“Run the timeline, George,” I said, taking some comfort in the sound of my voice. Everything else might have changed, but not that. “You were in Sacramento with Rick and Shaun, running for the van. Something hit you in the arm. One of those syringes like they used at the Ryman farm. The test came back positive. Rick left. And then… then…” I faltered, having trouble finding the words, even if there was no one else to hear them.
Everyone who grew up after the Rising knows what happens when you come into contact with the live form of Kellis-Amberlee. You become a zombie, one of the infected, and you do what every zombie exists to do. You bite. You infect. You kill. You feed. You don’t wake up in a white room, wearing white pajamas and wondering how your brother was able to shoot you in the neck without even leaving a scar.
Scars. I wheeled and stalked back to the mirror, pulling the lid on my right eye open wide. I learned how to look at my own eyes when I was eleven. That’s when I got my first pair of protective contacts. That’s also when I got my first visible retinal scarring, little patches of tissue scorched beyond recovery by the sun. We caught it in time to prevent major vision loss, and I got a lot more careful. The scarring created small blind spots at the center of my vision. Nothing major. Nothing that interfered with fieldwork. Just little spots.
My pupil contracted to almost nothing as the light hit it. The spots weren’t there. I could see clearly, without any gaps.
“Oh.” I lowered my hand. “I guess that makes sense.”
I paused, feeling suddenly stupid as that realization led to another. When I first woke up, the voice from the intercom told me all I had to do was speak, and someone would hear me. I looked up at the speaker. “A little help here?” I said. “I need to pee really bad.”
There was no response.
“Hello?”
There was still no response. I showed my middle finger to the mirror before turning and walking back to the bed. Once there, I sat and settled into a cross-legged position, closing my eyes. And then I started waiting. If anyone was watching me—and someone had to be watching me—this might be a big enough change in my behavior to get their attention. I wanted their attention. I wanted their attention really, really badly. Almost as badly as I wanted a personal recorder, an Internet connection, and a bathroom.
The need for a bathroom crept slowly higher on the list, accompanied by the need for a drink of water. I was beginning to consider the possibility that I might need to use a corner of the room as a lavatory when the intercom clicked on. A moment later, a new voice, male, like the first one, spoke: “Miss Mason? Are you awake?”
“Yes.” I opened my eyes. “Do I get a name to call you by?”
He ignored my question like it didn’t matter. Maybe it didn’t, to him. “I apologize for the silence. We’d expected a longer period of disorientation, and I had to be recalled from elsewhere in the building.”
“Sorry to disappoint you.”
“Oh, we weren’t disappointed,” said the voice. He had the faintest trace of a Midwestern accent. I couldn’t place the state. “I promise, we’re thrilled to see you up and coherent so quickly. It’s a wonderful indicator for your recovery.”
“A glass of water and a trip to the ladies’ room would do more to help my recovery than apologies and evasions.”
Now the voice sounded faintly abashed. “I’m sorry, Miss Mason. We didn’t think… just a moment.” The intercom clicked off, leaving me in silence once again. I stayed where I was, and kept waiting.
The sound of a hydraulic lock unsealing broke the quiet. I turned to see a small panel slide open above the door, revealing a red light. It turned green and the door slid smoothly open, revealing a skinny, nervous-looking man in a white lab coat, eyes wide behind his glasses. He was clutching his clipboard to his chest like he thought it afforded him some sort of protection.
“Miss Mason? If you’d like to come with me, I’d be happy to escort you to the restroom.”
“Thank you.” I unfolded my legs, ignoring pins and needles in my calves, and walked toward the doorway. The man didn’t quite cringe as I approached, but he definitely shied back, looking more uneasy with every step I took. Interesting.
“We apologize for making you wait,” he said. His words had the distinct cadence of something recited by rote, like telephone tech support asking for your ID and computer serial number. “There were a few things that had to be taken care of before we could proceed.”
“Let’s worry about that after I get to the bathroom, okay?” I sidestepped around him, out into the hall, and found myself looking at three hospital orderlies in blue scrubs, each of them pointing a pistol in my direction. I stopped where I was. “Okay, I can wait for my escort.”
“That’s for the best, Miss Mason,” said the nervous man, whose voice I now recognized from the intercom. It just took a moment without the filtering speakers between us. “Just a necessary precaution. I’m sure you understand.”