Watching the van drive off with Alaric at the wheel left me strangely numb, like somehow their departure meant I would never see them again, like this was some sort of an ending, rather than another step along the road to learning why George really died. I stood frozen in the parking lot, staring after them, a hard lump blocking my throat when I tried to swallow.
“Hey.” Becks touched my elbow. I turned to face her. She raised her eyebrows. “Are you okay?”
I managed a small smile. “I’m always okay. You ready to go and piss off the CDC?”
“Why, Shaun,” she said, flirting her eyelashes coquettishly, “I thought you’d never ask.” She turned to head for the bike. After a moment’s pause, I followed her.
The Portland CDC was located in its own facility, a large, meticulously clean collection of low, white-painted buildings that could easily have been repurposed as a hospital or maybe a medical college. From a distance, it looked friendly and inviting, the sort of place that would make a routine checkup almost enjoyable. That first impression didn’t survive getting close enough to see barbed wire topping the fence that circled the entire installation, or the small yellow-and-black signs indicating that the fence itself was electrified. Pre-Rising, they would have used a low wattage and backed it up with guard dogs.
Post-Rising, well, let’s just say they probably cranked things up to lethal levels at the slightest excuse.
Becks kept her arms looped around my waist as I pulled the bike up to the guard station. It was a small, featureless gunmetal booth that gave no indication whether it was occupied or automated. I held up our IDs, careful to keep both of my hands visible, and said, “Shaun Mason, After the End Times, and Rebecca Atherton, same.”
“Please place your identification in the slot,” said a mechanized voice. A slot hissed open in the side of the guard station, right next to the speaker. I dropped our ID cards into the slot, which hissed shut. “Please wait.”
“Because I was totally planning to zoom off and leave you with our IDs,” I muttered.
“Your identification has been confirmed,” announced the guard station. The slot opened again, allowing me to reclaim our cards as the first gate began sliding open. “Please proceed onward for blood testing and examination.”
“How I love the CDC,” I said, passing Becks her ID card and hitting the gas.
The procedure from there was exactly as the guard station threatened—sorry, “indicated.” We reached a second gate about ten yards onto the campus, this one accompanied by men wearing Kevlar vests and clutching assault rifles. There were also blood testing units waiting there, one for each of us. We both passed our blood tests, robbing the sentries of the chance to use the weapons they clutched so carefully, and drove on to the third station, where the retinal scanners were waiting.
“I’d think this was excessive if I hadn’t just been to Maggie’s place,” I muttered to Becks, who snorted with quiet laughter. I wasn’t kidding, either; I wouldn’t be surprised to learn that Maggie and the CDC get their security designs through the same firm. God knows her family has the money, and they’ve never been shy about spending a few extra bucks for the sake of a little bit more safety.
Finally, after running the security gamut, we were allowed to enter the CDC parking lot, where I parked in a space marked VISITOR in large yellow letters. Becks slid off, removing her helmet and producing a hairbrush from her pack while I was still getting the kickstand positioned. She began briskly brushing out her hair, making adjustments in accordance with some secret set of female rules that even George had never been willing to share with me.
“You look fine, especially for this sort of visit,” I said, securing my own helmet to the handlebars. “Nobody’s going to be looking at your hair.”
Becks gave me a frosty look. “So says you,” she said stiffly. “I’ve found that good hair can open many doors for the female investigative reporter. It certainly doesn’t hurt my ratings when I take steps to avoid looking like I just rolled out of bed.”
I had to admit she had a point: Becks paid more attention to her appearance than any other Irwin I knew, male or female, and her merchandise sales were even higher than mine. She wore her hair longer than was strictly safe for fieldwork, with blonde highlights and dark brown lowlights that made her otherwise medium-brown hair seem somehow exotic, especially in the sort of light conditions she was usually filming under. Combined with naturally green eyes and a fondness for wearing tight white tank tops, well, it wasn’t a mystery why eighty percent of her viewers were male. It was more of a mystery that she seemed to want me to approve of it. I was never going to get that one.
“Fine,” I said, digging my equipment out of the bike’s saddlebag more briskly than was strictly necessary.
“What?” asked Becks.
“Nothing.”
“Right.” She shoved the brush back into her bag. “There, all done.”
“Really?” I lifted my eyebrows, giving her an appraising look. “You sure you don’t need to touch up your makeup or something before we can go in?”
“I’m sure the CDC will be thrilled to know that you made such an effort on its behalf,” I said, and started down the path that was labeled ENTRANCE in more large yellow letters. At least these ones were on a sign, not painted onto the pavement. Becks made an entirely unladylike snorting noise, and followed me.
After all the security checks required to get to the parking lot, walking up to the front doors of the Portland CDC was almost anticlimactic. They were clear glass, making a point with their total lack of reinforcement—this was the CDC. If the infected made it this far in, the city was already lost, so why bother wasting money that could be put to better use elsewhere? These were
Those fripperies included furniture for their front lobby. A wave of comfortably chilly climate-controlled air hit us as we walked into the building, so devoid of character that it might as well have been an unused movie set. The floor was black marble, and the walls were white, except for the large steel sign proclaiming this to be the Portland office of the Centers for Disease Control. “Got that part, thanks,” I muttered, arrowing toward the one piece of furniture in the room: the sleekly futuristic reception desk.
The receptionist herself was also sleekly futuristic, possibly because she felt the need to live up to her workstation. Her hair was pulled into a bun so severe it looked almost molded, her jacket was impeccably cut, and the eyes behind her black-framed glasses were cold. “Names and business?” she asked as we approached. Her fingers never stopped darting across her keyboard, even as she glanced in our direction, looked us up and down, and dismissed us as unimportant.
“We’re with the After the End Times news site, and we’d like to speak to the director of this installation,” I said mildly, leaning against the edge of her desk as I flashed her my ID. Becks did the same, unsmiling. “Don’t worry, we can wait if we have to.”
The receptionist gave us another of those quick, cold, up-and-down glances before asking, “The nature of your business, sir?” The “sir” was grudging, purely a formality to check off some internal list marked “proper procedure.”
“That’s for us to discuss with the director,” said Becks.
“I see.” The receptionist sniffed. “If you’d like to make an appointment, I’m sure we can fit you in sometime this week. In the meanwhile—”
“Sometime this week? Really? That’s
“Excuse me?” The receptionist half rose from her seat, revealing a pencil skirt as precisely tailored as the jacket. I found myself wondering if she starched her underpants to keep them from ruining her mood through excessive softness. “What are you doing?”
“Well, this is a government building, right?” I asked, guilelessly. “Which means that we, as citizens, are totally entitled to be here whenever and whyever we want, as long as we’re not actively disrupting normal business or committing acts of vandalism? No appointments required unless there’s an active state of emergency?”
“Yes, but—”
