Mira Grant - Deadline

I know I don’t.

I told Mahir and Maggie about the silence from Rick’s office, and they agreed that it was best if we kept it between us, at least for now. Everyone was freaked out enough without adding that little wrinkle to the mix. Maggie’s Fictionals didn’t help; at some point, she’d given at least half of them the all-clear. They went back to dropping in without warning, appearing on the doorstep and in the kitchen like they’d been there all along. Most of them brought pizza, or cookies, or samosas. I’d never met two-thirds of them before, even though they were all technically part of the site staff. They walked on eggshells around everyone but Maggie, and we started using their visits as excuses for equipment repair and trips into Weed for more groceries. Once their grindhouse parties got started, they could go for hours, watching crappy pre-Rising horror movies and eating gallons of popcorn. I didn’t realize how antisocial I was becoming until the Fictionals started to descend, and all I could think of was how quickly I could get away.

The bug at the Portland CDC yielded nothing useful; either they’d managed to find and destroy it, or it hadn’t survived the decontamination process. One more possible information source down the drain. The worms Alaric activated back in Oakland were doing a little bit better. They kept finding old research papers and short-lived projects buried in the bowels of one server or another. We added them to the data we already had, and kept on working.

Mahir had a few local scientists who were willing to at least discuss the situation with him; he didn’t tell us their names, and I didn’t press. There were some things I was better off not knowing until I had to. It seemed to be going well, at least in the beginning, but after the second day, he stopped calling or e-mailing. His reports still went up on time, and he still did his time on the forums—from the outside, everything looked fine—but he wasn’t keeping up normal contact.

Don’t push him, said George. I listened, more out of habit than because I agreed with her. She was usually right about when I needed to wait and when it was okay to barrel on ahead. I just wasn’t sure how much longer my patience could last.

The waiting ended a little over two weeks after the destruction of Oakland and our arrival at Maggie’s. The house phone rang, ignored by the humans currently present—myself, Maggie, and the Doc, who was struggling to write an article about the pros and cons of exposing children to the outside world. She was having a lot more trouble meeting her deadlines now that she didn’t have Mahir to help.

The answering machine picked up after the second ring. There were a few minutes of silence, followed by the voice of the house computer saying politely, “Excuse me, Shaun. Do you have a moment?”

I hate machines that sound like people.

“sh,” I muttered. The house computer had learned not to pay attention when I spoke that quietly—I guess even machines have a learning curve for crazy—and continued to wait for my reply until I said, “Yeah, sure. What’s up?”

“There is a call for you.”

“I guessed that part. Who is it?”

“The caller has declined to identify himself. By his accent, there is an eighty-seven percent chance that he is of British nationality, although I am unable to determine his region of origin with any accuracy. The call has been placed from a local number. The exact number is blocked. Would you like me to request additional information?”

I stood so fast that I knocked my Coke over. Soda cascaded across the table and onto the carpet. I ignored it, lunging for the phone next to the kitchen door. Maggie was right behind me, demanding, “House, is the line secure?”

“This end of the line is secured according to protocol four, which should be sufficient to block anything but a physical wiretap. I am unable to determine the security standards of the other end of the line. Do you wish to proceed?” The voice of the house was infinitely patient, mechanical calm unbroken by the fact that Maggie and I looked like we were on the verge of hysterics.

“Yes, dammit,” I said, and grabbed the receiver from the wall. Dead air greeted me. I gave the phone a panicked look. “Where is he?”

“House, connect, ” ordered Maggie.

The phone clicked, and suddenly, wonderfully, Mahir’s voice was in my ear, muffled slightly, like he had his hand over the receiver. “—Promise you, sir, I’m phoning my ride now. I apologize for loitering within your isolation zone, but as my original flight was delayed, it was unfortunately unavoidable.” His tone was clipped, carefully polite, and shaded with a bone-deep weariness that made me tired just listening to it.

“Mahir!” I said, loudly enough that he would be able to hear me through his hand.

There was a scraping sound before he said, “About bloody time, Mason. Come get me.”

“Uh, sorry if I’m a little bit behind the program here, but come get you where ?”

The house said the call was coming from a local number, said George sharply. He’s here. Mahir is in this area code.

“I’m at the Weed Airport.”

I froze, staring stupidly at the wall. Maggie nudged me with her elbow, and I said the first thing that popped into my head: “Weed has an airport?”

Maggie dropped her forehead theatrically into her hand. “The man’s been here for weeks and he hasn’t even checked the phone book…” she moaned.

“It had best, or I’m in the wrong place entirely.” Mahir sounded like he was too tired to be amused. “I’m inside twenty minutes of being toted off for loitering, which would be a bit of a problem for me, s will you please come pick me up?”

“I—” I shot a glance at Maggie, who was still covering her face with her hand. “We’ll be right there. Just stay where you are.”

“That’s not going to be a problem,” Mahir said.

There was a click, and the calm, pleasant voice of the house said, “The other party has disconnected the call. Would you like me to attempt to restore the connection?”

“No, he hung up,” I said, and did the same. My fingertips were numb, probably from the shock. “Maggie, you know how to find the airport?”

“I can get us there.”

“Good. Doc! Get your shoes on. We’re taking a road trip.”

Kelly emerged from the dining room, hugging a notepad against her chest. “We are?” she asked, sounding bemused. “Where are we going?” After a pause, she added, “Why am I going?”

“We’re going to the airport to pick up a friend, and you’re coming because Maggie has to tell me how to get there.” By group consensus, Kelly was never left alone in the house for any reason, not even for a few minutes. The closest we’d come was leaving her in the custody of a few of Maggie’s Fictionals, and even then, it was never for more than an hour. We weren’t afraid she was going to run—not anymore—but there was always the chance the CDC would finally track her down when we weren’t there to protect her.

To her credit, Kelly had stopped arguing about our refusal to leave her by herself after the first week, and she wasn’t arguing now. She nodded, saying, “I’ll go get my coat,” before disappearing back into the dining room.

Maggie and I exchanged a glance. “I didn’t think he’d come here, ” she said. “I’ve only met him the once, at… the last time he came to California.”

The event she wasn’t naming was Georgia’s funeral. I nodded, both in acknowledgment and as silent thanks for her not saying the word “funeral” out loud. “He’s a good guy. If he’s here, he must have found something pretty big.”