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ratings or site traffic. This is real. Everything I am about to tell you is the truth. Believe me, understand, and act, before it is too late.

If you’re viewing this from the main page of After the End Times, you’ll see a download link labeled “Campaign_Notes.zip” on the left-hand side of your screen. Possession of the documents behind that link may be considered treason by the government of the United States of America. Please. Click. Download. Read. Repost to any forum you can, any message board or photo-sharing site or blog that you can reach. The data contained in those files is as essential to our freedom and survival as the report of Dr. Matras proved to be during the Rising. I am not overstating the data’s importance. There isn’t enough time for that.

Neither is there enough time for me to repeat the facts that are already codified and ready for you to download. Let this suffice for all the things I cannot say, do not have the time to say, will never say, and wish I could: They are lying to us. They are willfully channeling research away from the pursuit of a cure for this disease, and they are doing it under the auspices of our own government. I don’t know who “they” are. I didn’t live long enough to find out. Governor Tate served their interests. So, I regret to say, did Georgette Meissonier, previously a part of this reporting site.

They want us to stay afraid.

They want us to stay controlled.

They want us to stay sick.

Please, don’t let them do this to our world. I am begging you from the Wall, because it’s all that’s left for me to do. It’s all I can do. Don’t let them keep us frightened and hiding in our homes. Let us be what we were intended to be: human and free and able to make our own choices. Read what I have written, understand what they intend for us, for all of us, and decide to live.

They made a mistake in killing me because, alive or dead, the truth won’t rest. My name is Georgia Mason, and I am begging you. Rise up while you can.

Mahir I’m so sorry.

Buffy I’m so sorry.

Rick I’m so sorry.

Shaun I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I didn’t mean it I would take it all back if I could but I can’t I cant I I I I I I I all fading words going cant do this cant Shaun please Shaun please I love you I love you I always you know I Shaun please cant hold on everything jfdh cant do this jhjnfbnnnn mmm have to my name my name is Shaun I love you Shaun please gngn please SHOOT ME SHAUN SHOOT ME N—

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BOOK V Burial Writes

I’ve spent my whole life imagining worlds other than the one that I was born in. Everybody does. The one world I never imagined was a world without a Georgia. So how come that’s the world I have to live with?

—SHAUN MASON

I’m sorry.

—GEORGIA MASON

It is the sad duty of the management of After the End Times to announce the death of Georgia Carolyn Mason, the head of our Factual News Division, most commonly called “the Newsies,” and one of the original founders of this site.

I’ve been trying to find the words for this announcement since I was asked to make it, some three hours ago. The request came with a promotion to which I never aspired, and a position made bitter by the knowledge of what it cost. I would sooner have my friend than all the promotions in the world. But that option is not open to me, or to any of those who will mourn for her.

Georgia Mason was my friend, and I will always regret that we never met in the flesh. She once told me she lived each day hoping and praying she would find the truth; that she was able to keep going through all life’s petty disappointments because she knew that someday, the truth would set her free.

Good-bye, Georgia. May the truth be enough to bring you peace.

—From Fish and Clips, the blog of Mahir Gowda, June 20, 2040

Twenty-seven

George’s blood didn’t all dry at the same rate.

Some of the smaller streaks dried almost immediately, staining the wall behind her ruined monitor. The gunshot collapsed the screen inward, safety-tempered glass holding its form as well as it could, even when the plastic casing shattered. It was like looking at some modern artist’s reinterpretation of an old-school disco ball. “The party’s in here, and we’re just getting started.” As long as you didn’t mind the blood on the glass, that was. I minded the blood on the glass. I minded the blood on the glass a lot. I just didn’t see a way to put it back where it belonged.

The bigger splashes were drying slow and sticky, the color maturing from bright red to a sober burgundy, where they seemed content to stay. That bothered me. I wanted the blood to dry, wanted it to settle in funeral colors and stop taunting me. I’m a good shot. I’ve been on firing ranges since I was seven years old, in the field— legally—since I was sixteen. Even if the virus still allowed her to feel pain, George didn’t have time for pain. It was just the roar of the gun, and then she was slumping forward, face- first on her keyboard. That was the only real mercy. She landed face-first, so I didn’t have to see what I’d… so I didn’t have to see. She didn’t have time to suffer. I just have to keep telling myself that, now, and tomorrow, and the next day, for as long as I can stay alive.

The sound of the gun fired inside the van would’ve been the loudest thing I’d ever heard if it hadn’t been followed by the sound of George falling. That’s the loudest thing I’ve ever heard. That’s always going to be the loudest thing, no matter what else I hear. The sound of George, falling.

But I’m a good shot, and there was no shrapnel unless you wanted to count the aerosolized blood released when the bullet hit my… when I shot… not unless you counted the blood. I had to count the blood because it was enough to turn the entire damn van into a hot zone. If I was infected, I was infected—too late to worry about that kind of shit now—but that didn’t mean I needed to make my chances worse. I moved as far away as I could and sat down with my back against the wall, the gun dangling loose against my left knee, to watch the blood dry, and to