by Mira Grant
The security ninja didn’t answer me. He fed our cards into a handheld reader, one at a time, before handing them back to me and waving one of the other men forward. This man carried a stack of top-of-the-line blood testing units—the same model we used to confirm that George had been infected.
“Please distribute these to the rest of your party,” said the first man, as the second man carefully passed the test units through the window to me. He avoided touching my fingers, like I might be carrying a contagion that could somehow travel through his triple-lined Kevlar gloves and burrow into his skin. Not even Kellis-Amberlee can do that. The live virus has only ever traveled through direct fluid contact, thank God, or we’d all have been shambling our way around the world a long damn time ago.
I handed a test unit to Becks and held another out behind me, waiting until I felt Mahir take it out of my hand. I didn’t take my eyes off the man in the outbreak gear. This wasn’t outbreak protocol. They shouldn’t have been outside at all, and if they were, they should have started firing as soon as we came into range. “What’s going on?”
“Please open your test unit.”
There were three security ninjas I could see, which meant there were probably half a dozen more that I couldn’t. If they were all armed as heavily as the ones guarding the road, making trouble would be a good way to get dead without actually accomplishing anything. I frowned and popped the lid of the testing unit up, sliding my entire hand inside. The lid clamped down, holding my hand in position with the fingers spread for optimal sampling. Small snaps from beside and behind me told me that Becks and Mahir were doing the same. I kept watching the security ninja, trying to figure out what was going on.
The security ninja’s mask wasn’t directed toward my face anymore. It was directed at the lights on my testing unit. I realized with a start that his companions had moved to flank the van, putting them into position to shoot any one of us the second a test came back positive. That would fill the interior of the van with blood, turning it into a mobile hot zone, filling the enclosed space with the sharp tang of gunpowder—
Blood drying on the walls in half a dozen different shades, reds and browns and oh, God, George, I don’t think that I can do this without you. I don’t think I’m allowed to do this without you. So take it back, okay? Take back the blood, open your eyes, and if you’ve ever loved me, come back, take the blood away and come back—
George’s voice cut through the sudden jangle in my head with clear, soothing calm: That was a long time ago; that was a different van. Your test is clean.
“What?” I said, before I could remember that talking to myself in front of strangers isn’t a good idea.
The security ninja either didn’t notice or had been briefed on my little idiosyncrasies. “I appreciate your cooperation, Mr. Mason,” he said. A fourth man had appeared from somewhere—I wasn’t sure wanted to know exactly where, or how many friends he had lurking out there. He was carrying a large biohazard bag. “If you would collect the units and return them, we’ll be glad to allow you to continue on your way.”
“Uh, yeah.” I took the bag with my free hand, dropping my green-lit testing unit inside before passing the bag to Becks. “Now do you want to tell us what’s going on? Because seriously, we have no idea, and you’re freaking me out more than a little.”
“Me, too,” contributed Becks.
“Myself as well,” said Mahir. He leaned forward to drop his testing unit into the bag in Becks’s hands. “I think we can safely declare this the worst vacation I have ever taken.”
“Mr. Mason, Ms. Atherton, Mr. Gowda.” The security ninja held out his hand. After a pause, Becks handed the bag back to me, and I handed it to him. He pulled it out of the van, handing it to the fourth man, who promptly vanished back into the brush surrounding the road. “If you would please continue on to the house, Ms. Garcia is anxiously awaiting your arrival.”
And had probably been notified by the security system as soon as we passed the first gate. “You’re not going to tell us what’s going on, are you?”
“Please continue on to the house.” The security ninja paused. When he spoke again, he sounded a lot more human, and a lot more frightened. “It isn’t safe for you to be out here. It isn’t safe for anyone to be out here. Now roll up those windows, and go.”
“Got it. Thanks.” I rolled up my window and turned to Becks, who looked like she couldn’t decide between being terrified and being furious. “You heard the man. Let’s get the hell out of here before they decide to shoot us just to be sure.”
“Oh, right.” Becks slammed her foot down on the gas, and we roared onward, up the circling driveway.
The other gates were standing open, each one flanked by a pair of men in outbreak gear. Whatever was happening, it was bad enough to mobilize the private security force that Maggie’s parents maintained for her. That was terrifying, in and of itself.
Maggie’s door was closed, and all the shades were drawn. They didn’t twitch as we pulled to a stop in front of the house. Becks turned off the engine and simply sat there, staring through the windshield.
“Now what?” she asked.
“Now we grab whatever we absolutely can’t live without and run for the house,” I replied, picking up the bag with my laptop and guns in it. “Whatever the fuck is going on, it’s bad enough to have men in outbreak suits on Maggie’s driveway. Assume that once we’re inside, we’re not coming out again for anything short of the apocalypse.”
“Funny, that,” said Mahir. “I’m rather concerned that’s what we’re going in to hide from.”
On the count of three, said George.
“Okay. One, two—” and I was out of the van, slinging mybag over my shoulder as I ran for the house. Doors slammed behind me as Becks and Mahir followed, the one only slightly faster than the other.
There was no blood test required to get inside the house. Once you were past the security on the driveway, you were clean—or that had always been the assumption before, anyway. I swung open the front door to find myself staring at an emergency air lock, the kind that can be slotted into place to block any standard hallway or door frame. This one was set far enough into the front hall that it left room for the three of us, and not much more than that.
There was no doggy door in the air lock. Whatever was going on, the bulldogs weren’t being allowed out either.
Mahir and Becks piled in behind me while I was still staring at the air lock in dismay. As soon as Mahir was past the door frame, the door slammed itself shut. He twisted to try the knob, eyes widening. “The bloody thing’s gone and locked on us,” he said.
“Somehow, not surprised.”
“Greetings,” said the air lock.
We all jumped.
It was Becks who collected herself first, clearing her throat before she said, “Hello, house. What do you need us to do?”
“Please remove all exterior layers of clothing and place them in the chute for sterilization.” A panel slid open at the base of the air lock, displaying a metal box.
“You want us to strip?” The words burst out before I could stop them.
“Please remove all exterior layers of clothing,” repeated the house, with the infinite patience of the mechanical. “Once all potentially contaminated materials have been placed in the chute for sterilization, blood testing can begin.”
Mahir cleared his throat. “Excuse me, but—”
“Failure to comply will result in sterilization.”
Okay, maybe not infinite patience. “What about our equipment?” I asked. “Our laptops can’t survive a full sterilization.”
A second panel slid open next to the first. “Please place your equipment inside,” said the house. “Anything that is not contaminated will be returned to you. All fabrics will be isolated and sterilized. Any materials that test positive for contamination will be destroyed. You have five minutes remaining in which to comply.”
“Let’s stop arguing with the creepy house
and just do what it says, okay?” I slung my bag into the equipment chute before hauling my shirt off over my head and stuffing it into the clothing chute. “I don’t really feel like getting sterilized today.”
“The things I do for journalism,” muttered Mahir, and took off his shirt.
In under a minute, the three of us were standing there barefoot in our underwear, trying to look at anything but each other. Since we were crammed in like sardines, that wa’t easy. The panel in the air lock door didn’t close until the last of our clothing had been shoved through. “Please place your hands on the test panels,” said the house, voice still mechanically calm. “Your testing will commence as soon as everyone is in compliance.”
“I fucking hate talking machines,” I muttered, and slapped my palm down on the nearest panel.
Getting Mahir and Becks access to their respective panels practically required us to play a game of standing Twister in the hall. I’d never noticed how narrow the damn thing was until I was penned in it. Finally, all three of us were in skin contact with the house security system. Three sets of lights clicked on, beginning to cycle rapidly between red and green.
“We haven’t encountered any contagions between here and the gate,” said Mahir. He sounded uncertain. I didn’t blame him. I wasn’t feeling all that certain myself.
“What if that’s the problem?” asked Becks, giving voice to the one thought I was trying desperately not to have. “Maybe that’s why there was no one on the roads—why those men were all wearing masks. Maybe the virus has finally gone airborne.”
“It’s already airborne,” I said. That was true—Kellis-Amberlee is an airborne virus with a droplet-based transmission vector—but it wasn’t the point. Becks wasn’t talking about the passive, cooperative version of Kellis-Amberlee, the one that protects us all from colds and cancer. She was talking about the live version, the one that turns us into shambling zombies who’d eat our own families in order to fuel the virus powering our bodies.
“I suppose we’ll know in a moment, won’t we?” said Mahir. As if on cue, the lights started settling on green. Becks was the first, followed by Mahir’s. Mine kept flashing for a few seconds more, just long enough to start making my chest get tight. Then the light settled on green, and the air lock hissed as it unsealed.
“Thank you for your compliance,” said the house.
I directed my middle fingers at the ceiling.
Mahir and Becks pushed past me while I was distracted by telling the house to go fuck itself, stepping out of the air lock and into the living room where Maggie and Alaric were waiting. Becks ran to hug Alaric, while Mahir stepped off to one side, crossing his arms over his chest and looking self-conscious. I stepped out of the air lock, looking cautiously around.
Inside the house, it was obvious that the shades weren’t just drawn; they were locked down, reinforced with sheets of clear plastic. The floor was practically covered with diminutive bulldogs, the entire pack forced inside by whatever emergency was at hand.
Maggie walked calmly over to me, slapped me hard across one cheek, and then, while I was still staring at her in confusion, throwing her arms around my shoulders. “We thought you were dead,” she hissed, through gritted teeth. “You didn’t call, and you didn’t call, and we thought you were dead. You asshole. Next time, find a way to send a fucking message.”
“How about there’s not a next time? Can we do that, instead?” Maggie wa clothed. I essentially wasn’t, which was making this hug even more awkward than it would normally have been. I extricated myself from her embrace, looking around the room again. “I know we said to close the windows, but I didn’t mean you had to go quite this far.”
“Wait—what?” Alaric pulled away from Becks, looking utterly bemused. “What do you mean? After you told us to close the windows—don’t you know what’s going on out there?”
Maggie studied my face for a moment, horror dawning in her expression. “Oh, my God,” she whispered. “You really don’t know. You have no idea, do you?”
“No idea about what?” I shook my head. “We haven’t seen anyone since Kansas, but we thought it was just the storm keeping people inside—”
“It’s not just the storm.” Alaric walked across the room with sharp, jerky motions and grabbed the television remote, turning the TV on. He hit another button and the infomercial that had been playing disappeared, replaced by CNN.
The picture showed a flooded street, helpfully labeled “Miami—Live Footage.” A newscaster was speaking in a low, anxious tone, saying something about death tolls and tracking survivors. I didn’t really hear him. I was transfixed by the picture, my brain refusing to accept what my eyes were telling me.
As always, it was George who grasped the reality of the situation first, and her understanding allowed me to understand. Oh, my God… she said, horrified.
I couldn’t argue.
The street was choked with debris and abandoned cars, brown-and-white water swirling everywhere as it tried to force itself down clogged sewer drains. They should have been cleared before the flooding could get this bad, and the city had tried to clear them; that much was obvious from the number of people in fluorescent orange shirts who were shambling down the street, moving jerkily along with the rest of the mob. I had never seen that many infected in one place. I counted fifty before my brain shut down, refusing to process any more.
“—we repeat, the federal government has declared the state of Florida a hazard zone. Uninfected citizens are urged to stay in your homes and await assistance. Anyone found on the street may be shot without warning. Anyone leaving their home will be assumed infected and treated with the appropriate protocols. Please stay in your homes and await assistance. Please…” The newscaster faltered, losing the rhythm of his carefully prepared statement. The footage of the flood was silent. Even recorded moaning can bring zombies to your position.
Recovering himself, the newscaster said, “Reports of similar outbreaks are coming in from Huntsville, New Orleans, Baton Rouge, and Houston. We don’t have numbers yet, but the death tolls are estimated to be in the thousands, and are climbing steadily.” He paused again, longer this time, before saying, “Some sources are referring to the event as the second Rising. God forgive me, but I’m not so sure they’re wrong. God forgive us all.”
There was a rattling noise, like someone putting a microphone down, and then the sound of footsteps. The silent footage of the flood, and the infected, continued to play.
“That’s what’s going on,” Alaric said. His voice was toneless, and I remembered with a start that his family lived mostly in Florida. “The second Rising. You drove right through the middle of it, and you didn’t notice.”
“Oh, my God,” I whispered, echoing George’s earlier statement. The picture on the TV jumped, the label at the bottom changing to “Huntsville.” The newscaster didn’t return. “Is this for real?”
“It’s real,” said Maggie.
It’s the end of the world, said George, and I silently agreed.
Maggie was crying without any sign of shame, tears running down her cheeks. Her nose was chapped; she’d been crying off and on for a while. She reached for my hand, and I didn’t pull away, letting her lace her fingers through mine. Becks moved to stand next to Alaric, and he took her in his arms again, holding her against his chest. All five of us stood transfixed, staring at the television.
Staring at the end of the world.
BOOK V
The Rising
The one thing I have absolute faith in is mankind’s capacity to make things worse. No matter how bad it gets, we’re all happy to screw each other over. It’s enough to make me wonder if we should have let the zombies win.
—SHAUN MASON
I believe in the truth. I believe in the news. And I believe in Shaun. Everything else is extra.
—GEORGIA MASON
Shaun had a close call today.
He won’t tell me exactly what happened; I wouldn’t even know any
thing had happened if it weren’t for the glitches in his video feed, the places where the picture cut out and picked back up again a few hundred seconds later. The footage he posts from the field is usually seamless, smooth and easy and effortless looking. Not this. This is amateur-hour stuff, and that tells me more clearly than anything else possibly could that whatever happened out there, it was bad.
He came home stinking like bleach and rank terror-sweat, the kind that comes after the adrenaline fades, and he didn’t stop hugging me for almost ten minutes. I stopped laughing and trying to get away when I felt his shoulders shaking. My own shoulders started shaking when I realized what that sort of fear from Shaun—Shaun! Who once called a zombie in our backyahe best present I’d ever given him—actually meant.
Maybe life was always fragile and easy to lose, and maybe all those people who talk about how good things were before the Rising are full of crap, but we don’t live in that world; we live in this one. And in this world, it takes only one slip, one unguarded moment, to lose everything. I don’t know how close I came to losing him today. He won’t tell me, and maybe this makes me a coward, but I’m not going to ask. This is one truth I have no interest in knowing. There are some truths we’re better off without.
I don’t know what I’d do without him. I really don’t. I’d never tell him to stay out of the field—I know how much it means to him—but one day, the close call is going to cross the line into “too close,” and after that… I don’t know.
I just don’t know.
—From Postcards from the Wall, the unpublished files of Georgia Mason, originally posted June 24, 2041