Breathe, George said.
“I’m trying,” I murmured. Watching Maggie and Alaric embrace felt weirdly like spying. I turned away.
“Hey,” said Becks, stepping up beside me. Kelly was close behind her, clutching one of the spare blankets we kept in the back of the van around herself for warmth. They both looked exhausted, but of the pair, it was Becks who looked like she was going to be okay. The circles under Kelly’s eyes were deep enough to be alarming, and her face was pale.
“Hey,” I replied. Nodding toward Kelly, I asked, “Doc get through the drive okay?”
“I slept some,” said Kelly, in a distant tone.
“No,” said Becks, half a second later.
“Didn’t think so.” I glanced over to where Alaric and Magdalene were still clinging to each other, and said, “Maggie made emu meatloaf. It’s inside. Maybe we should join it.”
“That sounds like an excellent idea to me,” Becks said. “I’ll get my bag.”
Now Kelly began to look alarmed. “Wait—this is where we’re staying? Here?”
“Yup,” I answered, turning to unhook the bike’s saddlebags and sling them over my shoulder. “Welcome to Maggie’s Home for Wayward Reporters and Legally Dead CDC Employees.”
“But this isn’t—it’s not—” She waved her hands, encompassing the wide green lawn, the patches of tangled, seemingly untended greenery, and the trees outside the wall. “This isn’t safe!”
Becks and I exchanged a look. Then, almost in unison, we started to laugh. It had the ragged, almost hysterical edge that always seems to come with laughter that’s halfway born from exhaustion, but still, it felt damn good to laugh about something. Just about anything would have been okay by that point.
Kelly looked between us, eyes widening with alarm that turned quickly into irritation. “What?” she demanded. “What are you laughing at?” That made us laugh harder, until I was bent almost double, and Becks was covering her face with her hands. Even George was laughing, an eerie, asynchronous echo inside my head. Alaric and Magdalene ignored us, lost in the private world of their grief.
Becks was the first to get control of herself. Wiping her eyes, she said, “Oh, Shaun, I don’t think anybody ever bothered to tell the Doc here exactly where it was that we were going.”
“Apparently not,” I said, rolling my shoulders back and forcing my expression to sober as I turned to Kelly and said, “Doc, we are fortunate enough to enjoy the hospitality of Miss Magdalene Grace Garcia.”
“Please don’t steal the silver,” added Becks.
Kelly’s mouth dropped open.
If Kelly’s family was responsible for many of the medical advancements of the past twenty-five years, it was Maggie’s family who made sure they had the equipment they needed to keep moving forward. Her parents were heavily into software before the Rising; their company had already made millions when the dead began to walk. They were savvy people, and they saw the writing on the wall: Either everybody was about to die, in which case money had just become an outdated concept, or we were going to beat back the infected, and folks were going to get real concerned about their health. They managed to shift most of their financial capital into medical technology before the markets froze. They didn’t make millions. They made billions, and that was after taxes.
They weren’t only heavily into software: They were also heavily into philanthropy, and their contributions were a large part of what made saving Weed possible. Of course, that left them owning a controlling share in two of the town’s four major fisheries, as well as most of the hospital. We’re talking about the kind of people for whom a thousand dollars is a perfectly reasonable price for a bottle of wine. When Maggie turned twenty-one, they asked her what she wanted, said that the sky was the limit, nothing was too good for their precious little girl.
She asked for the farmhouse that belonged to her grandparents, a military-grade security system, a private T1 line, and permanent access to the interest generated by her trust fund. Nothing else. And her folks, being the sort of people who try to keep their word, agreed. We might have been safer in an underground CDC bunker. Maybe. If it was protected by ninjas or something.
“But…” Kelly said finally. “Shouldn’t she be doing something, I don’t know, important with herself?”
“She is,” I said, and smiled. “She hosts grindhouse film festivals and writes for me. Come on. Last one to the table has to do the dishes.” I started for the door, skirting a wide circle around Alaric and Maggie. Kelly followed me, still looking confused, and Becks came after her. She left the front door standing open. The privileges of security are many, and not always visible.
None of the other Fictionals were evident in the large, bookshelf-lined living room, which was cluttered with boxes of dusty papers, dog beds, and comfortable-looking couches. That was unusual; Maggie was almost never home alone, having opened her house on a semipermanent basis to all the Fictionals working for the site, as well as a few of the Irwins and Newsies. She liked company, Maggie did. She grew up in a level of society where it was still possible to be a party girl, and even though she walked away from her roots in a lot of ways, she couldn’t walk away from everything she’d learned. Normal people like being alone. Being alone means being safe. Maggie got lonely.
Kelly stuck close behind me, drinking in her surroundings with a coolly assessing expression that I recognized from watching Irwins sizing up hazard zones. Most homes are decorated for utility these days, resulting in a lot of sleek lines, brightly lit corners, and modernistic furniture that looks like it came from a pre-Rising horror movie, all of it designed to be easy to disinfect. Maggie decorated in antiques and homemade frniture, with clutter covering every surface, and dust covering all the clutter.