Feed (Newsflesh Trilogy #1)(11)
Author: Mira Grant

“Remove the sunglasses.”

That was a request I was all too familiar with. “If you’ll check my file, you’ll see that I have a filed notation of retinal Kellis-Amberlee syndrome. If there’s another test we can perform, I’d be happy to—”

“Remove the sunglasses.”

“You realize I won’t display a normal retinal pattern?”

The man in black offered me the ghost of a smile. “Well, ma’am, if your eyes check normal, we’ll know you’ve been making all this fuss because you weren’t who you claimed to be, now, won’t we?”

Damn. “Right,” I muttered, and removed my glasses. Forcing myself to keep my eyes open despite the pain, I turned to press my face into the retinal scanner being held by the second member of Senator Ryman’s private security team. They would compare the scan results to the ocular patterns in my file, checking for signs of degradation or decay that could signify a recent viral flare. Not that they’d get any useful results from me; retinal KA means my eyes always register as if I were harboring a live infection.

Buffy and Shaun were going through the standard version of the same process with their own detachments of black-suited security representatives just a few feet away from me. I was willing to bet theirs hurt less.

The light at the top of the retinal scanner went from red to green, and the man pulled it away, nodding to his companion. “Hand,” said the first man.

I took a few precious seconds to slide my sunglasses back into place before holding out my right hand, and managed not to grimace as it was grabbed and thrust into a closed-case blood testing unit. Clinical interest took over, wiping away my distaste for the process as I studied the unit’s casing.

“Is that an Apple unit?” I asked.

“Apple XH-224,” he replied.

“Wow.” I’d seen the top-of-the-line units before, but I’d never had the opportunity to use one. They’re more sophisticated than our standard field units, capable of detecting a live infection at something like ten times the speed. One of those babies can tell you that you’re dead before you even realize that you’ve been bitten. Which didn’t make the process of getting tested any more enjoyable, but it definitely made it more interesting to observe. It was almost worth the pain. Almost.

Five red lights came on along the top of the box, beginning to blink as needles pricked the skin between my thumb and forefinger, at my wrist, and at the tip of my pinkie. Each time, the bite of the needle was followed by a cool blast of antiseptic foam. When all five lights had gone from red to green, the agent pulled the box away and smiled genuinely for the first time.

“Thank you for your cooperation, Miss Mason. You’re free to proceed.”

“Thanks,” I said, and pushed my sunglasses farther up the bridge of my nose. My headache settled back into its previous grumble. “Mind if I wait for the rest of my crew?” Buffy was sticking her hand into the box, and they were waiting for Shaun’s retinal check to complete. He has retinal scarring in his left eye from a stupid incident with some crappy Chinatown fireworks when we were fifteen, and that makes his scans take longer than they should. Mine may be weird, but they’re a standard weird. His confuse just about every scanner we’ve ever met.

“Not at all,” the agent said. “Just don’t cross the quarantine line, or we’ll have to start over.”

“Got it.” I stepped back and studied the area, careful to keep my feet well away from the red line marking the edge of the defined “safe” zone.

We’d been expecting increased security around the campaign, but this was more than I’d been bargaining for. They picked us up from Buffy’s house; the senator’s security dispatch wasn’t even willing to let us near their cars unless they were collecting us from a secured location, which took our place out of the running. Given that they gave us blood tests before they said hello, I don’t quite get the reasoning. Maybe they didn’t want to deal with a zombie attack before lunch. Or maybe they were avoiding our parents, who were practically panting at the idea of a photo opportunity with the senator’s men.

Once in the cars, we were transported to the Oakland Airport, where we had to take another blood test before they loaded us and our portable gear onto a private helicopter. We flew to what was supposedly an undisclosed location but I was pretty sure was the city of Clayton, near the foothills of Mount Diablo. Most of that area was purchased by the government after the original residents evacuated, and it’s been rumored for years that they were using some of the old ranches as short-term housing. It’s a nice place, assuming you don’t mind the occasional threat of zombie coyotes, wild dogs, and bobcats. Rural areas offer a lot where privacy is concerned, but not so much if what you’re looking for is safety.

Judging by the stables around the perimeter, our destination started life as a working farm. Now it was clearly a private residence, with electric fences spanning the spaces between buildings and barbed wire strung as far as the eye could see. Factor in the helipad and it didn’t take any great leap of logic to conclude that this place confirmed the rumors about the government setting up hidey-holes out in the abandoned boonies. Nice digs, if you can get them. I smiled as I continued looking around. Our first day, and we already had a scoop: Government Use of Abandoned Land in Northern California Confirmed. Read all about it.

Buffy picked up her bags and walked over to me, looking flustered. “I don’t think I’ve ever been poked that many times,” she complained.

“At least now you know you’re clean,” I said. “Cameras rolling?”

“There was a minor EMP band at the entrance that took two and five off-line, but I anticipated for that and built in redundancies. One, three, and four, and six through eight, are all transmitting live and have been since pickup.”

I looked at her flatly. “I didn’t understand a word of that, so I’m just going to assume you said ‘yes’ and move on with my life, all right?”

“Works for me,” she said, waving at Shaun as he joined us. “You’re done?”

“They know Shaun can’t be a zombie,” I said, adjusting my sunglasses. “You need a brain to reanimate.”

He elbowed me amiably and shook his head. “Dude, I’m amazed they didn’t strip search us. They should’ve bought us dinner first, or something.”

“Will lunch do?” asked a jocular voice. All three of us turned, finding ourselves facing a tall, generically handsome man whose carefully cropped brown hair was starting to gray but had been left just long enough in the front to fall across his forehead and create the illusion of boyishness. His skin was tan but relatively unlined, and his eyes were very blue. He was casually dressed in tan slacks and a white shirt, with the sleeves rolled up around his elbows.

“Senator Ryman,” I said, and offered him my hand. “I’m Georgia Mason. These are my associates, Shaun Mason—”

“Hey,” interjected Shaun.

“—and Georgette Meissonier.”

“You can call me Buffy,” said Buffy.

“Of course,” the senator said, taking my hand and shaking it. He had a good grip, solid without being overwhelming, and the teeth he revealed when he smiled were straight and white. “It’s a pleasure to meet all three of you. I’ve been watching your precampaign preparations with interest.” He released my hand.

“We had a lot to accomplish and not much time to accomplish it in,” I said.

“A lot to accomplish” verged on understatement. We had seven baby bloggers contact us before we finished eating dinner, all wanting to know if we were planning to schism. Once people knew the size of the story we’d landed, there was no way striking out on our own would have been a surprise, so we didn’t try to make it one. The folks at Bridge Supporters were sorry to see us go and pleased by our severance offer: We took exclusive rights to all campaign-trail stories to our new site, but we allowed them to keep running two of Buffy’s ongoing poetry series, gave them first rights on any continuations to Shaun’s series on exploring the ruins of Yreka, and guaranteed two op-ed pieces from me per month for the next year. They’d get click-through reads from the folks following us on campaign, and we’d get the same in return as existing Bridge Support readers found their way to our new site through the shared material. My friend Mahir had been looking to move on to new challenges, and he was glad to sign on to help me moderate the Newsies. Shaun and Buffy had their own hiring to do, and I left it to them.

Finding a host for our new site was disturbingly easy. One of Buffy’s biggest fans runs a small ISP, and he was willing to put us up and online in exchange for a minimal fee and a lifetime membership to our exclusive features, once we had some to offer. Less than twenty minutes after calling him, we had a URL, a place to put our files, and our very first subscriber. The baby bloggers who contacted us the first night were quickly joined by two dozen others, and that gave us the liberty to pick and choose, looking for people who fit a profile other than “available.” We wound up with twelve supporting betas, four in each major category, already producing content for a site that hadn’t even officially launched yet. Never in my wildest dreams did I believe it could be that easy to get everything you’d ever wanted but it was.

After the End Times went live six days after we got the notice that we had been chosen to accompany Senator Ryman’s campaign, with my name on the masthead as senior editor, Buffy listed as our graphic designer and technical expert, and Shaun responsible for hiring and marketing. Whether we sank or swam, there was no going back; once you make alpha, you can never be a beta again. Blogging is a territorial world, and the other betas would eat you alive if you tried.

I hadn’t slept more than four hours a night in two weeks. Sleep was a luxury reserved for people who weren’t trying to design their futures around a meal ticket that might still prove to be a rotten apple. I just had to hope the dirt we found on the campaign trail would be enough to support us, or our careers would be short, sour, and too interesting by far.

“Still, you seem to have done all right,” Senator Ryman said. His Wisconsin accent was stronger than it sounded on the newscasts; either he didn’t realize we were filming, or he figured there was no point in playing fake around the people who were going to be sharing his quarters over the next year. “If you’ll come with me, Emily has a nice lunch going, and she’s been looking forward to meeting you.”

“Is your wife coming with you for the whole campaign?” I asked. He started to walk toward a nearby door, and I followed, gesturing for the others to do the same. We knew the answer already—Emily Ryman was going to be staying on the family ranch in Parrish, Wisconsin, during most of the year, taking care of the kids while her husband did the moving and shaking—but I wanted him to say it for our pickup recordings. The best sound clips are the ones you gather for yourself.