Mira Grant - Deadline

California is a fascinating place to live. Thanks to the weird geography and the microclimate zones, we have everything from mountain tundra to verdant forest, and that means we can be used as a case study for zombie preservation in almost any climate you can think of. We have some of the largest metro zones, and they’re close to some of the first counties to be declared legally abandoned. It’s like the whole state has multiple personality disorder.

Sometimes I think about moving someplace like New York or Washington, D.C., where the news is valued, but there aren’t as many actual outbreaks to worry about. Only Shaun would be totally miserable if I did that, because he’d follow me. He’ll always follow me, just like I’ll always follow him. That’s what being together means, right?

Neither of us ever has to be alone.

—From Postcards from the Wall , the unpublished files of Georgia Mason, originally posted January 9, 2041

So Becks and Alaric got themselves into a sticky spot today—for the moment-by-moment, uncensored report, check Alaric’s status feed, but be prepared for lots of adult language. Did you know he knew some of those words? I did not know he knew some of those words! Our little boy is growing up.

But Becks and Alaric getting into trouble is practically old news around here, right? So what makes this such a big deal? Only the fact that our Lord and Master Shaun “The Boss” Mason made his triumphant return to the field to pull their asses out of the fire. And I have to say, seeing him out there…

It was good in a way I don’t think I can put into words, and I do this for a living. Maybe we’re going to recover from what happened last year after all. Maybe we can move on.

Maybe we’re going to be okay.

—From The Antibody Electric , the blog of Dave Novakowski, Apri12, 2041

Two

I stopped the Jeep in front of the van before turning to really look at Becks and Alaric, scanning them for signs of visible injury or blood. Their clothing was filthy, but I didn’t see any gore on either of them. “Either of you bit?”

“No,” said Becks.

Alaric just shook his head. Poor guy still looked like he was going to puke.

“Scratched?” I hate this part. Before she died, George always took care of the postfield briefing and blood tests. I didn’t want to deal with them, and she didn’t make me. These days, I’m the boss, and that makes it my problem.

“Negative.”

“No.”

“Good.” I leaned across Alaric to open the glove compartment, pulling out three blood tests. “You know what happens now.”

“Oh, great,” Alaric said, with a grimace. “Bloodshed. Because I haven’t had nearly enough of that so far today.”

“Stop your whining and poke your finger,” I commanded, passing out the small plastic boxes.

Moaning and grumbling about needle pricks aside, I have to give the blood test units this: They’re awesome pieces of technology, and they get better every year. The basic units I was handing out were ten times more sensitive than the units George and I were using in the field before we signed up to follow then-Senator Ryman’s presidential campaign, where we’d had access to much better equipment. All we had to do was prick our fingers, and the sensors inside the disposable little boxes would go to work, filtering through our blood, looking for the active viral bodies that would signal an unstoppable cascade ending in amplification and zombification.

Blood tests are a part of daily life, especially if you’re going out into the field. Most people don’t consider them a big deal anymore, which is fascinating to me. This is a test where failure means death—no negotiation, no makeup exams. You’d expect there to be a lot more anxiety. I guess people just put the possible consequences out of their heads. Maybe it helps them sleep at night.

It sure as hell doesn’t help me.

I popped the lid off my own test, saying, “One…”

Two, said George, half a second out of synch with Alaric.

I rammed my finger down on the test pad, closing my eyes.

“Three,” said Becks.

I don’t watch the lights on test units when I can help it. They flash between red and green while your blood is being examined to prove that either result is possible. It’s partially a psychological device and partially ltering thct the makers of the test units from lawsuits. “I shot my wife, officer, but the green light on her unit didn’t work.” The man who could muster that defense would get a healthy settlement and possibly a movie deal. No one likes to get sued, and so any unit that finds a malfunction in either light will automatically reset itself, requiring you to try again. So the flashing makes sense, but I don’t really give a shit. I’ve seen that light go red for real too many times. There are things that just hurt too much to be worth watching.

“Clean,” said Alaric, relief naked in his voice.

“Me, too,” said Becks.

“Good.” I opened my eyes and looked at my own test. The light was shining green. No surprise there. Kellis-Amberlee won’t ever kill me. That would be too merciful.

“Get back in the van before your new friends catch up with us,” I said. “Dave’s ready to get us the hell out of here. Aren’t you, Dave?”

Dave had been eavesdropping, as I knew he would be. His response over the group channel was an immediate “Foot’s on the gas, boss.”

“You heard the man.” I grabbed a reinforced plastic bag from the glove compartment, passing it around to collect the test units. “Becks, get these into the biohazard container. Both of you, start your footage cleanup while you’re on the road, and we’ll regroup at the office after cleanup and downtime.”

“And what are you going to do?” asked Becks, somewhat warily.

“I’m getting the Jeep home. Now get out.”

She looked like she wanted to argue with me. Luckily for my blood pressure, she didn’t do it. “Come on, Alaric,” she said, taking the shaken Newsie by the elbow and tugging him out of the Jeep as she climbed out of the backseat. “Let’s get some walls between us and the idiots.”

She didn’t have to tell him twice. I’d never seen him move that fast. Becks and I exchanged a semi-surprised look as the van door slammed shut behind Alaric’s retreat, and I actually laughed before waving her to follow him.

“Go on,” I said. “I’ll be fine.”

“Sure thing, boss,” she said, and turned to go.

I waited until she closed the door and I heard the van’s engine turn over before starting the Jeep again. We were cutting it pretty close; I could hear the approaching moan of the hunting mob before the rumble from our vehicles drowned it out.

Good for ratings, George offered.

“Like that means anything?”

She didn’t have an answer to that. Dave pulled the van back onto the road, such as it was, and I followed.

It was after midnight in London according to the clock on the dashboard. Bad, but not too bad, especially not when you’re talking about professional blogging hours. “Time delay broadcast for editinge.d. My headpiece beeped to signal that my personal cameras were now being fed into a buffer, rather than recording live. Not as good for ratings as a live feed, but the only way to get even the pretense of privacy. I could delete anything I didn’t want hitting the Internet. “Phone, dial Mahir.”

“Local time in London is approximately twelve thirty-seven A.M.,” said the automated operator, with mechanized politeness. “Ms. Gowda has requested that calls be held until eight A.M. local time.”