Every blogger keeps a black box in case something goes wrong. No, that’s not right. Every good blogger keeps a black box in case something goes wrong. Every sane blogger keeps a black box in case something goes wrong. Every blogger you should be willing to work with keeps a black box, because every blogger you should be willing to work with understands that “things going wrong” isn’t an if. It’s a when.
Black boxes take a lot of forms. They’re named after the boxes the FAA puts on airplanes to record information in the event of a crash. The idea behind a blogger’s black box is basically the same: That’s where we record the information that we need to survive when nothing else does. George’s black box was built to withstand every known decontamination protocol, and a few that were still just theoretical. It was the first thing I got back from our van after she died. Becks and the others might think it wasn’t worth going out into the open for, but they’d be wrong. It was the only thing worth going out into the open for.
George and I basically grew up online. What with the Masons cheerfully exploiting our childhoods for ratings and our own eventual entry into the world of journalism, we never had many secrets. Everything we ever did wound up in somebody’s in-box. Almost everything, anyway. There were always the things we didn’t want to share, or didn’t know how to. That’s why we kept paper journals. It was the only way to steal ourselves a little privacy. That “we” is intentional, by the way; George was always the thinker, while I was always the doer, but we kept one diary between us for almost twenty years. We still do. I write my pages, and then I close my eyes and let her take care of hers.
I don’t read them anymore. It’s better if I just imagine that they’re real.
The black box contained our paper journals. Her medical records, her extra sunglasses, her first handheld MP3 recorder, and data files from the start of the campaign up until the point where she stopped recording. Her bottles of expired pain medication. All together, it was the most physical part of my sister that I had left, and there was no way I was going to run off and leave it behind.
Getting my shit together took less than five minutes. I crammed the black box into a duffel bag, along with all the weapons I could grab, and crammed extra ammo into the space remaining. There was a picture of us on my bedside table. I grabbed it and slipped it into the pocket of my jacket. Whenever you have to evacuate, there’s always the chance that you won’t be able to come back. Take whatever you’re not willing to live without.
I paused at the door, glancing back at the boxes and the barren walls. Everything I cared about could fit in one bag, the pockets of my coat, and my head. There was something tragic about that. Or there would be, if I let myself think about it.
Don’t, whispered George in the back of my head, almost too softly for me to hear.
It’s scary when she fades out like that. It reminds me that, technically, her presence makes me crazy, and sometimes, crazy people get sane again. “I won’t,” I said brusquely, and pulled the door shut as I hurried toward the stairs.
My headset connector started beeping angrily when I was only halfway there. I unsnapped it from my collar and jammed it into my ear, demanding, “What?”
“We’ve got a problem.” Dave sounded so calm that he might as well have been telling me to update the shopping list. “Alaric just got back from the roof.”
“That was fast.” I kept walking, stretching my legs until I was taking the stairs three at a time. It still didn’t feel fast enough. It was the best I could do.
“Well, it turns out that he’s had enough field training to know that when you open the roof door on a mass of the infected, you should stop and turn around.”
My toe caught on the lip of the stair I was stepping over, sending me tumbling forward. I grabbed the railing, banging my elbow in the process. “What?!” I barked, in almost perfect unison with George.
“There’s a mob up there. Kelly says twenty, Alaric says eleven, I’d say the real number is somewhere in the middle.” Dave paused. “He got a positive ID on Mrs. Hagar before he slammed and barred the door. The rest didn’t come from this building.”
“Meaning what?” I asked, picking myself up and resuming the trek toward the third floor.
Meaning this “outbreak” is somebody’s idea of cleaning house.
“Somebody had to put them there,” said Dave, unknowingly supporting George’s statement. “There’s no way our building is generating spontaneous zombies.”
Swearing steadily now, I took the last of the steps in four long strides, kicking open the door to the apartment. Kelly jumped, staggering back against Alaric. She was as white as a sheet. Alaric’s complexion was too dark to let him pull the same trick; he was settling for turning a jaundiced yellow-tan. Dave didn’t even turn around. He just kept typing, hands moving across his conjoined keyboards like he was conducting the world’s biggest orchestra.
“Prep for evac,” I snapped. “We’re out of here as soon as Becks gets back.”
“Why don’t we go meet her?” demanded Kelly, a thin edge of hysteria slicing through her voice. “Why do we have to wait up here? There’s a live outbreak on the roof! Those people, they’re infected!” The hysterical undertones were getting louder, like she wasn’t sure we understood that this was supposed to be a big deal
Deep breaths, counseled George. Count to ten if you have to.
I actually had to count to thirteen before I felt calm enough to speak without shouting. “We’re aware of outbreak protocol, Dr. Connolly,” I said. My tone was cold enough to make Dave glance away from his screen and shake his head before going back to work. “Rebecca is currently confirming whether it’s safe for us to proceed, or whether we need to find an alternate route. The rooftop door is locked, and the front of the building is sealed. We’re safer sitting here than we would be rushing blindly toward what we think might be an exit.”
“The building design makes that tunnel a perfect kill-chute,” added Dave. “If there’s anything down there, Becks is probably clearing it out before she reports back. If not, she’s confirming that we can get out of the garage without dying.”
“Actually, she’s right behind you.”
We all turned toward the sound of Becks’s voice. She was standing in the doorway, smelling of gunpowder, with a grim set to her expression. I raised my eyebrows in silent question. Becks held up a bagged blood testing kit, lights flashing green, and tossed it to the floor next to the biohazard bin. That was an answer in and of itself: She wouldn’t have ignored proper biological waste disposal protocols if she thought there was any chance we’d be staying.
“Three guards and two civilians who had no good reason to be there, all infected. None of them made it within ten feet of me. The rest of the garage is clear, and our transport’s prepped and ready.”
“Excellent.” I glanced around the apartment one last time, looking for things we might have missed. Our outbreak kits have always been well-maintained and ready for something to go wrong. That doesn’t stop the feeling that something major has been forgotten. “Everyone, grab your masks and goggles. We’re out of here.”
Suiting up for a run through a tunnel that might or might not fill with bleach while we were inside it took only a few minutes—God bless panic, the best motivator mankind has ever discovered. Kelly looked oddly calmer once she had her goggles on and a gas mask bumping against her collarbone, waiting to be secured over her nose and mouth. Maybe it reminded her of being back at the CDC, where all the “outbreaks” were carefully staged and even more carefully controlled. She’d need to get over that eventually. Now wasn’t the time. If pretending this was all a drill would keep her calm, I was all for it.