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waiting for us—for heroes—in the next world. If those men and women had lived, then yes, I could have walked away from this a little sadder, a little wiser, but convinced that I’d done the right thing, I’d done my best, and next time, I’d be able to make that run all the way to the end of the road. At this point?

“Nothing I do is bringing them back, and if there were something I could do to change what happened in Eakly, I would have done it ten times over. From where I sit, there’s only one thing left that I can do, and that’s win. For the ideal they died supporting, and for the sake of their memories. So if I lose, if I have to go home empty-handed, if the next time I contact their families it’s to say, ‘Sorry, but I couldn’t make it after all’… then no, it wasn’t worth it. But it was the only thing I knew to do.”

There was a long, stunned pause before the room erupted in applause. Most of it came from the interchangeable interns, but the technicians were applauding as well—and so, his hands devoid of coffee cups, was Channing. I noted this with thoughtful interest before turning back to the senator and nodding.

“Thank you for your time,” I said, “and best of luck in today’s primaries.”

Senator Ryman flashed a practiced grin. “I don’t need luck. I just need the waiting to be over.”

“And I just need the use of one of your data ports, so that I can clean this up and transmit it over for upload,” I said, pulling out my MP3 recorder and holding it up to the room. “It’ll take me about fifteen minutes to do the surface edits.”

“Will we be permitted to review your report before release?” asked Channing.

“Down, boy,” said the senator. “I don’t see where we need to. Georgia’s been square with us so far, and I don’t see where that’s going to change. Georgia?”

“You can review it if you’d like, but all that’s going to do is delay release,” I said. “Leave me to work, and this hits my front page before the polls have closed.”

“Go to it,” said the senator, and indicated a free space on the wall. “You have all the data ports you need.”

“Thanks,” I said, and took my Coke, moving over to the wall to settle down and set to work.

Editing a report is both easier and harder for me than it is for Shaun or Buffy. My material rarely depends on graphics. I don’t need to concern myself with camera angles, lighting, or whether the footage I use gets my point across. At the same time, they say a picture is worth a thousand words, and in today’s era of instant gratification and high-speed answers, sometimes people aren’t willing to deal with all those hard words when a few pictures supposedly do the job just as well. It’s harder to sell people on a report that’s just news without pictures or movies to soften the blow. I have to find the heart of every subject as fast as I can, pin it down on the page, and then cut it wide open for the audience to see.

“Super Tuesday: Index Case for a Presidency” wouldn’t win me any awards, but once I cleaned up my impromptu interview with Senator Ryman and intercut the text with a few still shots of the man, I was reasonably sure that it was going to catch and hold an audience, and tell the truth as I understood it. Anything beyond that was more than I had a right to ask.

With my report uploaded and turned in, I settled to do what a lifetime of reporting the truth has equipped me for best of all: I settled to wait. I watched the interchangeable interns come and go, watched Channing pace, and watched the senator, aware that his fate was already determined, holding calm and implacable sway over them all. He just didn’t know what that determination was.

The polls closed at midnight. Every screen in the room was turned to the major media outlets, a dozen talking heads conflicting with one another’s words as they tried to string the suspense out and drive their ratings just a few degrees higher. I couldn’t blame them for it, but that didn’t mean that I had to be impressed with it.

My ear cuff beeped. I tapped it.

“Go.”

“Georgia, it’s Buffy.”

“Results?”

“Senator Ryman took the primary with a seventy percent clean majority. His position jumped eleven points as soon as your report went live.”

I closed my eyes and smiled. One of the talking heads had just revealed the same information, or something similar; whoops and cheers were filling the room. “Say the words, Buffy.”

“We’re going to the Republican National Convention.”

Sometimes, the truth can set you free.

* * *

The importance of the Raskin-Watts trial and the failure of all subsequent attempts to overturn the ruling have been often overlooked in the wake of more recent, more sensational incidents. After all, what bearing can two long-dead religious nutcases from upstate Indiana have on the state of modern politics?

Quite a lot. For one thing, the current tendency to dismiss Geoff Raskin and Reed Watts as “religious nutcases” is an oversimplification so extreme as to border on the criminal. Geoff Raskin held a degree in psychology from UC Santa Cruz, with a specialization in crowd control. Reed Watts was an ordained priest who worked with troubled youth and was instrumental in bringing several communities “back to God.” They were, in short, intelligent men who recognized the potential for turning the waves of social change engendered by the side effects of Kellis- Amberlee to their own benefit, and to the benefit of their faith.

Did Geoff Raskin and Reed Watts work for the common good? Read the reports on what they did to Warsaw, Indiana, and see if you think so. Seven hundred and ninety-three people died in the primary infection wave alone, and the cleanup from the secondary infections took six years to complete, during which time Raskin and Watts were held in maximum security, awaiting trial. According to their own testimony, they were intending to use the living dead as a threat to bring the people of Warsaw, and eventually of the United States, around to their point of view: that Kellis-Amberlee was the judgment of the Lord, and that all ungodly ways would soon be wiped from the Earth.

It was the finding of the courts that the use of weaponized live-state Kellis-Amberlee, as represented by the captive zombies, was considered an act of terrorism, and that all individuals responsible for such acts would be tried under the International Terrorism Acts of 2012. Geoff Raskin and Reed Watts were killed by lethal injection, and their bodies were remanded to the government to assist in the study of the virus they had helped to spread.

The moral of our story, beyond the obvious “don’t play with dead things”: Some lines were never meant to be crossed, however good your cause may seem.

—From Images May Disturb You, the blog of Georgia Mason, March 11, 2040

Eleven

Georgia! Shaun! It’s so lovely to see you!” Emily Ryman was all smiles as she approached, arms spread wide in an invitation to an embrace. I glanced at Shaun and he stepped forward, letting her hug him while he blocked her from reaching me. I don’t like physical contact from semistrangers, and Shaun knows it.

If Emily noticed the deliberate way we positioned ourselves, she didn’t comment. “I never quite believe you’re alive after those reports you do, you foolish, foolish boy.”

“It’s good to see you, too, Emily,” Shaun said, and hugged her back. He’s much easier with that sort of thing than I am. I blame this on the fact that he’s the kind of person who believes in shoving his hand into the dark, creepy hole, rather than sensibly avoiding it. “How have you been?”

“Busy, as usual. Foaling season kept us hopping, but that’s mostly over, thank God. I lost two good mares this year, and neither managed to reanimate on the grounds, thanks to the help being on the ball.” Emily detangled herself from Shaun, still smiling, and turned to offer her hand. Not a hug, just her hand. I gave her a nod of approval as I took it. Her smile widened. “Georgia. I can’t thank you enough for your coverage of my husband’s campaign.”