Feed (Newsflesh Trilogy #1)(10)
Author: Mira Grant

That was the perfect thing to say. Sitting outside added to the family’s mystique, making us look brave and adventurous. Parental opinion, not mine. I think eating outside when you don’t have to makes you look like a suicidal idiot dying to get munched by a zombie deer. Shaun sides with everybody on this one—he’d rather eat outside when we have to eat with the parents in public, since that way there’s the chance a zombie deer will come along and rescue him. He just agrees that it’s a stupid thing to do. Mom doesn’t see the stupidity. If it was a choice between an outdoor table where the photographers could get some decent shots and an indoor table where people might gossip about the fearless Stacy Mason losing her nerve, well her answer was obvious.

Flashing her award-winning—literally—smile at the crowd, Mom pulled me into an “impulsive” hug and announced, “Well, folks, our table’s ready.” Noises of displeasure greeted her statement. Her smile widened. “But we’ll be back after food, so if you guys want to grab a burger, we might be able to coax a few wise statements out of my girl.” She gave me a squeeze and let go, to the sound of general applause.

I sometimes wonder why none of these news site cluster bombs ever catch the way her smile dies when she’s not facing the cameras. They run solemn pictures of her once in a while, but they’re as posed as the rest; they show her looking mournfully at abandoned playgrounds or locked cemetery gates, and once—when her ratings dipped to an all-time low during the summer Shaun and I turned thirteen and locked ourselves in our rooms—at the school Phillip had attended. That’s our Mom, selling the death of her only biological child for a few points in the ratings game.

Shaun says I shouldn’t judge her so harshly, since we make our living doing the same thing. I say it’s different when we do it. We don’t have kids. The only things we’re selling are ourselves, and I guess we have a right to that.

Dad and Shaun were standing outside the restaurant doors, turned just far enough that none of the microphones capable of withstanding the crowd noise without shorting out would be able to make out what they were saying. As I drew closer, I heard Shaun saying, in an entirely pleasant tone, “ I really don’t care what you consider ‘reasonable.’ You’re not part of our team; you’re not getting any exclusives.”

“Now, Shaun—”

“Dinnertime,” I said, snagging Shaun’s arm as I walked past. He came with me as gratefully as I’d gone with Buffy a few moments before. Shaun, Buffy, and I walked into the restaurant practically arm-in-arm, with our parents trailing behind us, both struggling to conceal their irritation. Tough. If they didn’t want us embarrassing them in public, they shouldn’t have made us go out.

Our table proved to be nice enough to suit Mom’s idea of propriety; it was located in the far corner of the yard, close to both the fence keeping out the woods and the fence isolating us from the street. Several enterprising paparazzi had drifted over to that portion of the sidewalk and were snapping candid shots through the bars. Mom flashed them a dimpled grin. Dad looked knowing and wise. I fought the urge to gag.

My handheld vibrated, signaling an incoming text message. I unclipped it from my belt, tilting it to show the screen.

“Think this’ll die down when we’re on the road?—S”

I smirked, tapping out, “Once the media machine (aka ‘Mom’) has been left here? Absolutely. We’ll be small potatoes next to the main course.”

He tapped back: “I love it when you compare people to food.”

“Practicing for the inevitable.”

Shaun snorted laughter, nearly dropping his phone into the basket of breadsticks. Dad shot him a sharp look, and he put his phone down next to his silverware, saying angelically, “I was checking my ratings.”

Dad’s scowl melted instantly. “How’s it looking?”

“Not bad. The footage the Buffster managed to clean before we hauled her away from her computer is getting a really good download rate.” Shaun flashed a grin at Buffy, who preened. If you want her to like you, compliment her poetry. If you want her to love you, compliment her tech. “I figure once I do the parallel reports and record my commentary, my share’s going to jump another eight points. I may break my own top stats this month.”

“Show-off,” I said, and smacked him on the arm with my fork.

“Slacker,” he replied, still grinning.

“Children,” said Mom, but there was no heat behind it. She loved it when we goofed around. It made us look more like a real family.

“I’m going to have the teriyaki soy burger,” said Buffy. She leaned forward and said conspiratorially, “I heard from a guy who knows a girl whose boyfriend’s best friend is in biotech that he—the best friend, I mean—ate some beef that was cloned in a clean room and didn’t have a viral colony, and it tasted just like teriyaki soy.”

“Would that it were true,” said Dad, with the weird sort of mournfulness reserved for people who grew up before the Rising and were now confronted with something that’s been lost forever. Like red meat.

That’s another nasty side effect of the KA infection that no one thought about until they were forced to deal with it firsthand: Everything mammalian harbors a virus colony, and the death of the organism causes the virus to transmute into its live state. Hot dogs, hamburgers, steaks, and pork chops are things of the past. Eat them, and you’re eating live viral particles. Are you sure there aren’t any sores in your mouth? In your esophagus? Can you be one hundred percent certain that no part of your digestive tract has been compromised in any way? All it takes is the smallest break in the body’s defenses and your slumbering infection wakes up. Cooking the meat enough to kill the infection also kills the flavor, and it’s still a form of Russian roulette.

The most well-done steak in the world may have one tiny speck of rare meat somewhere inside it, and that’s all that it takes. My brother wrestles with the infected, gives speeches while standing on cars in designated disaster zones, never wears sufficient armor, and generally goes through life giving the impression that he’s a suicide waiting to happen. Even he won’t eat red meat.

Poultry and fish are safe, but a lot of people avoid them anyway. Something about the act of eating flesh makes them uncomfortable. Maybe it’s the fact that suddenly, after centuries of ruling the farmyard, mankind has reason to empathize with the chicken. We always had turkeys at Thanksgiving and geese at Christmas. Just another ratings stunt on the part of our increasingly media-savvy parents, but at least this one had some useful side effects. Shaun and I are some of the only people I know in our generation who don’t have any unreasonable dietary hang-ups.

“I’m going to have the chicken salad and a cup of today’s soup,” I said.

“And a Coke,” prompted Shaun.

“And a carafe,” I corrected him.

He was still teasing me about my caffeine intake when the waiter appeared, accompanied by the beaming manager. No surprise there. As a family, we’ve been excellent customers for as long as I can remember. Every time a local outbreak has closed down outside gathering areas, Mom’s been at Bronson’s, eating in the enclosed dining area and making a point of being the first one outside when they’re allowed to reopen it. They’d be stupid not to appreciate what we’ve done for their business.

The waiter was carrying a tray laden with our usual assortment of drinks: coffee for Mom and Dad, a virgin daiquiri for Buffy, a bottle of sparkling apple cider for Shaun—it looks like beer from any sort of a distance—and a pitcher of Coke for me.

“Compliments of the house,” the manager declared, turning his smile on me and Shaun. “We’re so proud of you. Going off to be media superstars! It runs in the family.”

“It definitely does,” simpered Mom, doing her best to look like a giggling schoolgirl. She was only succeeding at looking like an idiot, but I wasn’t going to tell her that. We were almost on the campaign trail. It wasn’t worth the fight.

“Be sure to sign a menu before you leave?” the manager pressed. “We’ll put it on the wall. When you’re too big to come to places like this, we’ll be able to say, ‘They ate here, they ate fries right there, right at that table, while they did their math homework.’ ”

“It was physics,” protested Shaun, laughing.

“Whatever you say,” said the manager.

The waiter passed drinks around as we placed our orders. He finished by pouring the first cup of Coke from my pitcher with a flourish of his wrist. I smiled at that, and he winked at me, clearly pleased. I let my smile die, spiking an eyebrow upward. Hours of practice with my mirror have shown me that particular expression’s success in conveying disdain. It’s one of the few facial expressions that’s helped by my sunglasses, rather than being hindered by them. His pleasure faded, and he hustled through the rest of his duties without looking at me.

Shaun caught my eye, mouthing “That wasn’t nice” at me.

I shrugged, mouthing “He should have known better” back at him. I don’t flirt. Not with waiters, not with other reporters, not with anybody.

Finally, the staff retreated, and Mom raised her glass, clearly signaling for a toast. Choosing the path of least resistance, the rest of us did the same.

“To ratings!” she said.

“To ratings,” we agreed and clinked our glasses around the table in doleful adherence to the ritual.

We were on the road to those ratings now. All we had to do was hope that we were good enough to keep them. Whatever it might take.

My friend Buffy likes to say love is what keeps us together. The old pop songs had it right, and it’s all about love, full stop, no room for arguing. Mahir says loyalty is what matters—doesn’t matter what kind of person you were, as long as you were loyal. George, she says it’s the truth that matters. We live and die for the chance to maybe tell a little bit of the truth, maybe shame the Devil just a little bit before we go.

Me, I say those are all great things to live for, if they’re what happens to float your boat, but at the end of the day, there’s got to be somebody you’re doing it for. Just one person you’re thinking of every time you make a decision, every time you tell the truth, or tell a lie, or anything.

I’ve got mine. Do you?

—From Hail to the King,

the blog of Shaun Mason, September 19, 2039

Five

ID?”

“Georgia Carolyn Mason, licensed online news representative, After the End Times.” I handed my license and photo identification to the man in black, turning my left wrist over to reveal the blue-and-red ID tattoo I had done when I tested for my first Class B license. Tattooing isn’t legally required—yet—but it gives them something to identify your body by. Every little bit helps. “Registered with the North American Association of Internet Journalists; dental records, skin sample, and identifying markings on file.”