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  Say something witty now, moron, prompted George.

  I reddened. I never used to need coaching from my sister on what it took to do my job. I hit the general channel key on my watch, asking, “You guys mind if I join your party?”

  Becks responded immediately, relief more evident in her voice than it had been in her face. Maybe she just wasn’t as good at hiding it there. “What took you so long?”

  “Oh, traffic. You know how it goes.” The entire mob was moving toward me now, apparently deciding that meat on the hoof was more interesting than meat that wouldn’t come out of its tree. I snapped the electric baton into its extended position, redrawing George’s .40, and offered the oncoming infected a merry smile. “Hi. You want to party?”

  Shaun… said George.

  “Yeah, yeah, I know,” I muttered, adding, louder, “You guys get down from there and try to circle to the Jeep. Hit the horn once you’re in. There’s more ammo under the passenger seat.”

  “And you’re going to do what, exactly?” asked Becks. She sounded sensibly wary. At least one of us was being sensible for a change.

  “I’m going to earn my ratings,” I said. Then the zombies were on top of me, and there was no more time for discussion. Quietly, I was glad.

  There’s an art to fighting the infected. It was almost a good thing that this mob had started off so large; we were cutting down the numbeapidly, since we had the ability to think tactically, but the survivors were still behaving like members of a pack. They wanted to eat, not infect. “They wanted to kill me” may not sound like much of an advantage, but trust me on this one. A zombie that’s out to infect will try to smear you with fluids. That gives it a lot more weapons, since they can bleed and spit—even puke, if they’ve eaten recently enough. A zombie that wants to eat you is just going to come at you with its mouth, and that means it has only one viable avenue of attack. That evens the odds, just a little.

  Just a little can be more than enough.

  I used my baton to sweep a constant perimeter around myself, shocking any zombie that came into range and trusting the Kevlar in my jacket to keep my arm from getting tagged before I could pull it back. The electricity slowed them down enough for me to keep firing. More important, it kept them from getting positions established behind me. I could track Becks and Alaric by the sound of gunshots, which came almost as regularly as my own. I was taking out two zombies for every three shots. Not the best odds in the world. Not the worst odds, either.

  The zombies pressed forward. I backed toward the Jeep, letting them think they were herding me while I kept thinning out their ranks. I realized I was grinning. I couldn’t help it. Maybe facing possible death isn’t supposed to make me happy, but years of training can’t be shrugged off overnight, and I was an Irwin for a long time before I retired.

  Aim, fire. Swing, zap. Aim, fire. It was almost like dancing, a series of soothing, predictable movements. When George’s gun ran out of ammunition, I switched to my own backup pistol, the motion as smooth and easy as it could possibly have been. I couldn’t hear gunshots anymore, so either Becks and Alaric had made the Jeep or my brain had started filtering out the sounds of their combat as inconsequential. I had my own zombies to play with. They could deal with theirs. Even George had fallen quiet, leaving me to move in a small bubble of almost perfect contentment. It didn’t matter that my sister was dead, or that the assholes who’d ordered her killed were still out there somewhere, doing God knows what to God-knows-who. I had zombies. I had bullets. Everything else was just details, and like I keep saying, I don’t care about the details.

  “Shaun!”

  The shout came from behind me, rather than over the intercom or from the inside of my head. I barely squashed the urge to turn toward it, a motion that could be fatal in the field. I put two bullets into the zombie that was lunging at me, and shouted back, “What?”

  “We’ve made the Jeep! Can you retreat?”

  Could I retreat? “Well, that’s an interesting question, Becks!” I shouted. Aim, fire. Aim again. “Is there anything behind me? And what the fuck happened to honking?”

  “Don’t move!”

  “I can do that!” I fired again. Another zombie went down. And hell opened up behind me. Not literally, but the sound of an assault rifle can be similar. Becks, it seemed, had found more than just ammo under the seat. Dave and I were going to have a long talk about making sure I knew what my assets were before we let me head into the field.

  “Clear!”

  “Great!” My throat was starting to ache from all the shouting. I surveyed the zombies remaining in front of me. None of them looked fresh enough to put up a real chase, and so I did exactly what you’re not supposed to do in a field situation if you have any choice in the matter:

  I took a chance.

  I turned my back on the mob and ran for the Jeep, whacking anything that looked likely to move with my electric baton. Becks was in the back, covering the area, while Alaric sat in the passenger seat, looking shell-shocked.

  Nothing grabbed me, and in just a few seconds, I was using the stripped-down frame to swing myself into the driver’s seat. I didn’t bother with the seat belt as I hit the gas, and we went roaring out of there, leaving the moaning remains of the Birds Landing zombie mob behind.

  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 posct 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.”

  “Ms. Gowda doesn’t have the authority to block my calls, as I am, in fact, her husband’s boss,” I said amiably. “Please dial Mahir.”

  “Acknowledged,” said the operator, and went quiet, replaced by the faint beeping of an international connection in process. I hummed under my breath, watching the abandoned California countryside rolling out on either side of me. It would have been pretty if not for, y’know, all the dead stuff.

  “Shaun?” Mahir’s normally smooth voice was blurry with exhaustion, making his British accent stand out more than usual.

  “Mahir, my main man! You sound a little harried. Did I wake you?”

  “No, but I really do wish you’d stop calling so late at night. You know Nandini gets upset when you do.”

  “There you go again, assuming that I’m not actually trying to piss off your wife. I’m really a much nicer person inside your head, aren’t I? Do I give money to charity and help old-lady zombies across streets so that they can bite babies?”

  Mahir sighed. “My, you are in a mood today, aren’t you?”

  “Been monitoring the boards?”

  “You know that I have been. Or was, until I went to sleep.” I also knew he’d called up the numbers the second I got him out of bed, because that was how Mahir’s mind worked. Some men check their wallets; he checked our ratings.

  “Then you know why I’m not in the mood for sunshine and puppies.” I paused. “That expression makes no sense. Why the hell would I ever be in the mood for puppies?”

  “Shaun—”

  “I could go with sunshine, though. Sunshine is useful. It should really be ‘sunshine and shotguns.’ Something you’d actually be happy about.”

  “Shaun—”

  “How’d the footage go over?”

  There was a pause as Mahir adjusted to the fact that I’d suddenly decided to start making sense. Then, clearing his throat, he said, “We’re getting some of our highest click-through rates and download shares in the last six months. There have been eleven outside interview requests, and I think you’ll find as many, if not more, when you check your in-box. Six of the more junior Irwins have already been caught on the staff chats trying to figure out whether this means you’d be willing to do a joint excursion.”A pause. “None were hired during your tenure as department head.”

  That meant they knew me, but had never worked with me in the field. I sighed. “Okay, so I won’t shoot them. What’s the worst headline?”

  “Are you quite sure you want to do this while you’re driving?”

  “How did you—”

  “You’ve gone to time delay, but there are still quite a few people watching you through the van’s rearview window camera, hoping to see you get attacked again.”

  Of course there were. “There are days when I really think I should go be an accountant or something.”

  “You’d go mad.”

  “But no one would be staring at me. What’s the worst headline, Mahir?”

  He sighed, heavily. “You’re sure?”

  “I’m sure.”

  “All right, then. ‘Shaun of the Dead, Part Two.’ ” He stopped. I said nothing. He must have taken that as a cue because he continued: “ ‘Shaun Phi
llip Mason, the world’s most well-known and well-regarded action blogger (known as an ‘Irwin’ to the informed, named in honor of a pre-Rising naturalist with a fondness for handling dangerous creatures), returned to the field today after almost a year of full-time desk duty. Does this mark the end of his much-debated ‘retirement,’ a career choice made during the emotionally charged weeks following the death of his adoptive sister, Georgia Mason, a factual news blogger? Or does it—’ ”

  “That’s enough, Mahir,” I said quietly.

  He stopped immediately. “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be. I wouldn’t have called if I hadn’t expected them to be bad. At least this tells me what I’ll be dealing with when I get back to the office.” George was as pissed off by the world’s refusal to leave me the fuck alone as I was, and she was swearing steadily in the back of my head. It was more reassuring than distracting. The things that get under my skin don’t always get under hers, and I feel the closest to crazy when I’m disagreeing with the voice in my head.

  “Are you all right?”

  I paused before answering, trying to find the best words. If George had a best friend—a best friend who wasn’t me, anyway—it was Mahir. He was her second-in-command before she died and gave him a promotion that he’d never wanted. Sometimes, I thought he was the only person who fully understood how close we’d been, or how much her death had broken me. He was the only one who never questioned the fact that she still talked to me.

  Frankly, I think he was jealous that she never spoke to him.

  “Ignoring the part where you know the answer to that is ‘fuck, no,’ I’m fine, Mahir. Tired. I shouldn’t have gone out there.”

  “If you hadn’t—”

  “Becks had it under control. It’s her department now. I shouldn’t have interfered.”