“Please don’t tell me Steve died,” I said.
“No, he’s fine. Still writes me sometimes, or did, before we had to go off the grid. See, Steve and I broke quarantine to get to Ryman…”
The story he told was crazy and impossible and enough to break my heart. I’d always known that Tate was bad, but Shaun was the one who confronted him, and got fed a line about restoring America to its roots through fear and control. Tate martyred himself. It might have worked, too, if he hadn’t martyred me first.
Shaun buried me and tried to move on, but the world wouldn’t let him; the world never does. Instead, he wound up neck deep in conspiracies and craziness. Dave died. Kelly Connolly died. Dr. Wynne turned out not to be an ally, but one more crazy man out to change the world into what he thought it should be. The longer Shaun talked, the more I realized that the only allies we had were the ones we shared a website with.
I only stopped him twice: once to ask about the reservoir conditions, and once to make him repeat, several times, that he’d been bitten and hadn’t amplified. Crazy as it might sound, that was the part I had the most trouble believing. The additional details on the insect vector for Kellis-Amberlee just left me cold. Maybe mankind was going to lose the war against the living dead after all—and this time, it might not be because someone dropped a vial.
Eventually, Shaun stopped talking. Then he reached up and removed my sunglasses, putting them beside me on the bed. “We could run,” he said. “You and me. Head for Canada, or something. The others could finish this without us. You know they would.”
“And we’d never forgive ourselves,” I said. “We finish this. And if we survive, somehow, through some miracle… then we run. You and me, and anywhere they won’t find us.”
“It’s a date.” He leaned back, reaching for the phone.
I blinked. “What are you doing?”
“Calling room service. I don’t want you to blow away if there’s a stiff wind.”
I laughed and hit him without thinking about it. That brought a totally sincere smile to his face before he turned away to deal with placing our order. Less than fifteen minutes later, two massive bowls of chicken cacciatore were delivered to our door, along with a six-pack of Coke and a piece of tiramisu the size of my head. My stomach growled when I saw the food, and I realized that I was genuinely hungry for the first time in a long time.
The only thing I wanted more than food was access to the Internet, which Shaun provided as soon as our dinner was just memory and crumbs. My laptop wasn’t at the Agora—why would it be?—so he let me borrow his, both of us stretching out on the bed with our backs to the headboard, my shoulder pressing into his chest as I began doing the most important thing I could possibly do.
I began catching up on the news.
Working as a professional journalist meant years of learning to absorb as much information as possible in as short a time as possible, since failure to stay on top of current events could easily result in posting a story that had no relevance at all. I was always a little slower than most of my contemporaries, because I was always so damn careful to check and double-check my facts before I put my name behind them. Oh, I had my op-ed blogs—Just the Wind when I was a teenager on a provisional license, and Images May Disturb You once I was old enough to go full-time—but those were thoughts. Opinions. Ideas. It was the articles I put on the main site that really mattered, and those were the things that needed me to do my research.
Using After the End Times as my start point, I pulled up the archives, going all the way back to the day after I died. Shaun’s posts from that period were a jumbled mess; half the time, I wasn’t even certain they were written in English. Mahir and Alaric did most of the real reporting, following the rest of the Ryman campaign with a clinical detachment that told me everything I needed to know about the depth of their grief. Shaun wasn’t the only one who’d been hurting. And the headlines rolled on.
Ryman elected in a landslide vote, stuns voters by choosing Richard Cousins as his replacement vice president! The Democratic candidate, Susan Kilburn, is so devastated by her loss that she takes her own life! Ryman takes the White House!