My parents, Yu and Jun Kwong, are dead.
My brother, Dorian Kwong, is dead.
My colleague, Dr. Barbara Tinney, is dead.
While reports are currently sketchy, it is entirely possible that the state of Florida, and much of the surrounding region, is dead.
Welcome to the end of the world.
—From The Kwong Way of Things, the blog of Alaric Kwong, June 24, 2041
Twenty-three
Yes, I’ll hold,” snarled Mahir, and continued pacing. I barely noticed. I couldn’t take my eyes away from the television, where CNN continued to faithfully record the worst disaster to strike the human race since the summer of 2014, when the dead first decided to get up and nosh on the living.
Maggie sat next to me on the couch, even more fixated on the news than I was. Her interest in the situation was a little more proprietary than mine; Garcia Pharmaceuticals owned three factories and a research center in the affected area, and with the fatality reports updating every few seconds, a moment’s inattention could mean missing the deaths of people she’d known her entire life.
Alaric and Becks had retired to the kitchen after the first hour. Alaric was trying to get the wireless up and running, while Becks was cleaning her guns and checking the catches on the windows—just in case. It was a sentiment I could appreciate, even if I couldn’t find it in myself to move.
That’s enough, said George abruptly. The television was showing a school bus packed refugees being besieged by the living dead. The people inside were screaming; I could see their faces through the windows. As long as they were screaming, they were still essentially human. They were past saving. I hoped that infection took them quickly, or that someone had enough bullets to—
Shaun! George’s shout was enough to shock me out of my stupor. It’s amazing how loud something like that can seem when it’s coming from inside your head.
I turned to glare at the air to my left. Maggie, sunk deep in her own fugue state, didn’t appear to notice. “What?” I demanded.
George folded her arms and glared back. “You’re not doing anyone any good sitting there like a media consumer, you know. You need to be finding out what the hell is going on.”
“And how do you suggest I do that, huh?” I spread my arms, indicating the television and Mahir—still pacing and snarling into his phone—with the same gesture. “Things are sort of shitty right now, George, in case you failed to notice.”
“Oh, trust me, I noticed, I just don’t see where I need to care.” George grabbed my arm and hauled me to my feet. “Come on. You’ve got work to do.” Giving me a slow look, she added, “And some clothes to put on. God, Shaun, are you really sitting around watching television in your boxers? That’s just sad.”
“If there’s all this work, why don’t you do it?”
“Because I’m dead, remember?” She kept hold of my wrist as she spoke, pulling me toward the kitchen. “You need to ask Alaric whether Maggie moved our van into the garage before things locked down.” Catching my blank expression, she sighed. “Come on, Shaun, try to keep up for, like, thirty seconds while you’re losing your mind, okay? If we can get to the van without going outside, we can get to our emergency wireless booster.”
My eyes widened. “Crap, you’re right. We still have that thing, don’t we?”
“Unless you threw it away in a moment of unrepeated sanity and then didn’t tell me about it, yeah, we do.”
Being on a news team with Buffy Meissonier meant dealing with a girl who was occasionally twenty pounds of crazy crammed into a ten-pound sack, and who eventually sold us out to the government conspiracy that got George killed. It also meant working with the best espionage technician I’ve ever encountered, either in the private sector or working for the government. She could make computers do things I’m not sure even science fiction considers possible, and she did it all while wearing holo-foil butterflies in her hair and T-shirts claiming that some dude named Joss was her master now. People say Buffy was good. They’re wrong. Buffy was great.
Mahir was still shouting at the phone when George pulled me past him. He gave me a harried glance and nodded, eyes skipping straight past George. That made sense, I guess, since it’s not like she was really there.
“I’m pretty sure this represents a whole new level of fucked-up crazy,” I muttered, as George yanked me into the kitchen.
“I’m he cause of your psychotic break; I’m just a symptom,” she replied waspishly, and shoved me toward Becks and Alaric.
Becks, like Mahir, had managed to dress while I was staring at the television and was wearing combat boots, a black tank top, and camouflage pants—the Irwin equivalent of a uniform. She and Alaric were sitting at the table, him with his laptop pulled as close to his body as it would go, leaving the rest of the space for her. She had what looked like a small armory spread out in front of her, and was in the process of reassembling a semiautomatic handgun that had yet to be legally cleared for private ownership. They looked up when they heard my footsteps.
“What’s the update?” asked Becks. She snapped the magazine into place with a click that echoed through the kitchen, eliciting a startled yip from one of the bulldogs sprawled next to the sealed-off door.
“Nothing that’s good,” I replied. George had released my wrist when she got me where she wanted me, and I realized without surprise that she was gone again. That was okay by me. Her appearing and physically hauling me around the house represented a whole new level of crazy, and I wanted to avoid thinking about it for as long as possible. “Forever” seemed like an excellent place to start. “They’ve declared martial law in the areas that haven’t been officially marked as hazard zones, and it’s starting to look like they’re going to mark the entire damn Gulf Coast as a Level 1 hazard.”
Alaric paled. “They can’t do that.”
“Yes, they can.” Becks put down the gun she’d been working on. “In case of an outbreak confirmed to impact more than sixty percent of the population in a given area, USAMRIID and the CDC will both recommend that a Level 1 designation be applied for the protection of the surrounding area. The government reserves the right to take their recommendation.” A smile that looked more like a grimace twisted her lips upward. “Our parents voted that little jewel into law, and we never repealed it, because why should we? Outbreaks are tiny things. Bad things. It’s better if we can let fifteen people die and save five thousand, right?”
“Only this time, we’re going to let fifteen million die,” I said. “That sounds a little different, don’t you think? Alaric.”
He turned to me and blinked. He was pale and stunned looking, like he still couldn’t believe what was happening. That was understandable. I couldn’t believe it either. “What?”
“Where’s the van?” His expression didn’t change. I took a careful breath, and amended, “Where’s our van? Did Maggie have you move it to the garage after we left, or is it still parked out back?”
If the van was parked outside, there was no way I’d be able to get at it. Maybe one of Maggie’s security ninjas—but that would mean trying to talk them through finding the wireless booster, and I wasn’t sure my memory was good enough for that.
“I…” Alaric stopped, frowning. “It’s in the garage. It was out back until you called—Maggie wanted to keep the garage open for her Fictionals when they came through—but she got spooked when you told us to hole up, and she had me move it inside, where it wouldn’t be visible to satellite surveillan”
“God bless justified paranoia,” I said fervently, and started toward the garage door. The bulldogs lifted their heads and whined, watching me.
“Where are you going?” asked Becks, half-rising.
“The van.” I looked between them, noting their matching blank looks, and explained, “I’m pretty sure Buffy’s old wireless booster is still out there. If I can get it running—”
“—we can get back online,” said Alaric, his eyes widening in comprehension. “I forgot
all about that thing!”
“We haven’t exactly needed to use it in the last year.” I started walking again. “I’ll be right back. If I’m not right back, well… fuck, I don’t know. If I’m not right back, throw some gas grenades into the garage and call for the security dudes to come and shoot me until I stop bleeding.”
“We’ll shoot you ourselves,” said Becks, causing Alaric to shoot her a distressed look. She ignored it. You learn to shrug that sort of thing off after you’ve been in the field for a while. That, or you stop trying to talk to people who aren’t Irwins.
“Thanks.” I opened the garage door, shoving a bulldog aside with my foot before it could sneak by me, and slipped through.
The garage lights were motion-activated white fluorescents. They clicked on as soon as the door to the kitchen swung shut, filling the enclosed space with an even, sterile glow. I scanned the area, automatically assessing the load-bearing capacity of the shelves lining the walls and the security of the pipes connecting to the water heater and emergency backup generator. Maggie used the garage primarily for storage, cramming most of the shelves with boxes and using the ones nearest the door as an extension of the pantry. One entire floor-to-ceiling shelving unit was dedicated to bags of dried dog food. At least the bulldogs wouldn’t be going crazy with hunger anytime soon.
Our van was sitting at the center of the room. It had been washed before it was put away, and its paint almost gleamed in the antiseptic light. I took a step toward it.
“Hello, Mr. Mason,” said the voice of the house. It managed to sound chiding, which was a nice trick, since it didn’t have normal human intonations. I stopped where I was, looking vainly for the speaker. “I am afraid the house is presently in a sealed state. You will be unable to exit, and should return to the interior.”
“That’s cool. I’m not trying to get out.” I forced myself to relax, one inch at a time. “I just need to get something from the van.”
“Attempts to break the isolation seals will be met with necessary force.”
“Necessary force” was a polite way of saying that the house security system would shoot me where I stood if I looked like I was trying to get the doors open. “Noted,” I said. “I’m not trying to get out, I swear. The van is right there, and I won’t even be turning on the engine. Promise.”
“Your compliance is appreciated,” said the house, and went silent. I wted a few seconds to see if it was going to try to evict me from the garage. Nothing happened. I started for the van, moving faster this time—if the house decided I was dawdling, it might decide I was planning to escape, and then things could get really messy, really fast. Use of lethal force by private security systems has been authorized since some jackass in Arizona loaded his house guns with dummy bullets and got himself ripped apart by a pack of starving infected. His estate tried to sue the security firm that managed his defenses, and the security firm turned right around and sued the state, saying they hadn’t been allowed to do the things they had to do if they wanted to keep their client alive.
“Mangum v. Pierce Security v. the State of Arizona,” supplied George. She reached the van a few steps ahead of me, folding her arms as she leaned against the door. “Do you remember where Buffy kept the booster?”
“Hi, George. Nice to see you.” I pressed my thumb against the scanner, letting the van identify me as an authorized driver. The locks clicked open. “So does this mean I’m finally going really crazy?”
She shrugged. Her face still looked wrong without her sunglasses, alien and familiar at the same time. “I think it means you already have a way of coping with things that are too big for you to handle. So Maggie goes into vapor lock, and Mahir shouts at the embassy trying to get a call through to his wife, and you…”
“I see dead people walking around and giving me orders. Great.” I offered her a pained smile as I pulled the van door open. “At least I like having you here. This would get old damn fast if you were Mom.”
George grimaced exaggeratedly. “There’s a bright side to everything.”
“Really? What’s the bright side for Florida? Because I’m really not seeing one.” Our field equipment was piled haphazardly around the van’s interior, stacked on counters and taking up most of the floor space. It would take an hour, maybe more, to get the thing ready for an excursion. I couldn’t blame Maggie and Alaric for putting it away in this condition—they weren’t expecting to leave the house without a lot of notice, and they weren’t field operatives—but I still had to grit my teeth when I saw that the weapon racks hadn’t been properly secured. If we had to run for any reason, we’d all wind up getting killed by our own carelessness.
“If you’re not seeing one, I can’t see it either. You know that.”
I bit back the urge to swear at her. Fighting with George used to be one of my best ways of blowing off steam. I’ve mostly tried to avoid it since she’s been gone; it doesn’t seem fair to start something when neither of us can really leave the room. Besides, in my saner days, I was always afraid I’d say something unforgivable and she’d leave me alone with the dark behind my eyes, and no more George, ever. I wasn’t so much afraid of that anymore. We just didn’t have time to fight.
“Hey, George, do me a favor, will you? Either go away, or stop pointing out how you’re just a figment of my imagination and help me find the damn booster. I can’t handle having you hanging around calling me crazy. I get enough of that from everybody else.”
“Your wish is y command,” she deadpanned, before climbing up to join me in the van. She couldn’t touch anything, naturally, but her feet still made soft echoing sounds when they hit the floorboards, and her shadow on the walls moved just the way that it was supposed to. I had to admire the realism of my hallucinations, even though I knew that probably wasn’t what most people would consider to be a good sign.
“Really? ’Cause right now, what I’m wishing for is a tank.” I paused. “Maybe two tanks. Becks will probably want one, too, and I don’t want to be greedy.”
“Always thinking of others, that’s you.” Her fingers brushed the back of my neck as she moved past me. I shivered. “The last time I saw the booster, Buffy was stowing it back here, with the rest of the backup network hardware.”
“We moved that around Valentine’s Day, when Becks did her ‘romantic places to take an Irwin’ article series.” I snapped my fingers. “The lockboxes!”
George leaned against the counter to watch as I dropped to my knees, rolled back the industrial rug covering the van floor, and pried up the trapdoor it had been concealing. We don’t have a complete second floor in the van—the weight would have been prohibitive, not to mention the structural instability it would have introduced—but we had a few extra storage compartments built in for a rainy day during the first major retrofit. They made good hiding spots for contraband when we were doing certain types of articles, and the rest of the time, they were a convenient place to hide snack foods… or excess hardware.
The first compartment held nothing but weird-looking cartoon porn and Russian girlie magazines. I smiled despite myself. “Damn, Dave. You had smarts and you had guts, but what you did not have was taste.”
“He was pretty much in love with Magdalene,” said George.
I amended: “Most of the time, what you didn’t have was taste. Sometimes, you were spot on.” I pried open the second compartment. A metal box with half a dozen antennae welded to the sides was nestled in the bottom, padded by wads of duct tape. I reached down to wriggle it loose, lifting it carefully out of its cradle. “There we go.”
“Remember, there’s supposed to be a detached battery pack that goes with it.”
“Right.” I stuck my hand into the welter of duct tape, rummaging for a moment before pulling up a small metal square with a power adapter at one end and a USB port at the other. “Got it!” I held it up, turning to show her.
George was gone. Again.
I stopped for a second, looking at the space where she’d been
—hadn’t been—had appeared to be—only a moment before. Then I sighed, lowering the battery pack as I picked the wireless booster back up and pushed myself to my feet. “This stage of the crazy is going to get real old, real fast, you know.”
Sorry. But you’re still too sane to sustain that sort of breakdown for very long.
“Guess this means that whole ‘not forever’ thing we talked about before is sort of moot, huh?” My hads moved automatically as I spoke, pulling a bag from under the counter and sliding the wireless booster inside.
I think that depends on you, said George apologetically. I’m not the one who needs to move on. I’m the one who’s here because you still need me.
“Yeah, well, right now? Right now, I think being crazy may be the only thing that’s keeping me sane. Come on.”
I closed the van door and made my way back across the garage. The house security system didn’t say anything. I guess it was smart enough to recognize that I hadn’t gone near any of the exits. That, or it just wasn’t in the mood to argue with me. I didn’t care either way.
Alaric and Becks were still at the kitchen table, in the exact positions they were in when I went into the garage. There was one difference: Half of Becks’s guns were gone, making room for me to put down the bag. “Alaric, you got an extension cord?”
“In my laptop bag,” he said. As he bent to retrieve it, he asked, “Did you find the wireless booster?”
“I did. Got any idea how it works?”
“Not really.”
“That explains why we stopped using it. I guess we’re going to have to hope that my classic ‘smack it until it works’ approach can save the day.” I sat, unpacking the wireless booster and connecting it to the battery pack. Alaric passed me an extension cord. I hooked it to the battery, and Becks took the other end, plugging it into the wall.
Try not to break anything you can’t fix.