by Mira Grant
“All right. And, boss?”
“Yeah?”
“If we don’t come back in half an hour, don’t send anyone looking for us. Either we’ve made it out and we’re coming back with help, or we didn’t make it and we’re not coming back at all. There’s no sense in you throwing good people into a meat grinder for our sakes.”
For a long moment, Shawn didn’t say anything. Then he nodded and saluted the other man. “Good luck, soldier.”
“Oorah,” replied Dwight solemnly as he returned the salute. Somehow, the strangeness of the moment did nothing to rob the traditional battle cry of the United States Marines of its efficacy. Then he turned and walked away, off to find Rebecca.
Lynn Tutt stepped up next to her husband, watching Dwight go. “Is it silly of me to be afraid that we’re never going to see him again?” she asked.
“No,” said Shawn. “You’re not the only one.”
“Oh, good. I’d hate to be silly right now.”
Shawn took her hand, and the two of them stood there for a moment, and neither of them felt silly in the least.
* * *
7:30 P.M.
“The worst of it is, Unis, I don’t even know how we got up here.” Lesley Smith, British journalist and sudden shut-in, gave the chair she was perched on a little kick. It spun in another lazy circle, carrying her with it. Her view of the room remained the same: almost total blackness, broken here and there by smears of light. “It’s a bloody joke.” Her chair drifted to a stop. She didn’t kick it again.
Unis lifted her head off her paws, ears cocked inquisitively upward. The Woman was speaking. The Woman was using her name. Perhaps that meant that something was about to be requested of her—but no, the Woman had returned to scowling at the big flat place. As long as the Woman wasn’t scowling at Unis, all was right with the world. Unis yawned and put her head back down.
The big flat place that Lesley was scowling at was a control panel of some kind. She’d been able to work that much out by feel, running her fingers over the dials and buttons with labels she couldn’t read. As for what it controlled…no one had thought to label anything in braille. Why would they? It wasn’t like there was any chance a woman with severely impaired vision would ever be locked in their little control room, unable to figure out how to turn the damn lights on. That would just be silly.
The room they were in had two large glass windows looking out over the convention center’s main exhibit hall. Thousands of people were locked in down there, and Lesley was locked in up here, along with her guide dog, half a bottle of water, and a granola bar. And no bathroom. And no lights.
“I’m so glad I came to Comic-Con,” Lesley muttered bitterly, giving the control panel another spiteful glare. She could still hear the madmen who’d chased her up the stairs milling about in the convention center outside. The door between them was thick enough that she wasn’t worried about anyone breaking in—well, she wasn’t worried much, and that was the best she could say at the moment.
Unis thumped her tail once against the floor, acknowledging that she’d heard the Woman speaking, but didn’t otherwise move. Unis was resting. Unis had already had a long day.
If Unis had been able to speak, she could have told the Woman how they reached the small, safe room with no other people in it, the one with the door that could be shut, and locked, to make safety where there had been only danger. She could have told the woman that when she’d been given the command to get away from the bad people who smelled like blood and sick—and “Unis, away!” was such a rare command, a danger command, that she obeyed it even more fervently than she obeyed all the others—when she’d been given that command, she had followed it to the letter. She had led the Woman to this safe place, this good place, because she, Unis, was a good dog.
Unis let her tail smack the floor again. Lesley glanced over toward the flat-coated retriever and smiled despite her anxiety.
“Silly dog,” she said. Then she went back to glaring at the control board.
* * *
8:03 P.M.
It had taken longer for Dwight and Rebecca to reach the back of the hall than they had expected. Preview Night had barely begun when the doors closed, but thousands of people had still managed to cram themselves inside, and many of them had fled for the walls when the chaos began. Several of the display booths looked more like armed encampments now. The jokingly named “webcomic district”—three half aisles of semi-affiliated booths manned by the teams from popular online comic strips—was already completely shut off to outside traffic. A surprising number of webcomic artists turned out to be pretty good with tools; they had constructed barriers over the mouths of the aisles in record time and were in the process of shoring them up with chairs and sheets of plywood scavenged from the booths at the center of their territory. It would have been impossible for anyone to get in without a crowbar. Anyone who wanted to use a crowbar would find themselves facing some stringent resistance from the assembled artists and their respective staffs, all of whom watched passersby with wary, narrowed eyes.
“It’s starting to look like a Mad Max film in here,” said Rebecca, as they finally reached the wall. Between the detour around the sealed-off webcomics district and the detour around the seating area in front of the snack bar—which had turned into an impromptu babysitting crèche and gathering place for the wounded—they had already been gone longer than either one of them wanted to be.
Dwight nodded grimly. “It’s just going to get worse from here, you know. If we don’t find a way out….how many of these people do you think remembered to bring food or water? How many people with medical conditions didn’t bring an extra dose of their medication?” He hooked a thumb toward the snack bar, still being manned by anxious-looking employees. “If those people had a brain in their heads, they’d lock up and run. There’s going to be a riot when folks start getting hungry, and this place is going to be the epicenter.”
“We have food,” said Rebecca, looking shaken.
“We also have a lot of people who’ve got each other’s backs. Besides, Leita and Shawn have got everybody continuing the fortifications while we’re away. We’re going to come back to an impenetrable fortress. Just you watch.”
Rebecca sighed. “I’d just like it if we made it back.”
Dwight smiled, nudging her in the ribs with his elbow. “Come on. This is Comic-Con. How dangerous can it be?”
In the distance, someone screamed. Rebecca raised an eyebrow, and just looked at him. They kept walking.
“Do you really think it’s the zombie apocalypse?” asked Rebecca, after they’d traveled another fifteen yards or so through the crowded hall. At least most of the people near the wall were relatively nonviolent unless approached too quickly, and very few of them had visible injuries. Rebecca paled every time she saw someone with blood on their shirt, but managed not to keel over. There were times when a fear of blood became a genuine inconvenience, and this was one of them.
“I don’t know.” Dwight shook his head. “There’s been some really weird stuff on the Internet lately. I just wish we could get online from in here.”
“The wireless will come back eventually. It has to.” The exhibit hall security officers who were supposed to be flanking the door to the garage were gone. Fortunately, it looked just like every other locked door in the center.
Unfortunately, it was just as locked as the rest of them.
Dwight gave the bar one last, futile shove. “This is hopeless,” he said. “We should get back to the others and tell them we’re stuck in here.”
Rebecca smiled. “Oh, ye of little faith.” She dug her hand into her messenger bag, coming up with a Swiss Army Knife. “My dad didn’t believe in leaving a key under the mat. He said it was a security risk, even if I was supernaturally skilled in the area of losing my keys.” She pushed Dwight to the side, crouching down in front of the lock.
Dwight blinked, watching her. “I take it you decided to find other avenues for
getting into the house after you’d been locked out.”
“If by ‘other avenues,’ you mean ‘taught myself to pick locks out of an old Boy Scout manual I found at the library,’ you’re totally right.” Rebecca carefully inserted the thinnest blade on her Swiss Army Knife into the keyhole and began to twist. “Dad was actually really proud of me for that. He said it showed initiative. And then he grounded me for a month for picking locks without permission.”
“You have a weird family, Rebecca,” said Dwight.
“Oh, you have no idea.” There was a soft click as the lock turned. Rebecca withdrew her knife and turned to beam up at Dwight as she straightened. “But my weird family just got us into the parking garage. Let’s go.”
“Ladies first,” said Dwight, and clicked his Maglite on.
* * *
8:05 P.M.
The lights were off inside the parking garage, but that didn’t matter as much as it could have. It was summer in San Diego. The sun had only recently gone down, and every light outside the convention center was turned on full-watt, as if that could make up for the hour. Even so, Dwight’s Maglite provided much-needed extra illumination as the pair began walking carefully through the maze of close-packed cars. It seemed even more deserted after the chaos inside the convention center.
“We should cut around the marina,” whispered Rebecca. “That way, we get cell signal and can call for help, but we don’t get caught up in the crowds out front.”
“Agreed,” whispered Dwight. The doors had closed early enough that there were probably almost as many people outside as there were inside. Thousands of them, crammed onto the sidewalks, trying to get into a sealed convention center. Even if the riots had spread, new fans would have been arriving almost constantly. Why—
Dwight stopped walking, heart sinking as he fully thought through the possible ramifications of the Comic-Con crowd. Rebecca kept going for a few more steps. Then she stopped as well, turning back and frowning at him.
“Dwight? What’s wrong?”
“What if this is the zombie apocalypse?” he asked, voice still kept low. “Do you really think we managed to lock them all inside?”
Rebecca’s eyes widened, visible even through the gloom. Then she nodded. Just once; once was enough. Dwight turned, and together they ran for the door back into the exhibit hall.
They didn’t run fast enough.
There weren’t many infected in the garage. Maybe a dozen, all fully amplified and demonstrating the common infected tropism toward dark, shadowy places. They were well fed and had left the pursuit of food to other, hungrier individuals. But Dwight and Rebecca had come too close and had triggered the need to hunt. As they ran, the infected pursued, moving with the graceless speed of the freshly seroconverted.
The infected caught Dwight first, bearing the former Marine down to the garage floor with the weight of their bodies. The Maglite flew from his fingers and went skittering across the concrete. “Rebecca!” he shouted, all efforts at subtlety forgotten. “Keep running!”
Rebecca looked back and screamed. The infected were already tearing into Dwight. Blood spurted across the concrete like oil. A wave of dizziness washed over her, costing her a few precious steps. She managed to swallow it, fighting it back, and resumed her flight toward the door.
She knew before she got there that she was never going to make it. The infected were too close, and she was outnumbered. All she could do was lead them into the unprotected rear of the convention center, where a bunch of scared people were trying to hide. It wouldn’t be a fair fight. It wouldn’t be the right thing to do. So Rebecca Safier became one of the first heroes of the Rising with one simple gesture: When she reached the door, she stopped running.
And she turned the dead bolt, locking both herself and the infected out of the convention center. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. Then they were upon her, and she didn’t say anything else. After that, there was only screaming…and eventually, silence.
* * *
8:24 P.M.
“They’re not coming back, are they?” asked Vanessa. “They should have been back by now. They’re not coming back.”
“Shawn?” asked Lynn.
Shawn didn’t have an answer. He put his arm around Lynn’s shoulders and looked away, out over an exhibit hall that had gone from familiar ground to enemy territory in a single evening. There was nothing left for any of them to say, and so, for once, none of them said anything.
LORELEI TUTT’S APARTMENT,
LONDON, ENGLAND, JUNE 1, 2044
We have finished our first cups of tea. Lorelei is preparing another round, less out of thirst than from the simple need for something to do. It is an understandable impulse. I wish I had something to do with my hands as well.
LORELEI: We know more about what actually happened to Dwight and Rebecca than we do almost anyone else. It’s all supposition with the inside of the exhibit hall, but there were cameras running in the garage. I’ve seen her locking the door a thousand times. She didn’t have any other choice. There was nothing they could have done.
MAHIR: She was very brave. She could have sacrificed a lot of lives in the effort to save her own, and she didn’t.
LORELEI: No, she couldn’t have. Not Rebecca, and not Dwight, either. They were my friends. They were good people. They were heroes.
MAHIR: Yes, they were.
LORELEI: I was down at the base office while all of this was happening, trying to get somebody to listen to me. It turns out that teenage girls trying to report secondhand riots aren’t at the top of anyone’s priority list. I did get them to listen, eventually. It was too late by then—but I mean really, it was too late when Dad called me. It was probably too late by the time I left the convention center.
MAHIR: Everyone was doing the best they could with their understanding of the situation.
LORELEI: I wish they’d understood the situation just a little bit faster. More of my friends might have managed to get out alive. Or any of them.
The Second Act
Science fiction and fantasy literature has always been defined by tales of heroism. It is meant to represent humanity at our very best, willing to oppose all odds in order to protect the side of good. The Rising gave all people the opportunity to become heroes. Only a few rose to the challenge. Sadly, even fewer are remembered by name.
—Mahir Gowda
I always knew my father was a hero. I never needed him to prove it.
—Lorelei Tutt,
Captain, United States Coast Guard
8:37 P.M.
No one paid attention to the time. The people who were locked inside the hall had other things to worry about—like why the people who’d started the emergency by attacking their fellow attendees had stopped fighting and retreated to the doors. Anyone who tried to approach them was likely to find themselves bitten, or worse; but if the blank-eyed, bloody-garbed aggressors were left alone, they didn’t bother anyone.
Kelly Nakata didn’t know much about what was going on, but she knew that once a dog starts biting for no good reason, it doesn’t tend to stop. She made her way quickly away from the front of the exhibit hall, the owner of the booth where she’d originally taken shelter sticking close by her side. She didn’t know his name. She didn’t want to. With as quickly as things had gone sour, she wasn’t willing to go forging any lasting bonds. He was a good guy, and he’d equipped her pretty well for the fight she was sure they were walking into. She was still going to leave him behind if he turned into dead weight. It wasn’t the compassionate thing to do. Screw compassion. People in the middle of the zombie apocalypse couldn’t afford it.
“Zombie” wasn’t a word she would have brought into things on her own. It was a cliché, dead things and girls in lingerie and Elvira on a velvet love seat making cracks about impractical shoes. Still, it was an unavoidable idea, especially here, where every other person seemed to be a self-proclaimed expert on zombie culture. There were booths boasting every possible kind of z
ombie-themed goodie, from books and movies to artwork and couture. There was even a magazine called Chicks with Corpses that had decided to focus on the lingerie and impractical shoes over the carnage and destruction of mankind. The word “zombie” was everywhere, and it was as good a label as any for the psychos who were clustered at the front of the hall.
What some people didn’t seem to be taking into account was that zombies made more zombies. Kelly had seen it happen with her own eyes when the zombies turned on her Jedi-costumed rescuer. He wasn’t the only one who’d been bitten, and unless the zombie virus was selectively transferrable—which never seemed to be the case with zombie viruses, so it was a little too much to hope for in this situation—a whole lot of people were going to go rabid in the next few hours. Kelly was grimly sure that was why the first wave of zombies had withdrawn. They were waiting for their reinforcements to get hungry.
“Where are we going?” asked the booth owner.
“Back of the hall,” said Kelly. “Where there are exits. They usually have security mooks guarding them, but I figure a bunch of psychopaths biting people at the front doors takes priority. We may be able to get out that way.” And if they couldn’t, they would at least put some ground between themselves and the next big bite-a-thon.
“What if we can’t?”
“We start looking for a fire door. There’s bound to be some sort of an emergency exit in this place. We just have to find it.” Find it, and pray that it wasn’t already a solid wall of impassable meat thanks to other people with the same idea.
Giving up wouldn’t do either of them any good. Kelly tightened her grip on her borrowed staff and kept on walking. Maybe they could find someone who was selling armor—Kevlar would be best, but she’d take leather, or even hardened canvas, if that was what she could get—and convince them to join their merry band. Like The Wizard of Oz, only with zombies instead of flying monkeys.