Mira Grant - Blackout

“We’re going to need a fourth kit,” I said, craning my neck to see the window from between the seats. George was still asleep, curled up against me with her fingers locked in the fabric of my shirt.

“Or we could just let them shoot her,” said Becks sweetly.

Mahir put his hands up before I could say anything. “There will be no shooting of anyone who tests cleanly. Can we please get a fourth testing unit?”

“Of course, sir,” said the guard, looking unflustered. Apparently, people drove up with battered, dirty women in CDC scrubs all the time.

“George.” I shook her shoulder. She didn’t respond. I shook her again, harder this time. “Georgia. Wake up.”

“Problems, Mason?” asked Becks.

“Nothing I can’t handle,” I said. Leaning down until my mouth was only a few inches from George’s ear, I said, “If you don’t wake up right now , I’m going to get a bottle of water from the travel fridge. I will then pour it down your back. You won’t enjoy it, and I won’t care. Just in case you were wondering.”

Her eyes opened. I had the time to think, almost academically, that my crazy was useful after all—all those hallucinations got me used to the idea of a Georgia without retinal KA, and now I actually had one. Then she smiled, and all thoughts went out the window except for holding on to her and never, ever letting go.

“You have no idea how much I’ve missed you threatening me awake.” She untangled her fingers from my shirt and sat up, looking around the van. She stiffened when she saw the armed guards looking through the windows, patiently waiting for us to get our shit together. “Shaun? Where are we?”

“At our hotel. It’s a long story. Can you sit up and let them run a blood test?” Seeing the look of alarm in her eyes, I added quickly, “This place has security that would have given Buffy, like, spontaneous orgasms for days . They’re not going to share their results. They just want to know that we’re all clean before they let us through the gates.”

“If you say so,” she said warily.

“Promise.” I kissed her forehead before opening the van’s side door. Another guard was waiting there, this one holding a testing unit in each hand. I gave him a smile. He didn’t give it back. “My man! Is it time to prove that we’re not planning to eat the other guests?”

“We have a strict policy of non-cannibalism here at the Agora,” he replied, holding the tests toward us. His eyes flicked toward George’s bloody feet, noticing and acknowledging them, but he didn’t say a word. If we wanted to engage in dangerous behaviors, we could, as long as it didn’t result in our bringing infection past their gates. It was an attitude I could definitely respect.

“We’re good with that,” I said, and leaned over to take one of the tests. George did the same with the other. “On three?”

A flicker of a smile crossed George’s face. “On three,” she agreed. “One.”

“Two.”

Neither of us said “three.” Instead, we each reached out and placed our right index fingers on the test unit in the other’s hand. The guard didn’t say anything; again, if we wanted to be crazy, it wasn’t his problem, as long as we were clean.

We didn’t look at the lights. We just looked at each other. There were tears at the corners of George’s eyes, and I wouldn’t have been surprised to learn that she wasn’t the only one. If she failed this, I wasn’t going to shoot her again. I wasn’t—

“Thank you, Mr. Mason, ma’am.” The guard leaned forward, pulling the test units from our hands before either of us could react. I turned, and saw the green lights gleaming at the top of each small white box. He smiled genially. “We’re pleased to have you back. Miss Garcia has been alerted to your arrival, and to the presence of your guest. One of our attendants will meet you at the door with slippers for the young lady. Please have a pleasant stay at the Agora.”

“See? Cake.” I turned to look toward the front. The windows were back up; Becks and Mahir had apparently passed their own tests while I was distracted.

“It’s not going to last,” said Becks. Her eyes met mine in the rearview mirror as she started the engine. “We just showed up with a woman who looks like she’s been kidnapped from a lab, and is basically a walking hot zone right now, with those feet. This isn’t cool.”

“Maybe not, but what else was I supposed to do?”

“This discussion is not going to end well,” said Mahir sharply. “We’re going to go inside, meet with Maggie, and decide what happens next. No one gets the deciding vote. Am I understood?”

“It is so good to see you,” said George. She got up onto her knees, half kneeling as she looked through the windshield at the hotel. Her eyes widened. “Where are we? Hill House?”

“Whatever walks here walks in the presence of a large, well-trained staff ready to attend to your every need,” said Mahir. “As the gentleman said, welcome to the Agora. It’s a resort of a kind, for people whose monthly allowance puts my annual income to shame.”

“You let Maggie choose the hotel, didn’t you?”

“Don’t answer that,” said Becks. “Until we know what’s going on, we’re not telling you anything more than we have to. I’m pretty sure this place is expensive enough that they’ll dispose of a body for us if we ask them.”

“The privileges of wealth.” George sank back to the floor. She gave me an anxious look, and I took her hand, squeezing it. The solidity of her was still the most amazing thing I’d ever felt.

“It’s going to be okay,” I said.

“Maybe,” she replied.

None of us said anything after that. Becks drove up the long driveway to the parking garage, where the valet waved us through the open gate, apparently remembering our preference for self-parking. Becks got out first. By the time I opened the van door, she was already there, pistol out, covering us.

“I think it says something deeply disturbing about me that I find this comforting,” said George, wincing as her cut-up feet hit the cool cement of the garage floor.

“That’s Becks. Always ready to offer a helping headshot.” I restrained the urge to pick George up and get her feet away from the ground. I needed to let her walk on her own. She’d never forgive me if I didn’t.

“I thought I learned from the best,” said Becks. She stayed where she was, letting us step away from the vehicle. It was clear she intended to follow us to the door, rather than risking George getting the drop on her. Oddly, it wasn’t only George who found her paranoia comforting. Knowing there was someone behind me, ready to shoot if something started to go wrong, made me a lot more comfortable letting George take my hand, even though it would keep me from getting to a gun as fast as I might need to.

Mahir walked on my other side. He didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to. The worried, faintly disapproving look on his face said volumes.

True to the concierge’s word, a man in the hotel uniform was waiting by the airlock with a pair of fluffy blue and gold slippers in one hand and a matching robe in the other. He held them out to us as we approached, saying, “The management is thrilled that you’re here, but would prefer that you not distress the other guests.”

“What?” I asked blankly.

Mahir cleared his throat and nodded toward George. I turned, looking at her.

There were stains on the sleeves of her once-white lab coat. Some were clearly chemical; others could have been blood. Some of the stains on the cuffs of her pants were definitely blood, as were the streaky smears on the tops of her feet. The fact that she was dressed like a medical professional would just make those little spots more terrifying for most people. We trust doctors because we have to. We never forget that they’re the profession with the highest day-to-day risk of infection.