Mira Grant - Deadline

Three guards in oil-stained denim met us at the gates with handheld blood testing units. One guard for me, two guards for the van. My attendant was an unsmiling, pimple-faced teenager whose nametag identified him, probably inaccurately, as “Matt.” I didn’t bother trying to engage him in conversation. I jus pulled off my glove and held out my hand to let him do his job. He grunted appreciatively at the professionalism, jamming the test unit over my hand without pausing to make sure my fingers were straightened properly. It wouldn’t change the test results; all one of those boxes cares about is blood. I winced as he bent my pinkie, but didn’t say a word. Better to let him take care of things before I made him think of me as a person.

The lights on the top of the unit cycled from red to green, stabilizing. A grin split his cratered face, transforming it into something that was almost endearing. “Looks like you’re clean and clear, Mr. Mason,” he said, further confirming that Becks had radioed ahead with our credentials. “Love your site. Those reports you sent out of Sacramento last year? They were amazing.” He paused before adding shyly, “I was really sorry to hear about your sister.”

I plastered my best “Gosh, no, it doesn’t hurt at all when you bring up George randomly in conversation. Thanks so much for checking with me first” smile across my face, glad that the helmet’s visor mostly obscured my eyes, and said, “Thanks. It’s been an interesting time.”

“Well, welcome to Rudy’s. I hope we’ve got everything you need.”

“Thanks,” I repeated, and tugged my glove back on before starting the bike and rolling past the gates, into the truck stop proper. The other two guards were still busy testing the occupants of the van; maybe even double-checking Kelly’s credentials. I felt better knowing that she was using something Buffy built. The Monkey might be the best in the business, but Buffy was the one whose work I knew and trusted.

I set my bike to auto-fuel while I ducked into the truck stop’s generously designed convenience store, wandering past racks of real artificial cheese nachos and withered all-soy hot dogs to find the sodas. I paused in the act of opening the Coke cooler, looking longingly at the pot of coffee simmering next to the hot dogs. That stuff was probably ancient, tarlike, created through the slow compression of the bones of prehistoric creatures until their fossilized blood was pumped up from the very center of the planet to fortify long-distance truckers.

Go ahead.

“Huh?” I stopped where I was, blinking like an idiot. Not exactly a safe thing to do, since disorientation and jerkiness are early signs of Kellis-Amberlee amplification. My team may be used to my conversations with my dead sister, but the rest of the world isn’t quite so understanding.

You want coffee. Get some coffee.

“But—”

I already made you drink a hooker from Candyland once today. I can show a little mercy. There was amusement tinged with sadness in her tone. It took me a while to learn to read how she was feeling—I wasn’t used to watching for cues in a disembodied voice—but now that I knew, I couldn’t un-know. Besides, you’ve earned it.

“Blow up one employee for one cup of coffee, huh?” I murmured, stepping away from the coolers and heading for the steaming prehistoric coffee. George always hated the taste of the stuff. I just don’t understand why anyone would want to get their caffeine in a less-efficient form.

Alaric must have lost the “who has to leave the car” coin toss; he was coming into the convenience store as I was coming out, the biggest cup of coffee they were willing to sell me clenched firmly in my hands. Alaric glanced at the steaming cup and blinked, raising his eyebrows. The question was clear in his expression. Lucky for me, I’ve had a lot of time to practice being the oblivious one.

“I’m going to go double-check the bike and make sure all the windows on the van are clean while you take care of things in here.” I sipped my coffee, reveling in the feeling of it searing its way down my throat. It was as thick and bitter as I’d hoped. “Make sure you remember to get something for Becks and the Doc to snack on. It’s a long way to Weed, and Maggie may not have dinner on the table when we get there.”

Alaric frowned. “Boss—”

“Go ahead and use the company card. When I get the bill, I’ll tell me that I authorized it, and I’m sure I’ll be willing to let the charge stand.” I offered him a bright, disingenuous smile and brushed quickly past as I left the convenience store, heading for the fueling stations.

The sun was dipping lower in the sky; we’d be making most of the drive to Weed in full darkness. Even in today’s safety-oriented society, there aren’t lights on most of I-5; just around the exits to inhabited areas. Those are also the places where the guard stations are actually staffed, and where nice men with guns will be happy to “help” if you go and get yourself infected. Good Samaritans, every single one of them. Thanks to the laws regarding infection, they don’t even have to be certain before they shoot; anything that can stand up as reasonable doubt in a court of law is enough to excuse them putting a bullet through your skull. The farther into the wild you go, the less reasonable that doubt has to be.

“Night-riding,” I said, sipping my coffee again. “Gosh. That’s just what I was hoping I’d be doing tonight. Driving down a deserted highway in the dark is always superfun.”

I’d do it for you if I could.

“I know,” I said. Alaric was coming out of the convenience store, practically staggering under his load of junk food and bottled sodas. I tossed my half-full coffee cup into the nearest trash can and pulled my helmet over my head, offering him a quick salute as I kicked one leg over my bike. The faster I made for the gate, the less time we’d have to talk about what happened. There’d be time for talking when we got to Maggie’s place. We wouldn’t be able to help it. For now, all I wanted to do was drive, and I didn’t even particularly feel like doing that.

I had my bike pulled out from the pump and idling by the time Alaric reached the van. He dumped the supplies into the passenger seat and waved to me, a questioning expression on his face. I’ve learned to recognize the “Do you want to talk about it?” look—God knows I got it enough after George died. I shook my head, jerking a thumb toward the gate.

My team knows my signals as well as I know theirs. Alaric nodded, getting into the van. A moment later, Becks flashed me the thumbs-up signal out the driver’s-side window and started the engine. The van pulled away from the pump and stopd behind me, waiting for my sign.

“Amateurs,” I muttered, and gunned the engine.

The rest of the drive to Weed was the sort of uneventful that leaves every nerve on full alert, ready to freak out at the slightest provocation. Pre-Rising horror movies used to build suspense before a big scare by making the audience wait. They’d do something horrible, maybe kill off a few protagonists, and then make people sit around waiting for the next terrible thing to come along. They called it “setting up a jump scare.” Well, the drive to Weed felt exactly like that. We blasted down the abandoned length of I-5, and with every mile that passed without something going wrong, the paranoia grew.

It was almost eleven when we pulled off the freeway and onto the surface streets of Maggie’s hometown. Floodlights lit a billboard located near the city center, large block letters proclaiming CONGRATULATIONS JAMES! WEED’S CITIZEN OF THE MONTH!

There’s something in the mentality of small towns that I’ll never understand. Shaking my head, I signaled for the others to follow as I turned onto the frontage road leading to Maggie’s.