by Mira Grant
Finally, her shoulders dropped, and she said, “Mahir kept Dave’s last post from going live, but he sent me a copy and said he thought you might be coming here. That’s why I sent everybody home.”
“That was a good idea,” I said, neutrally.
“I didn’t get to say good-bye, Shaun.” Maggie shook her head. “I should’ve been able to say good-bye. I should’ve been able to tell him… I should’ve been there.”
That was the sort of grief I can handle. Sadly enough, it’s the kind I’ve been on the inside of, because even saying good-bye isn’t enough. There’s always one more thing you should have had the time to say, or do, or ask. There’s always going to be that one missing piece.
I put my fork down and stood, shifting dogs out of the way with the side of my foot as I walked over to Maggie. She looked at me. I nodded, once, and put my arms around her, feeling the tension in her shoulders. “I won’t tell you it’s going to be all right, because it’s not going to be all right,” I said. “I won’t tell you I understand what you’re going through, because nobody who isn’t inside your head can understand, and I won’t say that we’re here to help. We’re not. We’re here to save our asses, and we’re here to find out what the fuck is going on. But I’ll say this: Dave made his decision, and they’re going to put him up on the Wall with all the other heroes. He’s going to be there forever because of what he decided was the right thing to do. I guess I can’t be too angry at him for that. George wouldn’t have hired him if she didn’t think he knew how to make the hard calls, and I wouldn’t have kept him if she wasn’t right.”
“I think I loved him,” said Maggie, her voice soft and almost muffled by her face pushing up against the side of my shirt.
I sighed deeply, looking over her head toward the others. Becks and Alaric had barely had time to get over being the walking wounded after losing Buffy and George. I’d barely had time to learn how to look like I was coping. And now it was all starting up again. The conspiracy theories, the confusing evidence, the deaths, the whole fucking mess.
The worst part was that deep down in my heart, in the part of me that no one got to see but George, I was glad. Because if all the old shit was starting up again, that meant that we were moving again. Moving toward an answer to the question that kept me from sleeping at night, and probably kept me from killing myself:
Who really killed my sister?
Kelly met my eyes and looked away, expression guilt-stricken. I’d have to talk to her about that. This wasn’t her fault, any more than it was mine, or Alaric’s, or Maggie’s. She was a victim, just like the rest of us. None of us did anything wrong. But that could be dealt with tomorrow, when we’d had time to sleep, reassure Mahir that we were still alive, and really look at Kelly’s data.
“I think we all loved him at least a little,” I said, with complete honesty, and I stood in that homey-smelling kitchen surrounded by the remains of my team, and I held her while she cried.
Screw you, David Novakowski. Screw you for being noble and good and earnest and staying in that damn building, and screw you for that last transmission, and screw you twice for taking so fucking long to say anything. You idiot. You stupid, stupid idiot.
I loved you, too, you idiot.
I can’t post this. I want to post this. I can’t post this. But writing it down helps, a little, because writing it down is what we do. They’re on their way here—they have to be, because if they’re not… I won’t think about it. The house feels so empty. God.
—From Dandelion Mine, the blog of Magdalene Grace Garcia, April 12, 2041. Unpublished.
I’m sorry, my darlings, but I won’t be able to make tonight’s chat. I know, I promised, and I’m sorry, but Auntie Maggie has a headache right now and needs to have a nap. Normal transmissions will resume tomorrow. Be good. Be kind to each other. And if there’s somebody you love, tell them. The world always needs more love.
—From Dandelion Mine, the blog of Magdalene Grace Garcia, April 12, 2041
Seven
Shaun?”
I raised a hand to rub my temple as I raised my head, trying to ward off the headache I could feel brewing there. I’d turned off most of the lights when the rest of the house went to bed, but I hadn’t stopped reading. Maybe that wasn’t such a good idea. “In here, Maggie.” I was sitting on the living room floor, back against the couch. I’d been sitting long enough that I wasn’t sure I could still stand.
Maggie made her way down the darkened hall to the doorway without tripping over anything. I had to admire how well she knew where everything was. I couldn’t have navigated that hall without causing my shins some serious damage. “How’s Mahir?”
“Relieved that we’re not dead. Broadcasting some old camping footage George and I took the last time we went to Santa Cruz. As long as he strips the dates, he should be able to make it look like we were all off having a grand time with the infected when they firebombed our building.”
Maggie swallowed. “And Dave?”
“Stayed behind to take care of the servers. We figure the cleanup on Oakland should be done by morning. They’ll contact his family, and we’ll announce it after they contact us.” It was heartless. It was unforgivable. It was the only choice we had. “I figure we can fake being out in the field for three or four days before we need to find somewhere else to be.”
“Don’t be an idiot.” The edge on her voice was surprising. I blinked. Drawing her tattered terrycloth bathrobe around her shoulders like it was a form of armor, Maggie scowled at me. “You’ll stay right here. My security systems can bounce your signal anywhere we want it to be.”
“Maggie—”
“Don’t you dare tell me it isn’t safe, Shaun Mason. Don’t you dare.” She stalked to the nearest overstuffed armchair and sat, curling her legs under herself and eyeing me like an aggravated cat. “I’ve never been safe in my life. I’m not planning to start now.”
“You can’t tell me that,” I protested. “I’ve seen your security system.”
Maggie’s laugh was rich, bright, and surprising. “I’m going to inherit enough money to buy a small country someday. My parents don’t have anyone else to leave it to. There’s a reason I live in the middle of nowhere and surround myself with reporters. Do you have any idea how good the security on this place really is? If I scream, someone comes. They can’t fake an outbreak on us here that won’t be immediately obvious as a setup. So unless the dead decide to rise en masse again—”
“Which is thankfully not very likely.”
“Exactly. You won’t be safe when you leave here.”
I looked at her measuringly. “Nice cage you’ve got here.”
“Thanks.” She smiled thinly. “The food’s pretty good, but, man, does the company suck.”
“We do our best.” I sighed. “I’m really sorry about all this.”
“Don’t be. Just get some sleep.” Maggie pulled her almost waist-length braid over one shoulder, picking aimlessly at the trailing end. “You’ve had a long day.”
“Yeah, well. Objects in the rearview mirror don’t get smaller just because they’re getting farther away.” I held up one of the folders from Kelly’s briefcase. “I’m trying to make sense out of all this crap while nothing’s catching on fire. I figure that won’t last for long.”
“It never does,” Maggie agreed. “How bad is it?”
“On a scale of one to oh fuck, we’re all gonna die?” I flipped the folder open and read, “ ‘Considering the risk of mutation, the concept of the reservoir conditions as the next stage in Kellis-Amberlee’s evolution cannot be ignored. We would be severely remiss to ignore the opportunities, and dangers, that such an evolution may present.’ ” I closed the folder, but didn’t look up. “What the fuck does it even mean? Somebody’s killing the folks with reservoir conditions. The numbers aren’t lying, even if everybody else is. But what does it mean?”
“It means we have a job to do, I guess.”
“Yes.” I glanced tow
ard the hall. “Everybody else asleep?”
“Yes, they are. I think a few of them may have helped themselves get that way with chemical aid, but whatever works.”
“Good.”
Maggie had prepared the guest rooms while we were still on the road, swallowing her grief long enough to break out fresh bedding and clean towels. I’m pretty sure the process was a sort of good luck charm for her; if she got the rooms ready, we’d show up alive. As it was, when bedtime came, she apologized for having only three guest rooms, since the other two spare rooms had been converted, respectively, into a home theater and a study. Like there’s anything “only” about a house with six bedrooms. George and I grew up in a house with three, and ours were connected enough to practically count as a single room. Three guest rooms meant one each for Alaric, Becks, and the Doc. I’ve slept on couches before. It doesn’t bother me.
Besides, I wanted to stare at those numbers until they started making sense. After almost two hours, I wasn’t getting any closer. I sighed. “I’m missing something. I know I’m missing something.”
Don’t be so hard on yourself, said George. You’re tired.
“That’s easy for you to say,” I snapped, before I could stop myself. Then I froze, casting a careful glance toward Maggie. I was expecting… I don’t know what I was expecting. I get a lot of reactions to the fact that I still talk to my sister. Most of them aren’t good ones.
Maggie’s fell somewhere in the middle of the spectrum. She was looking at me thoughtfully, head tilted slightly to one side. “She really talks to you, doesn’t she?” she asked. “It’s not just you talking to her. She talks back.”
“Hell, half the time she starts it,” I said, half-defensively. “I know it’s weird.”
“Well, yes, it’s weird. Technically, I think it’s insane. But who am I to judge?” Maggie shrugged. “I live in a house most people view as the setting of a horror movie waiting to happen, with an army of security ninjas and a couple dozen epileptic dogs for company. I don’t think I’m qualified to pass judgment on ‘weird.’ ”
That’s a new one, said George, bemused.
“Tell me about it,” I muttered, adding, louder, “That’s, uh, different.”
“At least you know that you’re crazy. That means you have the potential to recover.”
I hesitated. There are a lot of people who’d say that my steadfast refusal to give up on George means I’ll never get over my grief. I sort of hope they’re right. I don’t want to get over it. “Well, um, thanks,” I said. The words sounded even lamer outside my head than they did inside.
Maggie didn’t seem to notice. She was gazing off into one of the darkened corners of the m, expression gone even more wistful. “I knew Dave loved me, you know,” she said, with a studied casualness to her tone. Whatever she was going to say, she was going to say it whether she got the right conversational prompts from me or not. I was an audience, not a participant. “But I was still getting over losing Buffy, and Dave and I, we were doing this… this weird circling thing, like we needed to figure out every single line of the script before we could even start the movie. I knew, and he knew, and we didn’t do a damn thing about it.” She sniffled. A very small sound that seemed loud in the sudden silence of the room. “It’s like we thought everything had to be perfect, or it wouldn’t work. Like it was a story.”
I wanted to say something, but there was nothing to say. I sat frozen, my fingers twitching slightly on the folder I still held. I wanted to reach for her. I wanted to take her hand. Only I knew it wasn’t her hand I wanted—the hand I wanted had been reduced to ash and chips of bone before being scattered down the length of California Highway 1—and so I didn’t move.
“Have you ever been in love?” Maggie looked back toward me, the faint light glittering off the tears running down her cheeks.
There’s never been a good answer to that question. I didn’t even try. I just shrugged.
“Love sucks,” said Maggie, and stood. “Everyone I fall in love with dies. Try to get some sleep tonight, okay, Shaun? And… thanks for listening. I can’t post that.” She chuckled, the sound barely managing to escape turning into a sob. “You know, it seems like every time I wind up with a real tragic love story to tell, I can’t post it. It wouldn’t have been fair to Buffy, and now it wouldn’t be fair to Dave. It’s… there’s so little that’s personal anymore.”
“Yeah,” I said, swallowing past the dryness in my throat. “I’m pretty sure he knew you loved him, too. He had this theater thing set up on the roof—”
“I know.” Her smile was brief, but it was real. “Get some sleep. Tomorrow’s not going to be any better.”
Can’t be any worse, muttered George.
I swallowed the urge to answer George, and said, instead, “I’ll try.”
“Good enough for me,” said Maggie, and turned to go, leaving me alone with my pile of folders, my tiny pool of light, and the voice of my sister echoing inside my head.
You used to make me sleep, said George.
“Yeah, well, you had a body then.” I looked at the folder in my hands, willing it to open of its own accord. That way I wouldn’t actually have to decide whether or not I was going to stop. Once it was open, I could just read.
Shaun—
“Leave it.”
She sighed. I knew that sigh. I knew all her sighs. This was the “Shaun, stop being stupid” sigh, usually reserved for when I needed to be pushed into doing something she considered sensible. I won’t let you dream.
I froze.
George didn’t say anything after that. I could feel her waiting at the edges of my mind, eternally patient, at least where my well-being was concerned. I swallowed again before I leaned back in the chair, closing my eyes. “You can still surprise me,” I said.
Good. Now get up, and get on the couch.
“Yes, ma’am.”
Maggie’s couch proved to be surprisingly comfortable once I’d cleared everything off it and piled it all on the floor. I turned off the light before taking off my shirt and shoes, leaving my jeans on, just in case we needed to make an early-morning getaway. I was asleep almost before my head hit the pillow.
George was true to her word. If I dreamed that night, I don’t remember it.
I woke to the sound of voices in the next room, pitched at that harsh semi-stage-whisper level that everyone seems to think is unobtrusive, despite being impossible to ignore. Something about the sound of people whispering touches off a primordial red alert in the back of the brain. I probably wouldn’t have noticed if they’d just spoken quietly in normal voices. At least no one was screaming; that meant we’d all probably managed to live through the night. Survival is always a nice thing to wake up to.
Sitting up was hard. My back was stiff from spending several hours on the bike, followed by several more hours sitting on the floor and trying to study. I may not spend as much time in the field as I used to, but that hasn’t made me a bookworm or anything. Who knew being a geek would hurt? Groaning, I braced my elbows on my knees and dropped my head into my hands. The voices from the kitchen stopped. Zombies don’t groan, they moan, but the two can sound almost identical to the untrained ear. Of the four people in the house with me, only Becks had the field experience necessary to know that whatever had made that sound was alive. Just cranky.
Becks and Alaric both had enough general experience working with me to know better than to come poking before I was at least standing under my own power. The voices from the kitchen resumed, a little louder now that they knew they didn’t have to worry about waking me anymore. Leaving my head cradled in my hands, I considered my options. Going back to sleep was at the top of the list and had the extra added bonus of not requiring me to think about anything. Unfortunately, whoever was killing the people with reservoir conditions wasn’t going to wait around for me to get my shit together, and if anyone realized Kelly was still alive, we probably didn’t have all that much time.
There was always
the possibility that time had already run out. If Kelly’s original fake ID was compromised, they might have tracked her across the country with it. That didn’t explain why they waited for her to reach us before going on the offensive, but maybe she just hadn’t held still long enough before that. They wouldn’t be tracking her that way again. Her fake ID was so much slag in the remains of Oakland, and nobody outside the team knew she was alive.
Now we just had to keep it that way.
The outbreak could have been triggered in response to my call to Dr. Wynne, but that didn’t sm likely. The timelines didn’t synch. That level of outbreak would take time to set up. Even if it had started the second my call was connected to the CDC, there wasn’t time for all those people to amplify and get into position. Whoever targeted us—assuming it was a “who,” which had to be my operating assumption, at least until something came along to make a strong case for coincidence—had more time than my phone call gave them.
I lifted my head, groaning again, and stood. One of the bulldogs had turned my discarded shirt into a makeshift doggy bed, probably as revenge for my taking up the entire couch. It opened one eye to watch me as I approached, and made a small “buff” noise that might have been intimidating, if it hadn’t been roughly the size of an overweight housecat. “Whatever, dude,” I said, putting up my hands. “I wasn’t that cold anyway.”
Alaric, Becks, and Kelly were gathered around the kitchen table when I came shuffling in, making a half-hearted attempt to push my spiked-up hair back into a semblance of order. All three looked over at my entrance. Becks raised her eyebrows.
“You’re looking bright and shirtless this morning,” she said, dryly. “Did you decide that clothes were for sissies?”
“Dog took my shirt,” I replied. “Where’s Maggie? Is there coffee? If Maggie’s hiding because she drank all the coffee, it’s not going to be pretty.”