Mira Grant - Blackout

“And she’s going to stay that way,” said Shaun.

Dr. Kimberley flashed a rueful smile his way. It was odd seeing her this emotive. Adjusting to her accent had been easier. “Let’s hope you’re the prophet in this scenario, rather than anyone with a more dire view of what’s to come.”

The hall ended at a pair of old-fashioned swinging doors. I frowned, studying them, but couldn’t see anything that looked even remotely like modern security upgrades. They were just doors, unsecured, with no scanners or test units installed beside them. We stopped in a ragged line, all of us looking at those doors—all of us looking for the catch. There had to be a catch.

There was always a catch.

Dr. Shoji didn’t seem to notice our dismay, and neither did Dr. Kimberley. They kept on walking, pushing those unsecured doors open to reveal an underground parking garage, and the big black SUV that was waiting at the curb.

There’s a certain shape of car that just screams “I belong to a private security force.” They’re always big and black and solid-looking, with run-flat tires and bulletproof glass in the windows. And then there are the cars that belong to the Secret Service. The differences are subtle, but you can see them if you know what to look for. Wireless relay webbing built into the rear window, for those times when cell service is compromised. Thin copper lines through the rest of the glass, ready to be turned on and cut off all service, cellular or otherwise. The glass in a Secret Service car isn’t just bulletproof, it’s damn near indestructible. A group of Irwins who modeled themselves after a pre-Rising TV show called MythBusters managed to get hold of a decommissioned Secret Service vehicle a few years ago. They set off six grenades inside the main cabin. The explosions didn’t even scratch the glass.

I once asked a member of Senator Ryman’s security crew whether the Secret Service had a sign on the wall somewhere counting off the number of years since a sitting president had been eaten on their watch. He laughed, but he didn’t look happy about it. I think I was right.

“I miss Steve,” I said quietly, looking at the car.

“Me, too,” said Shaun.

The passenger-side door of the SUV opened, and a big blond mountain of a man unfolded himself, straightening until his head and shoulders were higher than the car’s roof. “It’s good to be remembered,” he said. “Shaun. Georgia.”

Shaun’s mouth fell open as a grin spread across his face. “Steve, my man ! What the fuck are you doing here?”

“I could ask you the same thing. Last time I saw you, you were in no condition to be causing this much trouble.” Steve turned his face toward me, expression unreadable behind his government-issue sunglasses. I hate it when people use my own tricks on me. “You, on the other hand, were in an urn. Because it was your funeral.” His tone telegraphed what his expression didn’t: He was deeply uncomfortable about my presence.

I shrugged. “Sorry. I guess I was just too stubborn to stay dead for long.”

“Mad science,” said Alaric. “What can’t it do?”

Shaun shook his head, snapping out of his delight over Steve’s appearance. “Sorry, man, I got distracted. Steve, this is Alaric Kwong, one of the site Newsies, and this is Rebecca Atherton, one of our Irwins.”

“Call me Becks,” said Becks. “Everyone else does.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” rumbled Steve. “If you’d all get in the car, please? I have instructions regarding your destination.”

“I’m afraid this is where we leave you,” said Dr. Shoji. “I’ll see you again, but I can’t arrive with you. That would be suspicious.”

“And I’m on house arrest,” said Dr. Kimberley. She smiled at Steve. “I couldn’t even have come this far if we hadn’t been sure of who was going to be coming to collect you.”

“Always glad to help, Dr. Kimberley,” said Steve. He opened the rear passenger door. “We need to get moving. The security changes at midnight, and it will be best if we’re past the checkpoints before that happens.”

“Where are we going?” asked Becks.

Steve didn’t answer. He just folded his arms, and waited.

“Come on,” I said, and started for the car. Working with Steve during the Ryman campaign taught me a lot of things about professional security. Chief among them was that once Steve made up his mind about something, that was the way things were going to go. He’d explain where we were going on the way.

Becks and Shaun followed me. Alaric stayed where he was, looking unsure. I waited until the others were in the car before turning on my heel and crossing back to him.

“What’s wrong?”

“This seems a bit… convenient, don’t you think?”

I surprised us both by laughing, a single, sharp expression of both amusement and regret. “This has all been ‘convenient,’ Alaric. They’ve been herding us since Seattle. Maybe before, I don’t know. I wasn’t with you to see the signs. At this point, what’s one more leap of faith between friends?”

“Seems like it might be a long fucking way to the bottom,” he said.

“So what?” I shrugged. “If we’re going to fall, let’s do it with style. Now come on. That’s an order.”

He blinked, and then smiled. “You’re not my boss anymore, you know.”

“Alaric Kwong, I will always be your boss. Now get in the damn car.”

I followed Alaric to the SUV. He climbed in ahead of me, and I paused to wave to Dr. Shoji and Dr. Kimberley before getting in. Steve closed the door as soon as I was inside, and the locks engaged automatically. There were no handles inside. We wouldn’t be getting out unless someone decided to let us out. Becks and Alaric had gravitated to the far back, leaving Shaun and me closer to the partition that separated us from the driver’s cabin.

“Isn’t this cozy?” said Becks. “If they fill this thing with gas and kill us before we know what’s happening, I swear, the first thing my reanimated corpse eats will be your face, Mason.”

“I’m pretty sure I could kick your ass even if we were all dead,” said Shaun.

Becks shrugged. “You won’t reanimate. It won’t be a contest.”

The two of them continued teasing each other, using sharp comments and verbal barbs as a way to keep calm. Irwins. They all have a few basic personality traits in common, and one of them is a strong dislike for being pinned in small spaces that they don’t control. That sort of thing is a death trap most of the time, and Shaun and Becks were both well trained enough to know it. I ignored the bickering as much as I could, squinting at the black glass divider between us and the front of the car.

If I had still had retinal Kellis-Amberlee, I would have been able to see through that glass and tell who was driving the car. I would have had at least a little more information to use in determining whether or not we were being driven to our deaths. If you’d asked me before I died whether I liked my eyes, I would have looked at you like you were insane. Now that I was someone different, I missed their familiar limits and capabilities. Maybe it was just a matter of firsthand experience—Georgia Mason had it, and I didn’t. Regardless of what it was, or wasn’t, I kept squinting at the glass, wishing I could see what was on the other side.

I was still squinting at the glass when it slid smoothly downward, revealing the shoulders of Steve and our driver. Shaun and Becks immediately stopped sniping at each other, straightening. My shoulders locked, going so tense that it hurt. Shaun grabbed my hand where it was resting against the seat, squeezing until my fingers hurt worse than my shoulders did.