Mira Grant - Blackout

Maggie wasn’t there for any of that. Maggie could have said, “It’s been fun; see you later,” and left the rest of us to carry on without her. I wouldn’t have blamed her. She had a life, one that didn’t involve becoming a fugitive, or sleeping on an army cot in an abandoned park building. When her house was rendered unsafe, she could have just asked her parents to buy her a new one. She was the heir to the Garcia family fortune, possibly the richest blogger in the world, and she had absolutely no reason to be standing by us. But she was standing by us, and that meant she could have all the popcorn she wanted.

Dr. Abbey straightened, taking the remote control from the podium. “If you’re all settled, I’ve got a few things to show you.”

“We’re good,” I said, dropping into a seat.

Behave , said George. You could learn something .

“You mean you could learn something, and explain it to me later,” I said, making only a cursory effort to keep my voice down. The others ignored me. After everything we’ve had to deal with, I guess knowing the boss is crazy isn’t such a big deal anymore. That’s fine by me. I have no particular interest in ever being sane again.

Becks and Alaric took the seats to either side of me. Maggie got up and moved to sit next to Alaric, bringing the popcorn with her. Becks smiled at them a little wistfully. I tried not to let my discomfort show. Becks and I slept together once—just once—before she realized exactly how crazy I really was. I hurt her pretty badly over that. I didn’t mean to, but that doesn’t excuse it, as both she and George were happy to point out. Sometimes I regret the fact that I’m probably never going to have a normal adult relationship with a woman who has a pulse of her own. And then I remember how deep the shit we’re in already is, and I’m just glad I don’t have anyone left for them to take away from me.

“Finally,” said Dr. Abbey, and pointed her remote at the back of the room. The projector came on, filling the screen with an outline of the Florida coast. “Florida,” said Dr. Abbey needlessly. She pressed a button. The image pulled back to show the entire Gulf Coast. A red splash was overlaid across the characteristic shape of Florida itself, covering almost two-thirds of the landmass.

Alaric winced, fingers tightening around a handful of popcorn with an audible crunch. That was the only sound in the screening room. That, and the sound of George swearing in the back of my head, inaudible to anyone but me.

Dr. Abbey gave us a moment to study the image before she said, “This is the most recent map showing the airborne infection following Tropical Storm Fiona. I know of six labs that are currently trying to sequence the genetic structure of the mosquitoes involved.”

“Why?” asked Becks. “What does that matter?”

“This isn’t a new strain of virus, which means it has to be a new strain of mosquito. If we know what species they were derived from, we’ll know what temperature range they can tolerate.”

A voice spoke from the back of the theater: “Derived from?”

“Mr. Gowda. Glad you could join us. And yes, derived from. Surely you don’t think this happened naturally?” Dr. Abbey shook her head. “Mosquitoes can’t spread Kellis-Amberlee because the virus is too large. You can’t make it smaller; it would become unstable. That means you need a larger mosquito if you want an insect vector.”

“Yeah, because who wouldn’t want that ,” muttered Becks.

“Who made it?” asked Mahir. I turned in my seat to see him descending the stairs. He was frowning deeply. That was nothing new. I honestly couldn’t remember the last time I’d seen him smile.

“Good question,” said Dr. Abbey. “Now, as I was saying, if we know what species the mosquitoes are derived from, we’ll know what temperature range they can tolerate. If we’re looking at Aedes aegypti —the mosquito responsible for the American yellow fever outbreaks—then we’re dealing with a mosquito confined to warm climates. Like so.” She pressed another button. The image progressed, printing an orange zone on top of the red. “That’s the maximum projected range for Aedes aegypti . They won’t be able to get a foothold on the colder parts of the country, although it’s doubtful we’ll be cleaning them out of the Gulf Coast anytime soon.”

“What are our other options?” asked Mahir.

“We have about a dozen possible candidates, although some are more likely than others. If you want to see the doomsday option, look no farther than Aedes albopictus , the Asian tiger mosquito. It’s been nominated for the title of ‘most invasive species in the world,’ in part because the damn thing can survive anywhere. It sets up housekeeping, and that’s the end of that. Reach for your bug spray and kiss your ass good-bye.” Dr. Abbey clicked her remote again. The image pulled back, showing the entire continental United States. A third band of color appeared around the first two. This one was yellow, and extended almost all the way to the Canadian border. “Good night, North America. Thank you for playing.”

“Isn’t there anything we can do?” asked Maggie.

Becks leaned forward in her seat. “I have a better question. Why are you telling us this? We already knew things were bad. You could have just given us a written report.”

“Because I wanted you to understand exactly how bad things are out there.” Dr. Abbey pressed a different button. The map was replaced by a slideshow of pictures out of the flooded streets of Florida—still flooded, for the most part, even this long after the storm, because no one had been able to get past the ranks of the infected long enough to clear out the drains.

Mobs of blank-eyed, bloody-lipped zombies waded through the dirty water, their arms raised in instinctive fury as they closed ranks on the rare remaining uninfected humans. Their numbers were great enough that they clearly weren’t trying to infect anymore; they had the critical mass the virus always seemed to be striving for. There was nothing left of the people they’d been before the storm touched down. All that remained was a single, undeniable command: feed.

Maggie gasped as a still picture of a young boy with his abdomen ripped completely open flashed across the screen. She twisted and buried her face against Alaric’s shoulder. He raised one hand to stroke her hair, his own eyes never leaving the screen.

This is horrific , said George.

“Yeah,” I whispered. “It is.”

We knew how bad things were—there was no way we could avoid knowing—but the government had been doing a surprisingly good job of suppressing images from the infection zones. Something about the way journalists who tried to sneak into the cordoned areas kept winding up infected, shot, or both was doing a lot to discourage the curious. Most of the pictures that made it out were fuzzy things, shot from a distance or using cameras attached to remote-controlled drones. These pictures weren’t fuzzy. These pictures were crystal clear, and the story they told was brutal.

“Where did you get these?” asked Mahir. He seemed to remember that he should be descending the stairs. He trotted quickly down the last few tiers, settling at the end of our row.

“I have my sources,” said Dr. Abbey. “Most of these were taken in the last week. Since then, the body count has continued rising. We’re looking at a death toll in the millions.”

“I heard a rumor that the government is going to declare Florida officially lost,” said Becks.

“It’s not a rumor. They’re making the announcement next week.” Dr. Abbey pressed another button. The still pictures were replaced with a video, clearly shot by someone with a back-mounted camera as they were running for their life. A mob of infected pursued the unseen filmmaker down the flooded, debris-choked street, and they were gaining. Maggie glanced up, hearing the change in the room. As soon as she saw the screen, she moaned again, and pressed her face back into Alaric’s shoulder.