Becks, like Mahir, had managed to dress while I was staring at the television and was wearing combat boots, a black tank top, and camouflage pants—the Irwin equivalent of a uniform. She and Alaric were sitting at the table, him with his laptop pulled as close to his body as it would go, leaving the rest of the space for her. She had what looked like a small armory spread out in front of her, and was in the process of reassembling a semiautomatic handgun that had yet to be legally cleared for private ownership. They looked up when they heard my footsteps.
“What’s the update?” asked Becks. She snapped the magazine into place with a click that echoed through the kitchen, eliciting a startled yip from one of the bulldogs sprawled next to the sealed-off door.
“Nothing that’s good,” I replied. George had released my wrist when she got me where she wanted me, and I realized without surprise that she was gone again. That was okay by me. Her appearing and physically hauling me around the house represented a whole new level of crazy, and I wanted to avoid thinking about it for as long as possible. “Forever” seemed like an excellent place to start. “They’ve declared martial law in the areas that haven’t been officially marked as hazard zones, and it’s starting to look like they’re going to mark the entire damn Gulf Coast as a Level 1 hazard.”
Alaric paled. “They can’t do that.”
“Yes, they can.” Becks put down the gun she’d been working on. “In case of an outbreak confirmed to impact more than sixty percent of the population in a given area, USAMRIID and the CDC will both recommend that a Level 1 designation be applied for the protection of the surrounding area. The government reserves the right to take their recommendation.” A smile that looked more like a grimace twisted her lips upward. “Our parents voted that little jewel into law, and we never repealed it, because why should we? Outbreaks are tiny things. Bad things. It’s better if we can let fifteen people die and save five thousand, right?”
“Only this time, we’re going to let fifteen million die,” I said. “That sounds a little different, don’t you think? Alaric.”
He turned to me and blinked. He was pale and stunned looking, like he still couldn’t believe what was happening. That was understandable. I couldn’t believe it either. “What?”
“Where’s the van?” His expression didn’t change. I took a careful breath, and amended, “Where’s our van? Did Maggie have you move it to the garage after we left, or is it still parked out back?”
If the van was parked outside, there was no way I’d be able to get at it. Maybe one of Maggie’s security ninjas—but that would mean trying to talk them through finding the wireless booster, and I wasn’t sure my memory was good enough for that.
“I…” Alaric stopped, frowning. “It’s in the garage. It was out back until you called—Maggie wanted to keep the garage open for her Fictionals when they came through—but she got spooked when you told us to hole up, and she had me move it inside, where it wouldn’t be visible to satellite surveillan”
“God bless justified paranoia,” I said fervently, and started toward the garage door. The bulldogs lifted their heads and whined, watching me.
“Where are you going?” asked Becks, half-rising.
“The van.” I looked between them, noting their matching blank looks, and explained, “I’m pretty sure Buffy’s old wireless booster is still out there. If I can get it running—”
“—we can get back online,” said Alaric, his eyes widening in comprehension. “I forgot all about that thing!”
“We haven’t exactly needed to use it in the last year.” I started walking again. “I’ll be right back. If I’m not right back, well… fuck, I don’t know. If I’m not right back, throw some gas grenades into the garage and call for the security dudes to come and shoot me until I stop bleeding.”
“We’ll shoot you ourselves,” said Becks, causing Alaric to shoot her a distressed look. She ignored it. You learn to shrug that sort of thing off after you’ve been in the field for a while. That, or you stop trying to talk to people who aren’t Irwins.
“Thanks.” I opened the garage door, shoving a bulldog aside with my foot before it could sneak by me, and slipped through.
The garage lights were motion-activated white fluorescents. They clicked on as soon as the door to the kitchen swung shut, filling the enclosed space with an even, sterile glow. I scanned the area, automatically assessing the load-bearing capacity of the shelves lining the walls and the security of the pipes connecting to the water heater and emergency backup generator. Maggie used the garage primarily for storage, cramming most of the shelves with boxes and using the ones nearest the door as an extension of the pantry. One entire floor-to-ceiling shelving unit was dedicated to bags of dried dog food. At least the bulldogs wouldn’t be going crazy with hunger anytime soon.
Our van was sitting at the center of the room. It had been washed before it was put away, and its paint almost gleamed in the antiseptic light. I took a step toward it.
“Hello, Mr. Mason,” said the voice of the house. It managed to sound chiding, which was a nice trick, since it didn’t have normal human intonations. I stopped where I was, looking vainly for the speaker. “I am afraid the house is presently in a sealed state. You will be unable to exit, and should return to the interior.”