MORE SHOOTING. MORE KILLS.
ONE of the non-team hunters tried sneaking up on one of the deadheads he’d ended to cut something off as a trophy, but Bobby yelled at him. Maybe it was for Alice’s benefit as a reporting journalist, but she didn’t think so. Bobby was a curious fellow, famous for killing undead things that were once US citizens, but strangely respectful. The official line on Yosemite hunting was that it was about population control, like deer hunting, but most of the people who contacted Alice through her blog argued that it was sadistic, macho bullshit: killing made legal so psychopaths could finally come out and play. But she didn’t think that was true of Bobby, even as sensational and famous as Sherman Pope had made him. He played the game with respect. And for that, Alice found her already entrenched regard for Bobby deepening.
By the time they piled back into the troop carrier recreational vehicle, the sun was setting. Bobby reclaimed his position on the roof for the ride back to the outpost, and Alice joined him. He seemed almost wistful, his deep-blue eyes watching the passing scenery like a sailor staring out at the sea.
She waited for him to speak first, not wanting to break the mood. In the between time, her mind moved to the vehicle below, and the landscape around them. Colonel Calais and the PFC who’d equipped her had said there were all sorts of control systems and safeguards observing the reserve: cameras everywhere linked by a rudimentary, experimental AI hub to follow and predict movements, tags like the one in her hand meant to keep watch on the movement of inmates both dead and alive, satellites in the sky watching for rogues here like the satellite network kept an eye on the nation’s cities and farmland.
But despite all of that — despite assurances that even if Alice somehow became separated from Bobby’s crew, there were armed rangers always at the ready who’d storm in to save her — Alice couldn’t help thinking of the vehicle, its rubber tires, its gas tank with a finite capacity, its engine that was as susceptible to breakdown as her own temperamental Prius X. They were perhaps a half hour from twilight, an hour from full dark. And no matter what safeguards existed, this wasn’t a place Alice wanted to be when light fled the sky.
“So,” said Bobby. “Did you get what you needed?”
Alice blinked, her thoughts slow to return from the horrors of a monster-filled darkness.
“For this part, yes. But we still have the interview.”
“How will it be different from the other interviews we’ve done?” Bobby wasn’t annoyed. His charming smile was back, his expression bright in the waning light. Despite being covered in guts, he remained camera friendly. He had two days’ stubble on his face and wavy brown hair that was too long for Alice’s taste but still worked well on the handsome Bobby Baltimore.
“Now I’ve been hunting with you.”
“And how was it?”
“Gruesome.”
“So then,” said Bobby. “What kinds of questions do you have for our interview?”
A parade of inquiries marched through her mind. She was as eager to ask as he was to know:
Do you ever wonder if people tune in and watch you blow away their family members? If so, does it bother you?
Have you ever interacted with a deadhead who hadn’t yet raged, who might still seem harmless, like a slow human?
How interested is Hemisphere in what they do here? Is it a testing ground, or something else?
Who is Golem, and what does he mean to you?
And perhaps most niggling of all: Does it strike you as conflicted that some of the staff here at Yosemite Reserve, where deadheads are hunted, are themselves Sherman Pope positive?
“I can’t tell you that,” Alice said. “It will give you time to prepare. I need a genuine reaction, when I ask my questions on the record.”
“Shock reporting? Cornering the interview subject? I thought you were better than that, Ms. Frank,” he said with a winning smile to blanch the sting. Another lighthearted jibe, as expected from a guy like Bobby, who could get away with anything.
“Nothing so sinister. But if you answer me now and I’m not recording, the little details will all be lost, and you may not give them again later, when they matter.”
“Fine. Spoilsport.” He looked into the distance, where moaning noises seemed to come from the rocks themselves. Alice had heard that: In areas with large feral populations (and these days, there were really only two left: Yosemite and Bakersfield), undead groans were as much a part of the aural landscape as chirping crickets or hooting owls. “Then tell me this: Will Archibald Burgess like the report you’ll give about this little trip, or will he hate it?”
The man who saved the world? The hero who came to the rescue when all seemed lost? That was the official line on Burgess, but Alice had a few rather unpopular opinions to the contrary. There was no question Hemisphere was all too aware of her thoughts, and Alice Frank’s fly in their ointment.
“Archibald Burgess,” Alice said, finally feeling less uneasy and more herself as the well-lit tree house outpost loomed ahead. “Yes, Bobby. Let’s talk about him.”