Were going to cover the presidential campaign.
My profession owes a lot to Dr. Alexander Kellis, inventor of the misnamed Kellis flu, and Amanda Amberlee, the first individual successfully infected with the modified filovirus that researchers dubbed Marburg Amberlee. Before them, blogging was something people thought should be done by bored teenagers talking about how depressed they were. Some folks used it to report on politics and the news, but that application was widely viewed as reserved for conspiracy nuts and people whose opinions were too vitriolic for the mainstream. The blogosphere wasnt threatening the traditional news media, not even as it started having a real place on the world stage. They thought of us as quaint. Then the zombies came, and everything changed.
The real media was bound by rules and regulations, while the bloggers were bound by nothing more than the speed of their typing. We were the first to report that people whod been pronounced dead were getting up and noshing on their relatives. We were the ones who stood up and said yes, there are zombies, and yes, theyre killing people while the rest of the world was still buzzing about the amazing act of ecoterrorism that released a half-tested cure for the common cold into the atmosphere. We were giving tips on self-defense when everybody else was barely beginning to admit that there might be a problem.
The early network reports are preserved online, over the protests of the media conglomerates. They sue from time to time and get the reports taken down, but someone always puts them up again. Were never going to forget how badly we were betrayed. People died in the streets while news anchors made jokes about people taking their zombie movies too seriously and showed footage they claimed depicted teenagers horsing around in latex and bad stage makeup. According to the time stamps on those reports, the first one aired the day Dr. Matras from the CDC violated national security to post details on the infection on his eleven-year-old daughters blog. Twenty-five years after the fact his wordssimple, bleak, and unforgiving against their background of happy teddy bearsstill send shivers down my spine. There was a war on, and the ones whose responsibility it was to inform us wouldnt even admit that we were fighting it.
But some people knew and screamed everything they understood across the Internet. Yes, the dead were rising, said the bloggers; yes, they were attacking people; yes, it was a virus; and yes, there was a chance we might lose because by the time we understood what was going on, the whole damn world was infected. The moment Dr. Kelliss cure hit the air, we had no choice but to fight.
We fought as hard as we could. Thats when the Wall began. Every blogger who died during the summer of 14 is preserved there, from the politicos to the soccer moms. Weve taken their last entries and collected them in one place, to honor them, and to remember what they paid for the truth. We still add people to the Wall. Someday, Ill probably post Shauns name there, along with some lighthearted last entry that ends with See you later.
Every method of killing a zombie was tested somewhere. A lot of the time, the people who tested it died shortly afterward, but they posted their results first. We learned what worked, what to do, and what to watch for in the people around us. It was a grassroots revolution based on two simple precepts: survive however you could, and report back whatever you learned because it might keep somebody else alive. They say that everything you ever needed to know, you learned in kindergarten. What the world learned that summer was share.
Things were different when the dust cleared. Some people might find it petty to say especially where the news was concerned, but if you ask me, thats where the real change happened. People didnt trust regulated news anymore. They were confused and scared, and they turned to the bloggers, who might be unfiltered and full of shit, but were fast, prolific, and allowed you to triangulate on the truth. Get your news from six or nine sources and you can usually tell the bullshit from the reality. If thats too much work, you can find a blogger who does your triangulation for you. You dont have to worry about another zombie invasion going unreported because someone, somewhere, is putting it online.
The blogging community divided into its current branches within a few years of the Rising, reacting to swelling ranks and a changing society. Youve got Newsies, who report fact as untainted by opinion as we can manage, and our cousins, the Stewarts, who report opinion informed by fact. The Irwins go out and harass danger to give the relatively housebound general populace a little thrill, while their more sedate counterparts, the Aunties, share stories of their lives, recipes, and other snippets to keep people happy and relaxed. And, of course, the Fictionals, who fill the online world with poetry, stories, and fantasy. They have a thousand branches, all with their own names and customs, none of them meaning a damn thing to anyone who isnt a Fictional. Were the all-purpose opiate of the new millennium: We report the news, we make the news, and we give you a way to escape when the news becomes too much to handle.
From Images May Disturb You,
the blog of Georgia Mason, August 6, 2039
Four
Presidential campaigns have traditionally been attended by pet journalists selected to follow the campaign and report on everything from the bright beginning to the sometimes-bitter end. The Rising didnt change that. Candidates announce their runs for the big chair, pick up their little flock of television, radio, and print reporters, and hit the road.
This years presidential election is different, largely because one of the lead candidates, Senator Peter Rymanborn, raised, and elected in Wisconsinis the first man to run for office who was under eighteen during the summer of 14. He remembers the feeling of being betrayed by the news, of watching people die because they trusted the media to tell them the truth. So when he announced his candidacy, he made it a point that he wouldnt just be inviting the usual crew to follow his campaign; hed also invite a group of bloggers to walk the campaign trail with him from before the first primary all the way to the election, assuming he made it that far.
It was a bold move. It was a huge strike for the legitimacy of Internet news. Maybe were licensed journalists now, with all the insurance costs and restrictions that implies, but were still sneered at by certain organizations, and we can have trouble getting to information from a lot of the mainstream agencies. Having a presidential candidate acknowledge us was an amazing step forward. Of course, he was only going to allow three bloggers to come along. All of them had to have their Class A-15 licenses before they could even apply; if you were in the process of qualifying, your application would be thrown out without any sort of review.
Most of the bloggers we know applied, either singly or in groups, and we wanted that posting so bad that we could taste it. It was our ticket to the big leagues. Buffy had been operating under a Class B-20 license for years; as a Fictional, she didnt need the clearance for field work, political reporting, or biohazard zones, and so shed never seen the point in paying the license fees or taking the tests. Shaun and I rushed her through her A-level tests and classifications so fast that she just looked sort of stunned when they handed her the upgraded license. We sent in our application the next day.
Shaun was sure wed get it. I was sure we wouldnt. Now, still staring at my monitor, Shaun said, George?
Yeah?
You owe me twenty bucks.
Yeah, I agreed, before standing and throwing my arms around his neck. Shaun responded by whooping, putting his arms around my waist, and lifting me off the ground in order to whirl me around the room.
We got the job! he shouted.
We got the job! I shouted back.
After that, we devolved to shouting the words together, Shaun still swinging me in a circle, until the bedroom intercom crackled on and Dads voice demanded, Are you two making that racket for a reason?
We got the job! we shouted, in unison.
Which job?
The big job! Shaun said, putting me down and grinning at the intercom like he thought it could see him. The biggest big job in the history of big jobs!
The campaign, I said, aware that the grin on my face was probably just as big and stupid as the grin on Shauns. We got the posting for the presidential campaign.
There was a long pause before the intercom crackled again and Dad said, You kids get dressed. Ill get your mother. Were going out.
But dinner
Can go into the fridge. If you two are going to go stalk politicians all over the country, were going out for dinner first. Call Buffy and see if she wants to come. And thats an order.
Yes, sir, said Shaun, saluting the intercom. It clicked off and he turned on me, holding out his right hand. Pay up.
I pointed to the door. Get out. Theres about to be nudity, and youll just complicate things.
Finally, adult content! Should I turn the webcams on? We can have a front-page feed in less than five I grabbed my pocket recorder and flung it at his head. He ducked, grinning again. minutes. Ill go get some nicer clothes on. You can call the Buff one.
Out, I said again, lips twitching as I fought a smile.
He walked back to the door between our rooms, stepping through before he shot back, Wear a skirt, and Ill release you from your debts.
He managed to close the door before I found anything else to throw.
Shaking my head, I moved to the dresser, saying, Phone, dial Buffy Meissonier, home line. Keep dialing until she picks up. Buffy has a tendency to leave her phone on vibrate and ignore it while she follows her muse, which is basically a fancy way of saying screws around online, writes a really depressing poem or short story, posts it, and makes three times what I do in click-through revenue and T-shirt sales. Not that Im bitter or anything. The truth will make you free, but it wont make you particularly wealthy. I knew that when I chose my profession.
Playing with dead things is a little more lucrative, but Shaun doesnt make enough to support us bothnot yet, anywayand he isnt willing to move out without me. A lifetime spent within arms reach and counting primarily on each other has left us a little dependent on one anothers company. In an earlier, zombie-free era, this would have been dubbed co-dependence and resulted in years of therapy, culminating in us hating each others guts. Adoptive siblings arent supposed to treat each other like theyre the center of the world.