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“Georgia Mason, After the End Times, here to see Governor Tate.”

One of them looked over his sunglasses at me. “You’re late.”

“Got held up,” I replied, smiling. My own sunglasses were firmly in place, making it difficult, if not impossible, to tell whether the smile was reaching my eyes.

The guards exchanged a look. I’ve found that men in sunglasses really hate it when they can’t see your eyes—it’s like the air of mystique they’re trying to create isn’t meant to be shared with anyone else, especially not a silly little journalist who happens to suffer from an ocular medical condition. I held my ground and my smile.

Late or not, they didn’t have a valid reason to keep me out. “Don’t do it again,” said the taller of the two, and opened the door to the governor’s private office.

“Right,” I said, and let my smile drop as I walked past them. They closed the door behind me with a sharp click. I didn’t bother to turn. I’d only get one first look at the private office of the man who stood the best shot at putting me out of a job. I wanted to savor it.

Governor Tate’s office was decorated austerely. He’d chosen to cover the room’s two windows; shelves blocked them almost completely, and the ambient light was provided by soft overhead fluorescents. Two massive flags covered most of the rear wall, representing, respectively, the United States and Texas. There were no other personal touches in evidence. This office was a stopping place, not a destination.

The governor himself was behind his desk, carefully placed so he was framed by the flags. I could imagine his handlers spending hours arguing about how best to create the image that he was a man who would be strong, both for his country and for the world. They’d done it; he looked perfectly presidential. If Peter Ryman was all boyish good looks and all-American charm, Governor David Tate was the embodiment of the American military man, from his solemn demeanor down to his respectable gray crew cut. I didn’t need to call up his service record; the fact that he had one while Senator Ryman didn’t has been the source of a lot of ads paid for by “concerned citizens” since the campaign cycle began. Three-star general, saw combat in the Canadian Border Cleansing of ’17, when we took back Niagara Falls from the infected, and then again in New Guinea in ’19, when a terrorist action involving aerosolized live-state Kellis-Amberlee nearly cost us the country. He’d been wounded in battle, he’d fought for his nation and for the rights of the uninfected, and he understood the war we fight every day against the creatures that used to be our loved ones.

There are a lot of good reasons the man scares the crap out of me. Those are just the beginning.

“Miss Mason,” he said, indicating the chair on the far side of his desk with a sweep of one hand as he rose. “I trust you didn’t get lost? I was beginning to think you weren’t intending to come.”

“Governor,” I replied. I walked over and sat down, pulling my MP3 recorder from my pocket and placing it on the table. The action triggered at least two video cameras concealed in my clothing. Those were the ones I knew about; I was sure Buffy had hidden half a dozen more in case someone got cute with an EMP pulse. “I was unavoidably detained.”

“Ah, yes,” he said, sitting back down. “Those security checks can be murder, can’t they?”

“They certainly can.” I leaned over to turn on the MP3 recorder with a theatrical flick of my index finger. Smoke and mirrors: If he thought that was my only recording device, he’d worry less about what was really going on the record. “I wanted to thank you for taking the time to sit down with me today and, of course, with our audience at After the End Times. Our readers have been following this campaign with a great deal of interest, and your platform is something that they’re eager to understand in more depth.”

“Clever folks, your readers,” the governor drawled, settling back in his seat. I glanced up without moving my head; the ability to see your interviewees when they don’t know you’re looking is one of the great advantages to living your life behind tinted glass.

It was easier to look than it was to avoid flinching at what I saw. The governor was watching me with undisguised blankness, like a little boy watching a bug he intended to smash. I’m used to people disliking reporters, but that was a bit much. Sitting up again, I straightened my glasses and said, “They are among the most discriminating in the blogging community.”

“Is that so? Well, I suppose that explains their unflagging interest in this year’s race. Been glorious for your ratings, hasn’t it?”

“Yes, Governor, it has. Now, your run for president was a bit of a surprise—political circles held that you wouldn’t be reaching for the office for another cycle. What prompted this early entrance into the race?”

The governor smiled, erasing the blankness from his eyes. Too late; I’d already seen it. In a way, the sudden life in his expression was even more frightening. He was on script now. He thought he knew how to handle me.

“Well, Miss Mason, the long and the short of it is that I’ve been getting a mite worried watching the way things have been going around here. I looked out at the field and realized that, unless I was on it, there just wasn’t anyone out there that I’d trust to watch after my wife and two boys when the dead decided it was time for another mass uprising. America needs a strong leader in this time of turmoil. Someone who knows what it means for a man to fight to hold what’s his. No offense against my esteemed opponent, but the good senator hasn’t ever fought for what he loves. He doesn’t understand it the way he would if he’d ever bled to keep it.” His tone was jovial and almost jocular, a father figure imparting wisdom on a privileged student.

I wasn’t buying it. Keeping my expression professional, I said, “So you see this as a two-man race—between yourself and Senator Ryman.”