“A blood test. The field kit is next to you. The biohazard team won’t approach until we’re either checked out clean or dead.” I pulled my finger free, feeling the antiseptic tingle in the pinprick wound, and shook my hand briskly before depressing the signal button at the base of the kit. That would activate the built-in wireless transmitter, uploading the results into the CDC mainframe. A manual upload is only necessary in the event of a negative; the CDC doesn’t care, under normal circumstances, about the fact that someone isn’t about to turn into a zombie. Buffy’s results uploaded themselves the second the lights settled on red. Once you’ve tested positive, the CDC knows. Disabling the upload functionality of a blood testing unit is a federal offense.
Shaun mirrored my actions. He held out his hand and I passed him his test kit, which he dropped into one of the plastic bags he pulled from his belt. My test kit went into a separate bag, which he handed to me. Again in semi-unison, we pressed down the pressure seals, leaving our respective thumbprints on the corners of our bags. If they were tampered with in any way, the seals would turn scarlet and the kits inside would become worse than useless; they would become suspect.
“I… I’m not sure I can,” said Rick, swallowing. “Buffy…”
“Buffy’s dead, and so is Chuck. We need to know if you’re clean.” I handed the bag back to Shaun and moved to crouch next to Rick, picking up his test unit and popping off the plastic cover to reveal the pressure pad and needle inside. “Come on. You know the drill. It’s just a little pinprick.”
“What if the lights go red?”
“Then we’ll sit with you until the CDC gets here; they have better units than we do, and they’re on their way,” I said, keeping my voice as reasonable as I could. I felt like crying. I didn’t dare. Rick looked like he was barely holding himself together; if I started to cry, his control might shatter. “Unless you actually start to convert, we’ll take no actions.”
“If the lights go red, you’ll take action immediately,” he said, and his voice was suddenly cold, devoid of hesitation. “I want that bullet in my brain before I know what’s going on.”
“Rick—”
He leaned forward, jamming his thumb down on the needle’s point. “I’m not upset that you shot her, Georgia. I’m upset that she had to go that far before you could.” He tilted his face upward, looking to Shaun, then to me. “My son converted before he died. Please do me the great kindness of letting me die while I remember his name.”
“Of course,” I said and straightened, stepping back to my customary place beside Shaun. He raised his right hand, placing it against the middle of my back, while his left hand moved to rest, ever so lightly, on the holster of his pistol. If we lost a second teammate today, the bullet wouldn’t be mine. Sometimes you have to spread the guilt around.
“I didn’t know you had a kid, Ricky-boy,” said Shaun, his tone almost jovial. “What else haven’t you been telling us?”
“I wear women’s underwear,” Rick said. Then, very slightly, he smiled. “I’ll show you his picture sometime. He just… he’s the reason I left print media. Too many people there remembered him, and too many of them had known his mother. Too many people looked at me differently after I lost them. I still loved the news. But I didn’t want to be the news. So I found another way to get the story out there.”
The lights were flashing, red to green to red. “What was your son’s name, Rick?” I asked.
“Ethan,” Rick said, his smile growing more sincere and coloring with sorrow. “Ethan Patrick Cousins, after my father and his mother’s grandfather. Her name was Lisa. His mother, I mean. Lisa Cousins. She was beautiful.” He closed his eyes. “He had her smile.”
The lights stopped flashing.
“We’ll remember their names for you, if it ever comes to that,” I said, “but it won’t be today. You’re clean, Rick.”
“Clean?” He opened his eyes, looking at the test kit like it was some alien thing he’d never seen before. Then, slowly, he removed his finger from the needle and pressed the transmission button. “Clean.”
“Which is a damn good thing because there was no way I was taking care of your mangy cat,” said Shaun.
“He’s right,” I said, moving to offer a hand to Rick, to help him off the ground. “Shaun would have tossed her out the window at the first truck stop we passed.”
“Now, George, don’t be silly,” chided Shaun. “I would’ve waited for one that had a ‘Beware of Dog’ sign. It wouldn’t do for Lois to not have any friends.”
Rick and I exchanged a startled look before we burst out laughing. I started to cry at the same time, and pulled Rick to his feet before slinging my arms around his shoulders and using him to steady myself. Shaun walked over and put his arms around the both of us, joining our laughter and smashing his face into my hair to hide his own tears. I knew they were there; Rick didn’t need to. Some secrets don’t need to be shared.
We stayed that way until the sound of tires alerted us to the approach of the biohazard convoy. Hastily, we pulled apart, trying to get ourselves into something that approached composure; Rick wiped his face with one hand, while Shaun dried his cheeks and I raked my fingers through my hair before shoving my sunglasses up the bridge of my nose. Looking to Shaun, I nodded and started toward the sound of the approaching vehicles, carrying my bagged test in one hand, digging my license beacon out with the other.
The convoy stopped about twenty yards away from the forerunning vehicle; my poor, abandoned motorcycle. The Memphis CDC didn’t play around. They’d sent a full unit: two troop carriers with their standard Jeep-style frames surrounded by steel-reinforced clear plastic armor, a white medical van nearly twice the size of ours, and, most ominously, two of the vast armored trucks media pundits call “fire trucks.” They were huge, painted safety orange with red biohazard signs blazoned on all sides, and their hoses didn’t squirt water; instead, they delivered a nasty high-octane variant on napalm mixed with a concentrated form of insecticide. Once a fire truck sprays something down, it’s sterile. The soil would be dead for decades, and anything that happened to be in the radius and alive when the trucks came wouldn’t be breathing afterward, but the area would be clean.
One of the men in the foremost troop carrier raised a microphone as we approached, and the loudspeaker at the front of the car blared, “Put down your testing units and step back. Clean units will be put in their place. Do not approach personnel. Failure to comply with instructions will result in termination.”
The headlights of the convoy were almost blinding, even through my sunglasses. I raised the hand with my license to shield my eyes, and squinted at the troop carrier. “Joe? Is that you?”
“Got it in one, darlin’,” the voice replied, less formally. “Just go ahead and set those units on down, if you’d be so kind?”
“I’m leaving my license beacon with the test,” I called. “It includes important medical data.” If these people made me take my glasses off, the glare from their headlights would probably blind me.
A new voice, female and substantially more clinical, came over the loudspeaker. “We know about your retinal condition, Ms. Mason. Please comply with instructions.”
“We’re complying, jeez!” shouted Shaun, dropping his bagged testing unit and putting his license beacon on top. I bent to put mine down, somewhat more gently, and Rick did the same. The three of us then started backing away.
We made it about twenty feet before Joe’s voice came over the speaker again, saying, “That’s far enough, darlin’. You three hold tight, now.” The door of the medical van opened and three technicians in biohazard containment suits emerged. I could hear the chugging of their positive pressure unit as it cycled the air, keeping outside particles from entering their sterile zone.