Authors: Mira Grant
Tags: #Fiction, #Horror, #Dystopian, #Science Fiction, #Action & Adventure, #FIC028000
Deadline (9 page)
“So what, you think it’s intentional suppression?” asked Alaric.
“Last year, there was a six-billion-dollar study on a new strain of MRSA that’s cropped up in two hospitals in North Carolina. We could have done it on a third of the budget and half the manpower. It was busywork. There’s so damn much busywork.” She rubbed her temple with the heel of one hand, frustration evident. “The CDC is supported by the government. We’re supposed
to be an independent organization, but that isn’t how the funding works out.”
“Was Tate involved?”
The question was soft, reasonable; it took me a moment to realize that I’d asked it.
“Not with that study,” said Kelly. Hope flared and died immediately as she continued: “He was one of the supporters of continuing cancer research. You know, since cancer will become a threat again once Kellis-Amberlee has been cured. So more and more of our budget goes to things like that, and reservoir conditions just get ignored.”
“How big a chunk of the CDC budget are we talking about?” asked Alaric.
“Eleven billion dollars.”
Dave whistled, long and low. “That’s not chump change.”
“No, it’s not. I’d say maybe twenty percent of our research budget is actually being spent on research into Kellis-Amberlee-related conditions. The rest of it keeps getting siphoned off into studies that look good, but don’t
do
anything.” Her frustration was evident. “It’s like we’re being stopped from finding out what this virus really does.”
Probably because you are,
said George.
“I didn’t know that was possible,” I said. “You’re the CDC.”
“And somebody has to pay the bills.”
“Right.” I stood abruptly, stalking back into the kitchen with my mostly full Coke in one hand and the stack of papers in the other. Behind me, Kelly started to ask where I was going, and was quickly hushed by Becks. Becks understood. Becks always understands.
The kitchen was cool and dark and, most important,
empty. I put my things down on the counter, turned to face the wall, and began, methodically, punching it as hard as I could. The sound echoed through the room, gunshot-loud and soothing. My knuckles split on the fourth blow. I started feeling a lot better after that. I generally do. Pain clears the fog in my head, enough that I can
think
again. Besides, as long as I’m punching walls, I’m not punching people.
Someone was using the CDC’s budget to control their research. Someone was funneling research
away
from Kellis-Amberlee, into diseases that weren’t an issue anymore and problems that shouldn’t even have been on the CDC’s radar. And Governor Tate had been involved. The man who killed my sister. The man who changed everything. If Tate had his bloody little fingers in the pie…
If Tate was involved, so was whoever he worked for,
said George, as calmly as I couldn’t.
We have to help her. We have to find out what’s going on. This could be our chance, Shaun. This could lead us straight to the ringleaders.
“Yeah.” I stopped punching the wall, taking a shaky breath as I studied the new dent I’d created next to the half a dozen that were already there. We lost our security deposit a long time ago. “I know.”
Good.
If we helped Kelly, we could find out who was manipulating the CDC. We could find the people who ordered Tate to kill George. After that…
Maybe after that we’d both be able to rest.
I rinsed my hand in the sink, applying gauze and antibiotic cream before returning to the living room. There was no point in freaking Kelly out any more than the pounding noises doubtless already had. “Sorry about that,” I said. “I just needed to work through a few things.”
“It’s okay, boss, a said Dave. Alaric and Becks nodded their agreement.
Kelly bit her lip. “Is… is everything okay?”
“Not really, but we can pretend.” I walked back to my seat, belatedly realizing that my things were still in the kitchen. Oh, well. “So no one ever tried to figure out why so many people with reservoir conditions were dying?”
“Um.” Kelly blinked, apparently thrown by my return to the earlier topic. Then she nodded. “We got a new crop of interns recently. Very enthusiastic, very eager to prove themselves. One of them noticed the statistical anomaly while he was doing some filing, and he brought it to Dr. Wynne. What he said just didn’t sound right. I asked if I could look into it. Dr. Wynne was as surprised as I was, and he agreed.”
“That’s how you got started on this?” asked Alaric.
“I thought it was bad data. I thought I was chasing down a reporting error. Instead… this was huge. I put together a team of people I trusted once I realized what I was really looking at. Someone’s killing people with reservoir conditions in truly terrifying numbers.” She took a shaky breath. “And when my team started digging, they started killing us, too.”
“What?” Becks demanded.
Oh, shit,
said George. I privately echoed the sentiment.
“There were eight people on my team when I started this study. Now I’m the only one left.” Kelly sniffled. I realized without any real surprise that she was on the verge of tears. “I need help. I didn’t know where else to go.”
Becks and I exchanged a look. Dave and Alaric did the same. Then everyone turned toward me, like they expected me to make the call. Oh, wait. With George gone, they did.
Crap.
It seems like everyone I work with has some great story about how their family shows support of their career in the news. Alaric’s father paid for his college education, no strings attached—scholarship by Daddy. Dave comes from this huge Russian family, and they’re all so proud of him they could explode. Maggie’s parents buy her everything her little Fictional heart desires, and Mahir’s parents are so happy with what he does that they send care packages to the office. Care packages from
England
, sent to an office where he doesn’t even work. That’s how cool with things they are.Shaun may hate the Masons, but at least they supported what he chose to do with his life. No cotillions, no coming-out parties, no “Oh, honey, this is just a phase” or “Please, darling, it’s just one night.” Just one night, just one dance, just one silk dress, and the next thing I knew, I’d be just one more product of the Westchester Trophy Wife Factory, proudly producing quality goods since the days of the Mayflower. I am a card-carrying Daughter of the American Revolution. I can foxtrot, quickstep, waltz, and tango. I know how to plan a cocktail party, make small talk, and overlook a man’s personality, manners, and hygiene in favor of what matters: his bloodline and his bank account.
font size="3">These are the things my parents taught me. They raised me to be just like my sisters—sweet, pliant, pretty, and available to the highest bidder. It’s too bad I had other ideas. I am the shame of my family, the bad seed whose name will be quietly erased from the family tree the day after my picture gets posted on the Wall. I am the one who couldn’t be content playing nicely with
the other children, and who had to go out and get her hands all dirty.It’s days like this when I miss Georgia most of all. I may have abandoned the Newsies to go Irwin the second the opportunity presented itself, but she understood what I meant when I talked about my family, about not being sorry that I let them down. The things that made her a pretty lousy friend made her an excellent boss, and I think this would all be a hell of a lot easier if she were here.
Mom, Dad? The next horrible thing I do in public is for you. I hope you choke on it.
—From
Charming Not Sincere
, the blog of Rebecca Atherton, March 8, 2041
Hello, darlings! I hope you’re ready for some sizzling romance, swashbuckling adventure, tragic love, and mysterious happenings, because all those and more are on the schedule for this week. I’ll be on the live chat every night from seven to ten Pacific time, and I’m always happy to talk about anything your little hearts desire. I’m your private Scheherazade, and I’m here to tell you stories all night long. Welcome to Maggie’s House of Horrors—I hope you’re planning to stay for a while.
After all, you know I always miss you when you’re gone.
—From
Dandelion Mine
, the blog of Magdalene Grace Garcia, April 11, 2041
W
hat are we going to do?”
Becks asked the question, but all three of my staffers were looking at me with near-identical expressions of impatient expectation on their faces. It was all I could do to not turn and flee the room. They were expecting me to give them a direction; they were expecting me to make the call; they were expecting me to be George.
“What are we going to do?” I echoed, hoping they’d take the question as rhetorical.
The person it was aimed at didn’t. There are small mercies.
We’re going to find out what’s going on, and we’re going to scream it from the mountaintops,
said George. I repeated each word a half-beat behind her, creating a weird delay that no one outside my head could hear.
We’re going to do our jobs. We’re going to go out there, and we’re going to get the news.
All four of the people in the room were staring at me by the time I—we—finished our little speech. Alaric was the first to look a yoducking his head slightly as he turned back to his computer screen. Dude always
wanted me to be my sister when it came time to make a decision, but he was never okay with it when I actually did.
“That’s great and everything, but there are a few things to work out,” said Dave. He held up a finger. “What do we do with Doc here?” A second finger. “If we don’t know whether it’s safe to talk to the CDC, where the hell are we supposed to start?” A third finger. “What are we going to say to the rest of the site? This isn’t you and a little team and a van anymore. This is a business. We can’t go chasing a story we can’t talk about, maybe even disappear on everybody, and expect them to be cool with it.”
“Call Rick, see what he says,” said Becks.
“I’m pretty sure we can’t call the vice president of the United States with ‘Hey, we have a dead CDC researcher who says somebody’s trying to suppress her research,’ ” I replied. “We’re going to call Rick, but we need more than we have before we do it.”
Becks looked mollified. Rick Cousins used to be one of our staff Newsies. Now he’s helping run the country. That gave us a certain degree of access to the president, but if we were going to announce that the sky was falling, we needed to have some proof.
“And the rest?” asked Dave.
“Starting with your third question, we’re going to tell Mahir, because he already knows, and we’re going to tell Maggie,” I said. “We can figure out the rest as we go.”
Dave frowned. “Why are we getting Maggie involved?”
“Because she’s in charge of the Fictionals. If there’s any chance this is going to end up getting big enough that we have to bring the whole site in on it, I want her
to have had time to figure out how she’s planning to tell her people,” I said.
Plus, it’s the right thing to do,
added George.
“Well, yeah,” I muttered. “I knew that.”
My team had learned not to comment on my conversations with George. Kelly hadn’t. Frowning, she asked, “Are you wearing an earpiece?”
“What?” Shit. “Uh… no, not exactly.”
“Then who are you talking to?”
There was no way out but straight ahead. Shrugging, I said, “Georgia.”
Kelly hesitated, emotions chasing themselves across her face like a gang of zombies chasing a government hunting party. Finally, she settled for the easiest possible answer: “I see.”
The urge to get up in her face and try to start something was almost too strong to suppress. That’s how I usually dealt with people who gave me the look that she was wearing now, that horrible mix of surprise and shock and pity. Six months ago, I probably wouldn’t have been able to stop myself. Six months ago, I was thinking a lot less clearly. Maybe I’m crazy. But I’m going to be the kind of crazy that Finreful until it blows everything in its path to kingdom come.
“We all cope in our own ways,” I said briskly. “Dave, is Maggie online? We can conference her in right now.”