Mira Grant - Feed

There was a long silence as the other three people in the car attempted to absorb what I’d just said. Surprisingly, it was Steve who spoke first, in a low rumble closer to a growl than a normal conversational tone. “Are you sure ?” he asked.

“We have proof,” I said, closing my eyes and leaning into Shaun’s arm. “People have been funneling him money, and he’s been funneling it on to the sort of folks who think weaponizing Kellis-Amberlee is a good thing. Some of that money’s been coming from Atlanta. Some of it’s been coming from the big tobacco companies. And a lot of people have died, presumably so that nice ol’ Governor Tate can be Vice President of the United States of America. At least, until the president-elect has some sort of tragic accident and he has to step into the position.”

“Georgia…” Rick sounded almost awed, overwhelmed with the possibilities. “If we know this for sure—Georgia, this is a really big deal. This is… Are we allowed to know this and not just report it to the FBI, or the CDC, or somebody ? This is terrorism .”

“I don’t know, Rick; you’re the one who worked in print media. Why don’t you try telling me for a change?”

“Even in cases of suspected terrorism, a journalist can protect his or her sources as long as they aren’t actually sheltering the suspect.” Rick hesitated. “We’re not, are we? Sheltering him?”

“Pardon me for breaking in, Mr. Cousins, but if Miss Mason’s proof is as good as she seems to think, it doesn’t matter whether she plans on sheltering him or not. My partner died in Eakly.” Steve’s tone was normal now, almost casual. Somehow that was even more disturbing. “Tyrone was a good man. He deserved better. Man who started that outbreak, well. That man doesn’t deserve better.”

“Don’t worry about it,” I said. “I have no intention of sheltering him. I’ll talk it over with the senator, and if he wants to throw us off the campaign, he’s welcome to. I’ll mail our files to every open-source blog, newspaper, and politician in the country while we’re on the road for home.”

“This is crap,” Shaun said, withdrawing his arm.

“Right,” I agreed.

“Absolute fucking crap.”

“No argument.”

“I want to punch somebody right about now.”

“Not it,” Rick said.

“I punch back,” Steve said. A note of amusement crept into his voice, making him sound a little less likely to explode. That was good. Not that I’d object to seeing Tate get the crap kicked out of him—I just didn’t want to see Steve go to federal prison over it when the FBI would be just as happy to do the honors. Hell, after they had Tate in custody, and considering what had happened in Eakly, they might be willing to let Steve have his licks. Just as long as they got theirs first.

“Just have patience; this is all going to be over soon,” I said. “One way or another, I guess we’re finishing things tonight.”

“Let’s pick one way, okay?” said Shaun. “I don’t like another.”

“That’s okay,” I said. “Neither do I.”

We finished the drive in silence, pulling through the Center gates and enduring the barrage of blood tests that followed with as much grace as we could muster. Three of us were exhausted, scared, and angry; Steve was just angry, and I almost envied him. Anger’s easier to run on than exhaustion. It doesn’t strip your gears as badly. Less than two hours after convincing him to abandon his post for my fool’s errand, Steve drove back into the motor pool, his car heavier by two journalists and a whole lot of free-floating worry.

“Don’t say anything, please,” I said, as we climbed out of the car. “I’m meeting with the senator tonight, when he gets back from his dinner. After that—”

“After that, I guess what needs doing is going to be clear one way or the other,” said Steve. “Don’t worry. I wouldn’t have gone into security if I didn’t know how to keep my mouth shut.”

“Thanks.”

“Don’t mention it.” Steve smiled, briefly. I smiled back.

“George, c’mon!” Shaun called, already a good four or five yards from the car. “I want to get out of this damn monkey suit!”

“Coming!” I shouted, muttering, “Jesus,” before I turned to follow him back to the trailers.

Rick walked with us as far as the van; then he turned left, toward his trailer, while we turned right, toward ours. “He’s a good guy,” said Shaun, pressing his thumb against the lock on the trailer door. It clicked open, confirming Shaun’s right to enter. “A little old-fashioned, but still a good guy. I’m glad we got the chance to work with him.”

“You think he’ll stay on after we all get home?” I started rummaging through the mass of clothing on the beds and floor, looking for the cotton shirt and jeans I’d been wearing earlier.

“He can write his own ticket after this campaign, but yeah, I think he may stick around.” Shaun was already halfway out of his formal wear, shedding it with the ease of long practice. “He knows he can work with us.”

“Good.”

I was doing up the last of the buttons on my shirt when I heard the shouting. Shaun and I exchanged a wide-eyed, shocked look before we both went running for the trailer door. I made it out half a beat ahead of him, just in time to see a shell-shocked-looking Rick come staggering up the path with Lois cradled against his chest. I didn’t have to be a veterinarian to know that something was horribly wrong with his cat. No living animal has a neck that bends that way or hangs that limply in its owner’s arms.

“Rick…?”

He stopped in his tracks, staring at me, the body of his cat still clutched against his chest. I ran the last fifteen feet between us, and Shaun ran close behind me. That was probably the part they didn’t figure on: those fifteen feet.

Those fifteen stupid little feet saved our lives.

“What happened?” I asked, putting out a hand, as if there were a damn thing I could do. Seen this close, it was even more obvious that the cat had been dead for a while. Her eyes were open and glazed, staring blankly off at nothing.

“She was just… I got back to the trailer and I almost tripped on her.” For the first time, I realized Rick was still wearing his formal clothes. He hadn’t even had time to change. “She was just inside the doorway. I think… even after they hurt her, I think she tried to get away.” Tears running down his cheeks. I’m not sure he was even aware of them. “I think she was trying to come and find me. She was just a little cat, Georgia. Why would anyone do this to such a little cat?”

Shaun stiffened. “She was inside? Are you sure this wasn’t natural causes?”

“Since when do natural causes break your neck?” asked Rick, in a tone that would have been reasonable if he hadn’t been crying so hard.

“We should go to the van.”

I frowned. “Shaun—?”

“I’m serious. We can talk about this in the van, but we should go there. Right now.”

“Just let me get my gun,” I said, and started to turn toward the trailer. Shaun grabbed my elbow, yanking me back. I stumbled.

The trailer exploded with a concussive bang, like an engine misfiring.

The first bang was followed by a second and larger bang, echoed in the distance as another trailer—probably Rick’s—went up in a ball of blue-and-orange flame. Not that there was much time to make estimates about where the blast was coming from. Shaun still had my arm and he was running, dragging me in his wake as he rushed toward the van. Rick ran after us, clutching Lois’s body to his chest, all of us bathed in the angry orange glare of the blast. Someone was trying to kill us. At this point, I didn’t even have to wonder who. Tate knew we knew. There was no reason for him to play nice anymore.