people she meets online unless they live locally and are willing to meet in the flesh, with all the security checks and blood tests that entails, and even then, she likes to keep her romantic relationships as off-line as possible. Partly because she likes the interaction—it’s a change from the amount of time she spends online—but I think it’s partly been to keep them untraceable. She’s never been comfortable with the fact that Shaun and I won’t talk about why we don’t date. She eventually gave up trying to hook us up with people she knew, but Chuck is still the first of her boyfriends who we’ve been allowed to spend any real time around, and I suspect it’s only because they met on the campaign trail.
Everyone has their own little quirks. My brother and I avoid romantic entanglements, and Buffy runs hers like acts of international espionage.
Checking the field kits took about five minutes. Shaun emerged from the front of the van carrying a crossbow and moving with a slight stiffness that signaled how much body armor he was wearing. Straightening, I tossed him his pack.
“Light,” he said, hefting it. “Did we decide to skip the cameras this time?”
“Actually, I decided to skip the weapons.” Picking up the other two kits, I brushed past him on my way up front. “If we meet any zombies, we’ll pacify them with Hostess snack cakes.”
“Even the living dead love Hostess snack cakes.”
“Precisely.” I hooked open the door between the sections of the van with my foot and tossed Rick’s field kit back to Shaun. “I’m driving.”
“I’m not surprised,” he said, with a mock annoyed look. Following me, he settled in the passenger seat and asked, “So what are we really doing?”
“Really doing? We’re really visiting the scene of a tragic accident to determine whether it wa
s caused by gross human negligence or a simple series of unavoidable events.” I sat and pulled my seat belt across my lap. “Buckle up.”
He did. “You aren’t implying what I think you’re implying.”
“What am I not implying, Shaun?”
“They had to torch and burn the infection. Don’t you think someone would have noticed if things weren’t right?”
“Repeat the first part of your statement again.”
“They had to torch and…” He stopped. “You’re not serious.”
“Shaun, the O’Neils have been raising horses for generations. They didn’t even take a break after the Rising.” I pulled out of the lot and started down the road. The countryside around us was wide, flat, and relatively unbroken by anything as plebian as signs of human habitation. Not the best hunting territory for the living dead. “They don’t make mistakes on the level of allowing a massive outbreak that kills nearly half the hired help. It just doesn’t happen. So either somebody screwed up big time—”
“—or someone cut the screamers,” Shaun finished, hushed. “Why wouldn’t anyone have found anything?”
“Was anyone going to look? Shaun, if I say, ‘A big animal amplified and killed its owners,’ do you think, ‘Something is rotten in the state of Denmark,’ or do you think, ‘It was bound to happen sometime’?”
Shaun was quiet for several minutes as we drove toward the ranch. Finally, in a pensive tone, he said, “How big is this, George?”
I tightened my hands on the wheel. “Ask Rebecca Ryman.”
“What are we going to do about it?”
“We’re going to tell the truth.” I glanced toward him. “Hopefully, that’s going to be enough.”
He nodded, and we drove on in silence.
* * *
A lot of time was spent looking into the science and application of forensics before the Rising. How did this man die? What did he die for? Could he have been saved? It’s been different since the Rising, as the possibility of infection makes it too dangerous for investigators to pry into any crime scene that hasn’t been disinfected, while the strength of modern disinfectants means that once they’ve been used, there’s nothing to find. DNA testing and miraculous deductions brought about by a few clinging fibers are things of the past. As soon as the dead started walking, they stopped sharing their secrets with the living.