Blackout (49 page)

As if he had read my mind, Shaun called, with manic cheerfulness, “Don’t stress out about it, George. Things could be worse!”

“
How
?” demanded Becks.

“We could still be wearing shoes full of homing devices!”

For the first time since she’d been shot, Maggie spoke: “I am going to… kill you…
myself
, Shaun Mason.” Her voice was weak, but it was there. If she was talking, she couldn’t be too far gone.

Shaun laughed unsteadily. “You do that, Maggie. You get up and kick my ass just as soon as you feel like you can manage it.”

She mumbled something in disjointed Spanish, voice losing strength with every word.

“This would be a good time to drive a little faster, Georgia,” said Mahir. His tone was utterly calm. I recognized that for the danger sign it really was. Mahir only sounded that serene when he was on the verge of panic, or getting ready to pounce on some fact that every other reporter to look at a story had somehow managed to miss. That detachment was the way he handled the things that otherwise couldn’t be handled at all.

I pressed my foot down on the gas, envying that cool veil of calm. It was all I could do not to start hyperventilating as we blew through downtown Seattle, slowing down only when the lights forced me or I had to take a turn. I doubt I could have done it under pre-Rising speed limits, back when they worried more about pedestrian safety than they did about getting people from point A to point B as quickly as humanly possible. I was still running the very edge of “safe driving” when the GPS signaled for me to slow down; we were approaching our destination.

We were approaching our destination in a vehicle that was essentially a traveling biohazard zone. “Guys?” I asked. “Now what am I supposed to do?”

Maggie mumbled something. It must have made
more sense to the people around her, because Mahir spoke a moment later, saying, “When we reach the gate, roll down your window but do not attempt to put any part of your body outside the car. Tell them Maggie is injured—use her full name—and that we need immediate medical assistance. The Agora has protocols that will take it from there.”

“Do those protocols include a full tank of formalin with our names on it?” asked Shaun. Nobody answered him. He sighed. “Yeah, I figured as much.”

The Agora gatehouse was in front of us. I slowed, finally stopping the van as the guards approached. The urge to slam my foot down on the gas and go racing off to anywhere else was overwhelming… and pointless. Driving away wouldn’t make things any better.

I rolled down my window when the first guard reached the van, careful to stay well away from the opening. “We have an injured hotel guest,” I said. “She was shot.”

The guard’s expression of polite helpfulness didn’t falter. “Would you like the address of the nearest hospital with field decontamination capacity?” he asked.

“I’m sorry, I said that wrong. Magdalene Grace Garcia is in the back of this van, and she has been shot. We need immediate medical assistance.” I hesitated before adding, “Please.”

The effect Maggie’s name had on the man was nothing short of electric. His expression flickered from politely helpful to shocked to narrow-eyed efficiency in a matter of seconds. “Drive through the front gate and follow the lighted indicators next to the road,” he said. “Do not attempt to leave your vehicle. A medical team will meet you at your destination.” Almost as an afterthought, he said, “Please roll up your window.”

“Thank you,” I said. He stepped away, and I rolled the window up before putting my foot back on the gas. The gate opened as we rolled forward, and bright blue lights began flicking on next to the driveway, indicating our route.

The lights followed the obvious path to the Agora for about a hundred yards before branching off, leading us down a groundkeeper’s road that had been cunningly surrounded by bushes and flowering shrubs, making it almost unnoticeable if you didn’t know it was there—or weren’t following a bunch of bright blue lights. I kept driving, inching our speed up as high as I dared. The road led us around the back of the Agora to a separate parking garage with plastic sheeting hanging over the entrance.

I took a breath and drove on through.

The garage was brightly lit, and already swarming with people in white EMT moon suits, their hands covered by plastic gloves and their faces by clear masks. I managed to kill the engine before they started knocking on the van’s side door, but only barely. The door slid open, and suddenly the van was rocking as EMTs poured through the opening.

Someone knocked on my window, making me jump. I turned to see another of the EMTs looking through the glass at me. I lowered the window. “Ma’am, please leave your vehicle and prepare for decontamination,” he said, voice muffled by his mask.

A chill wormed down my spine. The idea of going through decontamination—of going through
any
medical procedure, no matter how standard—was suddenly terrifying.

The others were climbing out of the van. Mahir and Becks were already in front of the van, being led along
by more EMTs. I knew Shaun would wait for me as long as he could, unwilling to let me out of his sight if he didn’t have to. That was what it took to spur me into motion. I didn’t want Shaun getting sedated because I wasn’t willing to get out of my seat.

One of the EMTs grasped my upper arm firmly as soon as my feet hit the asphalt, not waiting for me to shut the door before he began pulling me toward the building. I didn’t resist, but I didn’t help him, either, letting my feet drag as I looked frantically around for Shaun. He was being led toward the building by another of the EMTs. He broke loose as soon as he saw me, ignoring the way his EMT was shouting as he ran in my direction.

“Shaun!”

He stopped in front of me. There was blood on the front of his shirt, but his hands were clean. Either he’d been wearing gloves, or he’d somehow managed to avoid touching Maggie. Given what I’d heard from the back, that seemed unlikely. He’d played it smart. For once. “Are you okay? Are you hurt? Things were so hectic back there, I didn’t have time to—”

“I’m fine, but I think you’re scaring the locals.”

“What?” Shaun looked over his shoulder, seeming to notice the EMTs for the first time. They were all holding pistols now, and those pistols were aimed in our direction. Smiling cockily, Shaun waved. I doubt any of them saw the hollow fear behind his eyes. I doubt anyone but me would even have realized it was there. “Hey, fellas. Sorry to frighten you like that. I just have a thing about being separated from my sister. Makes me sort of impulsive.”

“Makes you sort of
insane
,” I corrected, without thinking. Then I winced. “Shaun…”

“No, that’s pretty much true.” Four more EMTs walked by us, carrying a stretcher between them. A clear plastic sheet covered it, Maggie visible underneath. A respirator was covering her face. I just hoped that meant that she was still breathing, and that she still stood a chance of recovery.

“Sir, ma’am, you need to come with me now.” I glanced toward the EMT holding my arm. He looked at us sternly through his mask. “I understand your concern, but we need to clear and sterilize this area.”

Shaun’s eyes widened. “Our van—”

“Will be returned to you once it has been decontaminated. Now please, sir, you both need to come with me.”

Shaun and I exchanged a look. Then we nodded, almost in unison. “All right,” I said. “Let’s go and get decontaminated.”

The EMT led us out of the garage and into the building. Metal jets emerged from the ceiling as we stepped into the airlock, beginning to spray a thin mist down over the area. The smell of it managed to sneak through the closing doors, tickling my nose with the characteristic burning scent of formalin. I shuddered. Nothing organic was going to survive that dousing.

“We’re going to need to replace the rug again,” commented Shaun.

I glanced at him, startled, before starting to laugh under my breath. I couldn’t help it. He looked so sincere, and so annoyed, like replacing the rug was the worst thing that had happened to us in a while. Shaun blinked, his own surprised expression mirroring mine. Then he started laughing with me.

We were both still laughing when the EMT led us out of the airlock and into the Agora Medical Center.
My laughter died almost instantly, replaced by a feeling of choking suffocation. White walls. White ceiling. White floor. The EMTs looked suddenly hostile behind their plastic masks, like they had been sent by the CDC to take me back.

“George?” Shaun’s voice was distant. “You okay?”

“Not really,” I replied. I turned to the startled EMT who had led us inside. “Do you have a room with some color in it? I have a thing about white.” It made me want to curl up in a corner and cry. A phobia of medical establishments. That was a fun new personality trait.

Working at the Agora had apparently prepared the man for strange requests from people above his pay grade—which we, traveling with Maggie, technically were. “Right this way, miss,” he said, and turned to lead us away from the rest of the action. I felt a brief pang of regret over letting us be separated from the others, but quashed it. The EMT assigned to work with me and Shaun wasn’t one of the ones who was needed to help Maggie, or he wouldn’t have been with us in the first place. Me having a panic attack over the white, white walls wasn’t going to do anything to help anyone.

The EMT led us to a smaller room where the walls were painted a cheery yellow and the chairs were upholstered in an equally cheery blue. We didn’t need to be told that this was the children’s holding area. The testing panels on the walls and the double-reinforced glass on the observation window cut into the room’s rear wall made that perfectly clear.

Oddly, the window made me feel better, rather than setting my nerves even further on edge. It was honest glass, letting the observed see the observers without any subterfuge. If it had been a mirror, I think I would have lost my shit.

“If you’re feeling better now, ma’am, sir, I would very much appreciate it if you’d let me begin the testing process.”

Shaun and I exchanged a look, and I jumped a little as the blood on his shirt fully registered. Maggie wasn’t dead when she was bleeding on him. That didn’t mean her blood couldn’t potentially carry a hot viral load.

“Please,” I said.

“Sure,” said Shaun, sounding oddly unconcerned. I frowned at him. He mouthed the word “later,” and gave me what may have been intended as a reassuring smile.

I was not reassured.

The EMT produced two small blood test units, using them to take samples from our index fingers. No lights came on to document the filtration process. Instead, he sealed the kits in plastic bags marked “biohazard,” nodded as politely as a bellhop who’d been doing nothing more hazardous than delivering our luggage, and left the room. The door closed behind him with a click and a beep that clearly indicated that we had been locked in.

Shaun looked at me. “You okay?”

“No.” I shook my head. “Is Maggie going to be okay?”

“I don’t know.” Shaun folded his arms, looking at the closed door. “I guess we’ll find out soon enough.”

“Yeah. I guess we will.” We stood there in silence, waiting for the door to open; waiting for someone to come and tell us how many of us were going to walk away alive.

When Maggie went down… fuck.

Maggie was one of the first people Buffy hired after we said “sure, we want a viable Fiction section.” She’s never been anything but awesome. She took us in when we had nowhere else to go; she took care of us when we would have been frankly fucked without her. She’s been our rock. If Mahir is the soul of this news team—and I’m not an idiot, I know that when George died, the mantle went to him, and that’s cool, because I never wanted it in the first place—then Maggie is the heart. And when she went down today, the only thing I could think was “Thank God it was her. Thank God it wasn’t George. I don’t think I could survive that happening again.”

George being back is a miracle, and it’s also what’s going to mean this all ends bad, because I’m not thinking straight anymore. I lived without her once. I can’t do it again.

Fuck.

—From
Adaptive Immunities
, the blog of Shaun Mason, August 4, 2041. Unpublished.

Madre de Dios… Mother Mary, hold me closely; Mother Mary, love me best. Mother Mary, treat me sweetly. Mother Mary, let me rest.

I have never hurt this much in my life. Morphine is supposed to make the hurting stop, but instead, it shunts the pain to the side, like a houseguest you never intended to keep. It isn’t in your face, but it’s there,
using the last of the milk, leaving wet towels on the bathroom floor…

This hurts. I am alive. The two balance each other, I suppose.

This was supposed to be Buffy’s revolution. It was never supposed to be mine.

—From
Dandelion Mine
, the blog of Magdalene Grace Garcia, August 4, 2041. Unpublished.

I
don’t know how long they left us in that room. Long enough that George was pale and freaking out a little by the time they came back, even though she was trying pretty damn hard to hide it. I watched her anxiously, not sure what I was supposed to do. She’d never had a problem with hospitals before. Then again, I guess being brought back from the dead and used as a CDC lab rat would fuck up just about anybody.