“Governor, there have been no indications that infected individuals are capable of emotions as complex as hate. Further, they’re not dead. If rights end where the grave begins, shouldn’t they be protected by law like any other citizen?”
“Miss, that’s the sort of thinking you can afford when you’re safe, protected by men who understand what it means to stand strong. When the dead—sorry, the ‘infected’—are at your door, well, you’ll be wishing for a man who speaks like me.”
“Do you feel that Senator Ryman is soft on the infected?”
“I don’t think he’s ever been put into a position to find out.”
Nicely said. Cast doubt on Senator Ryman’s ability to fight the zombies and imply that he might be overly sympathetic to the idea of “live and let live”—a concept that gets floated now and then by the members of the far left wing. Usually for about fifteen minutes, until another lobbyist gets eaten. “Governor, you’ve spoken on wanting to do away with the so-called Good Samaritan laws that currently make it legal to extend assistance to citizens in trouble or distress. Can you explain your reasoning?”
“Simple as pie. Someone in distress likely got that way for a reason. Now, I’m not saying that I don’t feel terrible for anyone who winds up in that sort of a position, but if you rush to my aid when I’ve been bit, and you violate a quarantine line to do it, well, odds are good that you’re not saving me anyway, but you’ve also just thrown your own life aside.” The governor smiled. It might have seemed warm if it had come close to reaching his eyes. “It’s always the young and the idealistic who die that way. The ones America needs most of all. We have to protect our future.”
“By sacrificing our present?”
“If that’s what it takes, Miss Mason,” he said, smile widening and turning beatific. “If that’s what America requires.”
Now that I’ve had my long-delayed meeting with the man, there’s one question on everybody’s mind: What did I think of Governor David “Dave” Tate of Texas, elected three times in a landslide of votes, each time from voters from both sides of the partisan fence, possessed of an incredible record for dispensing justice and settling disputes in a state famed for its belligerence, hostility, and political instability?
I think he’s the scariest of the many frightening things I’ve encountered since this campaign began. And that includes the zombies.
Governor Tate is a man who cares so much about freedom that he’s willing to give it to you at gunpoint. He’s a man who cares so deeply about our schools that he supports shutting down public education in favor of vouchers distributed only to schools with government safety certifications. A man who cares so deeply about our farmers that he would reduce the scope of Mason’s Law to allow not only large herding dogs but livestock up to a hundred and thirty pounds back into residential neighborhoods. Governor Tate wants us all to experience the glories of his carefree youth, including, it would seem, pursuit by infected collies and zombie goats.
To make matters worse, he has a good speaking manner, a parochial appearance that polls well in a large percentage of the country, and a decorated history of military service. In short, ladies and gentlemen, he is a legitimate contender to hold the highest office in our nation, as well as being the man who seems most likely to escalate the unending conflict between us and the infected into a state of all-out war.
I can’t tell you to choose Senator Ryman as the Republican Party candidate just because I don’t like Governor Tate. But I can tell you this: The governor’s biases, like mine, are a matter of public record. Do your research. Do your homework. Learn what this man would do to our country in the name of preserving a brand of freedom that is as destructive as it is impossible to secure. Know your enemy.
That’s what freedom really means.
Twelve
“George?”
“Yeah?” I didn’t look up. Editing Governor Tate’s remarks into a coherent interview was easy, especially since I wasn’t forcing myself to be evenhanded. The man didn’t like me; there was no reason to pretend it wasn’t mutual. Compiling everything into a readable format took less than fifteen minutes, and we were already getting a satisfactory number of hits. It was the follow-ups that were taking time. Not only did I have a lot of photographs and video footage to wade through, but the phenomenal amount of gossip and hearsay posted about the man bordered on appalling. The folks running the convention were about to start calling the votes—we’d have a formal party nominee inside the hour—and I wasn’t anywhere near prepared to leave my computer.
“No, seriously, George?”
“What?”
“There’s a man.”
Now I did look up, squinting in the glare from the open office door before I reached for my sunglasses. The room faded into a comforting monochrome. Anyone who values colors has never had to deal with a KA-induced migraine. “You want to try that again? Because you almost told me something, and I’m thinking you might want to obfuscate your verbiage just a little more. Just for, y’know, giggles.”
“He says you invited him here.” Shaun leaned forward and smirked, his tone dripping with affected smarm. “Got a little election night itch you want scratched? I mean, he’s not completely hideous, although I didn’t think the corn-fed farm boys were your type—”
“Wait. Sandy brown hair, about your height, blue eyes, older than us, looks like butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth?”
“Or anywhere else you wanted to shove it,” Shaun confirmed, eyes narrowing. “You mean you really did tell him to come here?”
“He’s a defector from Wagman’s press corp. She’s pulling out, and he’s bringing everything he’s got, providing it nets him a spot with us for the duration of Ryman’s campaign.”
Shaun’s eyebrows rose. “Public domain materials?”
“Or he wouldn’t be trying to bribe us with them. Buffy!” I hit Save and stood, looking toward the closet our resident Fictional had drafted as her private office. The door cracked open, and her head poked out. “Drop me all the personnel files you can pull on Wagman’s press corps and get out here. We have an interview to conduct.”
“Okay,” she said, and withdrew back into the closet. My terminal beeped a moment later, signaling receipt of the files I’d requested. We’re nothing if not efficient.
“Good.” I looked to Shaun. “Let’s find out whether the man’s wasting our time. Go get him.”
“Your wish, my command,” Shaun said, and turned, closing the door behind him.
Buffy emerged from her closet, moving to take the seat next to me. She had her hair skimmed back in a loose ponytail and was wearing a blue button-up shirt I was reasonably sure belonged to Chuck. She looked about as professional as your average fifteen-year-old, which was close to perfect: If this guy couldn’t handle us in our natural working environment, he didn’t really want to work with us.
“You really thinking of hiring this guy?” she asked.
“Depends on what he’s got and what his credentials say,” I said.
She nodded. “Fair enough.”
Further conversation was forestalled as the door swung open. Shaun stepped into the room, followed by the man from the press room. He was carrying a sealed folder under one arm, which he tossed to me as soon as he was clear of the door. I caught it and raised one eyebrow, waiting. Buffy sat up a little straighter, attention fixed on the newcomer.