For her part, Lesley was becoming alarmed. She knew her dog. Unis was the best service dog she’d ever had, and if Unis was ignoring her, that meant that something was seriously wrong.
“This isn’t good,” she whispered, and wished, not for the first time, that she wasn’t locked in alone with her dog, who might be excellent company but had never quite mastered the art of conversation.
Unis continued growling. It was getting louder now. It still couldn’t quite block out the new sound that was coming from the other side of the door: human voices, moaning.
“Here!” said Lesley, sitting up a little straighter. “Whoever you are, you can just go away! You’re frightening my dog! We don’t want any!”
The moaning didn’t stop. If anything, it increased, and someone began banging on the door. Several someones, from the sound of it.
“Go away!” shouted Lesley.
They didn’t go away.
Unis stopped growling and began barking wildly when the door started caving inward. By then, it was too late to do anything about the infected who were smashing their way into the control room—but really, it had been too late since they were locked in. Lesley screamed.
Unis, who was a very good dog, fought to the end to defend her mistress, and died knowing that The Woman was safer because she had been there. Out of everyone who fell during the siege of San Diego, she may well be the only one who died at peace, knowing that she’d done her best.
The same cannot be said of Lesley Smith. Her last thought was of Unis, whose frenzied barking had stopped a few seconds before. Worrying about her dog made it a little easier to endure the teeth biting into her flesh—and then there was only pain, and darkness, and then there was nothing at all.
No one on the convention floor noticed what was happening in the control room. By that point, they all had problems of their own.
* * *
12:09 A.M.
Lynn came to join the group as they were preparing to move. Shawn’s phone was in her hand. She offered it to him, saying quietly, “The battery died. She said to tell you that she loves you.”
“Thank you,” said Shawn, and took the phone, clipping it to his belt.
Lynn nodded and looked around at the remains of their group. The screaming from the front of the hall was getting louder, but it wasn’t quite on top of them. Yet. “Where are we going?”
“The food court,” said Shawn. “The parking garage clearly isn’t a viable exit, or Dwight and Rebecca would have contacted us by now. That means we need another way. There might be an employee door at the back of their little café—and if not, there’s the freezer. It could survive the bombing.”
“And it’s better than sitting here waiting to be blown up,” said Leita.
“Leita’s right,” said Lynn. “But if we’re going to move, it needs to be now. If we stand here too long, we’re not going anywhere.”
“Then let’s go,” said Shawn.
The five of them left the booth together, holding what weapons they could improvise or scrounge from the toolbox. Each of them knew that they would never be coming back, and carried what they thought was important: a backpack, a tote bag filled with merchandise, the cash box, the signed picture of Joss Whedon from the charity drawing. Shawn knew that some of the things people had chosen to carry would slow them down, but he didn’t say anything about it. There would have been no point. They were more likely to die trying to escape than they were to make it out of the building. If people felt better because they died holding their laptops or their favorite shirts, he wasn’t going to be the one who told them no.
As for Shawn himself, he brought his phone, the hammer he’d been holding off and on since arriving at the convention center, and his wife. His daughter was already safe. Nothing else could possibly have mattered to him in that moment.
Together, the last of the California Browncoats walked deeper into the hall, heading for the food court, hoping for a miracle.
They weren’t going to get one.
* * *
12:11 A.M.
The moaning outside was getting softer as the zombies moved away, pursuing easier prey along the aisles of the convention center. Elle realized she was giggling under her breath. She clapped a hand over her mouth. That just made it worse. She folded double, laughing and crying at the same time, struggling with the need to do both as quietly as possible.
“What’s so funny?” asked Marty. He didn’t sound belligerent, just tired. They were all tired.
“A friend of mine has—” Elle caught herself. If the lying was going to stop, the lying was going to stop right here and now. “My girlfriend has this shirt that says, ‘In the event of a zombie apocalypse, I don’t have to run faster than the zombies. I just have to run faster than you.’ I guess it’s more accurate than we ever thought.”
Marty chuckled once, eyes narrowed. “I guess that’s true. But it doesn’t tell us what we’re going to do next.”
“How bad is it out there?” asked Matthew. “We’ve been shut in here since the lights went out. We don’t really know what’s happening on the floor.”
“It’s bad,” said Stuart unsteadily. “It’s really bad. Kelly…”
“One of our friends got bitten, and then she became one of those things,” said Pris, a little unsteadily. She was still clutching her tablet. She looked down at it, blinking. She hadn’t realized that she still had it; she’d assumed it was lost during their flight down the aisles. Then she realized that she didn’t remember much about what happened when the zombies came. First Kelly was coming around the corner, and then the rest of them were running through the open door of the makeshift little house.
“So we know it’s contagious,” said Elle. “What does that mean for us? Do we stay in here and keep hoping for rescue, or do we start trying to get the hell out of here?”
The others started talking, some of them on top of one another, all trying to put forth the best idea for what came next. Matthew and Stuart were both in favor of staying put, since there was no way they could be locked inside forever, and at least they had a door that shut. Eric and Patty were in favor of getting the hell out. Elle and Marty were doing their best to get everyone to discuss things calmly.
No one was looking at Pris.
She put her tablet down on the nearest desk—realizing only in that moment that they were in a replica of the precinct office from Space Crime Continuum—and took a step toward the wall, turning her back to the group. Then she rolled up her sleeves and looked at her arms. There were no bite marks. She relaxed marginally.
“Oh thank God,” she muttered, and turned back to the others.
They were all watching her. “Pris? Was there something you needed to tell us?” Marty’s tone was gentle, almost sad.
She shook her head. “I’m not bit. I blacked out a little bit during the run, but I’m not bit.”
“Thank God,” said Eric.
Pris smiled. “My sentiments exactly.”
“I don’t feel so good,” said Stuart, and sat down on the edge of a nearby desk, bloody hands tightening around his borrowed spear. “And no, I’m not bit, either. I just don’t like blood and dying and running for my life.”
“No one does,” said the little British man—Matthew, that was his name. Matthew. “Can we get back to the business of sorting out what happens next?”
“I think we should stay here,” said Pris. “We have the wireless back on. We can keep transmitting our position to the authorities, and you guys are right; having walls between us and the rest of the hall is a luxury we can’t afford to give up.”
The argument resumed. This time, it was Stuart who didn’t join in. He let his head loll forward, trying to figure out why he felt so dizzy. It had been coming on in waves since they left Kelly alone by the front wall, and the dizziness was just getting worse as time passed.
None of them understood the Kellis-Amberlee virus: Understanding was something for the future, for the survivors of the Rising and the heroes at the CDC who would begin their multi-decade fight against an elegant work of accidental genetic engineering. But they understood zombies, and they knew that a bite, under these circumstances, could very well mean death.
None of them considered that bloody hands carelessly touching the face, brushing against the mucus membranes of the nose and mouth, wiping tears away from vulnerable eyes, could be just as dangerous as a bite, if slightly slower-acting. They were smart people. By the standards of their time, they were well equipped to survive. But none of them had the knowledge they needed to understand what was going on inside Stuart’s body. Kellis-Amberlee was already with them in their little sanctuary; it had entered via the front door, and it was not leaving.
Stuart clutched his spear a little tighter, and waited for the room to stop spinning.
LORELEI TUTT’S APARTMENT,
LONDON, ENGLAND, JUNE 1, 2044
The rum is gone. Lorelei stopped drinking shortly after I did, and now stares into her empty cup like she expects it to start offering answers. I have barely needed to prompt her through the last segment of her story. Now that the floodgates are open, it is all rushing out.
LORELEI: Vanessa had this program on her iPad. It was a little video recorder thing. She had it set to transmit everything to the server, so that even if she lost the physical tablet, she’d still have the recordings. I think it was supposed to be some sort of crime-prevention thing. Like if the iPad got stolen and the thief hit the wrong button, he’d find himself on Candid Camera. She turned it on when they left the booth. Everything recorded. Everything uploaded. And I watched it all.
MAHIR: Do you still have the footage?
LORELEI: I’ve tried to delete it a thousand times. I can’t. It’s my parents. It’s the last time they were alive anywhere in the world. They were less than ten miles away from me, and they were on camera, and I wasn’t there. I should have been there. I should have stayed. But I had to be a pissy little bitch and get myself sent to the hotel. I—