“The campus hasn’t been cleared for human habitation yet.”
Stacy’s smile was feral. “I know,” she said. “There’s no telling what I might find there.”
She was doing something. She wanted to do something. Michael held fast to that idea as he took a breath and said, “I’ll talk to the administration and see if I can get you a spot on the next survey team.”
“Thank you,” said Stacy. She leaned across the couch where they had both been working all morning—the new showroom model couch they’d bought to replace the one the cleanup crew had burnt—and pressed a kiss to his cheek. Then she returned to sorting through her pictures, as if the conversation hadn’t happened at all.
Michael got up to find his phone.
2.
Stacy had been allowed to accompany the survey team into the heart of the UC Berkeley campus. Michael had not. There was only room for one civilian, according to the dean who had approved his request; two would be a safety risk, both to themselves and to the team. Michael wondered if part of it might be the fact that he was still officially on the faculty, and him dying on campus would look very bad for the school when it came time to reopen. It hadn’t been worth fighting. If he had pressed the issue, they might have refused to let Stacy go, and she had been buzzing with delight for days by the time the Jeep finally pulled up in front of the house and carried her away.
She had returned home muddy, bruised, and with a camera full of what she called “primo footage.” She had thrust it into Michael’s hands, asking him to upload the raw data onto her computer while she took a shower and doused herself in bleach. And then she had passed out on the bed, wrapped in a towel, arms splayed, like a puppet whose strings had been unexpectedly cut. With no one to tell him not to, and no previous instructions on the matter, Michael had done what came naturally:
He had settled down to watch her footage.
The videos were jerky, moving quickly with Stacy’s attention. It was something like watching The Blair Witch Project, only shot in full daylight, and with no prankish filmmakers shaking the tents to create a sense of terror. All the fear in these images came from the knowledge that whatever was hiding in the bushes could be the last thing you ever saw. UC Berkeley had always been a green campus. Now, after three years of neglect, it was a jungle of tangled underbrush and towering trees, making it difficult to see more than ten yards in any direction.
The first five-minute clip showed them hacking their way onto campus via the entrance near the Life Sciences Building. Some students had been trapped there during the early stages of the Rising, he remembered; he had communicated with them via radio for weeks, before all transmission finally stopped. He’d tried not to think about what might have happened to them.
The second clip had been recorded inside the Life Sciences Building. Stacy’s camera played unflinchingly over the scattered bones and bloodstains, answering the question of their survival once and for all. Michael winced, but didn’t close his eyes. There had always been a raw power in Stacy’s photographs, a necessity that transcended her often-amateurish technique. That power was present in the video, but amplified tenfold. She didn’t need to compose every frame perfectly, not when they melted together to form an inescapable whole.
Stacy Mason had finally found her calling.
The videos went on. There were dozens of them, sweeping through halls and classrooms that he remembered all too well. Michael realized he was crying, and pressed on anyway. If this footage was powerful enough to make him cry, when he knew what was coming… “Stacy, darling, you’ve hit the jackpot,” he murmured.
He was on the fifteenth video when the reasons for the mud on her clothes became clear. The survey team had been crossing the quad when something moved, and four infected burst out of the bushes. They were fresh, painfully so, and Michael had the presence of mind to think about writing an article on the dangers of complacency in newly repopulated zones before the infected were charging the team—before they were charging his wife.
The sound of automatic gunfire drifted out of the speakers, as well as the sound of moaning and shouts from the survey team. The camera focus danced back, and Michael realized that Stacy had to be running backward, trying to capture every possible moment. “Oh, God,” he breathed.
He should kill the sound. He knew that. Even a recording of a zombie’s moan could attract others, and he didn’t know whether the neighborhood was completely clear. He couldn’t bring himself to move. He just focused on that constantly moving image, the camera shifting, the zombies running, and Stacy—Stacy was laughing. Stacy was running backward while the men with guns tried to stay between her and the zombies, and she was laughing.
Then she fell.
It was abrupt, so abrupt that for a moment, he couldn’t tell what had happened, just that she was shouting and the camera was rolling, literally rolling end over end. There was a splash. He realized that she had run backward straight into the narrow creek that cut across the campus, and was now lying at the bottom of it.
The camera swung around to focus on Stacy’s face. She was grinning, showing the mud on her teeth. She hadn’t looked so happy, so alive, since before Phillip was bitten. Michael’s heart seemed to be caught in his throat, making it difficult to breathe.
“Wasn’t that fun?” she asked the camera. “Come on. Let’s go do it again.”
The clip ended after she had successfully scrambled back up the creek bank to solid ground, whooped, and started trotting toward the survey team. Michael didn’t press “play” on the next one. He just sat there, eyes turned toward the ceiling, and thought about what he could do to make this better. She was still in there, his Stacy; he’d just seen her, laughing at him from the video screen.
He just needed to find a way to make her stay.
3.
Stacy’s videos, spliced together with a basic suite of home editing tools so that they formed three fifteen-minute “reports,” were an instant hit. More than a hit: a phenomenon. They blew up the BlogLife servers twice, and were promptly mirrored all over the world. They weren’t the first videos to come out of the post-Rising world, but there was something about them that caught and held the public eye.
Stacy was reading reviews three days after the videos posted when she suddenly laughed, drawing Michael’s attention. “Listen to this,” she said, and read, “‘It’s like watching Steve Irwin’s spiritual successor try to get cozy with the dead.’ I think I’m flattered? I think that was intended to be flattering.”
“It was,” said Michael wonderingly. There it was: the missing ingredient. Stacy was having fun. Stacy was happiest when she was in motion, forgetting the things that had happened to them, the things that she had been forced by circumstance to do. The pain didn’t come through in the videos. Only the joy, and joy was something that was in short supply these days.
“Well, then, I’ll be sure to wear a khaki shirt next time I decide to go out and film myself.”
That was the opening he’d been waiting for. “Actually, if you’re looking for another opportunity to film—”
This time, it was Stacy’s head that snapped up, her eyes widening in hopeful anticipation. “Did you find us a cleanup crew to shadow?”
“Better,” he said. “There’s going to be an expedition to Santa Cruz, to see how the town fared and clear out any survivors. It’s virgin ground. They just reopened the highways, and there are still sincere concerns about zombie deer in the wooded areas. We’d be riding with a mixed CDC and Army detachment, and meeting up with the Coast Guard in Santa Cruz proper—unless, of course, you wanted to meet up with the Coast Guard in San Francisco, and approach Santa Cruz with them.”
“San Francisco…” said Stacy thoughtfully. “Wouldn’t that mean there would be a chance of zombie sea lions interfering with the mission?”
“Yes,” said Michael.
“So it’s sea lions on one end, and deer on the other.” Stacy paused before asking, in a voice full of hope, “C
ould we ride in with the Coast Guard, and back with the CDC?”
Michael had been assuming that would be her answer, and had made the arrangements accordingly. Still, he smiled, and said, “I’m pretty sure that would be doable.”
Stacy all but flew across the room to kiss him, and he had never been more proud of his ability to plan ahead.
That night, when she reached for him in the dark, he began to feel like this was going to work: like the path he was charting would carry them safely out of her trauma and into the warm world that was waiting on the other side. She was coming back to him, one video at a time, and as long as he could keep things moving forward, they had a chance.
The next three days passed in a rush of preparations. Stacy had to buy new batteries for her camcorder, a trip that somehow resulted in her coming home with the tiniest video camera he’d ever seen, a little square of lens and LED that clipped to the collar of her blouse and recorded the entire world in Stacy’s-eye perspective. Michael had to call the appropriate authorities to confirm that they’d be allowed to both enter and leave Santa Cruz. Blood tests would be required on both ends, he was told, since they planned to be transporting survivors out of the area; everyone would need to check out as clean. Michael was fairly sure that blood tests were going to be a daily part of life before much longer, and had agreed to the stipulation without pause.
That was another report he should write, he thought; something on the efficacy and necessity of blood testing for the live Kellis-Amberlee virus. He wasn’t sure he liked the idea of the government building a database of what was in his veins, but he could see the writing on the wall, and it was always best to seem like a visionary when possible. He didn’t have Stacy’s sheer joy at the work they were spending an increasing amount of their time doing. That meant he would need something else to sell him to the public, and integrity seemed like the best plan.
The irony of turning integrity into something he could sell had not escaped him. But Stacy needed this, right down to the center of her bones: she needed the cameras on her, and the excuse they offered for going out into the world and challenging it to do its worst. She was still damaged from what they’d been through—might always be damaged; Michael was no expert, but he knew how to do his research, and she was showing a lot of the signs of PTSD when the cameras weren’t on. It was just that rather than flinching away from the sound of gunfire, she craved it, because when the guns were firing, she was back in the place where what she had done could be forgiven. She yearned for the simplicity of the Rising. The cameras gave her that. He didn’t want to lose her. That meant he needed to find a way to stay on camera next to her.
Watching her strap on her Kevlar and check her battery packs, he rather thought that he’d move the world, if it meant he got to stay with her. If it meant he could convince her to stay with him.
There was a knock at the door. Michael stood, crossing the room and peering briefly out the peephole before he undid the dead bolt and swung the door open, revealing Lieutenant Collins. Michael raised an eyebrow.
“Are you our designated babysitter, then?” he asked.
Lieutenant Collins shrugged. “This is my territory and I don’t have an issue with the two of you coming along, provided you keep making us look good. Hello, Stacy.”
“Bernie!” Stacy was all smiles as she walked over to kiss the lieutenant’s cheek. “How’s Nathan? Has he called you?”
“He’s doing well,” said Bernie. He was married to a man who worked for FEMA, and was currently on assignment somewhere in central California, trying to get the country’s food production back online. “He said to tell you that he really enjoyed that last cleanup report you posted. He thought I looked suitably heroic.”
“Well, just let him know that if he needs more pictures of you, I’m the girl to call,” said Stacy. “I have a lot more than I can use.”
“You’re going to regret telling me that,” said Bernie. He turned to Michael, and suddenly he was Lieutenant Collins again: a subtle shift of posture that meant it was time to get down to business. “I’m going to be riding in with you on the Coast Guard vessel. Most of my team is already en route via Highway 17, but as they’re expecting to encounter some difficulties, we may beat them to Santa Cruz. In the event that we do, we will be remaining on the boat until such time as they arrive and we can continue safely. Do you have any questions about what we’re going to be doing today?”
“Yes,” said Stacy. “I know we’re looking for survivors—or you’re looking for survivors, really, and we’re looking for footage of you being awesome while you do it. Do you have any reason to think that we’ll find survivors in Santa Cruz? Or is this some sort of public relations ‘look, we tried’ maneuver?”
“Santa Cruz was hit hard, early; we lost touch with them before we lost touch with Berkeley,” said Lieutenant Collins. “To be honest, we didn’t expect to find survivors here. The fact that we did means we can’t afford to write off anyplace that isn’t a smoking crater. Apart from that, Mr. Mason’s little radio show got us thinking, and we started checking local bands. We’ve picked up a distress call out of Santa Cruz twice, both within the last three weeks. So while there are no guarantees, it seems like we have an obligation to go in.”
“Is the timing in any way connected to the rumor I heard from the governor’s office, about an official ‘hazard zone’ system being put in place?” asked Michael. “Santa Cruz sounds like it would be deemed pretty hazardous, and that might complicate further rescue missions.”
“I’m not at liberty to comment on federal regulations that may or may not be in the works,” said Lieutenant Collins. “We get in, we look for survivors, the two of you try not to get yourselves killed, we get out. Am I clear?”
“Perfectly,” said Stacy, and smiled like it was Christmas morning.
After that, there was nothing Michael could do but go along with it.
4.
The drive to San Francisco was smooth, even pleasant. The roads had been clear for weeks, the wrecks and abandoned cars having been reclaimed by the cleanup crews. Some of them—the ones with less biological contamination—might be repaired and used as emergency vehicles. After three years sitting in the elements, often with doors and windows open, Michael doubted the numbers would be very high. The rest would be recycled, reduced to their component materials and then used to construct things that were needed more. Like blood testing units.
The thought of checking his viral load using something that had originally been a Prius was funny enough to make him snort, once. That earned him an odd look from one of the soldiers they were riding with, and he did his best not to do it again.
San Francisco was magnificent in vista without the smog of industry surrounding it. Stacy leaned out the window to take pictures of the bridge, which had been rebuilt less than a year before the Rising, and had somehow managed to endure without maintenance or repair for the duration of the crisis. It was still probably unsafe to drive there, and Michael tensed until they turned off onto solid ground.
A vessel—Michael couldn’t remember if it was considered a boat or a ship when it was big enough to hold fifty men and crewed by the Coast Guard; “vessel” seemed safely generic—was waiting for them at the dock, a line of men in naval blue standing at the rail, their guns at the ready. Lieutenant Collins hopped out of the front passenger seat while the transport was still rolling to a stop. His men were close behind him, rising and filing out with the sort of practiced military precision that it was best not to get in front of. Michael and Stacy remained where they were, waiting for the crush to pass before they grabbed their gear and followed.
The wind blowing off the sea was cool, and tasted faintly of decay. Michael started toward the dock, and stopped as one of the soldiers put out an arm, blocking him.
“Sir, no sir,” said the soldier. “We are to wait here until given clearance to approach.”
“I just wanted to see what’s making that smell,” said Michael.
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br /> “Sea lions,” said a woman in naval blue, strolling up to the pair. “We shot thirty yesterday, when we prepped the landing for your arrival, and another fifteen this morning. They seem to be attracted by the smell of their own dead. Poor bastards keep coming back to what they know, even though they don’t belong here anymore.”
Michael shuddered. “Sea lions, naturally. They used to be a tourist attraction.”
“And now they’re attracted to tourists, because they’re hungry as hell.” The woman’s smile was a razor-blade slash across her raw-boned face. “There was a time when shooting these blubbery fuckers would’ve brought a hundred animal rights groups down on our heads, and now it’s just part of the daily routine. You Mason?”
“Michael Mason, yes.” He gestured to Stacy, who was about ten feet away and taking a picture of the broken pavement of the parking lot. He was sure she had a reason, something deeply symbolic that would get them another hundred readers. Honestly, as long as she was happy, he didn’t care. “My wife, Stacy. We’re accompanying the Santa Cruz mission for the purpose of documentation.”
“Oh, I know why you’re here,” said the woman. “I’m Commander Huff. This is my vessel. You’re going to be my guests for the duration of the trip. You will follow directions from my crew. You will not touch any part of the ship that you are not given permission to touch. You will not photograph the ship’s controls. You will not photograph any crew member who does not grant you explicit permission to do so. You with me so far?”
“I am,” said Michael. “I’ll tell my wife. If I may ask, however, your uniform… is everyone on this vessel a commander?”
“Good catch,” said Huff. “I was a field commission. Lots of people got turned or eaten during the Rising, and the ranks had to be filled. I’ll get a pretty uniform that says ‘hey, hey, the chick’s in charge’ to outsiders once there’s time to schedule a fitting. Cool by you?”