by Mira Grant
We only have problems when the conjoined form of these viruses enters its active state. Ten microns of live Kellis-Amberlee are enough to begin an unstoppable viral cascade that inevitably results in the effective death of the original host. Once the virus is awake, you cease to be “you” in any meaningful sense. Instead, you’re a living viral reservoir, a means of spreading the virus, which is always hungry and always waiting. The zombie is a creature with two goals: to feed the virus in itself, and to spread that virus to others.
An elephant can be infected with the same amount of Kellis-Amberlee as a human. Ten microns. Speaking literally, you could pack more viral microns than that onto the period of this sentence. The horse that started the infection that killed Rebecca Ryman was injected with an estimated 900 million microns of live Kellis-Amberlee.
Now look me in the eye and tell me that wasn’t terrorism.
—From Images May Disturb You, the blog of Georgia Mason, March 25, 2040
Fifteen
It turns out that calling a United States senator from inside a quarantined biohazard zone to report that you’ve found a live cat and a syringe containing what you suspect to be a small but terrifying amount of live Kellis-Amberlee is a great way to get the full and immediate attention of both the army and the Secret Service. I’ve always known radio and cellular transmissions out of quarantine zones were monitored, but I’d never seen the fact so clearly illustrated. The words “intact syringe” were barely out of my mouth before we were surrounded by grim-faced men carrying large guns.
“Keep filming,” I hissed to Rick and Shaun. They answered with small nods but were otherwise as frozen as I was, staring at the many, many guns around us.
“Put the syringe and any weapons you may be carrying on the ground and raise your hands above your heads,” boomed a dispassionate voice, distorted by the crackle of a loudspeaker.
Shaun and I exchanged a look.
“Uh, we’re journalists?” called Shaun. “On Class A-15 licenses with the concealed carry allowance? We’ve been following Senator Ryman’s campaign? So we’re carrying a lot of weapons, and we’re sort of uncomfortable with this whole ‘syringe’ thing. Do you really want to wait while we take off everything?”
“God, I hope not,” I muttered. “We’ll be here all day.”
The nearest of the armed men—one of the ones in army green rather than Secret Service black—tapped his right ear and said something under his breath. After a long pause, he nodded and called, in a much less intimidating voice than the one from the loudspeaker, “Just put down the syringe and any visible weapons, raise your hands, and don’t make any threatening moves.”
“Much easier, thanks,” said Shaun, flashing a grin. At first, I couldn’t figure out why he was wasting the energy to show off for the crowd, which was probably pretty high-strung and might be trigger-happy. Then I followed his line of sight and had to swallow a smile. Hello, fixed-point camera number four. Hello, ratings like you wouldn’t believe, especially with Shaun doing his best to keep it interesting.
I stepped forward and placed the syringe on the ground. It was safe inside its reinforced plastic bubble, which was safe inside a second plastic bubble. A thin layer of bleach separated them. Anything that leaked out of that syringe would die before it hit the open air. Still moving with extreme care, I put my gun a few feet away, followed by my Taser, the pepper spray I keep clipped to my shoulder bag—there are dangerous things out there other than the infected, and most of them hate getting stinging mist in their eyes—and the collapsible baton Shaun gave me for my last birthday. Holding up my hands to show that I didn’t have anything else, I began to step back into the line.
“The sunglasses too, ma’am,” said the soldier.
“Oh, for crying—she’s got retinal KA! You have our files from when we came in here, you should know that!” Shaun’s earlier grandstanding was gone, replaced by genuine irritation.
“The sunglasses,” repeated the soldier.
“It’s all right, Shaun; he’s just doing his job,” I said, gritting my teeth and squeezing my eyes closed before tugging off my sunglasses and dropping them. Again, I moved to step back into the line.
“Please open your eyes, ma’am,” said the soldier.
“Are you prepared to provide me with immediate medical attention?” I asked, not bothering to conceal my own anger. “My name is Georgia Carolyn Mason, license number alpha-foxtrot-bravo-one-seven-five-eight-nine-three, and like my brother said, you have my file. I have advanced retinal Kellis-Amberlee. If I open my eyes without protection, I risk permanent damage. Again, we’re journalists, and I will sue.”
There was another pause as the soldier conferred with whoever was giving him his orders. This one took longer; they were presumably calling up my file and confirming that no one was attempting to use a pair of sunglasses and some big words to conceal my impending conversion. “Return to your group,” he said, finally. I stepped backward, letting Shaun’s hand on my elbow guide me to a stop.
It took nearly ten minutes for Shaun and Rick to finish putting their weapons down and move back into place beside me, Shaun’s hand going to my elbow in case we needed to move. I’m basically blind in daylight without my glasses. Maybe worse, since a real blind person doesn’t have to worry about migraines or damaging their retinas just because there’s no cloud cover.
“Under whose authority have you entered these premises?” asked the soldier.
“Senator Peter Ryman,” said Rick, speaking with a calm that clearly said that he’d done more than his share of dealing with the authorities. “I believe it was Miss Mason’s call to the senator that you intercepted?”
The soldier ignored his barb. “Senator Ryman is aware of your current location?”
“Senator Ryman gave full consent for this investigation,” said Rick, stressing the word ‘senator.’ “I’m sure he’ll be very interested in our findings.”
There was another pause as the soldier conferred. This one was interrupted by a crackle of static, and Senator Ryman’s voice came over the loudspeaker, saying, “Give me that thing. What are your people doing? That’s my press corps, and you’re acting like they’re trespassers on my land—you don’t see something wrong with that?” Another voice mumbled contrition outside the range of the speaker’s microphone, and Senator Ryman boomed, “Damn right, you didn’t think. You folks all right? Georgia, have you gone mental, girl? Get your glasses back on. You think a blind reporter’s going to be much good at uncovering all my dirty little secrets?”
“These nice men told me to take them off, sir!” I called.
“These nice men with all the guns,” Shaun added.
“Well, that was very neighborly of them, but now I’m asking you to put them back on. Georgia, you got a spare set?”
“I do, but they’re in my back pocket—I’m afraid I’ll drop them.” Never go out without a spare pair of sunglasses. Preferably three. Of course, that anticipates contamination, not army-induced flash-blinding.
“Shaun, get your sister her glasses. She looks naked without them. It’s creeping me out.”
“Yes, sir!” Shaun let go of my elbow and reached into my pocket. A moment later, I felt him pressing a fresh pair of glasses into my palm. I let out a relieved sigh, snapped them open, and slid them on. The glare receded. I opened my eyes.
The scene hadn’t changed much. Shaun and Rick were still flanking me, the armed men were still surrounding us, and fixed-point camera number four was still transmitting the whole thing back to the van on a band so low that it would look like white noise to most receivers. Buffy stays on top of what’s happening in the field of wireless technology for just that reason; the more she knows, the harder it is to jam our signals. I didn’t know whether our higher-band cameras were being blocked—probably, considering the army—but our low-band was going to be fine.
“Are your eyes all right, Georgia?” asked the senator. Shaun was giving me a look that asked the same question, in
fewer words.
“Absolutely, sir,” I called. That wasn’t entirely true. My migraine was reaching epic proportions and would probably be with me for days. Still, it was close enough for government work. “We need to talk when these nice men are done, if you have time.”
“Of course.” There was a tension in the senator’s voice that belied his earlier friendliness. “I want to know everything.”
“So do we, sir,” said Rick. “For one thing, we’d very much like to know what’s in this syringe. Unfortunately, we lack the facilities to test its contents.”
“The item in question is now in the custody of the United States Army,” said the first voice, reclaiming the loudspeaker from Senator Ryman. “What it does or does not contain is no longer your concern.”
I straightened. Shaun and Rick did the same.
“Excuse me,” Rick said, “but are you saying that potential proof that live Kellis-Amberlee was used to cause an outbreak on American soil, on the property of a candidate for President of the United States of America, is not the concern of the people? Of, to be specific, three fully licensed and accredited representatives of the American media, who located that proof after being invited to perform an investigation that the armed forces had neglected to carry out?”
The soldiers surrounding us stiffened, and their guns were suddenly at angles that implied that accidents can happen, even on friendly soil. The Secret Service men frowned but remained more relaxed; after all, the original investigation hadn’t been under their control.
“Son,” said the original voice, “I don’t believe you want to imply what you’re implying.”
“What, that you’re saying we don’t get to know what we found, even when we have a worldwide audience that really, really wants to know?” Shaun asked, folding his arms and sliding into a hip-shot pose that seemed casual, if you didn’t know him well enough to see how pissed off he was. “That doesn’t scream ‘freedom of the press’ to me.”
“It won’t say ‘freedom of the press’ to our readers, either,” I said.
“Miss, there are things called ‘nondisclosure forms,’ and you’ll find that I can have all three of you signing them before you take step one outside of this property.”
“Well, sir, that might work if we hadn’t been streaming our report live all along,” I replied. “If you don’t believe me, hit our Web site and see for yourself. We have a live feed, a transcript, the works.” There was a pause before the sound of muffled swearing drifted through the loudspeaker. Somebody looked online. I allowed myself to smile. “If you wanted this kept secret, you shouldn’t have left it for the journalists to find.”
“And what I’d like to know,” said Senator Ryman, in a voice that was suddenly colder than it had been before, “is what gives you the authority to seize materials found on my property without giving full disclosure to me, as the owner. Especially if said materials may have been involved in the death of my daughter and her grandparents.”
“All sealed hazard zones—”
“Remain the property of the original owners, who must continue to pay taxes but will not benefit from any natural resources or profitable development of the land,” said Rick. I gave him a sidelong look. Smiling serenely, he said, “Secor v. the State of Massachusetts, 2024.”
“That aside, covering up evidence is rarely smiled upon in this country,” Senator Ryman said. “Now, I believe what you intended to tell these nice folks was that they were free to leave the zone as soon as they’ve passed their mandatory blood tests, and that you’ll be contacting me and them with an analysis of the contents of that syringe, given as how they found it and it was found on my property.”
“Well—”
Senator Ryman cut him off. “I hope you understand that arguing with a senator—especially one who intends to be president, if only so he can make you realize what an imbecilic move this was—is not the best way to further your career.”
There was a longer pause before the first voice spoke again, saying carefully, “Well, sir, I think perhaps you’ve gotten the wrong idea about this situation…”
“I hoped that was the case. I assume my people are free to go?”
Now falsely jovial, the first voice said, “Of course! My men are just there to escort them to their blood tests. Men? Get those citizens out of the field!”
“Sir, yes sir!” barked the soldiers. The Secret Service just looked faintly disgusted with the entire situation.
The soldier who asked me to remove my sunglasses consulted with the speaker on his shoulder before saying, reluctantly, “If the three of you would retrieve your weapons and follow me, I’ll take you to the gate for testing and release. Please don’t attempt to touch the article you removed from the outbreak site.”
Rick looked like he was going to contest the phrase “the article” by bringing up the fact that we’d removed more than one thing from the outbreak site. Since I didn’t think the cat would be happy to be dissected by army scientists, I kicked Rick in the ankle. He glared at me. I ignored him. He’d thank me later. Or the cat would.
Picking our weapons back up took longer than putting them down, since all the safeties had to be checked. The area was certified as clean as was reasonable under the Nguyen-Morrison—as clean as any area where you found a syringe full of potential live-state Kellis-Amberlee could be—but shooting yourself in the foot in the vicinity of a recent outbreak still strikes me as an all-around rotten plan. Our escort waited as we armed ourselves and then walked with us in lockstep to the gates, where, I was pleased to see, Steve and two other men from Senator Ryman’s security detail were waiting with the blood test units.
I caught my breath as I saw the boxes. Leaning over slightly, I nudged Shaun with my elbow. He followed my gaze and whistled. “Pulling out the big guns, there, Steve-o?”
Steve cracked a thin smile. “The senator wants to be certain you’re all right.”
“My brother’s never been all right, but Rick and I are clean,” I said, holding out my right hand. “Rock me.”
“My pleasure,” he said, and slid the box over my hand.
Blood testing kits range from your basic field units, which can be wrong as often as thirty percent of the time, to the ultra-advanced models, which are so sensitive that they’ve been known to trigger false positives as they pick up the live Kellis infection harbored by nearly every human on Earth. The most advanced handheld kits are the Apple XH-237s. They cost more than I care to think about, and since they’re field kits, they can only be used once without replacing the needle array, a process that costs more than most independent journalists make in a year. Once is more than enough. Needles so thin they can barely be felt, hitting at sites on all five fingers, the palm, and the wrist. Viral detection and comparison mechanisms so advanced that the Army supposedly bought the right to use several of Apple’s patents after the XH-237 came out.
Shaun and I carry one—only one—in the van. We’ve had it for five years. We’ve never felt rich or desperate enough to use it. You only use the XH-237 when you need to be sure, right here and now, with no margin for error. It’s a kit for use after actual exposure. The army didn’t wonder what was in that syringe. Somehow, they knew. The implications of that were more than a little disturbing.
Steve activated the kit. The lid locked down, flattening my palm until I felt the tendons stretch. There was a moment of pain. I tensed, but even waiting for it, I couldn’t feel the needles as they began darting in and out of my hand and wrist. The lights atop the unit began to cycle, flashing red, then yellow, and finally settling, one by one, into a steady, unblinking green. The entire process took a matter of seconds.
Steve smiled as he dropped the unit into a biohazard bag. “Despite all natural justice, you’re still clean.”
“That’s one more I owe to my guardian angel,” I said. A glance to the side showed me that Shaun’s unit was still cycling, while Rick’s test was just getting started.
“Yeah, well, stop makin
g that angel work so hard,” said Steve, more quietly. I looked back to him, surprised. His expression was grave. “You can leave the zone now.”
“Right,” I said. I walked to the gate, where two blank-faced men in army green watched me press my forefinger against the much simpler testing pad. Another needle bit deeply, and the light switched from green to red to green again before the gate clicked open. Shaking my stinging hand, I stepped out.
Our van and Rick’s car had been joined by a third vehicle: a large black van with mirrored windows that gleamed with the characteristic patina of armor plating. The top bristled with enough antennae and satellite dishes to make our own relatively modest assortment of transmitters look positively sparse. I stood, considering it, as Shaun and Rick made their own exits from the ranch and moved to stand beside me.
“That look like our friendly order-giver to you?” Shaun asked.
“Can’t imagine who else it would be,” I said.
“Well, then, let’s go up, say hello, and thank them for the welcome. I mean, I was touched. A fruit basket might have been more fitting, but an armed ambush? Definitely a unique way to show that you care.” Shaun went bounding for the van. Rick and I followed at a more sedate pace.
Shaun banged on the van door with the heel of his hand. When there was no reply, he balled his hand into a fist and resumed banging, louder. He was just starting to get a good rhythm going when the door was wrenched open by a red-faced general who glared at us with open malice.
“I don’t think he’s a music lover,” I commented to Rick. He snorted.
“I don’t know what you kids think you’re doing—” began the general.