I have once again contributed Epic Silliness to the Orbit blog to celebrate a holiday.

Annabel Lee, After the Rising.

Go forth and be amused. And remember, once she's dead, she is no longer your girlfriend.

So we survived another iteration of the Traveling Circus and Snake-Handling Show (always a risky proposition, what with all those snakes), and now it's time to get back to normal, everyday life. Naturally, for me, this means "now it's time to start packing for Michigan." Because nothing says "restful" like jetting straight off to another convention, right? Right?!

Ahem. A few snapshot statuses, for the interested and alert:

"Wicked Girls" shirts.
Yes! They have arrived! Well...mostly. It turns out the shirt shop was out of certain size/style combinations, so my order was short about fifty shirts, which will be coming along later. How are we finding out which size/style combinations are missing? By trying to pack orders and being unable to find the associated shirts. Naturally. So shipping is being a little bit odd at the moment, and I'm filling as many complete orders as I possibly can. Feel free to email the merchandise address (the Gmail.com account that contacted you for shipping and payment) if you have questions about your specific order, or need to update your address in any way.

Ashes of Honor progress.
I now have approximately 86,000 words written on Ashes of Honor, which means I'm on target to finish my first, deeply flawed draft of the book by the end of October. At which point, the flensing will begin. The flensing has already begun, on a localized level, but the deep flense requires a wider audience. I'm actually pretty happy with the shape of this book. I finally got to bring back a lot of the cast from A Local Habitation, some questions are getting answered, and Toby eats Pop-Tarts. Life is good.

Discount Armageddon approaches.
According to my planner countdown, Discount Armageddon will be released in one hundred and fifty-five days. But, you know. No pressure or anything. I am deeply excited and deeply terrified, and getting ready to rearrange things on my website to make the InCryptid section easier to find and navigate. This means the Field Guide will also be going totally live. You, too, can live in fear of the Apraxis Wasps.

Zombies.
Are love.

Albino banana slug.
ALBINO BANANA SLUG!!!!!! He's like vanilla soft serve with eyes, and I want to love him forever, even though this picture was taken a year ago and so he's probably been eaten by an owl by now. (I know slugs are hermaphrodites. I don't care. I want to name this particular slug "Geoff," and have grand adventures with him. He is my beloved squishy friend.)

HAIL FROGLORD!
This Questionable Content strip speaks to the depths of my soul.

And that's me. What's new with you?

Newsflesh trilogy, final stats.

Start date: September 4th, 2005.
End date: September 2nd, 2011.

Volumes: Three.
Words: 455,814.
Pages: An awful lot.

...so yeah. That happened.

Last night, at approximately 9:15PM, I finished processing the last of the editorial changes to Blackout, and kicked the manuscript off to The Agent for a final typo check. She kicked it back to me this morning, and at approximately 5:21AM, I finished correcting the last of the grammatical and typographical errors. The book is back with her for a final final check, and then it's off to The Other Editor, to begin the process of transforming into something you can read.

It's over.

I have other things to do in this universe, other stories to tell and to enjoy telling, but this story, this trilogy...it's over. I am finished with the Masons. Their tale is done.

I've never finished anything like this before. I feel a little numb and a little scalded and a little overwhelmed, all at once.

Thank you. Thank you to everyone who's read these books, recommended these books, loved these books, hated these books, or interacted with them in any way. Thank you to Michael and Amanda, Kate and GP, Spider and Steve, Alan and Jude, Brooke and Vixy and Bill and Mike and Rae and Sunil and Amy and Cat and...and...and everyone. Just thank you.

Thank you for helping me tell this story. I never could have done it on my own.

Alive or dead, the truth won't rest. Thank you for helping me to rise up while I could.

Hey. Remember when I wrote a novella leading up to the release of Deadline, and we called it "Countdown," and everybody had a good time watching the end of the world? Yeah, that was fun. In fact, that was so fun that Orbit wound up purchasing the novella for the Orbit Short Fiction Program, which gave me the luxury of revising and expanding on the original text (since I couldn't really afford the time when I wasn't getting paid for it). Good times.

Well. The times are getting better. Subterranean Press, the publishers of amazing limited-edition, illustrated works of speculative fiction, have acquired the rights to "Countdown," and will be publishing a special hardcover edition of the novella. These books will be limited to a signed and numbered print run of 1,000, and will include both "Countdown" and "Apocalypse Scenario #683: The Box" (also previously published by the Orbit Short Fiction Program).

I am so excited. I don't know yet exactly when the books will be available, although believe me, I'll be announcing it as soon as I have any information. They should sell for about $35 USD, and are likely to sell out, if past books from this publisher are anything to measure by. Subterranean does small, beautiful, collector's-quality books, and having an edition from them is something I have dreamed of for years.

Life is good.

Some of you may remember that I did a series of blog posts "counting down" to the release of Deadline, chronicling the days leading up to the Rising of 2014. Some of you may remember asking me whether there would ever be a collected edition. And, well. Some of you may remember getting my standard "I can't say anything right now" reply of "LOOK! A BUNNY!"

Well, look. A bunny. Or more specifically, look, Countdown: A Newsflesh Novella now available for your e-reading pleasure! Countdown retails for $2.99, and is an awesome opportunity to have more Kellis-Amberlee goodness for your very own.

Click here to go to the official Orbit Short Fiction page for Countdown.
Click here to go to Amazon, and the Kindle store.
Click here to go to Barnes and Noble, and the Nook store.
Click here to go to the iBook store.

Now, some people will doubtless ask why they should pay for this when they can (and possibly have) read it for free on my blog. They may not ask me directly, 'cause we're normally more civil than that around here, but I'm going to answer anyway. There are four really good reasons.

1. This is a professionally formatted file, with all thirty days in the same place. No clicking, scrolling, or getting lost in my occasionally quixotic tag system. Basically, it's three dollars for total convenience.

2. I said a few times while writing the original series of posts that errors would creep in because writing live left me no time to go back and revise. Well, the luxury of Countdown becoming something I was paid for allowed me to go back, edit, adjust, and correct a lot of things, some little, some big. It also got a pass through the Machete Squad, making it a much higher-quality work.

3. The novella I want to do next year for Blackout is much larger and more ambitious, and it's really going to need those editorial revisions to be as good as I want it to be. The sales of Countdown will encourage Orbit to buy The Rising 2014: The Last Stand and Final Fall of the California Browncoats.

4. My cats like to eat. My cats like to eat a lot. My cats will, eventually, if unfed, eat me. If the cats eat me, I stop writing. If I stop writing, everyone will be sad. Except for me, as I will have been eaten. Buying Countdown helps me shove gooshy food into the fluffy monsters, and allows me to remain uneaten.

Countdown!

(If you have links to other ebook stores, please kick them over, and I'll add them.)

Hey! It's time once more for Science Fiction in San Francisco, the game where the rules are made up and the points don't matter! This Saturday, July 9th, at the Variety Preview Room Theatre in San Francisco, California. Doors open at 6:00PM, readings begin at 7:00PM. Who's going to be there? John "I am so damn cool, I wrote songs for Blue Oyster Cult" Shirley, and Mira "Who wants to find out what's lurking in the haunted cornfield?" Grant. To quote the Mira bio from the website:

"Mira Grant may or may not have attended SF in SF before. She is the evil twin of local urban fantasy writer, Seanan McGuire, who shot to fame last year by winning the John W. Campbell Award for Best New Writer at the WorldCon in Australia. More recently Mira's personality has crept to the fore. Her debut science fictional zombie tale, Feed, has received nominations for Best Novel in the Shirley Jackson and Hugo awards. Rumors that Mira has kidnapped Seanan and plans to torture her to death in various slow and painful ways are hotly denied by her publicist (but then he's a demon and does everything hotly). Mira's new novel, Deadline, a sequel to Feed, is currently available in bookstores and summoning circles for appropriate payment."

See how awesome this event is? I get a DEMON PUBLICIST. I'm sure he'll be thrilled to find out that he's been outed to the world by a local literary event. Hopefully "thrilled" won't involve cleansing us with fire.

Readings will be followed by a Q&A moderated by Terry Bisson. Admission is free, but there will be a cash bar, with all proceeds benefiting Variety. There will also be book sales courtesy of the ever-awesome Borderlands Books. Support a good cause and a local bookstore and see me read live! Fun for everybody!

Hope to see you there!

The links. Oh sweet Great Pumpkin, the links. And now it's time for another review roundup, because I'd like to eventually be able to view my entire link soup on a single screen again. (Like that's ever going to happen.)

First up, an absolutely fucking amazing review of Deadline from Paul Goat Allen at the Barnes & Noble Book Club. Paul says:

"While I impatiently awaited the release of the second Newsflesh novel, Deadline, I knew that it probably wouldn’t be as jaw-droppingly extraordinary and satisfying as Feed—middle volumes are generally the least satisfying installments in trilogies, at least for me.

"I'm happy to report that I was wrong.

"Deadline cranks everything up to volume 11. The mythical conspiracy that Shaun and his team are striving to uncover expands to mind-boggling proportions. The pacing is breakneck, desperate, and the action is literally nonstop throughout—and that’s saying something for a 582-page book! Major characters die. Entire cities are wiped out. The end of the world approaches..."

I call this review a win, no?

With Regards has also posted a lovely Deadline review, and says, "That, my friends, is the trademark of a good novel. When a person will, quite literally, debate on whether or not having dinner is as important as reading the next chapter...Well, you know you've written a damned good story. Deadline is a fantastic novel that I cannot praise highly enough."

When I make people late for dinner, I call that an unquestionable win.

From an unexpected and awesome corner comes this joint review of Feed and Deadline from fellow Hugo nominee Howard Tayler of Schlock Mercenary. Howard says, "I loved Feed. The story isn't really about the zombies. It's about some bloggers who get hired to cover a presidential candidate. The zombies in this tale are more like wallpaper. That moves. And then tries to eat your face. Okay, the book IS about the zombies, but there's ever so much more to it than that. And Deadline? EVEN BETTER." Duuuuuuuuuuude.

For our LJ review of the day, have this short, sweet review from chaiya. No pull quotes, but some lovely sincerity, and a very nice review overall. Thank you!

Finally (for right now) here's The Word Zombie sounding out on Deadline. Quote: "With Feed, Mira Grant established herself as a major new voice in zombie fiction. With Deadline, she proves that 'zombie' is a superfluous addition to that accolade. Without the subtlety of her storytelling, the layers of conspiracy at the heart of this book would have ripped apart like so many sheets of rice paper. Instead, she parceled out the story with the literary timing of Stephen King at his best, while managing to do what King has suffered with so much in recent years—tying the story together in the end and leaving the reader with an emotional punch akin to being hit in the chest with a Taser."

...whoa. I'm, uh, just going to leave things there for right now.

And go call my Mom.

Nothing says "hooray for Thursday" like a review roundup. No, really. It's a totally unique way of saying "hooray for Thursday." Anyway...

The Devourer of Books has posted a Deadline review, and says, "As in Feed, the zombies are not the point, but more a part of the setting, telling a story of news, blogs, politics, and the culture of fear. It is this that makes the Newsflesh series so successful for me. Grant is using her zombie setting to tell us all a story about ourselves." Woo!

Here's something new: a Feed review posted at the Game Vortex, which says, "It is probably the best novel that I've read in years and I read more than a book a week. The real genius of the novel is that yes, it is a horror novel, but the horror is not because of the zombies. The real horror is found in the human beings that are left in the world and their actions upon each other." Awesome.

...and hey, look, it's the Game Vortex review of Deadline. This one says, "As I said about Feed, it is probably one of the best novels that I have read in years. Deadline picks up right there and continues the amazing story. When I got to the end of Deadline, I really did not want to believe that it was over. Now, I cannot wait for the next novel, Blackout." It's nice not to disappoint.

Flights of Fantasy has posted a Deadline review, and says, "If you loved Feed, I strongly advise you pick up Deadline, ASAP. It’s a good read. I finished it, cover to cover in about a day and a half or so. And if you haven’t read Feed, go pick it up." That works for me!

Finally for today, here's the Fantasy Magazine review of Feed, which says, "The sibs are entertaining company, their thoroughly extrapolated post-apocalyptic world is a terrific setting, the SF zombies are skillfully rationalized, the body count is high, and the plot delivers some unexpected twists." Rock and roll.

Rock and roll and zombies.

Item the first: remember that I currently have a random-number giveaway for Deadline and some swag gathering entries. I'll be picking my three winners tomorrow. For details on how to enter and what you can potentially win, please see the post I've linked above. Go ahead. I can wait.

Item the second: this has literally been sitting in my link soup for a year, waiting for me to find something that makes it topical. As I have failed, I am now providing the link in isolation, because it amuses me. Moshez comments on zombies and weapons, and why my Horror Survival FAQ is sometimes sub-optimal. Join me in giggling.

Item the third: while I'm linking to random crap that makes me smile, here. Have the Animal Review review of the deep sea anglerfish. They give the anglerfish an overall F for being horrifying and upsetting and not really very friendly at all. Amusingly enough, these are all the reasons I give the anglerfish an overall A. For AWESOME.

Item the fourth: I can't remember if I ever actually linked to these, despite their being, you know, mad awesome, so here. Have a link to some absolutely gorgeous icons that were made using lyrics from my latest album, Wicked Girls. The icons, which are by snowishness, cannot help but make me happy, and so I am sharing them with you.

Item the fifth: Megan Lara's art is pure hammered awesome.

Item the sixth: I managed to find the Dead Tired Frankie Stein doll last night, which means a) I now have all the individual Dead Tired dolls except for Cleo De Nile, who I'm hoping to find this weekend, b) everyone at my local Toys R Us knows me on sight, and c) I am a total nerd. I am, thus far, a total nerd who has managed to resist the lure of the ball-jointed Soom doll, however, so I'm calling this a win for me, even as I call it a loss for my shelf space.

Item the seventh: I am so tired it physically hurts. I have to sleep tonight, or I'm just going to dissolve off my own bones like an overcooked chicken or one of those airline passengers in the first episode of Fringe. I didn't sleep at all on Tuesday night, and last night was our first really hot night of the summer, so the cats kept waking me up to freak out. Please play nicely today, as I may start to tremble and cry otherwise.

What's news with you?

So it turns out that even being deathly ill doesn't stop the world from continuing to produce awesome things, and that's what we're talking about right now. Specifically, we're talking about the part where Orbit has created an absolutely stunning book trailer for the Newsflesh series—and if you watch to the very end, you might catch a sneak peek at the cover for Blackout! Watch the video, spread links, tell your friends. Let's go VIRAL.

Seriously, this is my first book trailer, and if I weren't so damn sick, I'd be jumping around and screaming. Please, please, check it out, spread it around, and see if we can't convince my publisher that I should always get these. Because they're awesome.

Once you've seen the trailer, why not gussy up your computer with a little bit of home-brewed awesome in the form of icons and wallpapers from the Mira Grant website, created by the ever-fabulous Miss Tara? The site itself is about to get some pretty massive updates (they were planned for this week, and then I slept for two days), but the icons and wallpapers are fresh and sweet and waiting for you right now.

Not quite the same, but semi-related, you can read my thoughts on California's recent unseasonable rains and how they relate to writing speculative fiction at Larissa's Bookish Life, where a guest blog I wrote for her has been posted. It's not as visually striking as the first two items on our list, but hey, I managed to make it vaguely applicable, right?

Oh, and hey, the Blog Critics include Feed in an article on dystopias, alongside 1984 and The Hunger Games. I directed a stage production of 1984 in high school. Seeing my book in a graphic with that book is like...whoa. I win the universe.

That's all for now. I'm going back to bed.

Now that you've had about a week to read and enjoy Deadline (and to jump in over on the spoiler thread, which is rocking and rolling like whoa), it's time for a party! Specifically, it's time for a Borderlands Books party, which are some of the best parties in the world.

Since this is a Mira Grant party, it's going to be somewhat more low-key than a Toby release. We'll have readings, signings, Q&A, and, of course, cupcakes. The festivities will begin at 5:00 PM, and continue until 8:00 PM, with cupcakes served at 6:30, to divide the evening. Which brings me to...

The first Q&A will be held from 6:00-6:30 PM, and it will be a spoiler-free session. I'll repeat that before we start. Some people still haven't read Feed, and I'd like them to have the chance to get in, say hello, grab books, get a cupcake, and run without having the ending of the book spoiled for them.

If you can't make it, remember that the bookstore does take internet and phone orders, and I'd be happy to sign and personalize anything they have on hand. You can find contact details on the bookstore website.

Hope to see you there!

August 1st, 2014.

Kellis-Amberlee unified the world in a way that nothing had ever unified it before, or ever would again. Cities burned. Nations died. Tokyo, Manhattan, Bombay, London, all of them fell before an enemy that could not be stopped, because it came from within; because it was already inside. Some escaped. Some lived. All carried the infection deep inside their bodies, deep inside their very bones. They carried it with them, and it lived, too.

The Rising was finally, fully underway. Mothers mourned their children. Orphans wailed alone in the night. Death ruled over all, horrible and undying. And nothing, it seemed, would ever make it end.

RISE UP WHILE YOU CAN.

Berkeley, California. July 31st, 2014.

Marigold felt bad.

There had been a raccoon in the yard. She liked when raccoons came to the yard, they puffed up big so big, but they ran ran ran when you chased them, and the noises they made were like birds or squirrels but bigger and more exhilarating. She had chased the raccoon, but the raccoon didn't run. Instead, it held its ground, and when she came close enough, it bit her on the shoulder, hard, teeth tearing skin and flesh and leaving only pain pain pain behind. Then she ran, she ran from the raccoon, and she had rolled in the dirt until the bleeding stopped, mud clotting the wound, pain pain pain muted a little behind the haze of her confusion. Then had come shame. Shame, because she would be called bad dog for chasing raccoons; bad dog for getting bitten when there were so many people in the house and yard and everything was strange.

So Marigold did what any good dog in fear of being termed a bad dog would do; she had gone to the hole in the back of the fence, the hole she and her brother worked and worried so long at, and slunk into the yard next door, where the boy lived. The boy laughed and pulled her ears sometimes, but it never hurt. The boy loved her. She knew the boy loved her, even as she knew the man and the woman fed her, and that she was a good dog, really, all the way to the heart of her. She was a good dog.

She was a good dog, but she felt so bad. So very bad. The badness had started with the bite, but it had spread since then, and now she could barely swallow, and the light was hurting her eyes so much, so very much. She lay huddled under the bushes, wishing she could find her feet, wishing she knew why she felt bad. So very bad.

Marigold felt hungry.

The hunger was a new thing, a strong thing, stronger even than the bad feeling that was spreading through her. She considered the hunger, as much as she could. She had never been the smartest of dogs, and her mind was getting fuzzy, thought and impulse giving way to alien instinct. She was a good dog. She just felt bad. She was a good dog. She was...she was...she was hungry. Marigold was hungry.

Something rustled through the bushes. The dog that had been a good dog, that had been Marigold, and that was now just hungry rose slowly, legs unsteady, but willing to support the body if there might be something coming that could end the hunger. The dog that had been a good dog, that had been Marigold, looked without recognition at the figure that parted the greenery and peered, curiously, down at it. The dog, which could not moan, growled low.

"Oggie?"

***

We are experiencing technical difficulties. Please stand by.

When will you Rise?

[Note: As today is Sunday, and the book is actually released on Tuesday, I'm going to leave yesterday blank, and just keep posting from here.]

Atlanta, Georgia. July 30th, 2014.

The bedroom walls were painted a cheery shade of rose petal pink that showed up almost neon in the lens of the web camera. Unicorns and rainbows decorated the page where the video was embedded; even the YouTube mirrors that quickly started appearing had unicorns and rainbows, providing a set of safe search words that were too wide-spread to be wiped off the internet, no matter how many copies of the video were taken down. The man sitting in front of the web cam was all wrong for the blog. Too old, too haggard, too afraid. His once-pristine lab coat was spattered with coffee stains, and he looked like he hadn't shaved in more than a week.

"My name is Dr. Ian Matras," he said, in a calm, clear voice that was entirely at odds with his appearance. "I am—I was—an epidemic researcher for the Centers for Disease Control. I have been working on the issue of the Kellis cure since it was first allowed into the atmosphere. I have been tracking the development of the epidemic, along with my colleague, Dr. Christopher Sinclair." His breath hitched, voice threatening to break. He got himself back under control, and continued, "Chris wouldn't sanction what I'm going to say next. Good thing he isn't around to tell me not to say it, right?

"The news has been lying to you. This is not a virulent summer cold; this is not a new strain of the swine flu. This is, and has always been, a man-made pandemic whose effects were previously unknown in higher mammals. Put bluntly, the Kellis cure has mutated, becoming conjoined with an experimental Marburg-based cure for cancerl. It is airborne. It is highly contagious. And it raises the dead.

"Almost everyone who breathes air is now infected with this virus. Transmission is apparently universal, and does not come with any initial symptoms. The virus will change forms under certain conditions, going from the passive 'helper' form to the active 'killer' form of what we've been calling Kellis-Amberlee. Once this process begins, there is nothing that can stop it. Anyone whose virus has begun to change forms is going to become one of the mindless cannibals now shambling around our streets. Why? We don't know. What we do know is that fluid transmission seems to trigger the active form of the virus—bites, scratches, even getting something in your eye. Some people may serro-convert spontaneously. We believe these people were involved with the Marburg trials in Colorado, but following the destruction of the facility where those trials were conducted, we have no way of being absolutely sure.

"Let me repeat: we have been lying to you. The government is not allowing us to spread any knowledge about the walking plague, saying that we would trigger a mass panic. Well, the masses are panicking, and I don't think keeping secrets is doing anybody any favors. Not at this stage.

"Once someone has converted into the...hell, once somebody's a zombie, there's no coming back. They are no longer the people you have known all your life. Head shots seem to work best. Severe damage to the body will eventually cause them to bleed out, but it can take time, and it will create a massive hot zone that can't be sterilized with anything but fire or bleach. We have...God, we have..." He stopped for a moment, dropping his forehead into the palm of his hand. Finally, dully, he said, "We have lied to you. We have withheld information. What follows is everything we know about this disease, and the simple fact of it is, we know there isn't any cure. We know we can't stop it.

"Early signs of amplification include dialated pupils, dry mouth, difficulty breathing, loss of coordination, personality changes..."

***

Please return to your homes. Please remain calm. This is not a drill. If you have been infected, please contact authorities immediately. If you have not been infected, please remain calm. This is not a drill. Please return to your homes...

When will you Rise?

Thanks to everyone for your kind words and support leading up to the release of Deadline, the second book in the Newsflesh trilogy. I'm both excited and terrified about the idea of this book hitting shelves. I'm also about to go mostly offline—yes, even more than I have been since I left for New York—as I attend Wiscon, in Madison, Wisconsin. So here is the obligatory "ways you can help this be awesome, or at least non-traumatic."

Buy the book.
For bonus points, buy the book on or after Tuesday, when it is officially in stores. Any copies purchased before the release date don't count against my first week numbers, and those are the numbers that get a person onto the New York Times list. I would like to make the print list. I would have it framed, and then carry a picture of the framed list to show to anyone who says that girls don't like zombies. It would be brilliant. So please, buy the book, and if you can make yourself hold out, buy it once it's actually supposed to be on that shelf.

Write a review.
Amazon, Good Reads, your own personal blog, wherever. Word of mouth counts for a lot, especially during release week, and having reviews reminds people that a thing is worth reviewing, if that makes sense. I'm not saying "only post good reviews," because dude. But any review would be awesome.

Check your local library.
Most library systems allow you to request that they carry books. This is one of them.

Rise up while you can.
We only fail if we're afraid.

Denver, Colorado. July 27th, 2014.

Denver was burning. From where Dr. Wells sat, in the front room of his mountain home, it looked like the entire city was on fire. That couldn't possibly be true—Denver was too large to burn that easily—but oh, it looked that way.

In the house behind him he could hear the sound of shuffling, uncertain footsteps as his wife and children made their way down the stairs to the hallway. He didn't move. Not even to shut the door connecting the living room with the rest of the house. He was lonely. His city was burning, his research was over, and he was lonely. Couldn't a man be lonely, when he was sitting at the end of the world, and watching Denver burn?

Daniel Wells lifted his scotch, took a sip, and lowered it again. His eyes never left the flames. They were alive. Even if nothing else in the city he called home was alive, the flames were thriving. There was something comforting in that. Life, as a wise man once said, would always find a way.

A low moan sounded from the hallway right outside the front room. Daniel took another sip of scotch. "Hello, darling," he said, without turning. "It's a beautiful day, don't you think? All this smoke is going to make for an amazing sunset..."

Then his wife and children, who had finished amplification some time before, fell upon him, and the man responsible for Marburg Amberlee knew nothing but the tearing of teeth and the quiet surrender to the dark. When he opened his eyes again, he wasn't Daniel Wells anymore. Had he still possessed the capacity for gratitude, it is very likely that he would have been grateful.

***

Please return to your homes. Please remain calm. This is not a drill. If you have been infected, please contact authorities immediately. If you have not been infected, please remain calm. This is not a drill. Please return to your homes...

When will you Rise?

Berkeley, California. July 27th, 2014.

"Get those walls up! Cathy, I want to see that chicken wire hugging those planks, don't argue with me, just get it done." Stacy Mason rushed to help a group of neighborhood teens who staggered under the weight of the planks they'd "liberated" from an undisclosed location. At this point, she didn't care where the building materials came from; she cared only that they were going to reinforce the neighborhood fences and doors and road checkpoints. As long as what was inside their makeshift walls was going to make those walls stronger, they could start tearing down houses and she honestly wouldn't give a fuck.

Berkeley, being a university town in Northern California, had two major problems: not enough guns, and too many idiots who thought they could fight off zombies with medieval weapons they'd stolen from the history department. It also had two major advantages: most of the roads were already half-blocked to prevent campus traffic from disturbing the residents, and most of those residents were slightly insane by any normal societal measurement.

The nice lesbian collective down the block had contributed eighty feet of chicken wire left over from an urban farming project they'd managed the year before. The roboticist who lived across the street was an avid Burner, and had been happy to contribute the fire-breathing whale he'd constructed for the previous year's Burning Man. Not the most immediately useful contribution in the world, but it was sufficiently heavy to make an excellent road block...and Stacy had to admit that having a fire-breathing road block certainly gave the neighborhood character.

"Louise! If you're going to break the glass, break it clean—we don't want anyone getting cut!" They really, really didn't want anyone being cut. The transmission mechanisms for the zombie virus were still being charted, but fluid exchange was definitely on the list, and anything getting into an open wound seemed like a bad idea. "We gave you a hammer for a reason! Now smash things!"

The distant shrieks of children brought her head whipping around, the hairs on the back of her neck standing on end. Then the shrieks mellowed into laughter, and she relaxed—not entirely, but enough. "Damn dogs," she muttered, a smile tugging at her lips. "Exciting the children and stopping my heart."

"Mrs. Mason? I can't figure out how to make the staple gun work." The plaintive cry came from a young woman who had been Phillip's babysitter several times over the summer. She was standing next to a sheet of plywood with a staple gun in her hand, shaking it helplessly. It wasn't spewing staples at the moment; a small mercy, since the last thing they needed was for everyone to get hit by friendly fire.

Stacy shook off her brief fugue, starting toward the girl. "That's because you're holding it wrong, Marie. Now please, point the staple gun away from your body..."

The comfortable chaos of a neighborhood protecting itself against the dangerous outside continued, with everyone doing the best that they could to shore up their defenses and walls. They'd lost people on supply runs and rescue trips, but so far, everyone who'd stayed on the block had been fine. They were clinging to that, as the power got intermittent and the supply runs got less fruitful. Help was coming. Help had to be coming. And when help arrived, it would find them ready, healthy, and waiting to be saved.

Stacy Mason might be living through the zombie apocalypse, but by God, the important word there was "living." She was going to make it through, and so was everyone she cared about. There was just no other way that this could end.

***

If you are receiving this broadcast, you are within the range of the UC Berkeley radio station. Please follow these directions to reach a safe location. You will be expected to surrender all weapons and disrobe for physical examination upon arrival. We have food. We have water. We have shelter...

When will you Rise?

Denver, Colorado. July 26th, 2014.

Suzanne Amberlee's nose had been bleeding for most of the morning. It had ceased to bother her after the first hour; in a way, it had even proven itself a blessing. The blood loss seemed to blunt the hard edges of the world around her, blurring things into a comfortable gray that allowed her to finally face some of the hard tasks she'd been allowing herself to avoid. She paused in the process of boxing Amanda's books, wiping the sweat from her forehead with one hand and the blood from her chin with the other. Bloody footprints marred every box and wall in the room, but she didn't really see them anymore. She just saw the comforting absence of Amanda, who was never coming home to her again.

In Suzanne Amberlee's body, a battle was raging between the remaining traces of Marburg Amberlee and the newborn Kellis-Amberlee virus. There is no loyalty among viruses; as soon as they were fully conceived, the child virus turned against its parents, trying to drive them from the body as it would any other infection. This forced the Marburg into a heightened state of activity, which forced the body to respond to the perceived illness. Marburg Amberlee was not designed to fight the human body's immune system, and responded by launching a full-on assault. The resulting chaos was tearing Suzanne apart from the inside out.

For her part, Suzanne Amberlee neither knew nor cared about what was happening inside her body. She was one of the first to be infected with Marburg Amberlee, which had been tailored to be non-transmittable between humans...but nothing's perfect, and all those kisses she'd given her little girl had, in time, passed something more tangible than comfort between them. Marburg Amberlee had had plenty of time to establish itself inside her, and, paradoxically, that made her more resistant to conversion than those with more recent infections. Her body knew how to handle the sleeping virus.

And yet bit by bit, inch by crucial inch, Kellis-Amberlee was winning. Suzanne was not aware, but she was already losing crucial brain functions. Her tear ducts had ceased to function, and much of her body's moisture was being channeled toward the production of mucus and saliva—two reliable mechanisms for passing the infection along. She was being rewired, inch by inch and cell by cell, and even if someone had explained to her what was happening, she wouldn't have cared. Suzanne Amberlee had lost everything she ever loved. Losing herself was simply giving in to the inevitable.

Suzanne's last conscious thought was of her daughter, and how much she missed her. Then the stuffed bear she was holding slipped from her hands, and all thoughts slipped from her mind as she straightened and walked toward the open bedroom door. The back door was propped open, allowing a cool breeze to blow in from outside; she walked through it, and from there, made her way out of the backyard to the street.

The disaster that had been averted when the Colorado Cancer Research Center burned began with a woman, widowed and bereft of her only child, walking barefoot onto the sunbaked surface of the road. She looked dully to either side, not really tracking what she saw—not by any human definition of the term—before turning to walk toward the distant shouts of children playing in the neighborhood park. It would take her the better part of an hour to get there, moving slowly, with the jerky confusion of the infected when not actively pursuing visible prey.

It would take less than ten minutes after her arrival for the dying to begin. The Rising had come to Denver; the Rising had come home.

***

Please return to your homes. Please remain calm. This is not a drill. If you have been infected, please contact authorities immediately. If you have not been infected, please remain calm. This is not a drill. Please return to your homes...

When will you Rise?

July 20th, 2014.

The anchorman had built his reputation on looking sleek and well-groomed even when broadcasting from the middle of a hurricane. His smile was a carefully honed weapon of reassurance, meant to be deployed when bad news might otherwise whip the populace into a frenzy. He was smiling steadily. He had been smiling since the beginning of his report.

He was beginning to wonder if he would ever stop smiling again.

"Again, ladies and gentlemen, there is nothing to be concerned about. We have two particularly virulent strains of flu sweeping across the country. One, in the Midwest, seems to be a variant of our old friend, H1N1, coming back to get revenge for all those bacon lettuce and tomato sandwiches. Symptoms include nausea, dizziness, disorientation, and of course, our old friend, the stuffy nose. This particular flu also carries a risk of high fevers, which can lead to erratic behavior and even violence. So please, take care of yourself and your loved ones."

He shuffled the papers in front of him, trying to give the impression that he was reading off them, and not off the prompter. Audiences liked to see a little hard copy. It made them feel like the news was more legitimate. "The second strain is milder but a bit more alarming. Thus far, it's stayed on the West Coast—maybe it likes the beach. This one doesn't involve high fevers, for which we can all be grateful, but it does include some pretty nasty nosebleeds, and those can make people seem a lot sicker than they really are. If your nose starts bleeding, simply grab a tissue and head for your local hospital. They'll be able to fix you right up."

He was still smiling. He was never going to not be smiling. He was going to die smiling. He knew it, and still, the news rolled on. "Now, ladies and gentlemen, I have to beg you to indulge me for a moment. Some individuals are trying to spin this as a global pandemic, and I wish to assure you that it is nothing more than a nasty pair of summer flus. Please do not listen to reports from unreliable sources. Stick with the news outlets that have served you well, and remember, we're here to make sure you know the real story."

"And...we're clear!" said one of the production assistants, as the cheery strains of the station break music began to play. The anchor kept smiling. "Great job, Dave. You're doing fantastic. Can I get you anything?"

"I'm good," said the anchor, and kept smiling. No one seemed to have noticed that they had no footage, no reports from experts or comments from the man on the street. All they had was a press release from the governor's office, and strict orders to read it as written, with no deviation or side commentary. They were being managed, and no one seemed to care, and so he kept on smiling, and waited for the commercial break to end.

There was no footage. There was always footage. Even when good taste and human decency said not to air it, there was footage. Humanity liked to slow down and look at the car crash by the side of the road, and it was the job of the news to give them all the wrecks that they could stomach. So where was the wreck? Where was the twisted metal and the sorrowful human interest story? Why did they have nothing but words on a teleprompter, and silence from the editing room?

"And we're back in five...four...three..." The production assistant stopped in mid-countdown, eyes going terribly wide. "Dave? Do you feel all right?"

"I'm fine. Why?" He kept smiling.

"You're bleeding."

The news anchor—Dave Ramsey, who had done his job, and done it well, for fifteen years—suddenly became aware of a warm wetness on his upper lip. He raised his fingers to touch it, and looked wide-eyed at the blood covering them when he pulled away again. He smile didn't falter. "Oh," he said. "Perhaps I should go clean up."

When the broadcast resumed, his co-anchor was sitting there, a cheerful smile on her face. "We have an update from the Centers for Disease Control, who want us to reassure you that a vaccine will be available soon—"

***

News anchor Dave Ramsey passed away last night of complications from a sudden illness. He was forty-eight years old. A fifteen year veteran of Channel 51, Dave Ramsey is survived by his wife and three children...

When will you Rise?

July 18th, 2014.

It began nowhere. It began everywhere. It began without warning; it began with all the warning in the world. It could have been prevented a thousand times over. There was nothing that anyone could have done.

It began on July 18th, 2014.

At 6:42 AM, EST, in a hotel in Columbus, Ohio, Susan Morris rolled over in her sleep and sighed. That was all; the starting bell of the apocalypse was a simple exhale by a sleeping woman unaware of the transformation going on inside her body. Marburg Amberlee and the Kellis cure fell dormant as their children, their beautiful, terrible children, swarmed through Susan's blood and into her organs, taking over every function and claiming every nerve. At 6:48 AM, Susan's body opened its eyes, and the virus looked out upon the world, and found that it was hungry. She would be found clawing at the door three hours later when the maids came to clean her room. The room did not get cleaned.

At 9:53 AM, CDT, in the city of Peoria, Illinois, a man named Michael Dowell was hit by a car while crossing the street at a busy intersection. Despite flying more than three yards through the air and hitting the ground with a bone-shattering degree of force, Michael climbed back to his feet almost immediately, to the great relief of bystanders and drivers alike. This relief turned quickly to bewilderment and terror as he lunged at the crowd, biting four people before he could be subdued. By nightfall, the first Peoria outbreak was well underway.

At 10:15 AM, PDT, in the town of Lodi, California, a woman named Debbie Goldman left her home and began jogging along her usual route, despite the already record-breaking heat and the recent warnings of her physician. Her explosive cardiac event struck at 11:03 AM. Death was almost instantaneous. Her collapse went unwitnessed, as did her subsequent revival. She staggered to her feet, no longer moving at anything resembling a jog. As she made her way along the road, she encountered a group of teenagers walking to the neighborhood AM/PM; three of the six were bitten in the struggle which followed. The Lodi outbreak began to spread shortly after two o'clock that afternoon.

At 11:31 AM, MDT, at the Colorado Cancer Research Center in Denver, Colorado, two of the patients from the Marburg Amberlee cancer trials went into spontaneous viral amplification as the live viral bodies already active in their systems were pushed into a form of slumber by the encroaching Kellis-Amberlee infection. The primary physician's administrative assistant, Janice Barton, was able to trigger the alarm before she was overtaken by the infected. The details of this outbreak remain almost entirely unknown, as the lab was successfully sealed and burned to the ground before the infection could spread. Ironically, Denver was the source point for one of the two viruses responsible for ending the world, and yet it was spared the worst ravages of the Rising until the second wave began on July 26th. Some will say that the tragedy which follows will come only because of that temporary reprieve; they weren't prepared. Those people will not be entirely wrong.

And so it went, over and over, all throughout North America. Some of the affected suffered nosebleeds before amplification began, signaling an elevated level of the Marburg Amberlee virus; others did not. Some of the affected would find themselves trapped in cars or hotel rooms, thwarted by stairs or doorknobs; others would not. The Rising had begun.

At 6:18 AM GMT on July 19th, in the city of London, England, a man waiting for the Central Line Tube to arrive and take him to work felt a warm wetness on his upper lip. He touched it lightly, and frowned at the blood covering his fingertips. He hadn't had a nosebleed since he was a boy. Then he shrugged, produced a tissue, and wiped the blood away. Nothing to be done.

And so it went, over and over, all throughout the world. The end was beginning at last.

***

Reports of unusually violent behavior are coming in from across the Midwest, leading some to speculate that the little brown bat, which has been known to migrate during warm weather, may have triggered a rabies epidemic of previously unseen scope...

When will you Rise?

Atlanta, Georgia, July 17th, 2014.

"We have a problem."

Ian Matras looked up from his computer screen, and blanched, barely recognizing his colleague. Chris looked like he'd managed to lose fifteen pounds in five days. His complexion was waxen, and the circles under his eyes were almost dark enough to make it seem like he'd been punched. "Christ, Chris, what the hell happened to you?"

"The Kellis cure." Chris Sinclair shook his head, rubbing one stubbly cheek as he said, "I don't have it. I mean, I don't think. We still can't test for it, and we can't afford to have me get sick right now just to find out. But that's what happened. That's what's happening right now."

"The McKenzie-Beatts TB treatment." It wasn't a question. Ian was abruptly glad that he hadn't bothered to stand. He would have just fallen back into his chair.

"Got it in one." Chris nodded, expression grim. "They died, Ian. Every one of them."

"When?"

"About an hour and a half ago. Dr. Li was on-site to monitor their symptoms. The first to start seizing was a twenty-seven year old male. He began bleeding from the mouth, eyes, nose, and rectum; when they performed the autopsy, they found that he was also bleeding internally, specifically in his intestines and lungs. It's a coin-toss whether he suffocated or bled out." Chris looked away, toward the blank white wall. He'd never wanted to see the ocean so badly in his life. "The rest started seizing within fifteen minutes. An eleven year old girl who'd been accepted into the trials a week before the Kellis cure was released was the last to die. Dr. Li says she was asking for her parents right up until she stopped breathing."

"Oh my God..." whispered Ian.

"I'm telling you, man, I don't think he's here." Chris rubbed his cheek again, hard. "You ready for the bad part?"

Numbly, Ian asked, "You mean that wasn't the bad part?"

"Not by a long shot." Chris laughed darkly. "Everyone who had direct contact with the patients—the medical staff, their families, hell, our medical staff—has started to experience increased salivation. Whatever this stuff is turning into, it's catching. They're sealing the building. Dr. Li's called for an L-4 quarantine. If they don't figure out what's going on, they're going to die in there."

Ian said nothing.

"The malaria folks? We don't know what's going on there. They stopped transmitting an hour before the complex blew sky-high. From what little we've been able to piece together, the charges were set inside the main lab. They, too, decided that they needed a strict quarantine. They just wanted to be absolutely sure that no one was going to have the chance to break it."

There was still a piece missing. Slowly, almost terrified of what the answer would be—no, not almost; absolutely terrified of what the answer would be—Ian asked, "What about the Marburg trials in Colorado?"

"They're all fine."

Ian stared at him. "What? But you said—"

"It was spreading, and it was. Half of Denver's had a nosebleed they couldn't stop. And nobody's died. The bleeding lasts three days, and then it clears up on its own, and the victims feel better than they've felt in years. We have a contagious cure for cancer to go with our contagious cure for the common cold." Chris laughed again. This time, there was a sharp edge of hysteria under the sound. "It's not going to end there. We don't get this lucky. We can't get this lucky."

"Maybe this is as bad as it gets." Ian knew how bad the words sounded as soon as they left his mouth, but he didn't—he couldn't—call them back. Someone had to calm Cassandra when she predicted the fall of Troy. Someone had to say "the symptoms aren't that bad" when the predictions called for the fall of man.

Chris gave him a withering look. "Say that like you mean it."

He couldn't, and so he said nothing at all, and the two of them looked at each other, waiting for the end of the world.

***

The CDC has no comment on the tragic deaths in San Antonio, Texas. Drs. Lauren McKenzie and Taylor Beatts were conducting a series of clinical trials aimed at combating drug-resistent strains of tuberculosis...

When will you Rise?

Allentown, Pennsylvania. July 13th, 2014.

After six days of snooping, bribery, and the occasional outright lie, Robert Stalnaker had finally achieved his goal: a meeting with the college student who blew the whistle on the leaders of the Mayday Army. It had been more difficult than he expected. Since the death of Dr. Kellis's husband—something which was not his fault; not only did his article not say "break into the lab and free the experimental virus," it certainly never said "beat the man's lover to a bloody pulp if you get the chance"—the security had closed in tighter around the man who was regarded as the state's star, and really only, witness to the actions of the Mayday Army. Robert carefully got out his pocket recorder, checking to be sure the memory buffer was clear. He was only going to get one shot at this.

The door opened, and a skinny, anxious-looking college boy stepped into the room, followed by a uniformed campus security guard. Stalnaker would have attempted to convince him to leave, but frankly, after what had happened to John Kellis...these were unsettled times. Having an authority figure present might be good for everyone involved.

"Thank you for meeting with me, Matthew," he said, standing and extending his hand to be shaken. The college boy had a light grip, like he was afraid of breaking something. Stalnaker made a note of that, even as he kept on smiling. "I'm Robert Stalnaker, with The Clarion News in New York. I really do appreciate it."

"You're the one who wrote that article," said Matt, pulling his hand away and sitting down on the other side of the table. His eyes darted from side to side like a cornered dog's, assessing the exit routes. "They would never have done it if you hadn't done that first."

"Done what, exactly?" Stalnaker produced a notepad and pencil from his pocket, making sure Matt saw him getting ready to take notes. The recorder was already running, but somehow, that never caused the Pavlovian need to speak that he could trigger with a carefully poised pen. "I just want to know your side of the story, son."

Matt took a shaky breath. "Look. I didn't—nobody told me this was going to be a whole thing, you know? This girl I know just told me that Brandon and Hazel could hook me up with some good weed. I was coming off of finals, I was tense, I needed to relax a little. That was all."

"I understand," said Stalnaker, encouragingly. "When I was in college, I heard the siren song of good weed more than a few times. Was the weed good?"

"Aw, man, it was awesome." Matt's eyes lit up. Only for a moment; the light quickly dimmed, and he continued more cautiously, "Anyway, everybody started talking about revolution, and sticking it to the Man, and how this dude Kellis was going to screw us all by only giving his cold-cure to the people who could afford it. I should have done the research, you know? I should have looked it up. It's contagious, see? Even if we'd left it alone, let Dr. Kellis finish his testing, we would have all been able to get it in the end. If it worked."

Something about the haunted tone in Matt's voice made Stalnaker sit up a little bit straighter. "Do you think it doesn't work? Can you support that?"

"Oh, it works. Nobody's had a cold in weeks. We're the killers of the common cold. Hi-ho, give somebody a medal." Matt shook his head, glancing around for exits one more time. "But he didn't finish testing it. Man, we created an invasive species that can live inside our bodies. Remember when all those pythons got into the Everglades? Remember how it fucked up the alligators? This time we're the alligators, and we've got somebody's pet store python slithering around inside us. And we don't know what it eats, and we don't know how big it's going to get."

"What are you saying?"

Matt looked at Robert Stalnaker, and smiled a bitter death's-head grin as he said, "I'm saying that we're screwed, Mr. Stalnaker, and I'm saying that it's all your fucking fault."

***

The trial of Brandon Majors and Hazel Allen, the ringleaders of the so-called "Mayday Army," has been delayed indefinitely while the precise extent of their crimes is determined. Breaking and entering and willful destruction of property are easy; the sudden demand by the World Health Organization that they also be charged with biological terrorism and global pollution are somewhat more complex...

When will you Rise?

Reston, Virginia, July 10th, 2014.

The sound of the front door slamming brought Alexander Kellis out of his light doze. He'd managed to drift off on the couch while he was waiting for John to come home with dinner—the first time he'd slept in days. His first feeling, once the disorientation passed, was irritation. Couldn't John be a little more careful? Didn't he know how exhausted he was?

Then he realized that he didn't hear any footsteps. Annoyance faded into concern. "John?" Alex stood, nudging his glasses back into place as he started, warily, toward the foyer.

( We cut because, for many people, this is when things start getting unpleasant. You have been warned.Collapse )

Atlanta, Georgia. July 8th, 2014.

Chris Sinclair's time at the CDC had been characterized by an almost pathological degree of calm. Even during outbreaks of unknown origin, he remained completely relaxed, calling on his EIS training and his natural tendency to "not sweat the small stuff" in order to keep his head while everyone around him was losing theirs. When asked, he attributed his attitude to growing up in Santa Cruz, California, where the local surf culture taught everyone to chill out already.

Chris Sinclair wasn't chilling out anymore. Chris Sinclair was terrified.

They still had no reliable test for the Kellis cure. Instead of charting the path of the infection, they were falling back on an old EIS trick and charting the absence of infection. Any place where the normal chain of summer colds and flu had been broken, they marked on the maps as a possible outbreak of the Kellis cure. It wasn't a sure-fire method of detection—sometimes people were just healthy, without any genetically engineered virus to explain the reasons why. Still. If only half the people showing up as potential Kellis cure infections were sick...

If only half the people showing up as potential Kellis cure infections were sick with this sickness that wasn't a sickness at all, this stuff was spreading like wildfire, and there was no way they could stop it. If they put out a health advisory recommending people avoid close contact with anyone who looked excessively healthy, they'd have "cure parties" springing up nationwide. If was the only possible result. Before the chicken pox vaccine was commonly available, parents used to have chicken pox parties, choosing sickness now to guarantee health later. They'd do it again. And then, if the Kellis cure had a second stage—something that would have shown up in the human trials Alexander Kellis never had the opportunity to conduct—they would be in for a world of trouble.

Assuming, of course, that they weren't already.

"Still think we shouldn't be too worried about a pandemic that just makes everybody well?"

"Ian." Chris raised his head, giving a half-ashamed shrug as he said, "I didn't hear you come in."

"You were pretty engrossed in those papers. Are those the updated maps of the projected spread?"

"They are." Chris chuckled mirthlessly. "You'll be happy to know that our last North American holdouts have succumbed to the mysterious good health that's been going around. We have infection patterns in Newfoundland and Alaska. In both cases, I was able to find records showing that the pattern manifested shortly after someone from another of the suspected infection zones came to town. It's spreading. If it's not already everywhere in the world, it will be soon."

"Have there been any reported symptoms? Anything that might point to a mutation?" Ian filled his mug from the half-full pot sitting on the department hot plate, grimacing at the taste even as he kept on drinking. It was bitter but strong. That was what he needed to get through this catastrophe.

"I was wondering when you'd get to the bad part."

"There was a good part?"

Chris ignored him, shuffling through the papers on his desk until he found a red folder. Flipping it open, he read, "Sudden increased salivation in the trial subjects for the McKenzie-Beatts TB treatment. That was the one using genetically modified yellow fever? Three deaths in a modified malaria test group. We're still waiting for the last body to arrive, but in the two we have, it looks like their man-made malaria suddenly started attacking their red blood cells. Wiped them out faster than their bone marrow could rebuild them."

"The Kellis cure doesn't play nicely with the other children," observed Ian.

"No, it doesn't." Chris looked up, expression grim. "The rest of these are dealing with subjects from the Colorado cancer trials. The ones that used the live version of the modified Marburg virus. They're expressing the same symptoms as everyone else...but their families are starting to show signs of the Marburg variant. Somehow, interaction with the Kellis cure is teaching it how to spread."

Ian stared at him, coffee forgotten. "Oh, Jesus."

"Not sure he's listening," said Chris. He handed his colleague the folder, and the two of them turned back to their work. They were trying to prevent the inevitable. They both knew that. But that didn't mean they didn't have to try.

***

Effective immediately, all human clinical trials utilizing live strains of genetically modified virus have been suspended. All records and patient lists for these trials must be submitted to the CDC office in Atlanta, Georgia by noon EST on July 10th. Failure to comply may result in federal charges...

When will you Rise?

Allentown, Pennsylvania. July 4th, 2014.

The streets of Allentown were decked in patriotic red, white, and blue, symbolizing freedom from oppression—symbolizing independence. That word had never seemed so accurate. Brandon Majors walked along, smiling at every red streamer and blue rosette, wishing he could jump up on a bench and tell everyone in earshot how he was responsible for their true independence. How he, working in the best interests of mankind, had granted them independence from illness, freedom from the flu, and the liberty to use their sick days sitting on the beach, sipping soft drinks and enjoying their liberty from the Man! They'd probably give him a medal, or at least carry him around the city on their shoulders.

Sadly, their triumphant march would probably be interrupted by the local police. The Man had his dogs looking for the brave members of the Mayday Army, calling them "eco-terrorists" and making dire statements about how they'd endangered the public health. Endangered it how? By setting the people free from the tyranny of big pharma? If that was endangerment, then maybe it was time for everything to be endangered. Even the Man would have to admit that, once he saw how much better the world was thanks to Bradley and his brave compatriots.

Brandon walked toward home, lost in thoughts of glories to come, once the Mayday Army could come out of the shadows and announce themselves to the world as saviors of the common man. What was the statue of limitations on eco-terrorism, anyway? Would it be reduced—at least in their case—once people started realizing what a gift they had been given? Maybe—

There were police cars surrounding the house. Brandon stopped dead, watching wide-eyed as men in uniform carried a kicking, weeping Hazel down the front porch steps and toward a black and white police van. The back doors opened as they approached, and three more officers reached out to pull Hazel inside. He could hear her sobbing, protesting, demanding to know what they thought she'd done wrong.

There was nothing he could do.

He repeated that to himself over and over again as he took two steps backward, turned, and began to run. The Man had found them out. Somehow, impossibly, the Man had found them out, and now Hazel was going to be a martyr to the cause. There was nothing he could do. The pigs already had her, they were already taking her away, and this wasn't some big Hollywood blockbuster action movie; he couldn't charge in there and somehow rescue her right from under the noses of the people who were taking her away. Her parents had money. They would find a way to buy her freedom. In the meanwhile, there was nothing, nothing, nothing he could do.

Brandon was still repeating that to himself when the sirens started behind him, and the bullhorn-distorted voice announced, "Mr. Majors, please stop running, or we will be forced to shoot."

Brandon stopped. Without turning, he raised his hands in the air, and shouted, "I am an American citizen! I am being unfairly detained!" His voice quaked on the last word, somewhat ruining the brave revolutionary image he was trying to project.

Heavy footsteps on the street behind him announced the approach of the cop seconds before Brandon's hands were grabbed and wrenched behind his back. "Feel lucky we're arresting you at all, and not just publishing your name and address in the paper, you idiot," hissed the officer, her voice harsh and close to his ear. "You think this country loves terrorists?"

"We were doing it for you!" he wailed.

"Tell it to the judge," she said, and turned him forcefully around before leading him away.

***

The ringleaders of the so-called "Mayday Army" were arrested today following a tip from one of their former followers. His name has not been released at this time. Brandon Majors, 25, and Hazel Allen, 23, are residents of Allentown, Pennsylvania. Drug paraphernalia was recovered at the scene...

When will you Rise?

Berkeley, California. June 11th, 2014.

"Phillip! Time to come in for lunch!" Stacy Mason stood framed by the back door of their little Berkeley professor's home (soon to be fully paid-off, and wouldn't that be a day for the record books?), wiping her hands with a dishrag and scanning the yard for her wayward son. Phillip didn't mean to be naughty, not exactly, but he had the attention span of a toddler, which was to say, not much of an attention span at all. "Phillip!"

Giggling from the fence alerted her to his location. With a sigh that was half-love, half-exasperation, Stacy turned to toss the dishrag onto the counter before heading out into the yard. "Where are you, Mister Man?" she called.

More giggling. She pushed through the tall tomato plants—noting idly that they needed to be watered before the weekend if they wanted to have any fruit before the end of the month—and found her son squatting in the middle of the baby lettuce, laughing as one of the Golden Retrievers from next door calmly washed his face with her tongue. Stacy stopped, biting back her own laughter at the scene.

"A conspiracy of misbehavior is what we're facing here," she said.

Phillip turned to face her, all grins, and said, "Ma!"

"Yes."

"Oggie!"

"Again, yes. Hello, Marigold. Shouldn't you be in your own yard?"

The Golden Retriever thumped her tail sheepishly against the dirt, as if to say that yes, she was a very naughty dog, but in her defense, there had been a small boy with a face in need of washing.

Stacy sighed, shaking her head in good-natured exasperation. She'd talked to the Connors family next door about their dogs dozens of times, and they tried, but Marigold and Maize simply refused to be confined by any fence or gate that either family had been able to put together. It would have been more of a problem if they hadn't been such sweet, sweet dogs. Since both Marigold and her brother adored Phillip, it was more like having convenient canine babysitters right next door. She just wished they wouldn't make their unscheduled visits so reliably at lunchtime.

"All right, you. Phillip, it's time for lunch. Time to say good-bye to Marigold."

Phillip nodded before turning and throwing his arms around Marigold's neck, burying his face in her fur. His voice, muffled but audible, said, "Bye-time, oggie." Marigold wuffed once, for all the world like she was accepting his farewell. Duty thus done, Phillip let her go, stood, and ran to his mother, who caught him in a sweeping hug that left streaks of mud on the front of her cotton shirt. "Ma!"

"I just can't get one past you today, can I?" she asked, and kissed his cheek noisily, making him giggle. "You go home, now, Marigold. Your people are going to worry. Go home!"

Tail wagging amiably, the Golden Retriever stood and went trotting off down the side yard. She probably had another loose board there somewhere; something to have Michael fix when he got home from school and could be sweet-talked into doing his share of the garden chores. In the meanwhile, the dogs weren't hurting anything, and Phillip did love them.

"Come on, Mister Man. Let's go fill you up with peanut butter and jelly, shall we?" She kissed him again, and his giggles provided sweet accompaniment to their walk back to the house. Maybe it was time to talk about getting him a dog of his own.

Maybe when he was older.

***

Professor Michael Mason joins our Biology Department from the University of Redmond, where he taught for three years. His lovely wife, Stacy, is a horticulture fan, and his son, Phillip, is a fan of cartoons and chasing pigeons...

When will you Rise?

Manhattan, New York. June 9th, 2014.

The video clip of Dr. Kellis's press conference was grainy, largely due to it having been recorded on a cellular phone—and not, Robert Stalnaker noted with a scowl, one of the better models. Not that it mattered on anything more than a cosmetic level; Dr. Kellis's pompous, self-aggrandizing speech had been captured in its entirety. "Intellectual mumbo-jumbo" was how Robert had described the speech after the first time he heard it, and how he'd characterized it yet again in communication with his editor.

"This guy thinks he can eat textbooks and shit miracles," that was the pitch. "He doesn't want people to understand what he's really talking about, because he knows America would be pissed off if he spoke English long enough to tell us how we're all about to get screwed." And just as he'd expected, his editor jumped at it.

The instructions were simple: no libel, no direct insults, nothing that was already known to be provably untrue. Insinuation, interpretation, and questioning the science were all perfectly fine, and might turn a relatively uninteresting story into something that would actually sell a few papers. In today's world, whatever sold a few papers was worth pursuing. Bloggers and internet news were cutting far, far too deeply into the paper's already weak profit margin.

"Time to do my part to fix that," muttered Stalnaker, and started the video again.

He struck gold on the fifth viewing. Pausing the clip, he wound it back six seconds and hit "play." Dr. Kellis's voice resumed, saying, "—distribution channels will need to be sorted out before we can go beyond basic lab testing, but so far, all results have been—"

Rewind. Again. "—distribution channels—"

Rewind. Again. "—distribution—"

Robert Stalnaker began to smile.

Half an hour later, his research had confirmed that no standard insurance program in the country would cover a non-vaccination preventative measure (and Dr. Kellis had been very firm about stating that his "cure" was not a vaccination). Even most of the upper-level insurance policies would balk at adding a new treatment for something considered to be of little concern to the average citizen—not to mention the money that the big pharmaceutical companies stood to lose if a true cure for the common cold were actually distributed at a reasonable cost to the common man. Insurance companies and drug companies went hand-in-hand so far as he was concerned, and neither was going to do anything to undermine the other.

This was all a scam. A big, disgusting, money-grubbing scam. Even if the science was good, even if the "cure" did exactly what its arrogant geek-boy creator said it did, who would get it? The rich and the powerful, the ones who didn't need to worry about losing their jobs if the kids brought home the sniffles from school. The ones who could afford the immune boosters and ground-up rhino dick or whatever else was the hot new thing right now, so that they'd never get sick in the first place. Sure, Dr. Kellis never said that, but Stalnaker was a journalist. He knew how to read between the lines.

Robert Stalnaker put his hands to the keys, and prepared to make the news.

***

Robert Stalnaker's stirring editorial on the stranglehold of the rich on public health met with criticism from the medical establishment, who called it "irresponsible" and "sensationalist." Mr. Stalnaker has yet to reply to their comments, but has been heard to say, in response to a similar but unrelated issue, that the story can speak for itself...

When will you Rise?

A kind soul who dislikes my ability to sleep helpfully compiled a list of the weirdest Pokemon ever. And for "weirdest," read "most horrifically fucked-up and likely to cause you to have nightmares which rock the very foundations of your soul. Seriously, Pokemon is totally breeding the horror writers of tomorrow, today. It's awesome.

Speaking of horror, "Everglades" made the Honorable Mentions list for The Year's Best Horror. Yay! Maybe "Pavlov" or "The Box" can make the actual cut in 2011. Hey, a girl can dream, right?

Zombies are the new black. If you've been here for a while, you probably already knew that, but this is a fun article, and I contributed a quote, so hey. No loss here.

Tentacle pot pies. Yeah, you're welcome. I want to make an adorable Lovecraft theme dinner, and have everything be a) cute, and b) horrifying if you think about it too hard.

Speaking of horrifying, this was not designed for me. Or maybe that's not so much "horrifying" as it is "proof that life isn't fair." Woe to me, that I do not have this dress.

And yet Amy Mebberson drew Amy Pond as a My Little Pony to make me happy, so maybe the world isn't such a horrible place after all.

...that's all for right now. I still have roughly a metric ton of links to post, but most of them are reviews or things which require actual thought. So I leave you with this lovely dish o' random to get you through this gloomy Wednesday night.

See you tomorrow!

I am...honored and delighted and a little stunned to announce that Feed, written under the name "Mira Grant," has been nominated for the 2011 Hugo Award for Best Novel. The award will be given this August, at Renovation, the World Science Fiction Convention to be held in Reno, Nevada.

Yeah.

I've been nominated for a Hugo.

And yeah, I cried.

This is such an honor. This is...this is one of those things I never expected, that I get to have for the rest of my life. "I was nominated for a Hugo Award." Winning would be awesome, but in a way, it's icing on an already delicious cake, because I was nominated. Out of everything published in 2010, enough people said "Feed was the best" that I made the ballot. Me, and four other people, out of all the books there were.

I am honored and stunned and delighted and terrified, and it's something I've dreamed of literally since I found out Ray Bradbury had a Hugo Award, so I must have been, like, eight. And now my name is on that ballot.

When will I Rise? I don't think I could Rise any higher than I am right now.

Thank you all so much.

Words: 5,544.
Total words: 110,825.
Estimated words remaining: 35,000.
Reason for stopping: finished chapter twenty-four. I now need to get ready for a wedding.
Music: ALL THE LUDO. I seriously have all four albums on loop.
Cats: Alice, sulking by the food dish; Lilly, curled on the bed; Thomas, ditto.

So I set really ambitious word count goals for Friday and Saturday (despite new Doctor Who) in order to be able to take today off and attend a friend's wedding. Only it turns out I don't have to leave for the wedding for another hour, and I got up at seven o'clock this morning, and...

Yeah.

On the plus side, I'm pretty sure this puts me two days ahead on my word count goal, which means I can book tomorrow afternoon for 2,000-4,000 words on "Rat-Catcher." I'm totally going to pretend I did that on purpose, yo. I am ENDLESSLY ORGANIZED. And if you believe that, I've got a bridge I'd like to sell you.

Now I'm going to put on pants, send the newest chapters off to the machete squad for review and abuse, and take a walk before it's time to get moving.

Happy Zombie Day, everybody!

1. The Roseville event was awesome, and the store now has autographed copies of all five of my currently published books. A Local Habitation is naturally in the shortest supply, so if you'd been planning to swing by the store and pick up a set, you should probably do so soon, before everything goes away. Thanks to Alex, for having me, and to Sunil, for bringing me wonderful goodies from England and giving me hugs.

2. In case you missed the announcement, An Artificial Night is in the BSC Review Book Tournament Finals, and Toby could use your vote. Also, once she has conclusively CRUSHED HER OPPONENT, I can stop posting about this, thus freeing up your valuable display space for other topics, like the ever-popular "complaining about my cats."

3. I really enjoyed the newest Disney Channel Original Movie, Lemonade Mouth. I did not enjoy them presenting the first hour of the movie sans commercials without warning me first, as it meant I had not brought a soda, or a blanket, or the paperwork I needed to finish during the movie, before sitting down on the couch. I am told the book is better than the movie. I must now read the book.

4. Served at yesterday's brunch: potato cake. It's cake, made of potatoes, bacon fat, and bacon. HOW CAN THIS BE? The spirit of sweetmusic_27 hovered over my shoulder and watched me eat it, and I now need the recipe, because I must cook it for her. It is a moral imperative.

5. I visited the Sacramento Shirt Shop, and plans for Wicked Girls shirts are now proceeding apace. I should be posting about it soon. Girl-cut shirts are available up to 2x, and we'll be able to do standard-cut shirts up to 5x, as needed, for no additional cost. Baby shirts are a different setup, and so would be a different order. Details will be forthcoming; I don't have them just yet.

6. I am solidly on target to hit 100,000 words on Blackout by Saturday. This is both incredibly exciting and incredibly stressful, since it means I'm coming closer and closer to the point where I have to stop setting things up in favor of knocking everything down. Considering what I have left to do in this volume, I'm starting to worry that the first draft may need more trimming than I thought. Since I am a perennial trimmer (better a late trim than a panicked plumping), this is okay, it's just surprising.

7. Zombies are love.

8. The Cartoon Network schedule for the rest of 2011 has been released, and Tower Prep is not represented. Here's hoping this is either a glitch, or they're about to announce moving Tower Prep to SyFy, where it could find an enormous audience and live forever.

9. I will probably celebrate hitting 100,000 words on Blackout by cleaning as much of my room as is physically possible and then writing the rest of "Rat-Catcher" in one feverish sprint. Don't judge me, this is how writers party hard.

10. Doctor Who comes back on Saturday. Saturday can't come fast enough.

Words: 4,093.
Total words: 89,836.
Reason for stopping: finished chapter eighteen. I require ice cream and Fringe.
Music: Prepare the Preparation, by Ludo.
Cats: Alice, complaining about how I NEVER FEED HER EVER; Thomas, patrolling the shelves; Lilly, asleep on the cat tree.

...okay, so I admit it: stopping myself at a natural stopping point, rather than trying to push it and cross 90,000 words tonight? Kinda hard. I sort of feel like I deserve a cookie, or, barring that, some mint cookie ice cream. Which is why I'm going to go and have some mint cookie ice cream now.

It's increasingly hard to talk about what's going on, because everything is a spoiler. So I just flail and gibber a lot, which works well for me, overall. Soon, the book will be done, and then the Machete Squad can hack it to bits before The Agent and The Other Editor do the same. And about the time it starts hitting shelves, I'll turn off the internet and hide under my bed for a few weeks, before crawling out and resuming work on whatever insane thing is consuming my life by that point.

It feels good to finally have momentum on my side. It feels real, real good...and a little bit frightening, like I'm trying to steer a Doom Buggy down a major highway at rush hour. And this puppy doesn't have any brakes.

When will you Rise?

Words: 15,687.
Total words: 85,743.
Reason for stopping: finished chapter seventeen and book three. Time to work on something else.
Music: random shuffle, with multiple replays of the new Ludo album and The Broken Bride.
Cats: all three are on strange cat errands elsewhere in the house, granting me a rare moment of peace.

As of tonight, the manuscript for Blackout is over 300 pages long, and we've entered Book III, "Foundations," which signals the book coming into the home stretch. I'm already starting to see the parts I'm going to need to tighten up or flesh out in draft two, which is always a good sign. Soon, I'll need to add the "words remaining" line to my word count template for this project. And that is wonderful.

Finishing a series is something totally new, and totally fascinating. I've never had to tie off all the loose ends and cauterize all the wounds like I'm doing right now. There may be other books set in this world (one of them, Rewind, is already in outlines), but there won't be any more about this particular set of characters, or this particular set of circumstances. So a lot of questions have to be answered, and a lot of endings have to be arranged. It's kind of awesome, in a soul-suckingly terrifying sort of a way.

I have loved my time with these people very much. They've taught me amazing things about how to be a writer. But it's time for me to let them finish.

This is where we have to Rise.

1. I have been blazingly ill since Sunday afternoon, and spent most of yesterday and Monday in a cold medication haze. I am thus behind on LJ comments, email, snail mail, passenger pigeon mail, Facebook mail (well, I'm always behind on Facebook mail), sending out the mail, opening the mail, and anything else that required actual effort on my part. If you're waiting for a response from me, please, be patient. If your request is urgent, please, mail again. If I do not consider your request to be actually urgent, like you're asking for kitten pictures or something, I reserve the right to delete your email and scowl in your general direction.

2. Despite being blazingly ill, I managed to make my word counts on Blackout both days, and am on track to hit 100,000 words on April 23rd. This is good, since it means I may actually finish the book, you know, on time. I love finishing things on time. It makes me feel all warm and fuzzy and slightly less completely deranged.

3. Saturday night was GP's birthday party! I did not come home that night, as it was late and we were all exhausted and sort of drunk (and yes, this may have dealt my immune system the fatal blow). Thomas showed his disapproval by climbing onto my computer desk, gently nudging aside the dolls on the second shelf, pulling down the jar in which I store my earplugs, opening the jar, dumping out the earplugs, and eating half of them. I do not know why he is so obsessed with eating the damn things, but he's why I bought that jar in the first place. Now he shits little pink bullets, and looks smug.

4. My vet has confirmed that this won't hurt him, but is also sub-optimal. I have moved my earplugs.

5. The first draft of "Crystal Halloway, Girl Wonder, and the Terror of the Truth Fairy" is finished and being hacked at by the Machete Squad. This is seriously the most depressing, nihilistic story I think I've ever written. Which makes it appropriate that I wrote it while I was sick even unto death. This thing reads like the prologue to a Vertigo comic series.

6. I am not writing a Vertigo comic series. Unless, of course, DC asks me to.

7. I also got started on the first draft of "Rat-Catcher," a Tobyverse story set in London, in 1662 (yes, only a few years before the Great Fire, and the Great Plague). In it, a young Prince of Cats named Rand must stop playing theater cat at the Duke's Theater long enough to find a way to deal with his father, keep his sister from doing something monumentally stupid, and oh, right, maybe save the Cait Sidhe of London from a fate worse than death. Is this Tybalt's origin story? Why yes. Yes, it is.

8. Things already pulled from my research shelf in service of "Rat-Catcher": The Writer's Digest Guide to Character Naming (second edition), London: A Biography, Sex and Shakespeare, Romeo and Juliet, and The Wordsworth Dictionary of Shakespeare. Make of this what you will.

9. Being sick did allow me to catch up on some of my cache of SyFy Original Movies, including the second half of Meteor with Marla Sokoloff. This was a disturbingly good, surprisingly high-budget feature, especially for a SyFy Saturday. Also, not only were women competent and realistic characters, they didn't all die. Well done, SyFy. Keep up the good work.

10. Zombies are still love.

What's up with you?

I am sick even unto death, and so I am not really capable of the kind of coherent and thoughtful blogging that I try to provide. Instead, I am going to provide something truly awesome: a starred Publishers Weekly review of Deadline. Behold:

( Cut for FEED spoilers!Collapse )

Words: 8,409.
Total words: 70,056.
Reason for stopping: finished chapter fourteen. My shoulders hurt.
Music: random shuffle, lots of loud country music. THE MUSIC OF PAIN.
Cats: Alice, on the guest room bed; Lilly, loafed up on the cat tree; Thomas, on the bed, looking fluffy.

So the manuscript for Blackout is now a) over 70,000 words long, and b) 245 pages long, which sounds very impressive when you put it like that. Given that the book is estimated as coming in between 140,000 and 150,000 words, I'm approaching the point where I can safely say that I'm halfway home. That will be nice. I'll like it when I hit that point.

This book is...interesting. It's been going more slowly than Deadline and more quickly than Feed, as I start paying off the things I've spent two books setting up, and try to make sure that my science, fringe as it is, doesn't have any massive gaping holes that could have somehow been avoided. It's weird to know that this is the last time I'm going to be spending with these people. I mean, I'll have months and months of writing and editing and page proofs and everything, but...this is the last brand-new book. This is where it all ends.

This is where we have to Rise.

Words: 10,842.
Total words: 61,647.
Reason for stopping: finished chapter thirteen. It's time for dinner.
Music: random shuffle, an enormous amount of Glee.
Cats: Alice, on the guest room bed; Lilly, loafed up on the cat tree; Thomas, parts unknown.

So no, I didn't manage to hit 70,000 words before the invasion descended. But I did manage to break 200 pages in the manuscript, a landmark which came solidly in the middle of a very grim, very tense scene that was both hell and extremely exciting to write. All my chickens are coming home to roost, which is exactly what needs to happen with a book of this sort, and yet is still very satisfying to see actually happen.

I've set up a little tracker in my .txt file, the one that I pass from machine to machine as I track all the junk and links and random things that build up in my life. This one compares my current word count to the "must be at least this tall to ride this ride" word count (IE, "how long the book has to be"). I'm aiming for between 140,000 and 150,000 words. Right now, I'm right on track. That is both amazing and terrifying.

I'm starting to feel like this book may actually put paid to everything. It's crazy, but it's true.

I think I can do this.

1. I don't know why this needs to be repeated, but here you go: If you friend this journal, I will friend your journal in return, so that you can see any friend-locked contests or giveaways (they're rare, but they happen). I will not necessarily read your journal, as I am very, very outnumbered, and I need to sleep occasionally. Assume I don't see anything you post unless you point it out to me explicitly. If you unfriend this journal, I will unfriend your journal in return. This is not a personal thing. This is just mirror-image reciprocity.

2. If you're looking for book release dates, or want to know when/where a story will be appearing, check my bibliography page. I update it regularly, and while not all recently-sold stories will be present (since I don't add things until they have a firm release date), this will answer ninety percent of the "when can I get...?" questions.

3. If you want to know where I'm going to be and when I'm going to be there, check my appearances page. It, too, is updated frequently (although I'm not as good about editing past appearances to put them in the correct tense as I would like to be). I'll usually post about an upcoming appearance here, but long-range planning is rendered easier by the actual appearances page.

4. If I was supposed to mail you something—a poster, a CD, a book you won in a contest, a severed human head—and you haven't received it, the appropriate channel for letting me know is via email. My website contact link is easy to find and easy to use, and if I don't know you don't have something, I can't look into it. I don't use mail confirmation when I send things; the additional postage cost is simply not an option. So please, please, if you don't have something you think you should have, email me!

5. Zombies are love.

1. I have done mailing! Very nearly all the mailing, in point of fact; the only things that are a) paid for/contest prizes, and b) still in my possession are Lu's posters (trying to make sure I didn't double-pack them) and seawench's ARC (returned by the post office, only just got confirmation that it was safe to ship a second time). So there is no mail waiting for me to do something with it! I dance the dance of joy.

2. Since this weekend is the Traveling Circus and Snake-Handling Show's fourth appearance at Borderlands, my mother's been cleaning my house from stem to stern, to get it ready for company. This, naturally, upsets the cats. Thomas has been expressing his displeasure by sulking in the kitchen and knocking over the trash can. He doesn't seem to understand that neither of these behaviors is going to do anything beyond getting him scooped and scolded.

3. Having assessed my current stress levels and their effect on my ability to get things done, I have taken a major step toward reducing them. Namely, I have set aside the to-be-read pile, turning my back on all those beguiling new stories and unfamiliar authors, and have picked up my dearest, most faithful literary companion: I am re-reading Stephen King's IT for the first time in well over a year. This is seriously the longest I have gone without reading this book since I was nine. So yes, it will be sweet balm for my stressed-out soul.

4. Safeway has two-liters of Diet Dr Pepper on sale for eighty-eight cents this week. This, too, is sweet balm for my stressed-out soul, but in a different way. A more hyperactive, I CAN SEE THROUGH TIME, kind of a way.

5. Still on the New York Times bestseller list. I check every day, just to see if I'm still there. Call it part of my monitoring routine against dimensional slide, and let it go. I feel like I should do something to celebrate, like another round of book giveaways or something, but that's going to have to wait until my capacity to cope catches up with the rest of me. Say around next Tuesday, at the current rate.

6. I am the Rain King.

7. Last night's episode of Glee made me happy the way the show used to make me happy in season one, and that was a wonderful thing. I'm glad I bought the soundtrack before the episode actually aired; it let me get used to the original songs the way I am to the covers, and assess the performance on the show based on the actual performance, not on "WAIT WHAT THE HELL ARE THEY SINGING." It's a thing.

8. Last night I dreamt a detailed remake of Nightmare on Elm Street, updated for the modern era, without sucking righteously. It was scary and strange and really awesome, and it says something about my psyche that I still don't think it was a nightmare. Sadly, I woke up before the end. Stupid alarm clock.

9. The bigger my cats get, the more I realize that I need a bigger bed. Which means I need a bigger bedroom. Which means I need a bigger house. Anyone know where I can find Dr. Wayne Szalinski's shrinking/enlarging ray?

10. Zombies are love, be excellent to one another, and party on, dudes.

Words: 7,010.
Total words: 50,805.
Reason for stopping: finished chapter eleven. I need to pause.
Music: random shuffle, lots of angry Goth rock.
Cats: Alice, sitting in the hall; Lilly, sleeping in my underwear drawer; Thomas, flat on the bed, cuddling his squid.

Okay, that was...a lull, brought on by needing to hammer my way through the editorial revisions of One Salt Sea. But I'm back on track now, and have broken both 50,000 words and 175 pages. Also, the phrase "zombie bear" is not inaccurate. I'm just saying. And I got to give another example of a weird post-zombie legal decision. It's sad that the legal system of this world fascinates me the way that it does, but imagine being on the Supreme Court when the first of these cases started showing up!

I have the upcoming weekend totally free, followed by a weekend full of book release party chaos. I believe that I can be calm about not doing any work next weekend if I can hit 70,000 words by the end of this weekend. So that's my totally reasonable, not-insane-at-all goal. 70,000 words by the end of the weekend.

There is something wrong with the way my brain is wired, I swear.

Zombiesque [Amazon]|[Mysterious Galaxy] has been out for a few weeks now (although my anthology-loving heart still leaps every time I see a copy, even if it's on my desk), and a few reviews have poked their happy little heads up.

Lexile reviewed Zombiesque for Night Owl Reviews, and says, "Zombiesque is a better than average anthology." Yay! But what does she think of the Pumpkins? "The funniest story was Seanan McGuire's 'Gimme a "Z"!' about a cheerleader who recently died and is resurrected. She doesn't see any reason why even though she's dead she can't, you know, wash her hair or go out to get a soda or like be a cheerleader. The story is really ridiculous and what ultimately keeps her from being one of the shambling, flesh eating dead is just short of absurd, but it's immensely entertaining."

Oh, yeah. Fighting Pumpkins rule.

Kelly at Daemon's Books gave Zombiesque five stars, and says, "Personally, the zombie cheerleader story called 'Gimme a "Z"!' was my favorite." What more need be said? Oh, how about, "The writing was fantastic, Seanan McGuire’s take on the way that teenagers (well, stereotypical cheerleader teenagers) talk was perfect." See? All that snark is good for something!

Finally, the Zombiesque review at Errant Dreams calls out each individual story on its merits and failings, and gives a fantastic general overview of the anthology.

Everyone seems to be in agreement: this is a fun book with good stories, and you should check it out. Plus, it marks the first in-print appearance of the Fighting Pumpkins cheer squad (their prior appearance, "Dying With Her Cheer Pants On," was virtual). Show school spirit! Support the team!

GO PUMPKINS!

Words: 10,262.
Total words: 43,795.
Reason for stopping: finished chapter nine, and it is so time for bed.
Music: random shuffle, lots of country music. THE MUSIC OF PAIN.
Cats: Alice, a large blue lump on the floor; Lilly, unknown; Thomas, a long blue line on the bed.

So four days ago I went "yay, I'm over 100 pages, yippee for me." Today, I am going "I am now over 150 pages, dude, what the fuck." (153 pages, to be precise.) I have finally hit the point where the book basically writes itself, and I have to type as fast as I can, just to catch up. This is the stage where I make the most fascinating word-substitution typos, the ones my spell check can't catch but my early readers thankfully can. (Tonight's gems include "assistance" for "assistants," and "dune" for "done.") This will last another 20,000 words or so, before I reach the bottom of the hill and have to start forcibly dragging myself upward again. And I can live with that.

In "my brain is an ecosystem" news, I got my editorial letter for One Salt Sea today. I'd been expecting it sometime this month, which is part of why I've been writing with such frantic focus, since Blackout will now need to take a backseat to revisions on the fifth Toby book, at least for a few weeks. But there's no way I'm going to let work stop completely. I couldn't, even if I wanted to; the book has too much momentum, and it's going to drag me along with it, whether I want to go or not.

I'm so amazed that we're finally here. I never dreamed we'd make it this far.

When will you rise?

Words: 10,302.
Total words: 24,343.
Reason for stopping: chapter five is finished! And everyone rejoices.
Music: mostly my own latest album. I'm not sick of it yet, which is a good sign.
Cats: Alice, eating; Lilly, in my underwear drawer; Thomas, making chirping noises at me.

I'm done with chapter five! More importantly, I've broken 20,000 words, and I'm rapidly approaching the magic 100 page mark! For me, that's when a book stops messing around, and shit starts getting real in a big, big hurry.

This book is moving more slowly than I expected, because it's a big jigsaw of loose ends and necessary connections, and I absolutely want to stick this landing. I don't think I've ever wanted a book to be amazing quite as much as I want this one to be amazing. I want to finish the first draft and go "Whoa, did I write that?" I want to love it, because it's the last block of time I get to spend with the Masons. This is where it ends. This is where I put my huge, messed-up zombies-and-politics epic to bed.

And to think it all started in Micheal's kitchen.

Thanks, Michael.

The trouble with having little spiders that wander around the Internet looking for reviews is that I wind up with a lot of reviews. And once I have them, I want to post them, because that is how my brain is wired. And then? Then I drown in a sea of links.

Travels Through Iest has chosen Feed as a favorite read of 2010. To quote, "Feed is a zombie apocalypse novel mixed with political thriller. It sounds insane and it kind of is, but it's well written, cleverly realised with a remarkably believable future world." Go team insanity!

Oh, hey, and the Word Zombie also chose Feed as a favorite read of 2010. To quote, "This is that rare combination of a great story, that also happens to be a great zombie story." Hooray!

Vampires and Tofu (another great blog name!) has posted a review of Feed, and says, "Feed is a wonderful story of zombies, social commentary, politics, religion and the struggle to hold onto the ideals of a nation. It is intelligent and heartbreaking and don't be surprised if you find yourself shedding a tear when you read it." This works for me.

To give you an idea of how long it's taking me to clear the link lists these days, here's a Halloween plug for Feed from Pretty In Dayton, who says, "Primarily, this was just a fun read. But it is the first book that I have read that centered on zombies that made me cry. Yes I'm a sap, but I don't usually cry when reading books. I enjoyed the characters very much. And you know, since it's a zombie book, people die. Apparently this book is to be a series (Newsflesh). I can't wait to read what comes next!" And I can't wait for you to read it.

And here's an SFReader Forum review of Feed, which says, "I'd strongly recommend this book to anyone who enjoys zombies, political thrillers, or anything along those lines from the fiction section. It reminds me most strongly of Stephen King's novels, although it is not a rip-off of any of Stephen King's books."

Any review roundup that ends with a Stephen King comparison is a good review roundup from my perspective. Later!

Words: 4,014.
Total words: 14,041.
Reason for stopping: chapter four is finished at last.
Music: everyone else in the house playing Rock Band.
Cats: back in California, one hopes.

I have finished the fourth chapter of Blackout! After cooking a large dinner for everybody, making my Rock Band 3 character, processing some edits, writing two bios, recording a children's show about vegetables, and chopping up ALL THE THINGS. Basically, I am Superwoman.

I am in Seattle. Seattle is a good place to be.

Now, back to Midnight Blue-Light Special!

A little while ago, Lauren (who designed the fantastic covers for Feed and Deadline) emailed to ask if I might have a parody of "The Night Before Christmas" that related to dead things just, you know. Lying around. I did not. But I did have a history in filk, and access to the original poem. So fifteen or so minutes later, "I do not" became "sure!" and I was able to send Lauren a nice, zombie-filled bit of Christmas fear.

Because Lauren is insanely awesome, she promptly turned it into a poster. And because Orbit is insanely awesome, you can now download this gruesome collaboration in a variety of exciting formats. It's suitable for use as an e-card, a computer wallpaper, or even a printed holiday letter.

So from all of us to all of you, have yourself a scary little Christmas now.

Words: 2,026.
Total words: 10,017.
Reason for stopping: my head hurts.
Music: random shuffle. An unusual amount of Red Hot Chili Peppers.
Cats: Lilly, cat tree; Thomas, bedroom floor; Alice, same.

I'm stopping not because I've reached the end of a chapter—I haven't—but because my head is killing me, which means my painkillers are wearing off, which means it's time to do something less important than working on the final book in the Newsflesh trilogy. You know, like taking more pills and crying into my pillow until sweet unconsciousness comes to claim me. The fun thing to do on a Sunday night!

I remain very pleased, and somewhat daunted, with the way this book is going. I'm trying not to think too hard about how much I have left to go before I come to the ending; instead, I'm focusing on the fact that every page I finish is one page closer to the conclusion, which is going to be mind-blowing. For me, if for no one else. I mean, this is going to be the first series I've ever actually finished, and while yes, that makes me a little nervous, it's also one of those incredible milestones that every author dreams of.

We're more than 10,000 words into the story. That means there's no turning back now, and you know what? I'm glad.

It's a Sunday afternoon and I'm too sick to think, with one of those headaches that makes it feel like my brains are going to run out my ears and causes every medical website on the Internet to say that I have brain parasites or something. OH JOY. So here are ten reviews, very quickly, and I'm going back to bed.

Grapeshot Magazine says, "Feed, I have to say, is a book for the geeks. Those who are into blogging (both posting and reading), enjoyed reading Pride and Prejudice and Zombies or are horror junkies, should definitely put Feed on their must-read list."

Shroud Magazine Book Reviews says, "...she has written what is, in my humble opinion, the best zombie novel since the one by that Brooks fella."

The Unfanboy says, "While Grant is far from the first author to use epidemiological mayhem as the basis for a zombie story, her premise is just original enough to lead to some new implications that keep this one fresh."

Crackin' Spines and Takin' Names says, "For me, this book had everything! I laughed, I cried, I threw up in my mouth a little bit, I cried some more...It was the closest thing to a perfect zombie book and I truly cannot wait to read the next installment of the Newsflesh series."

Coffeespoons says, "You can read it as a zombie book or a commentary on new media. Either way, Feed is a powerful book, and anyone who's read through till the end will understand why."

BookGirl's Book Nook says, "I loved this book, even if it did scare the shit out of me."

Bite Club says, "Feed is an interesting, clever, and engrossing book that kept me reading to the very end."

Poisoned Rationality says, "Grant is as sneaky as Joss Whedon with her foreshadowing."

Good Books and Good Wine says, "The ending blew me away and I definitely choked up a little bit while driving."

Finally for now, SFReader says, "Feed is a post apocalyptic zombie novel, and it's a damn good one."

...and that's about what I can handle just at the moment. I'm going to go be horizontal before there is cookie-tossing. Someone come over here and kill my headache with a chainsaw, will you?

Psst.

I've been sitting on this for months and months and months, and now, finally, I can show you something totally bitchin' that you really want to see. I mean, assuming you like things that are awesome, that is, and that you include FEED on that list.

Go ahead. Take a peek.

( Cut-tagged for the protection of your friends' list, which really doesn't need something this huge suddenly showing up without warning. But trust me, you should totally click.Collapse )

I'm a Zombie Girl,
In a Zombie wo-oo-orld,
I'm decaying,
But I'm staying!

Out of mercy to the sensitive souls among you, I will stop there. See how merciful I can be? When I remember that other people don't necessarily enjoy cannibalism before breakfast? Then again, when one is attempting to build a better pain chart (thank you, Hyperbole and a Half), sometimes it's necessary to find out where the limits are.

I'm in a very Mira mood today, maybe because it's gray and raining, maybe because my weekend is like a katamari, and full of things, and maybe because, drullroll please...

FEED is a 2010 Romantic Times Reviewers' Choice Nominee in the Science Fiction Category! (For a slightly more compact ballot, focusing on the paranormal and science fiction nominees, check this link.)

I am, like, crazy-excited over this, because this is a really big deal. The Romantic Times Reviewers' Choice Awards are a great bellwether of quality and awesomeness, and this is my first time appearing on the ballot. I'm truly, totally jazzed. So, y'know. Fingers crossed and the apocalypse doesn't come!

PANDEMIC DANCE PARTY FOR EVERYBODY!