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  “It doesn’t have to end this way for you,” he replied, and smiled, sorrow written in his still-bright eyes. “Get the hell out of here, Marie. There’s nothing in this wasteland but the dead. Go home. Live, and be happy.”

  “It’s too late for that. It’s too late for me.” She held up the blood testing kit and watched his eyes widen as he took in the meaning of the single red light burning at the top. “It’s been too late since the attack.” Her own smile was as weak as his. “You called me the hyacinth girl. I guess I belong in the wasteland.”

  “At least we’re damned together,” he said, and kissed her.

  —From Love as a Metaphor, originally published in By the Sounding Sea, the blog of Buffy Meissonier, August 3, 2039

  * * *

  Shaun and I never met our parents’ biological son. He was a kindergarten student during the Rising, and he survived the initial wave thanks to our parents, who pulled him out of class as soon as the data started pointing to public schools as amplification flash points. They did everything they could to protect him from the threat of infection. Everyone assumed he’d be one of the lucky ones.

  The people next door had two golden retrievers, each weighing well over forty pounds, putting them in the range where amplification becomes possible. One of them was bitten—it was never determined by what—and began conversion. No one saw it coming because it had never happened before. Phillip Anthony Mason was the first confirmed case of human Kellis-Amberlee conversion initiated by an animal.

  This honor does not help my parents sleep at night.

  I am aware that my stance on pet ownership legislation is not popular. People love dogs, people love horses, and they want to continue to keep them in private homes. I understand this. I also understand that animals want to be free, and that sick animals are twice as likely to slip their restraints and go looking for comfort. Eventually, “comfort” becomes “something to bite.” I support the Biological Mass Pet Ownership Restrictions, as do my parents. Were my brother alive today, he might feel different. But he’s not.

  —From Images May Disturb You, the blog of Georgia Mason, November 3, 2039

  Three

  Buffy’s neighborhood doesn’t allow nonresident vehicles to enter without running blood tests on all passengers, so we dropped her at the gate where she could get tested and head inside on foot. I don’t like pricking my fingers, and we were already looking at a second blood test when we reached the house. We live in an open neighborhood—one of the last in Alameda County—but our parents have to meet certain requirements if they want to keep their home-owner’s insurance, and until we can afford to move out on our own, we have to play along.

  “I’ll upload the footage as soon as I finish cleaning it up,” Buffy promised. “Drop me a text when you hit the house, let me know you made it okay?”

  “Sure, Buff,” I said. “Whatever you say.”

  Buffy’s a great techie and a decent friend, but her ideas about safety are a little skewed, probably thanks to growing up in a high-security zone. She’s less worried in the field than she is in supposedly protected urban environments. While there are more attacks on an annual basis in cities than in rural areas, there are also a lot more large men with guns once you get away from the creeks and the cornfields. Given a choice between the two, I’m going to take the city every time.

  “See you tomorrow!” she said, and waved to Shaun through the van’s front window before she turned to head for the guard station where she’d spend the next five minutes being checked for contamination. Shaun waved back and restarted the engine, backing the van away from the gate. That was my cue. I flashed a thumbs-up to show that I was good to go as I kicked my bike into a turn, leading the way back to Telegraph Avenue and into the tangled warren of suburban streets surrounding our house.

  Like Santa Cruz, Berkeley is a college town, and we got swarmed during the Rising. Kellis-Amberlee hit the dorms, incubated, and exploded outward in an epidemic pattern that took practically everyone by surprise. “Practically” is the important word there. By the time the infection hit Berkeley, the first posts about activity in schools across the country were starting to show up online, and we had an advantage most college towns didn’t: We started with more than our fair share of crazy people.

  See, Berkeley has always drawn the nuts and flakes of the academic world. That’s what happens when you have a university that offers degrees in both computer science and parapsychology. It was a city primed to believe any weird thing that came across the wire, and when all those arguably crazy people started hearing rumors about the dead rising from their graves, they didn’t dismiss them. They began gathering weapons, watching the streets for strange behavior and signs of sickness, and generally behaving like folks who’d actually seen a George Romero movie. Not everyone believed what they heard… but some did, and that turned out to be enough.

  That doesn’t mean we didn’t suffer when the first major waves of infection hit. More than half the population of Berkeley died over the course of six long days and nights, including the biological son of our adoptive parents, Phillip Mason, who was barely six years old. The things that happened here weren’t nice, and they weren’t pretty, but unlike many towns that started out with similar conditions—a large homeless population, a major school, a lot of dark, narrow, one-way streets—Berkeley survived.

  Shaun and I grew up in a house that used to belong to the university. It’s located in an area that was judged “impossible to secure” when the government inspectors started getting their act together, and as a result, it was sold off to help fund the rebuilding of the main campus. The Masons didn’t want to live in the house where their son had died, and the security rating of the neighborhood meant they were able to get the property for a song. They finalized the adoptions for the two of us the day before they moved in, an “everything is normal” ratings stunt that eventually left them with a big house in the scary suburbs, two kids, and no idea what to do. So they did what came naturally: They gave more interviews, they wrote more articles, and they chased the numbers.

  From the outside, they looked devoted to giving us the sort of “normal” childhood they remembered having. They never moved us to a gated neighborhood, they let us have pets that lacked sufficient mass for reanimation, and when public schools started requiring mandatory blood tests three times a day, they had us enrolled in a private school before the end of the week. There’s a semifamous interview Dad gave right after that transfer, where he said they were doing their best to make us “citizens of the world instead of citizens of fear.” Pretty words, especially coming from a man who regarded his kids as a convenient way to stay on top of the news feeds. Numbers start slipping? Go for a field trip to a zoo. That’ll get you right back to the top.

  There were a few changes they couldn’t avoid, thanks to the government’s anti-infection legislation—blood tests and psych tests and all that fun stuff—but they did their best, and I’ll give them this much: A lot of the things they did for us weren’t cheap. They paid for the right to raise us the way that they did. Entertainment equipment, internal security, even home medical centers can be bought for practically nothing. Anything that lets you outside, from vehicles to gasoline to gear that doesn’t cut you off completely from the natural world… that’s where things get expensive. The Masons paid in everything but blood to keep us in a place where there were blue skies and open spaces, and I’m thankful, even if it was always about ratings and a boy we never knew.

  The garage door slid open as we pulled into the driveway, registering the sensors Shaun and I wear around our neck. In case of viral amplification, the garage becomes the zombie equivalent of a roach motel: Our sensors get us in, but only a clean blood test and a successful voice check gets us out. If we ever fail those tests, we’ll be incinerated by the house defense system before we can do any further damage.

  Mom’s armored minivan and the old Jeep Dad insists on driving to his job on campus were parked in their norm
al spots. I pulled over and killed the bike’s engine, removing my helmet as I started a basic postfield check of the machinery. I needed to see a mechanic; the ride through Santa Cruz had seriously damaged my shocks. Buffy’s cameras were still attached to the helmet and back of the bike. I pulled them off and shoved them into my left saddlebag, unsnapping it and slinging it over my shoulder as Shaun pulled in behind me.

  Shaun got out of the van and reached the back door three steps before I did. “We made good time,” he said, positioning himself in front of the right-hand sensors.

  “Sure did,” I said, and positioned myself on the left.

  “Please identify yourselves,” said the bland voice of the house security system.

  Most of the newer systems sound more like people than ours does. They’ll even make jokes with their owners, to keep them at ease. Psychological studies have shown that closing the gap between man and machine increases comfort and acceptance and prevents nervous breakdowns stemming from isolation anxiety—in short, people don’t get cabin fever as much when they think they have more people they can safely talk to. I think that’s bullshit. If you want to avoid cabin fever, go outside. Our machines have stayed mechanical, at least so far.

  “Georgia Carolyn Mason,” said Shaun.

  I smirked. “Shaun Phillip Mason.”

  The light above the door blinked as the house checked our vocal intonations. We must have passed muster, because it spoke again: “Voice prints confirmed. Please read the phrase appearing on your display screen.”

  Words appeared on my screen. I squinted to make them out through my sunglasses, and read, “Mares eat oats, and does eat oats, and little lambs eat ivy. A kid will eat ivy, too. Wouldn’t you?”

  The words blinked out. I glanced at Shaun, but couldn’t quite see the words appearing on his screen before he was reciting them: “Oranges and lemons, say the bells of St. Clemens. You owe me five farthings, say the bells of St. Martins. When will you pay me, say the bells of Old Bailey.”

  The light over the door changed from red to yellow.

  “Place your right hands on the testing pads,” commanded the security system. Shaun and I did as requested, pressing our hands against the metal panels set into the wall. The metal chilled beneath my palm a split second before there was a stinging sensation in my index finger. The light above the door began to flash, alternating red and yellow.

  “Think we’re clean?” Shaun asked.

  “If not, it’s been nice knowing you,” I said. Coming in together means that if one of us ever tests positive, that’s all she wrote; they won’t let anybody out of the garage until a cleanup crew arrives, and the chances of whoever comes up clean making it to the van before something happens aren’t good. Our next-door neighbor used to call Child Protective Services every six months because our folks wouldn’t stop us from coming in together. But what’s the point of life if you can’t take risks now and then, like coming into the damn house with your brother?

  The light started flashing green instead of red, continuing to alternate with yellow for a few more seconds before yellow bowed out, leaving green to flash alone. The door unlocked, and the bland voice of the house said, “Welcome, Shaun and Georgia.”

  “S’up, the house?” Shaun replied, removing his shoes and tossing them into the outdoor cleaning unit before he walked inside, hollering, “Hey, ’rents! We’re home!” Our parents hate being called “ ’rents.” I’m pretty sure that’s why he does it.

  “And we survived!” I added, copying the gesture and following him through the garage door. It swung closed and locked itself behind me. The kitchen smelled like spaghetti sauce and garlic bread.

  “Failure to die is always appreciated,” Mom said, entering the kitchen and putting an empty laundry basket on the counter. “You know the drill. Both of you, upstairs, and strip for sterilization.”

  “Yes, Mom,” I said, picking up the basket. “Come, Shaun. The insurance bill calls us.”

  “Yes, master,” he drawled. Ignoring Mom entirely, he turned and followed me up the stairs.

  The house was a duplex before Mom and Dad had it converted back into a single-family home. Our bedrooms literally adjoin; there’s an inside door between them. It makes life easier when it’s time for editing and prep work, and it’s been like that all our lives. On the few occasions when I’ve had to try sleeping without Shaun in the next room, well, let’s just say I can go a long way on a six-pack of Coke.

  I dropped the laundry basket in the hallway between our doors before going into my room and flicking the switch to turn on the overheads. We use low-wattage bulbs in the entire house, but I’ve abandoned white light entirely in my private space, preferring to live by the gleam of computer monitors and the comforting nonlight of black-light UV lamps. They can cause premature wrinkling if used extensively; what they can’t do is cause corneal damage, and I appreciate that.

  “Shaun! Inside door!”

  “Got it,” Shaun called. The connecting door slammed shut, and the band of light beneath it was cut off a second later as he slid the damper into place. Sighing with relief, I removed my sunglasses, forcing my eyes to open all the way. I’d been out in the sun for too long; even the UV lamps stung for a few seconds before my eyes adjusted and the room snapped into the sort of detailed focus most people only get in direct light.

  “Retinal Kellis-Amberlee,” as it’s popularly called, is more properly referred to as “Acquired Kellis-Amberlee Optic Neuropathic Reservoir Condition.” I’ve never heard anyone call it that outside a hospital, and even there, it’s usually just “retinal KA.” Those good old reservoir conditions: One more way for the virus to make life more interesting for everybody. My pupils are permanently dilated and don’t contract in response to light, retinal scans are impossible, testing my vitreous and aqueous humors will always register a live infection, and best of all, my condition is advanced enough that my eyes don’t even water. The virus produces a protective film and keeps the eyes from drying out. My tear ducts are atrophied. The only upside? Absolutely stellar low-light vision.

  I tossed my sunglasses into the biohazard disposal canister and started across the room. My living space shares a lot of features with the van, including the part where Buffy maintains about ninety percent of the equipment and I understand less than half of it. Flat-screen monitors take up most of the walls, and we moved the group servers into my wardrobe last year when Shaun decided he needed more space for his weapons. Whatever. It’s not like I was using it; I don’t wear anything that actually needs to be hung up. I belong to the Hunter S. Thompson School of Journalistic Fashion: If I have to think about it, I have no business wearing it.

  When you get right down to it, about the only similarity between my room and the room of your stereotypical twentysomething woman is the full-length mirror next to the bed. There’s a wall dispenser mounted next to the mirror. I ripped loose a sheet of tear-away plastic and spread it on the floor, stepping onto it as I turned to face my reflection.

  Hello, Georgia. Nice to see you’re not dead yet.

  Slicking my sweat-soaked hair back from my face, I started studying my clothes for the telltale fluorescence that under the black lights would indicate traces of blood.

  Shaun and I operate under Class A-15 blogging licenses: We’re cleared to report on events both inside and outside city limits, although we’re still not permitted to enter any zones with a hazard rating at or above Level 3. The zones start at Level 10, the code for any area with resident mammals of sufficient body mass to undergo Kellis-Amberlee amplification and reanimation. Humans count. Level 9 means those mammals are not entirely kept in confinement. Buffy’s neighborhood is considered a Level 10 hazard zone, which means it’s safe to let your children play outside, except for the part where it would instantly convert the zone to a Level 9. Our house is classified as a Level 7 hazard, possessing free-range mammals of sufficient body mass for full viral amplification, local wildlife capable of carrying blood or other bodily was
tes onto the property, insufficiently secured borders, and windows more than a foot and a half in diameter. There’s legislation currently under review that would make it a federal offense to raise any child in a hazard zone above Level 8. I don’t expect it to pass. It frightens me that it exists at all.

  It requires an A-10 blogging license to enter a Level 3 hazard zone with any prayer of being allowed to exit it. We can’t get those licenses or anything above until we turn twenty-five and pass a series of government-mandated tests, most of which center on the ability to make accurate headshots with a variety of firearms. That means no Yosemite for at least another two years. I’m fine with that. There’s plenty of news to be found in more populated areas.

  Shaun feels different, but he’s an Irwin, and they thrive on wandering blindly into danger. All I’ve ever wanted to be is what I am—a Newsie. I’m happy this way. Danger is a side effect of what I do, not the reason behind it. That doesn’t mean danger throws up its hands and says “oh, sorry, Georgia, I won’t mess with you.” Contamination is always a risk when dealing with zombies, especially when you have the recently infected involved. The older infected are usually too concerned with keeping themselves from dissolving to worry about smearing you with their precious bodily fluids, but new ones are fresh enough to have fluid to spare. They’ll splatter you if they can manage it, and then count on the viral bricks filling their bloodstream to do the hard part for them. It’s not great as a hunting strategy, but as a way of spreading the infection it works better than any uninfected person wants it to.

  Not that anyone left in the world is actually uninfected—that’s part of the problem. We call people who have succumbed to viral amplification “the infected,” like it changes the fact that the virus is inside every one of us, patiently waiting for the day it gets invited to take over. The Kellis-Amberlee virus can remain in its dormant state for decades, if not forever; unlike the people it infects, it can wait. One day you’re fine. The next day, your personal stockpile of virus wakes up, and you’re on the road to amplification, the death of the part of you that’s a thinking, feeling human being, and the birth of your zombie future. Calling zombies “the infected” creates an artificial feeling of security, like we can somehow avoid joining them. Well, guess what? We can’t.