If you want an easy job—if you want the sort of job where you never have to bury somebody who you care about—I recommend you pursue a career in whatever strikes your fancy… just so long as it isn’t the news.
Twenty-six
Shaun broke the silence. “Please tell me that didn’t break the skin,” he said, almost pleading. “The blood came from something else, right George? Right?”
“We’re going to need a biohazard bag.” There was no fear in my voice. Really, there was nothing there at all. I sounded… empty, disconnected from everything around me. It was like my body and my voice existed in different universes, tethered by only the thinnest of threads. “Get one from the medical kit, put it on the counter, and step away. I don’t want either of you touching this.” Or me. I didn’t want them touching me when there was a risk that I could infect them. I just couldn’t say that. If I tried, I’d break down, and any chance of containing this would go right out the window.
“George—”
“We need a testing kit.”
Rick’s voice was surprisingly strong, considering the circumstances. Shaun and I turned to face him. He was white-faced and shaking, but his voice was firm. “Shaun, I know you don’t want to hear this, and if you want to hit me later, that’s fine, but right now, we need a testing kit.”
Storm clouds were gathering in Shaun’s expression. He knew Rick was right; I could see it in his eyes and in the way he wasn’t quite willing to look at me. If he hadn’t known, he wouldn’t have cared that Rick was calling for a blood test. But because he did, it was the last thing in the world he wanted. Well. Maybe not the last thing. Then again, it was starting to look like the last thing had already happened.
“He’s right, Shaun.” I placed the dart on the counter next to my keyboard. It was so small. How could something so small be the end of the world? I barely noticed when it hit me. I never thought it was possible to overlook your own death, but apparently it is. “Don’t just grab a field box. Get the real kit. If we’re going to do this, we’re going to do it right.” The XH-237 has never had a false result; it’s one hundred percent accurate, as far as anyone can tell.
Shaun would never believe anything else. He was staring at me in open disbelief. He was denying this as hard as he could. So why wasn’t I? “Georgia…” he began.
“If I’m overreacting, I’ll buy a new one with my birthday money,” I said, sagging backward in my chair. “Rick?”
“I’ll get it, Georgia,” he said, starting for the medical supplies.
I closed my eyes. “I’m not overreacting.”
Almost too quiet for me to hear, Shaun whispered, “I know.”
“I brought the bag,” said Rick. I opened my eyes, turning toward his voice. He held up a Kevlar-reinforced biohazard bag. I nodded and he put the bag on the counter, before stepping away. We knew proper protocols. They’d been drilled into us for our entire lives. Until we knew I was clean, no one touched me… and I knew I wasn’t clean.
Moving with exaggerated care, so both Shaun and Rick could see me every inch along the way, I reached for the bag and thumbed it open before picking up the dart. Dropping it into the bag, I activated the seal. It was a matter for the CDC now. Its people would break the seal after it was turned over to them, and what happened after that wasn’t my concern. I wouldn’t be around to see it.
I looked up once the bag was sealed and set aside. “Where’s the test kit?” It felt like the muscles in my eyes were relaxing. It could be psychosomatic, but I didn’t think so. The viral bodies responsible for the perpetual dilation of my pupils were moving on to greener pastures. Like the rest of my body.
“Here,” said Shaun, holding it up. He stepped closer and knelt in front of me. He was only inches outside the federally defined “danger zone” for dealing with someone who might be amplifying. I shot him a sharp look, and he shook his head. “Don’t start.”
“I won’t.” I extended my left hand. If he wanted to administer the test himself, he had the right. Maybe it would make him believe the results.
“You could be wrong. You’ve been wrong before,” Shaun said, sliding the testing kit over my hand. I flattened my palm until I felt the tendons stretch, and gave him the nod to clamp down the lid. He did, pinning my fingers in their wide, starfished position.
“I’m not wrong,” I said. Dull pain lanced my hand as the needles—one for each finger, and five more set in a circle at the center of the palm—darted out, taking blood samples. The lights on the top of the unit began to flash, cycling from green to yellow, where they remained, blinking on and off, until one by one, they started settling into their final color.
Red. Every one of them. Red.
Tears prickled against my eyelids. It took me a moment to realize what they were, and then I had to resist the urge to blink them back. Kellis-Amberlee never let me cry before. It was damn well going to let me cry now. “Told you I was right,” I said, trying to sound lighthearted. All I managed to sound was lost.
“Bet you’re sorry,” Shaun replied. I raised my head and met his shocked, staring eyes with my own.
We sat that way for several moments, looking at each other, waiting for an answer that wasn’t going to come. It was Rick who spoke, voicing the one question we all wanted to ask and that none of us was quite prepared to answer.
“What do we do now?”
“Do?” Shaun frowned at him, looking utterly and honestly perplexed. That expression was enough to terrify me, because he looked like someone who didn’t understand the idea that before too much longer, I was going to be making a concerted effort to eat him alive. “What do you mean, ‘What do we do?’”
“I mean exactly what I said,” Rick said. He shook his head, gesturing to me. “We can’t just leave her like this. We have to—”
“No!”
The vehemence of Shaun’s reply startled me. I turned toward him. “No?” I repeated. “Shaun, what the hell do you mean, ‘no’? There isn’t room for ‘no.’ ‘No’ is over.”
“You don’t know what you’re saying.”
“I know exactly what I’m saying.” Rick was pale and shaking, beads of sweat standing out on his forehead. Poor guy. He didn’t sign up for political assassinations when he decided to join the so-called “winning team.” Despite that, he met my eyes without flinching and didn’t try to avoid looking at me. He’d seen the virus before. It held no surprises for him. “You’re the closest thing we’ve got to a virologist, Rick. How long do I have?”
“How much do you weigh?”
“One thirty-five, tops.”
“I’d say forty-five minutes, under normal circumstances,” he said, after a moment’s consideration. “But these aren’t normal circumstances.”
“The run,” I said.
He nodded. “The run.”
Viral amplification depends on a lot of factors. Age, physical condition, body weight—how fast your blood is moving when you come into contact with the live virus. If someone gets bitten in their sleep without waking up, they may take the rest of the night to fully amplify, because they’ll be calm enough that their body won’t be helping the infection along. I, on the other hand, got hit with a viral payload a lot bigger than you’d find in a bite, and it happened while I was running for my life, heart pounding, adrenaline pushing my blood pressure through the roof. I’d cut my time in half. Maybe worse.
It was already getting harder to think; harder to focus; harder to breathe. I knew, intellectually, that my lungs weren’t shutting down. It was just the virus enclosing the soft tissues of my brain and starting to disrupt normal neurological functions, making normally autonomic actions start intruding on the conscious mind. I’ve read the papers and the clinical studies. I knew what to expect. First comes the lack of focus, the lack of interest, the lack of capability to draw unrelated conclusions. Then comes hyperactivity as the circulatory system is pushed to overdrive. Then, when the virus reaches full saturation, the coup de grace: the death of the conscious mind. My body would continue to walk around, driven by raw instinct and the desires of the virus, but Georgia Carolyn Mason would be gone. Forever.