Deadline

“I’d think this was excessive if I hadn’t just been to Maggie’s place,” I muttered to Becks, who snorted with quiet laughter. I wasn’t kidding, either; I wouldn’t be surprised to learn that Maggie and the CDC get their security designs through the same firm. God knows her family has the money, and they’ve never been shy about spending a few extra bucks for the sake of a little bit more safety.

Finally, after running the security gamut, we were allowed to enter the CDC parking lot, where I parked in a space marked VISITOR in large yellow letters. Becks slid off, removing her helmet and producing a hairbrush from her pack while I was still getting the kickstand positioned. She began briskly brushing out her hair, making adjustments in accordance with some secret set of female rules that even George had never been willing to share with me.

“You look fine, especially for this sort of visit,” I said, securing my own helmet to the handlebars. “Nobody’s going to be looking at your hair.”

Becks gave me a frosty look. “So says you,” she said stiffly. “I’ve found that good hair can open many doors for the female investigative reporter. It certainly doesn’t hurt my ratings when I take steps to avoid looking like I just rolled out of bed.”

I had to admit she had a point: Becks paid more attention to her appearance than any other Irwin I knew, male or female, and her merchandise sales were even higher than mine. She wore her hair longer than was strictly safe for fieldwork, with blonde highlights and dark brown lowlights that made her otherwise medium-brown hair seem somehow exotic, especially in the sort of light conditions she was usually filming under. Combined with naturally green eyes and a fondness for wearing tight white tank tops, well, it wasn’t a mystery why eighty percent of her viewers were male. It was more of a mystery that she seemed to want me to approve of it. I was never going to get that one.

Let her brush her hair so we can get moving, said George.

“Fine,” I said, digging my equipment out of the bike’s saddlebag more briskly than was strictly necessary.

“What?” asked Becks.

“Nothing.”

“Right.” She shoved the brush back into her bag. “There, all done.”

“Really?” I lifted my eyebrows, giving her an appraising look. “You sure you don’t need to touch up your makeup or something before we can go in?”

“I’m sure the CDC will be thrilled to know that you made such an effort on its behalf,” I said, and started down the path that was labeled ENTRANCE in more large yellow letters. At least these ones were on a sign, not painted onto the pavement. Becks made an entirely unladylike snorting noise, and followed me.

After all the security checks required to get to the parking lot, walking up to the front doors of the Portland CDC was almost anticlimactic. They were clear glass, making a point with their total lack of reinforcement—this was the CDC. If the infected made it this far in, the city was already lost, so why bother wasting money that could be put to better use elsewhere? These were scientists. They didn’t feel the need to squander public funds on fripperies.

Those fripperies included furniture for their front lobby. A wave of comfortably chilly climate-controlled air hit us as we walked into the building, so devoid of character that it might as well have been an unused movie set. The floor was black marble, and the walls were white, except for the large steel sign proclaiming this to be the Portland office of the Centers for Disease Control. “Got that part, thanks,” I muttered, arrowing toward the one piece of furniture in the room: the sleekly futuristic reception desk.

The receptionist herself was also sleekly futuristic, possibly because she felt the need to live up to her workstation. Her hair was pulled into a bun so severe it looked almost molded, her jacket was impeccably cut, and the eyes behind her black-framed glasses were cold. “Names and business?” she asked as we approached. Her fingers never stopped darting across her keyboard, even as she glanced in our direction, looked us up and down, and dismissed us as unimportant.

“We’re with the After the End Times news site, and we’d like to speak to the director of this installation,” I said mildly, leaning against the edge of her desk as I flashed her my ID. Becks did the same, unsmiling. “Don’t worry, we can wait if we have to.”

The receptionist gave us another of those quick, cold, up-and-down glances before asking, “The nature of your business, sir?” The “sir” was grudging, purely a formality to check off some internal list marked “proper procedure.”

“That’s for us to discuss with the director,” said Becks.

“I see.” The receptionist sniffed. “If you’d like to make an appointment, I’m sure we can fit you in sometime this week. In the meanwhile—”

“Sometime this week? Really? That’s awesome.” I smacked the edge of the desk for emphasis as I straightened, and was only a little gratified to see the receptionist jump. “Okay, Becks, you start setting up the cameras, and I’m going to analyze the light levels in here, see where it’s best for us to start shooting.”

“Excuse me?” The receptionist half rose from her seat, revealing a pencil skirt as precisely tailored as the jacket. I found myself wondering if she starched her underpants to keep them from ruining her mood through excessive softness. “What are you doing?”

“Well, this is a government building, right?” I asked, guilelessly. “Which means that we, as citizens, are totally entitled to be here whenever and whyever we want, as long as we’re not actively disrupting normal business or committing acts of vandalism? No appointments required unless there’s an active state of emergency?”