Mira Grant - Deadline

With that cheerful thought at the front of my mind, I started trying to get my boots on. The process was complicated by the dogs, who thought attacking the laces was a fantastic game. The main difference between dogs that size and cats seems to be that cats, while crazy, are at least meant to be little, whereas the process of shrinking dogs seems to drive them insane. “At least we have that much in common,” I muttered, and stood, stretching for a final time before walking out of the room. I left the guest room door open. No point in depriving the bulldogs of a nice warm bed.

Alaric was sitting at the kitchen table with his laptop, tapping industriously away. A half a pot of coffee sat in front of him, wafting the delicious smell of hot caffeine toward me as I entered. I stopped to sniff appreciatively. The sound got his attention; he looked up, nodded briefly, and looked back down again. “Hey.”

“Hey,” I said. I grabbed a mug from the counter and poured myself a cup of hot black coffee. Morning is the only time I normally get coffee without complaining from my inner peanut gallery. If George wanted to sulk, maybe I could get a second cup in before going back to Coke.

A pang of guilt followed on the heels of the thought, although it wasn’t enough to stop me from taking a mouthful of throat-searing liquid. I’d rather have George than all the coffee in the world. Still, if focusing on self-caffeination distracted me from the question of her silence, it was worthwhile. Alaric kept typing as I sat down across from him, seeming to ignore me completely. I sipped my coffee. He typed. George didn’t say anything.

This went on for a few minutes before I ct blaed my throat and asked, “So what have I missed? Other than the sunrise and, apparently, breakfast?”

Alaric raised his head. “Maggie took Becks and the Doc into town to go grocery shopping. Something about us eating her out of house and home.”

The image of that particular trio tackling the Weed supermarket was fascinating. I paused for a moment to ponder it. I’ve seen pictures of pre-Rising grocery stores. They were weird, cramped things, with narrow aisles filled with milling consumers—and of course, when the zombies came, they turned into effective little death traps, full of places for the infected to hide. Even the sprinkler systems they used to run over the vegetables worked to spread the outbreak, since all it took was a few drops of blood getting into the water system and, bam, you were literally misting live infection throughout the produce aisle. It didn’t help that people kept freaking out and running for places where they could try to hole up until it was all over—like the nearest warehouse megastore. The body counts at Costco and Wal-Mart were nothing short of stratospheric.

For a few years post-Rising, everyone bought their groceries online. Some people still do that, preferring a small delivery charge to the inherent risks of going out among the rest of the population. Unfortunately for them, not everything lends itself to the online model. Fresh fruit and vegetables, meat—fish and poultry, anyway, those being the meats still sold for eating—and anything with the word “bulk” attached to it are much better bought in person. The rise of the modern grocery store has been a reflection of people’s twin needs to eat and not get eaten. The layout is closer to the old megastores than anything else, but only a certain number of people are allowed in each department at any one time. Groups cycle through according to the store’s floor plan, with air locks and blood testing units between each distinct part of the store. The process takes hours. Grocery shopping is not an activity for the faint of heart.

I paused. “Isn’t Maggie afraid they’ll be spotted?”

“I’m pretty sure her parents own the store.”

“Oh, that’d do it. Has the Doc ever actually been in a grocery store?” I asked. My coffee was starting to cool down. I took a longer swallow, letting comforting bitterness cover the back of my throat. It was weird, drinking coffee without apologizing to George or asking permission before doing it. I took another drink, almost daring her to comment.

She didn’t.

“I don’t think so,” said Alaric. “She turned sort of white when Maggie told her where they were going.”

“God, I hope somebody’s got a camera running.” Or four, or five, or maybe an even dozen. We couldn’t use the footage for anything, but seeing Kelly confronted with an actual fish counter would be comedy gold.

“I’m sure they do,” said Alaric. “They know their jobs.”

“True.” I refilled my mug. “Anything else going on?”

“Not really.”

“Huh. Okay. How are the overnights?”

“Good.”

“Not great?”

“Really good.” Alaric seemed to realize I wasn’t going anywhere. He pushed his laptop to one side and reached for his own mug. “Your report got a ridiculous number of downloads. I mean, really ridiculous. Every time you go anywhere near the field, we see a ratings spike of insane proportions.”

“Yeah, well, every time I go anywhere near the field, I wind up not sleeping for a month, so I guess it evens out in the end. Has the CDC said anything about what happened in Portland?”

“There’s no official statement yet, but Talking Points managed to get an interview with Director Swenson—”

I snorted. Talking Points is a lousy site, and they have a reputation for editing reports to match the requests of the highest bidder. Giving them an exclusive was sort of like buying a commercial slot during prime time: a great use of your money, but a terrible abuse of the truth.

Alaric narrowed his eyes. “Mind if I continue?”

“Sorry.” I waved my mug in his direction. “I’m all ears. No more interruptions, I promise.”

“I’ll believe that when I see it,” Alaric muttered, before continuing: “He repeated the lab accident story and added a cute little ‘maybe if they hadn’t somehow wandered into a secure area, they wouldn’t have been forced to use the emergency access tunnels’ rider, trying to make it look like you and Becks had been negligent, or worse, trespassing.”

“How did we answer that?”

“Mahir uploaded your footage, sans dialogue, of everything from the director leaving you in the conference room to the lights going out. Time stamps visible for the entire thing. If you were someplace you weren’t supposed to be, it was because the director left you there.”

“Remind me to give that man a raise.”

“How about you get the rest of us out of the line of fire, first?” Alaric’s tone was harsh, verging on nasty. I’d never heard him talk to anyone like that before. Not even after the time I broke his nose for suggesting that my ongoing need to talk to George was a sign of mental illness. I know it’s a sign of mental illness; I knew it then, too. I just think the alternative to going crazy is even worse.

I put my mug down, frowning as I studied Alaric. He looked tired, but that wasn’t really a surprise. We all looked tired, and with good reason. “Dude, what’s going on? Did somebody decide to piss in your cereal or something?”

“I’m just not sure you have your priorities straight anymore. That’s all.” Alaric looked at me steadily, lips firming into a thin line. “It’s not like any of us can quit at this point, is it? Not when they’re blowing up buildings to make us stop poking at things.”

“What, and you think that’s my fault?” I waved an arm toward the front door. “I didn’t ask the Dochow up, and they started shooting at us as soon as they had a bead on where she was, remember? You can not pin that one on me, Alaric. You want to be pissed off at somebody, I recommend her.”