My line of work, combined with George’s virological martyrdom and my ongoing, if somewhat amateur, attempts to locate the people behind the conspiracy that killed her, has brought me into contact with a lot of people from the CDC. But there’s only one “she” who has my contact information and would even dare to bring up George around me.
Dave was waiting outside the office apartment door, looking agitated. I stopped long enough to grab his shoulders, shake briskly, and demand, “Why haven’t I been seeing her e-mail?”
“The new spam filters must have been stopping her,” he said, looking a little green around the edges. It appeared that I was scaring him. I was having trouble getting worked up about that when I was already so worked up about more important matters. “If she was using the wrong keywords—”
“Fix them!” I shoved him backward, hard enough that he smacked his shoulders against the wall. Turning, I opened the apartment door.
Alaric was in the process of handing my “company” a cup of coffee, making polite apologies about my absence. He stopped when I entered, turning to face me, and she half rose, a small, almost tim smile on her face.
“Hi, Shaun,” said Kelly. “I hope this isn’t a bad time.”
There were many would-be saviors during the Rising, but some stand above the rest. One such is Dr. William Matras, a virologist working out of the Centers for Disease Control’s Atlanta office. With a governmental decree forbidding any discussion of what they called “the Walking Plague,” the CDC was unable to warn the populace of the coming crisis. Dr. Matras co-opted the one channel of communication he knew to be unmonitored: the blog of his daughter, Wendy. He posted everything he knew about the epidemiology of the Walking Plague, and he armed a world against the disease.
Dr. Matras was tried for treason, acquitted on all counts, and given a posthumous commendation for valorous service. His son, Ian Matras, is the current director of the WHO. His eldest daughter, Marianne Matras-Connolly, is an instructor at Georgetown University. Of his five grandchildren, three are in the family business, with the youngest, Kelly Connolly, currently studying under Dr. J. Wynne of the Memphis CDC.
We owe this family a great debt for everything that they have done. Without men like Dr. Matras, the future of the human race would be much bleaker.
—From Epidemiology of the Wall, authored by Mahir Gowda, January 11, 2041
Three
The last time I saw Kelly Connolly, she was delivering George’s ashes for the funeral. The time before that, she was at the Memphis CDC installation where George, Rick, and I were taken into quarantine after an anonymous call claimed we’d gone into amplification. Not exactly the sort of encounters that lend themselves to easy companionship. I’m never really sure how to deal with people who aren’t a part of my team and aren’t trying to either kill or interview me. My usual tactics—gunshots and punches to the face—just don’t seem to apply.
Kelly was looking at me expectantly, the cup of coffee she’d taken from Alaric still held in front of her. I almost wished she’d throw it at me, just so I’d have some idea of what I was supposed to do.
Say hello, George prompted.
“Why—” I began, and caught myself, snapping my jaws closed on my tongue so hard I tasted blood. Talking to George in front of my friends and coworkers was one thing: It weirded them out a little, but they were essentially used to it. Talking to her in front of someone who was still practically a stranger was something else entirely. I didn’t have the time or the patience to deal with the questions it would inevitably raise.
Kelly was still looking at me with the same expectant air, now becoming slowly tinged with concern. I know that look. I get that look a lot. If I didn’t say something soon, she was going to start asking whether I was all right, and then I was going to need to decide whether or not I was going to deck her.
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Punching visitors from the CDC would be a new low for me. It wasn’t one I was particularly eager to reach. I swallowed away the taste of blood and forced myself to smile as I stepped forward, offering my hand. “Dr. Connolly. It’s nice to see you again.”
Kelly took my hand, the edge of concern not leaving her face. Her handshake was surprisingly firm. I looked closer and realized that the concern was masking an even more pronounced expression of fear. Fear? She was with the CDC. Short of Kellis-Amberlee deciding to jump species and start infecting birds, what did she have to worry about?
“You don’t need to be so formal, Shaun.” Her smile tightened for a moment before she dropped it. She let go of my hand at the same time. I kept studying her face, taking note of the dark circles under her eyes. The good doctor hadn’t been sleeping much recently… if she’d been sleeping at all. “I won’t call you Mr. Mason if you won’t call me Dr. Connolly.”
“Deal.” I stepped back, tucking my hands into my pockets. “Welcome to the madhouse, Doc. Have you had a chance to meet the rest of the team?”
“Well, I met Alaric here when he buzzed me into the building,” she said, smiling brightly at him. He ducked his head, blushing and slanting a glance toward Becks at the same time, like he was checking her reaction. He shouldn’t have bothered. Becks was staring straight ahead, giving Kelly her best “I am an ice-cold action bitch and you’d better not forget it” look.
Dave had managed to slink back into the room while I was gaping at Kelly. He hunched his shoulders as he sat down next to the bank of monitors, trying to make himself look small. If we hadn’t had company, I would have rushed over to tell him I was sorry and promise—again—that this was the last time I’d ever lay a hand on him. I’d mean it, too, even if we’d both know I’d never be able to keep my word. Dave would say it was okay, that I hadn’t actually hurt him, and we’d both feel better… at least until the next time I lost my temper.
That’s how things worked around the office without George. We were used to it; comfortable, even. Having Kelly Connolly standing there, clearly waiting for an introduction to the rest of the team, was just screwing everything up.
“Uh,” I said. “Well, that cool cat over on the news desk is one of our Irwins, Dave Novakowski.” Dave raised a hand and waved. “Alaric here is Mahir’s second-in-command. Mahir is… uh… Mahir Gowda runs the Newsie division remotely from London.” I still couldn’t bring myself to call him George’s replacement. The word was just too bitter to say.
Kelly nodded, offering a quick smile in Dave’s direction. Dave answered with a distracted nod, hands beginning to move rapidly across his keyboard. “Mr. Gowda interviewed me earlier this year,” Kelly said, looking back to me. “He was a very nice gentleman.”
“He did?” I asked blankly.
Alaric was staring. A note of excitement crept into his voice as he asked, “Wait—are you the Kelly Connolly?”
Becks and I exchanged a blank look, Becks mouthing “What the fuck?” I shrugged.
Kelly, meanwhile, was smiling half-smugly, with that look on her face that famous people always seem to get when they’re pretending not to be pleased about being recognized. Mom used to walk around with that expression permanently locked in place. “I am.”
“Oh, wow,” said Alaric, eyes going even wider. “It’s an honor to meet you, ma’am. I mean a real, genuine honor.”
“Uh, excuse me for asking, but does someone want to explain to the nice Irwins,” I caught the hopeful look in Becks’s eyes, and hastened to clarify, “nice Irwins and former Irwins exactly what ‘the Kelly Connolly’ is supposed to mean? Because I have to say, I’m clueless.”