That doesn’t mean that things have been going unobserved. Judging by the ratings, page hits, and downloads, the campaign has been maintaining some of the highest viewer numbers since Cruise versus Gore in 2018. People want to know how it’s going to turn out. There’s a lot riding on this election. Including, incidentally, our careers.
Shaun’s always said that I take things too seriously; since the start of the campaign, he’d started saying my sense of humor had been surgically removed to make room for more anal-retentiveness. Anyone else who said that would probably have gotten slapped, but from Shaun, I had to admit to an element of truth. Still, if I left things up to him, we’d be living with our parents and pretending we didn’t mind the lack of privacy until we died. Someone has to watch the bottom line, and someone has pretty much always been me.
Glancing to Buffy, I stage-whispered, “How do our numbers look?”
She didn’t look up from the text scrolling rapidly across her phone. The data feed was moving so fast I didn’t have a prayer of following it, but it obviously meant something to Buffy because she nodded, with a small smile on her lips as she said, “We’re looking at a sixty percent local audience on the video feed, and we just hit top six percent on the Web. The only candidate getting a higher feed ratio is Congresswoman Wagman, and she’s lagging in the actual polls.”
“And we know why she’s getting the feeds, now, don’t we children?” drawled Shaun, continuing to test the links in his favorite chain-mail shirt with a pair of lightweight pliers.
I snorted. Word on the blog circuit is that Kirsten “Knockers” Wagman had serious breast augmentation surgery before she went into politics, acting under the assumption that in today’s largely Internet-based demographic, looking good is more important than sounding like you have two brain cells to knock together. That worked for a while—it got her a seat in Congress, partially because people enjoy looking at her—but it isn’t going to get her very far in a presidential race. Especially not now that she’s up against folks who understand the issues.
Senator Ryman didn’t appear to have noticed the emptiness of the hall or the nervous expressions on his few actual, physical attendees. Most were probably local politicians coming out to show that they believed in the safety of their community, since several of them looked like they’d explode if you snuck up behind them and said “boo” in a commanding tone of voice. Most, not all. There was one little old lady, at least seventy years old, sitting dead center in the front row. She held her purse primly in her lap, lips set into a thin, hard line as she watched Senator Ryman go through his paces. She didn’t look nervous at all. If any zombies tried to invade this political event, she’d probably wind up giving them what-for and driving them back outside to wait their turn.
The senator was winding down. You can only give your political platform in so many ways, no matter how much practice you have at saying the same thing from sixteen different angles. I adjusted my sunglasses, settling in my chair as I waited for the real fun to begin: the question-and-answer period. Most of the questions people come up with have something to do with the infected, as in, “What are you going to do about the zombies that the other guys haven’t tried already?” The answers can get seriously entertaining, and honestly, so can the questions.
Most questions are e-mailed in by the home audiences and asked by the polite, slightly bland voice of the senator’s digital personal assistant, which has been programmed to sound like a well-educated female of indeterminate age and race. Senator Ryman calls it “Beth” for no reason anyone has been able to get him to explain. I intend to keep trying. The best questions are the ones that come from the live audiences. Most of them are scared out of their minds after being out of the house for more than half an hour, and nothing loosens the tongue like fear. If I had my way, all questions would be asked by people who had just taken a trip through a really well-designed haunted house.
“—and now I’d like to take a few questions from our audience—both those watching this event through the electronic methods provided by my clever technicians,” Senator Ryman chuckled, managing to telegraph his utter lack of understanding of such petty details as “how the video feeds work,” “and the good people of Eakly, Oklahoma, who have been good enough to host us this evening.”
“Come on, lady, don’t let me down,” I murmured. Sure enough, the lady in the front row had her hand in the air almost before the senator finished speaking, arm jutting upward at a fierce, near-military angle. I settled back in my chair, grinning. “Jackpot.”
“Huh?” Buffy looked up from her watch.
“Live one,” I said, indicating the lady.
“Oh.” Suddenly interested in something other than the data feed, Buffy sat forward. She knows potential ratings when she sees them.
“Yes—the lady in the front row.” Senator Ryman indicated the woman, whose tight-lipped face promptly filled half the monitors in the room. Buffy tapped two buttons on her phone, directing her cameras to zoom in. The senator’s tech team is good, and even Buffy admits it; they understand camera angles, splicing footage, and when to go for a tight shot. Thanks to Chuck Wong, who does all their planning and design, they’re probably near the top of their field. But Buffy is better.
The lady in question lowered her hand, fixing the senator with a stern gaze. “What is your stance on the Rapture?” Her voice was as clipped and thin as I’d expected. The sound system picked it up clear as a bell, reproducing every harsh edge and disapproving inflection flawlessly.
Senator Ryman blinked, looking nonplussed. It was the first time I’d seen a question take him completely by surprise. He recovered with admirable speed, though, saying, “I beg your pardon?”
“The Rapture. The event in which the faithful will be elevated to the Heavens, while the unfaithful, sinners, and infidels will be left to suffer Hell on Earth.” Her eyes narrowed. “What is your stance on this holy, foreordained event?”
“Ah.” Senator Ryman continued to look at her, thoughtfulness clearing away his confusion. I heard a faint clink and glanced to my left; Shaun had put down his chain mail and was watching the stage with open interest. Buffy was staring at her phone, furiously tapping buttons as she angled her cameras. You can’t edit or pause a live feed, but you can set up the data to give you the best material to work from later. And this was the sort of material you just can’t stage. Would he bow to the religious nuts who have been taking over more and more of the party in recent years? Or would he risk alienating the entire religious sector of the voting public? Only the senator knew. And in a moment, so would we.
Senator Ryman didn’t break eye contact with the woman as he stepped out from behind his podium, walked to the edge of the stage, and sat, resting his elbows on his knees. He looked like a schoolboy approaching confession, not a man jockeying for the leadership of the most powerful country on the planet. It was a well-considered position, and I applauded it inwardly, even as I began to consider an article on the showmanship of modern politics. “What’s your name, ma’am?”
“Suzanne Greeley,” she said, pursing her lips. “You haven’t answered my question, young man.”
“Well, Ms. Greeley, that would be because I was thinking,” he said, and looked out at the small gathering, a smile spreading across his face. “I was taught that it’s rude to answer a lady’s question without giving it proper thought. Sort of like putting your elbows on the table during dinner.” A ripple of laughter passed through the crowd. Ms. Greeley didn’t join in.