So Becks and Alaric got themselves into a sticky spot today—for the moment-by-moment, uncensored report, check Alaric’s status feed, but be prepared for lots of adult language. Did you know he knew some of those words? I did not know he knew some of those words! Our little boy is growing up.

But Becks and Alaric getting into trouble is practically old news around here, right? So what makes this such a big deal? Only the fact that our Lord and Master Shaun “The Boss” Mason made his triumphant return to the field to pull their asses out of the fire. And I have to say, seeing him out there…

It was good in a way I don’t think I can put into words, and I do this for a living. Maybe we’re going to recover from what happened last year after all. Maybe we can move on.

Maybe we’re going to be okay.

—From The Antibody Electric, the blog of Dave Novakowski, Apri12, 2041

Two

I stopped the Jeep in front of the van before turning to really look at Becks and Alaric, scanning them for signs of visible injury or blood. Their clothing was filthy, but I didn’t see any gore on either of them. “Either of you bit?”

“No,” said Becks.

Alaric just shook his head. Poor guy still looked like he was going to puke.

“Scratched?” I hate this part. Before she died, George always took care of the postfield briefing and blood tests. I didn’t want to deal with them, and she didn’t make me. These days, I’m the boss, and that makes it my problem.

“Negative.”

“No.”

“Good.” I leaned across Alaric to open the glove compartment, pulling out three blood tests. “You know what happens now.”

“Oh, great,” Alaric said, with a grimace. “Bloodshed. Because I haven’t had nearly enough of that so far today.”

“Stop your whining and poke your finger,” I commanded, passing out the small plastic boxes.

Moaning and grumbling about needle pricks aside, I have to give the blood test units this: They’re awesome pieces of technology, and they get better every year. The basic units I was handing out were ten times more sensitive than the units George and I were using in the field before we signed up to follow then-Senator Ryman’s presidential campaign, where we’d had access to much better equipment. All we had to do was prick our fingers, and the sensors inside the disposable little boxes would go to work, filtering through our blood, looking for the active viral bodies that would signal an unstoppable cascade ending in amplification and zombification.