Blackout (65 page)

We did the best we could with what we had, and when what we had wasn’t enough, we found ways to make it work. We told the truth, even when it hurt us, even when it killed us, even when it set the wolves at our doors. I can’t speak for the dead. But I think the living will agree that anything we did, we did because we felt we had to. History will judge us. The future will decide whether what we did was right, or wrong, or without meaning. In the here and now…

This is as close as we could get to an ending. The world goes on. Zombies or no zombies, political conspiracy or no political conspiracy, the world goes on.

I think I like it that way.

—From
Living Dead Girl
, the blog of Georgia Mason II, May 17, 2042.

Who wants to see me wrestle a zombie moose?

—From
Hail to the King
, the blog of Shaun Mason, May 17, 2042.

T
he phone rang at half-three in the morning, waking both Nan and Sanjukta from a sound sleep. Nandini glared as she levered herself from the bed and left the room, following our infant daughter’s wailing. I swore, rolling over and grabbing my cell off the bedside table, bringing it to my ear before I was done sitting up.

“This had best be bloody important, or I’m letting my wife give you what-for,” I snarled.

“Mr. Gowda, this is Christopher Rogers, from the All-Night News. I apologize if I woke you—I thought I had calculated the time difference between London and San Francisco correctly.”

Smug bastard. I could hear it in his voice, the vague self-congratulatory tone of a reporter who thinks he’s put his subject off balance. “How did you get this number?”

“Mr. Gowda, I have a few questions, if you don’t—”

“I bloody well
do
mind. This is an unlisted number, and I know what you’re calling about. You want to know where the Masons are, don’t you?”

Silence greeted my question. That was a sufficient answer in and of itself.

“When will you people learn to
listen
? I don’t know where the Masons are. No one knows where the Masons are. They disappeared after the management of the CDC was given over to the EIS. Last anyone saw of either of them, they were in an unmarked car heading God-knows-where.”

That wasn’t entirely true. The last time I saw them was on the border between the United States and Canada, when Steve handed them the keys to their own van, which was waiting for them on the Canadian side. They mailed back all the bugs the CIA had planted a week later, and they were gone.

It was true enough. Every version of their disappearance ended the same way, after all: and they were gone.

“Mr. Gowda, your site is still syndicating blogs provided by both Masons. We find it difficult to credit your continued insistence that you do not know their whereabouts.”

“You little nit. They’re using relays put in place by Georgette Meissonier. So far as I know, your FBI has been trying to unsnarl that woman’s mad coding since before she died. What makes you think I could do it from here? I’m a reporter, not a computer technician.”

Nandini came back into the room, Sanjukta held against her chest. She cast a glare at me, demanding, “Who is it?”

“Another reporter. I’m getting rid of him.”

“Let me.”

“Not sure he deserves that yet, dear.” I turned my attention back to the phone. “My wife is about to take the phone off me. You’d best hang up, and never call this number again, or I’ll have you cited for harassment.
Surprisingly, your government takes quite an interest in my complaints.”

Emily Ryman had taken her place beside her husband while pictures of her clone, killed during the attack on the White House, were shown to the world. President Ryman was found guilty of betraying the public trust. He was not found guilty of treason. He had been coerced, he had been afraid for the lives of his family, and he had been uncovering a treasonous group within his own government. He barely escaped being hailed as a hero.

Shaun and Georgia’s reports had a great deal to do with that, and President Ryman’s gratitude to the Masons had transferred to the site when they vanished. Having the President of the United States indebted to me had proven very useful in some situations—such as this one.

“Mr. Gowda, please. The people have a right to know.”

“The people know everything they have a right to know, Mr. Rodgers. I’ll be hanging up now.” They didn’t know there was no cure. Someday they would—someday we’d take back India, and a great deal more of the world beside—but not yet. The world wasn’t ready. Too many shots would go unfired, and too many more would die in the blind hope that their loved ones would be among the saved. Recovering from the first Rising took us twenty years. It might take twenty more to reach the point where we could recover from the second one.

“Mr. Gowda—”

I hung up on his protests and stood, dropping the phone onto the bed. “I’m sorry about that. Let me take her. You get some rest.”

“I hate that those people call here,” she complained, placing Sanjukta gently in my hands.

I drew my infant daughter close, smiling down at her sleepy face, her dark eyes almost closed. Looking up, I said, “I hate it as well. They’ll stop eventually.”

Nandini snorted her disbelief and climbed back into the bed, rolling over to face the wall. Her breathing leveled out in minutes, telling me that she had drifted back to sleep.

Sanjukta was less obliging. I left the bedroom, walking slow circles around the living room as I waited for her eyes to close. “Would you like to hear a story, my love? It’s about some very brave people and the way they tried to change the world.”

I wasn’t lying to that reporter when I told him I didn’t know where Shaun and Georgia—the second Georgia—were. They sent their posts and articles via blind relay. They sent their very rare postcards much the same way. So far as I knew, they were somewhere in the vast empty reaches of Canada, making a life for themselves. Maybe they had come back into the United States to rejoin Dr. Abbey—a few of her letters had led me to believe she might have seen them, at least briefly—but I doubted those would ever be more than visits. The Masons had lived and died in the public eye. Now, finally, they were free of it, and they were living for themselves, rather than living for anyone else. I wasn’t going to be the one to take that away from them.

Especially not now. They were clever to vanish when they did, while the world was still reeling from their final revelations. Things exploded not long after. The new director of the CDC, Dr. Gregory Lake, publicly redirected their research into reservoir conditions and possible
vaccination paths, while privately redirecting it into spontaneous remission and transmittable immunity. Oversight committees were called, and arrests were made through all levels of several governments. The world slowly began to change as the people began, finally, to rise.

Maggie recovered, and remained with the site. Her parents even assisted in funding replacements for the equipment we’d lost, both to disaster, and when the Masons insisted on reclaiming their van. Alaric and Alisa moved in with her; Alaric and Maggie will be getting married in the spring, mirroring the ceremony into several virtual worlds for the sake of those of us who have had quite enough of the United States for now, thank you very much.

Alaric took over the Newsies; one of our more promising betas—another George, amusingly enough, although he goes by “Geo” to prevent confusion—took over the Irwins; and I? I took over the entire operation, with Maggie as my second. We work well together. Maybe it’s not as flashy and exciting as it was during the Mason era, but it does well enough by us.

We changed the world. That’s all the news can hope to do, I suppose.

The last postcard I had from the Masons came not a week before that reporter’s early-morning call. It summed up the whole situation rather neatly:

Sanjukta sighed, drifting back into sleep. I kissed her on the forehead as I turned to carry her back to her
own room, where I settled her down on the mattress of her crib. She fussed, but didn’t wake.

I drew the blanket over her and backed out of the room, pausing in the doorway to whisper, “They may not have lived happily ever after. But they lived happily long enough.”

And then I turned, and I went back to bed.

Well: here we are. The story of the Masons is finally told, and it wouldn’t have been possible without the assistance of an amazing assortment of people. As before, they ranged from medical professionals who worked with both humans and animals to gun experts and epidemiologists.
Blackout
has been an incredible adventure to both research and write, and I am grateful to everyone who has contributed to its creation.

Michelle Dockrey once again lent her incredible eye for blocking to the action scenes and logistics to my work, improving the book beyond all measure in the process. Brooke Lunderville consulted on medical standards and processes, while Kate Secor not only edited, she tolerated endless dinners where I talked about horrible viral outbreaks over dessert.

The entire
Deadline
Machete Squad returned for this book, and I remain honored by their willingness to work with me to make sure it comes out mostly right. Priscilla Spenser and Lauren Shulz joined the Squad for the first time with this book, and did incredible work. Many thanks to them all, and to the endlessly patient,
endlessly tolerant, absolutely wonderful staff of Borderlands Books, who have put up with more from me than any one bookstore should.

Most of all, on this volume, I must thank DongWon Song, my editor, and Diana Fox, my agent. Both of them put in hours upon hours improving and refining the text. They are truly amazing people to work with. (Not to discount all the other amazing people at Orbit, both US and UK. A special thank-you must go to Lauren Panepinto for her amazing cover design. I am seriously amazed by the work she does.)

Finally, and once again, acknowledgment for forbearance goes to Amy McNally, Shawn Connolly, and Cat Valente, who put up with an amazing amount of “talking it out” as I tried to make the book make sense; to my agent, Diana Fox, who remains my favorite superhero; to the cats, for not eating me when I got too wrapped up in work to feed them; and to Tara O’Shea and Chris Mangum, the incredible technical team behind
www.MiraGrant.com
. This book might have been written without them. It would not have been the same.

Both the CDC and EIS are real organizations, although I have taken many liberties with their structure and operations. To learn more about the history of the EIS, check out
Inside the Outbreaks: The Elite Medical Detectives of the Epidemic Intelligence Service
, by Mark Pendergrast. (Thanks to Bill McGeachin for supplying my copy of this wonderful book.)

Rise up while you can.

www.orbitbooks.net

Born and raised in California, Mira Grant has made a lifelong study of horror movies, horrible viruses, and the inevitable threat of the living dead. In college, she was voted Most Likely to Summon Something Horrible in the Cornfield, and was a founding member of the Horror Movie Sleep-Away Survival Camp, where her record for time survived in the Swamp Cannibals scenario remains unchallenged.

Mira lives in a crumbling farmhouse with an assortment of cats, horror movies, comics, and books about horrible diseases. When not writing, she splits her time between travel, auditing college virology courses, and watching more horror movies than is strictly good for you. Favorite vacation spots include Seattle, London, and a large haunted corn maze just outside of Huntsville, Alabama.