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  Fed

  ( Newsflesh - 5 )

  Mira Grant

  What if the ending of FEED had been… different?

  This is another way the end of Feed could have gone: it picks up with the events of what would originally have been chapter twenty-five. It is not what happened.

  But it could have.

  We came very close.

  Rise up while you can.

  Be advised there are major spoilers for FEED contained therein. If you haven’t read FEED yet, don’t go any further. These books are fantastic as the many Newsflesh fans will tell you. You’ll want to enjoy every surprising twist and turn on what has been one wild ride for the Mason siblings.

  Mira Grant

  FED

  No one gets to ask us for anything more. Not now, not ever. When history looks our way—stupid, blind history, that judges everything and never gives a shit what we paid to get it—it better remember that no one had a right to ask us for this. No one.

  —From Hail to the King, the blog of Shaun Mason, June 19th, 2040.

  I wanted to tell the truth. I wanted to be the grand crusader who walked into the darkness and hauled the answers, kicking and screaming, into the light. I wanted to be a savior.

  All I succeeded in becoming was a fool.

  I have paid enough; I have paid too much; I’m done

  And I’m sorry.

  —From Images May Disturb You, the blog of Georgia Mason, June 19th, 2040.

  One: Shaun

  George walked out of the hall with her shoulders stiff and her face so composed that I knew inside she had to be screaming. The skin around her sunglasses was tight, a sure sign that she was transferring all the tension to her eyes, where no one would be able to see it.

  Rick spoke first: “Georgia, what just happened?”

  If she lashed out, I wanted to be the one who drew her fire. I stepped minutely forward, adding my own patently idiotic, “George? You okay?”

  She grabbed a flute of champagne from a passing server and drained it in one convulsive gulp before she snapped, “We have to go. Now.”

  I frowned. “How pissed is he?”

  A small, utterly humorless smile creased her lips. “He’s pulling our press passes in fifteen minutes.”

  I whistled. “Nice. Even for you, that’s impressive. What’d you do, suggest that his wife was having an affair with the librarian?”

  “It was the tutor, that was the Mayor of Oakland’s wife, and I was right,” she said, with typical haughtiness. She started toward the exit. I followed, motioning for Rick to do the same. “I didn’t say anything about Emily.”

  “Excuse me, but does one of you mind telling me what’s going on?” interjected Rick, putting on a burst of speed to get in front of her. “Georgia just got us kicked out of a major political event, Senator Ryman’s clearly pissed, and Tate’s glaring. I’m missing something. I don’t like that.”

  That got through. George flinched a little as she asked, “Tate’s glaring at us?”

  “If looks could kill…”

  “We’d be joining Rebecca Ryman,” said George said grimly. “I’ll fill you in once we’re in the car.”

  Rick hesitated, licking his lower lip.

  “Georgia?”

  “I’m serious,” she said, and sped up.

  She was clearly freaking out, and the heels she was wearing weren’t helping her move as fast as she wanted to. I linked an arm through hers and matched her pace, letting my stride help to lengthen hers. Rick followed, holding his questions for the moment. Maybe he was smarter than he looked.

  It only took one blood test to get out. Since everyone on the banquet level was assumed clean after the checks they’d endured to get there, the elevator came at the press of a button, no needles involved until we wanted to exit. Like a roach motel—the infected could check in, but they couldn’t check out. My earlier curiosity about what would happen if more than one person took the elevator at the same time was answered as the interior sensors refused to let the doors open until the system detected three different, non-infected blood samples. Someone who unwittingly boarded the elevator with a person undergoing viral amplification would just die in there. Nice.

  George had commandeered one of the campaign vehicles, and one of the campaign drivers, to boot: Steve was leaning against a big black car with his arms folded across his chest. He straightened when he saw us coming, but didn’t speak until we reached the car. Then he asked, “Well?”

  “Threatened to yank our press passes,” said George.

  “Nice,” said Steve, raising his eyebrows. “He pressing charges?”

  “No, that’ll probably come after tonight’s episode of ‘meet the press.’” She climbed into the back seat.

  I circled around to the opposite side of the car, opening the door. “She means ‘beat the press,’ don’cha, George?”

  “Possibly,” she said, voice muffled by the car roof. I got in.

  “Now will you tell me what’s going on?” asked Rick, getting into the front passenger seat and twisting to face us.

  “It’s simple, really,” said George. She sounded exhausted. I put my arm behind her just before she sagged into her seat. She braced herself against me, giving me a brief, relieved nod as she kept talking. “Dave and Alaric followed the money and proved that Governor Tate was behind the at-tacks on Eakly and the ranch. Also, PS, the CDC is potentially involved, which isn’t going to make me sleep any easier tonight, thanks. The Senator wasn’t thrilled by the idea that his running mate might be the goddamn devil, so he’s asked us to go back to the Center to prepare our notes while he decides whether or not to fire our asses.”

  A long pause followed her announcement. I stared at her, unable to think of a single thing to say.

  Steve spoke first, asking, “Are you sure?” in a low, dangerous tone that made me glad as hell that he was on our side.

  “We have proof.” George leaned harder into my arm. “People have been funneling him money, and he’s been funneling it on to the sort of folks who think weaponizing Kellis-Amberlee is a good thing. Some of that money’s been coming from Atlanta. Some of it’s been coming from the big tobacco companies. And a lot of people have died, presumably so that nice ol’ Governor Tate can be Vice-President of the United States of America. At least, until the President-elect has some sort of tragic accident, and he has to step into the position.”

  I didn’t say anything.

  “Georgia…” Rick sounded almost awed. “If we know this for sure—Georgia, this is a really big deal. This is… are we allowed to know this and not just report it to the FBI, or the CDC, or somebody? This is terrorism.”

  “I don’t know, Rick; you’re the one who worked in print media,” said George bitterly. “Why don’t you try telling me for a change?”

  “Even in cases of suspected terrorism, a journalist can protect his or her sources as long as they aren’t actually sheltering the suspect.” Rick hesitated. “We’re not, are we? Sheltering him?”

  “Pardon me for breaking in, Mr. Cousins, but if Miss Mason’s proof is as good as she seems to think, it doesn’t matter whether she plans on sheltering him or not. My partner died in Eakly.” Steve sounded perfectly calm. That scared the shit out of me. “Tyrone was a good man. He deserved better. Man who started that outbreak, well. That man doesn’t deserve better.”

  “Don’t worry about it; I have no intention of sheltering him,” said George. “I’ll talk it over with the Senator, and if he wants to throw us off the campaign, he’s welcome to. I’ll mail our files to every open-source blog, newspaper, and politician in the country while we’re on the road for home.”

  “This is crap.” I pulled my arm from behind her head, leaning into my own corner and glaring.

  “Righ
t,” George agreed.

  “Absolute fucking crap.”

  “No argument.”

  “I want to punch somebody right about now.”

  “Not it,” said Rick.

  “I punch back,” said Steve. He sounded a little amused.

  “Just have patience,” said George. “This is all going to be over soon. One way or another, I guess we’re finishing things tonight.”

  I gave her a sidelong look. “Let’s pick one way, okay? I don’t like another.”

  “That’s okay.” George smiled a little, trying to be reassuring. “Neither do I.”

  She was fidgeting in the way that meant she didn’t want to say anything else. I put a hand on her knee, and we drove the rest of the way in silence. We were greeted at the Center gates by a barrage of blood tests, all of which checked out clean before Steve drove on to the motor pool and parked the car.

  I was the first one out, and started walking briskly away. I heard George get out behind me.

  “Don’t say anything, please,” she said, to Steve. “I’m meeting with the senator tonight, when he gets back from his dinner. After that—”

  “After that, I guess what needs doing is going to be clear one way or the other,” said Steve. “Don’t worry. I wouldn’t have gone into security if I didn’t know how to keep my mouth shut.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Don’t mention it.”

  I was already a good four or five yards from the car. I turned, walking backward as I called, “George, c’mon! I want to get out of this damn monkey suit!”

  “Coming!” she shouted, and muttered something I was probably better off not hearing before she turned to follow me. Steve waved. I waved back.

  Rick walked with us until we reached the van. Then he turned left, heading for his trailer.

  We turned right, heading for ours. The silence was getting to be too much for me—I’m not George, I

  can’t do quiet for long periods of time. “He’s a good guy,” I said, as I pressed my thumb against the lock.

  It clicked open. “A little old-fashioned, but still a good guy. I’m glad we got the chance to work with him.”

  “You think he’ll stay on after we all get home?” George squeezed past me to start rummaging through the clothes covering the beds and floor.

  “He can write his own ticket after this campaign, but yeah, I think he may stick around.” I was already halfway out of my formal wear. She pulled her shirt off over her head. I smiled a little. “He knows he can work with us.”

  “Good.”

  We were back in street clothes when we heard the shouting. We exchanged a wide-eyed look before we went running for the door. George was two steps ahead of me as we left the trailer, and saw a stunned-looking Rick come staggering up the path. Lois was cradled against his chest.

  I’ve seen a lot of road kill in my day. I know a dead cat when I see one. So did George; she sucked in a sharp breath, calling, “Rick…?”

  He stopped where he was, staring at us. George ran the last fifteen feet, and I ran close behind her. Fifteen feet. That’s all it took to change everything.

  Those fifteen stupid little feet saved our lives.

  “What happened?” George reached toward the cat, like there was a chance she could do something. I managed not to grab her arm and pull her away. Stupid as it may sound, I suddenly didn’t want her playing with dead things.

  “She was just… I got back to the trailer, and I almost tripped on her.” Rick was still wearing his formal clothes. He hadn’t even had the time to change. “She was just inside the doorway. I think… even after they hurt her, I think she tried to get away.” He started to cry. “I think she was trying to come and find me. She was just a little cat, Georgia. Why would anyone do this to such a little cat?”

  Then his words hit me. I stiffened. “She was inside? Are you sure this wasn’t natural causes?”

  “Since when do natural causes break your neck?” asked Rick.

  “We should go to the van.” The hair on the back of my neck was standing on end, and I suddenly felt very exposed.

  George frowned at me. “Shaun—?”

  “I’m serious. We can talk about this in the van, but we should go there. Right now.”

  “Just let me get my gun.” George turned toward the trailer.

  I didn’t think: I just knew I didn’t want her near that trailer. I grabbed her elbow, yanking her back. She stumbled into me, and a split second later, the trailer exploded with the characteristic concussive bang of packed C4. A second, larger bang followed the first as the rest of the explosives went off, and there was a third explosion in the distance as another trailer—probably Rick’s—went up.

  Fuck this, I thought, and took off running, dragging George with me. I didn’t know whether Rick was following us, and I didn’t care. I was getting her to safety. Fuck everybody else.

  My first impulse was to run ahead and make sure the ground was clear. George knew where we were going, and she knew enough to keep running without me hauling her. I forced the thought away. I was staying with her, and we were going to get out of this. Together.

  We were still running when something hit me in the arm, hard enough to break the skin. It was a lucky shot; they should have hit the Kevlar, and the fact that they hadn’t meant that someone had damn good aim. I glanced to the side, just long enough to see the hollow plastic dart sticking out of me. My throat went dry. I forced my eyes back to the front, and kept on running.

  “Shaun?” George must have felt my steps falter.

  That wasn’t important. All that mattered was getting her safely inside. “Get the doors!” I shouted, and pushed her away from me, toward the van. She stumbled as she ran, then evened out, and sprinted the last twenty feet. She grabbed the handles on the van’s rear doors, pressing her forefingers against the reader pads. There was a click as the onboard testing system ran her blood and prints, confirming that she was both uninfected and an authorized driver before the locks released.

  “Rick! Shaun! Come on!” She pulled the doors open and climbed up into the back of the van, turning to offer us her hands.

  Rick ran toward her. He finally seemed to realize that he was carrying Lois, because he dropped the cat’s body in order to take George’s hand and let her pull him up to safety.

  I kept running until I was about ten feet away. Then I slowed, stopping just out of reach. I wasn’t in a hurry anymore. I didn’t need to be.

  George blinked, a line appearing between her eyebrows as she frowned in confusion. “Shaun? Stop fucking around. Get in the van.”

  “No can do, George. I’m sorry.” I turned to show her the dart protruding from my arm. A patch of red had appeared around it, like a warning. I was bleeding. And I wasn’t stupid, no matter what I tried to make people believe; I’d seen those darts before. I knew what they meant.

  George paled. “No. It’s… it’s not that. It’s a tranquilizer. It’s harmless. Get in the van. At least let us run tests. At least…”

  “You know better.” I smiled at her, despite the growing ache in my chest. She was safe. She was in the van. She’d be able to drive away, and get the hell out of this whole situation. “Don’t play dumb, George. You’re no good at it. You’ll just make us both look bad.”

  Rick’s face appeared next to hers as he leaned back out of the van. His eyes widened when he saw my arm. “Oh, hell.”

  “My thoughts exactly.” My smile faded as I straightened up. “Get me a shotgun, and some ammo. Don’t hand them to me—toss them out the back. We’re about to be in a bad situation, and I’ll hold it off for as long as I can.”

  “Shaun.” George’s voice was barely a whisper. “Please. This isn’t funny.”

  “You’re the one who says the truth is all that matters, Georgia,” I said, as gently as I could, under the circumstances. “Here’s the truth: I’m finished. Now give me some guns. Let me buy you a little more time. Let me do something. Please.”

  The
raw need in my voice, heavy with all the things I didn’t have a way of saying, must have finally gotten through to her. George sniffled as she nodded, once. Then she disappeared into the van, reappearing a few seconds later with a shotgun and a box of ammunition. She tossed them to me. I caught the gun, and allowed the box to land on the pavement at my feet.

  “Shaun—”

  “I love you, Georgia Mason. Now shut that door.”

  She looked at me. Rick was still there, but he didn’t matter anymore; all that mattered was Georgia, and me, and the distance between us, which we would never be able to close again. Those bastards had taken her away from me with a single needle, and nothing was ever going to give her back. I smiled at her, trying to keep my chin up. If anyone needed me to be brave, it was Georgia.

  Then I turned my back on her.

  The sound of moaning was starting in the distance, as the people who’d been caught in the blast from our exploding trailers got up and discovered that they were no longer among the living. I’d be with them, soon enough. For now, I had a line to hold, and George had work to do.

  “I love you, too.” Her words were barely loud enough to hear over the rest of the surrounding noise. Maybe I imagined them. If I did, I didn’t care; they were all I needed to take with me into the dark.

  The van doors slammed shut. I racked the slide on my shotgun, and waited for the dead to come to me.

  * * *

  If you want an easy job—if you want the sort of job where you never have to bury somebody that you care about—I recommend you pursue a career in whatever strikes your fancy… just so long as it isn’t the news.

  —From Another Point of True, the blog of Richard Cousins, June 20th, 2040.

  Two: Georgia

  Rick was the one who actually closed the van doors. I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t move. Shaun’s back was to me, and for the first time in my life, I wanted to leave a story untold—I wanted to jump down and run to him, like one of those brainless heroines in Buffy’s stories, and go with him into the dark.