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Georgia In My MInd	By : TheByronicMan Category: M through R > Newsflesh (trilogy) > Newsflesh (trilogy) Views: 2033 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own the Newsflesh Trilogy or any of the related works published by its creator. I do not make any money from this story.

Chapter List
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- 2
Foreword
If you haven't yet read “Blackout” I recommend you do so before reading this story. Spoilers abound. The premise for this story occurred to me shortly before the big revelation in “Blackout” and since it has not been completely ruled out in canon I've decided to run with it. It takes place after Georgia and Shaun begin their 'happily ever after' (or so they think) in Canada. In an attempt at clarity, Shaun's hallucinatory sister will be referred to as 'Georgia' while the real live version will be referred to as 'George.' Please let me know if you catch me making an error on that.

This is a departure for me. It has always been the fictional universes that inspire me rather than the characters. I prefer to create my own characters with their own strengths and weaknesses, virtues and flaws, and turn them loose to explore an interesting world. This story requires me to use canon characters, so perhaps that will make it more popular than my other attempts. On the off chance that some of you actually enjoyed my “Texas Zombie Reporter” tales, several of the survivors from those stories will appear in a supporting role in this one.

Standard disclaimer: I do not own the Kellis-Amberlee virus, zombies, the CDC, the EIS, Land Rover, Mercedes-Benz, the Walter Lantz studio, the Texas Biomedical Research Institute, Cadillac-Gage/Textron, the Three Stooges, the Snake Farm, Coke, Dr. Pepper, the Newsflesh Trilogy, or any of the characters contained within the Newsflesh Trilogy. Any resemblance to actual persons, living, dead, or living dead, is purely coincidental. I do not make any money from this story.
If the rating and tags are your primary reason for reading this story, pleased be advised that there are ten chapters. It will take a while to get to the extremes, but there's a lot of fun along the way.
Expatriate Games
The morning dawned the way several others have over the past few months, with me trying to kill my sister. Rather, my hands were the ones trying to wrap around her throat. What was going on in my brain was a mystery, I had no idea what was happening until George slapped me upside the head.
“Shaun, wake up!” Smack! “You're doing it again.”
The slap snapped me out of it, and I released her neck and rolled out of bed. I stood by the wall and punched it repeatedly, leaving bloody smears on the plaster, until George grabbed my arm and pulled me to her. I held her tightly, burying my face in her shoulder.
“It's no use, you're going to have to lock me in the other room to sleep.” The Georgia living inside my head spoke up for the first time.
Good, then I'll have you to myself at night.
“Shut up, Shut Up, SHUT UP!”
I pulled away from George and went into the living room to sit down and stare blankly at the wall. After a few minutes George came and sat beside me, handing me a cup of coffee and popping the top on her Coke.
“Shaun, there has to be another way.”
“We've tried everything else. It's either lock me in, or I have to leave.”
We'd tried therapy, sleeping pills, and psych meds of all sorts. But no matter what, every now and then I tried to kill George in my sleep. Looked at another way, you could consider it a form of attempted suicide. After I had to shoot my sister in the back of the neck, she started speaking in my head. I knew I was insane, but her presence was comforting, even when I started being able to see her. After the real George, or at least a 97% accurate CDC-made copy of her, was back in my life, I thought the Georgia in my mind would go away. Instead, she got jealous and has been trying to drive us apart ever since. And now I'm convinced that she's trying to kill her rival for my affections.
I reached for a bottle of vodka and poured a glassful. I never have been much of a drinker beyond the occasional beer, drunkenness is not exactly a survival trait when playing with zombies. But the voice in my head seems to pass out before I do, so I was considering taking up alcoholism for a hobby. Maybe if I drank enough I'd kill the brain cells that she's living in. The other most effective method is to put a gun to my head and tell her if she doesn't leave me alone I'll blow our brains out. She can tell I'm not bluffing and usually shuts up for a day or so after that. The real George doesn't like it when I do that, though. She doesn't like it when I drink, either, so she got up and left the room with a pained look on her face.
Dammit. Things had been going so well. Me and George, Alaric and Maggie, Mahir finally getting to go home to his wife. Happy endings all around, for the survivors at least. I should have known it was too good to last. If anyone's happily ever after had to be spoiled I guess I'd rather it was mine than any of my friends, if only George didn't have to suffer too. Maybe I could get the CDC to whip up a replacement Shaun for her so I could head up north looking for zombie polar bears.
I judged that I had hit the desired level of inebriation so I switched to a maintenance dose of alcohol, adulterating my coffee with a bit of Kahlua. That was far more palatable than the vodka. I looked up to see George walking towards me carrying her laptop and wearing a shocked expression. “What's wrong?” I said carefully, fighting the tendency to slur my words.
“I just got an email from Dr. Kimberly. You need to read this.” She handed me the laptop.
I took it, looking at the screen. Several paragraphs were highlighted.
My team has managed to unlock more of Dr. Thomas's encrypted files. Georgia, I don't want to tell you this, but I have to. His people did something to Shaun. While Shaun was in therapy in Oakland after your funeral, the doctor set up a series of sleep studies, brain monitoring, and CT scans to look for the cause of his hallucinations. Rather, that was what he claimed the reason was. Instead, he was working for the Seattle CDC office, and while Shaun was under a team from Seattle inserted you into his head. Not an original copy, but a scan taken from one of the more stable of your clone predecessors after it went into spontaneous amplification. That clone was one they were grooming to send to Shaun as a mole.
According to Dr. Thomas's notes, the intent was to reinforce Shaun's psychosis in order to give them a way to cast doubt on his credibility if necessary, or make him more tractable to the version of you they had planned to release. I'm worried. I can't help remembering how you destroyed all of your fellow clones and wondering if the Georgia in Shaun's brain might have similar ideas. You may be in danger.
If there are problems, you need to seek treatment for him as soon as possible. Unfortunately, I can't guarantee your safety at any CDC facilities as we have not yet rooted out all of the members of the conspiracy. And getting rid of the conspirators that we have identified has cost us much of our expertise in the very specialties that you would need. The only other option in North America is the Texas Biomedical Research Institute. They've been researching memory transfer techniques for the purpose of treating Alzheimer's patients, and they have the only remaining team in the world with experience using it on living subjects. Apes, not humans, but still more experience than you will find anywhere else. And, as it happens, Texas Biomed does a lot of pharmaceutical research and has a cordial working relationship with the Garcia family.
I sat there silently for several minutes, dumbfounded. At least it was clear that I was drunk enough to keep Georgia quiet, or she would have been shrieking in my head right now. But it also meant that I was too drunk to think straight.
“Shaun...?”
“Sorry, I was just thinking. How the hell are we going to get to Texas? Might be easier to fly to Mexico and come up from the south.”
“So you want to go there?”
“God, George, I have to. If there is any chance at all they can help, I have to.”
“Then I'll start working on how to get there.” She leaned over to kiss me on the forehead, then got up and went back to her desk.
After a glance at the clock and a few moments of blearily remembering how to tell time, I realized it was around noon. I carefully made my way into the kitchen, glad to be in the safe confines of our home. A staggering drunk bears a remarkable resemblance to a shuffling zombie, and there have been more than a few mistaken shootings. These days drunk driving is safer than public intoxication, at least for the drunk. I grabbed a couple of things at random from the freezer and achieved another monumental victory of Man over Technology by successfully programming the microwave. I dropped George's lunch at her elbow, which she acknowledged with an absent-minded “Thanks.” I settled in my chair and opened my laptop to look through the blogs I'm subscribed to. Luckily we can write off the subscription fees on our taxes as 'competitor research.' One of my favorite regional sites was on hiatus, with the couple that runs it taking a vacation off-line and their betas producing filler content. But many of the other blogs had juicy video, and I toasted each victorious Irwin. Naturally, I got steadily drunker as the afternoon progressed.
The next thing I noticed it was well after dark. The sounds of typing and phone conversations from George's desk had ceased without my realizing it. I looked over and saw that she had swiveled her chair to face me. She appropriated my bottle of vodka and poured herself a drink. Then it finally penetrated my fuzzy brain that she had changed into a long silky nightgown. George is the least-girly girl I've ever met but once in a while, when we can be assured of privacy, she goes delectably feminine. I think she does it more because she likes the effect it has on me rather than enjoying it for its own sake. And while she normally disapproves of my drinking, she has developed a taste for occasional drunken sex. The fact that she could be sure Georgia wasn't making snide remarks in the back of my head was probably a big part of that, but didn't explain her getting intoxicated herself.
She leaned back and draped one leg over the arm of her chair. My gaze settled on her delicate toes where they pointed at the floor, then traveled up along her slimly muscled calf, finally resting on the shapely thigh exposed by her gown slipping back. My eye was drawn up across the silk hugging her curves to her lips as she raised the glass to them and drained the liquor in one long draught. We sat there silently, looking into each other's eyes, sharing unspoken messages. Well, except when my eyes were wandering the rest of her body. As the vodka took effect she became more relaxed. She shifted sideways in her chair, gown riding higher up her thigh, one strap slipping off of her shoulder. She took on the aspect of a cat lazily contemplating a bowl of cream.
Responding to some silent signal, we both got up and went to each other. Our lips met, and my hands slid easily over the silk, content for the moment to have the flimsy barrier shielding her from my touch. After a long time, we broke the kiss and made our way to the bedroom, arms around each other's waists for mutual support. She pushed me down onto the bed and stood in front of me, swaying just a little. After pulling the other strap from her shoulder, she shimmied a little and the gown slipped down to pool around her feet. Nothing remained to hide her from my gaze. She assisted me out of my own clothes, not that I was in much condition to help. George slid into bed beside me, and I rolled onto my side to face her. She pressed herself against me and our lips met again.
Through the alcoholic haze, I couldn't be sure how long we spent kissing and caressing. My whole world shrank to just her, and that was world enough for me. I was so focused on her lips that it took me a while to remember I had hands. I slid one arm across her shoulders and stroked her short hair. My other hand found a breast, squeezing gently as she moaned into my mouth. After a few minutes, the hand in her hair trailed slowly down her smooth back to cup her ass. I tried to pull her closer, but as usual she was ahead of me, pressing even more tightly against me. She opened her thighs just enough to trap my cock between them. I was lost in the feel of her, only regaining awareness when she broke the kiss and pulled back slightly.
She rolled onto her back, pulling me over on top of her, and spread her legs wide. I might have been drunk, but my aim was still good, finding the right spot on the first try. She was so wet that I slid in easily. I was certain that one thing my sister found attractive about drunk sex was that it takes me a long time to cum in that condition, and she had four or five orgasms before I was finally done. Afterward, I rolled back onto my side of the bed, watching the contented smile on her face as she drifted off to sleep.
*-*-*
I woke up in the morning absurdly cheerful despite having a vicious headache. The hangover is just as good at keeping Georgia at bay as the alcohol. I guessed it reminded her of the migraines she used to get because of her retinal K-A that would cause her to curl up in a dark room until they passed. I envisioned Georgia huddled in a lightless closet somewhere in my head and almost felt sorry for her.
But the moment passed and I was ready to go kill things. Luckily, I had a date to do just that. I had gotten to be friends with a local Irwin named Jake. He invites me to go out in the field with him from time to time. To keep my identity a secret, I am billed as his 'Special Guest: The Unknown Irwin' and wear a helmet and face shield that resembles a paper bag with eye and mouth holes. It's a reference to a particularly vulgar pre-Rising comedian. I find him hilarious, George can't get more than a minute into one of his routines before stalking out of the room. It was weird, I almost never wore face protection before, but these days I had to even though I've become immune to zombie spit.
I glanced at the clock and headed for my closet to gear up. Aside from the helmet, the only real change I've made to my usual field wear is to replace my cardigan with a truly eye-catching flannel shirt that rivals the loudest Hawaiian shirts. Have to try to look more Canadian, eh? Once properly dressed, I picked out weapons. First, a crossbow and quiver of bolts slung over my shoulder. Clipped to the right side of my belt, an antique but refurbished cattle prod, more effective on zombies than the modified stun batons I've used before. On the left, rigged for a cross draw, was a heavily customized lightweight electric chainsaw. It had a narrow, extended bar, requiring a specially-made chain, giving it the basic size and heft of a broadsword. To keep the weight down, it plugged into a high-density battery pack on the back of my belt. A lexan guard just behind the chain reduced blood spatter. I might be immune to amplification, but no need being more of a walking hot zone than necessary.
Thus equipped, I clanked up behind George to give her a hug and a kiss on the top of the head. She moved to brush her cheek against mine and told me to have a good time, then turned her attention back to her computer. I peeked out the front window just in time to see my ride pull up. I swaggered outside and slid into the passenger seat of Jake's Land Rover Defender.
“Jake my man! How's it hanging?”
“A little to the right, like always. Ya ready to go oot?”
Jake tends to slap on an exaggerated Canadian accent around his American friends. He knows it bugs me, but it charms the hell out of George. He only keeps it up when she's around, otherwise he drops it pretty quick.
“Sure am, you hoser. What's on the schedule?”
“I figured we'd duck over into Quebec and check out this little farming town. I'd tell you the name but I don't think I can pronounce it and won't embarrass myself trying.”
“Any likely prospects?” I asked.
“There was a report of a large pack in the area a few days ago. The Mounties sent in a Zombie Response Team to do a sweep, and they stacked up a lot of corpses.”
“Sounds like slim pickings.”
“Maybe, but I've seen this bunch's handiwork before. They head in, make a lot of noise, burn a pile of bodies, and rush home to dinner. They usually leave stragglers behind.”
“Perfect.” It sounded like an ideal situation. A few isolated infected, dumb enough to have some fun with, and no worries about getting ambushed by a pack big enough to show some brains.
“Yep.” He gave me an evil grin.
We rode in silence for a couple of hours. Neither of us was the type to pass the time with empty words, we save those for our fans. Or rather, I used to. On my outings with Jake I only spoke when necessary and he did all the patter, lest someone recognize my voice. We drove into an area that even I could see had once been farm land, and passed the village limits sign. I was pretty sure I couldn't pronounce the name either, Spanish being a lot more useful than French where I grew up. Not that my Spanish is all that good, but at least I could wrap my tongue around it. There were obvious signs of a recent clearance sweep, notably the extensive patch of ashes in the center of what had been the town square back when there were enough intact buildings to define it. We continued through town and out the other side, where we found the rest of Jake's crew in their Mercedes Unimog parked on a small hill. One of the cameramen was up on the truck's roof looking through a long range camera. I sighed. Time for the damned helmet. Just to be safe, Jake was the only one who knew my identity. I had never bothered to even learn their names, playing the mysterious stranger role to the hilt.
Jake parked next to them and got out, looking up at the guy on the roof. “Got anything good?”
The cameraman looked down. “There's a farmhouse and a barn about a mile thataway. I've spotted a couple of infected trying to catch some chickens. Funniest thing I've seen in weeks. Poor buggers aren't having any luck, but they keep trying.”
“Yeah, I figured the Mounties wouldn't get this far. That bunch is a disgrace to the uniform. Still, I should be grateful they left some for us. Okay, let's move out.”
Jake's other cameraman climbed into the back seat and we headed for the old farm. We stopped at the edge of the barnyard and dismounted. Jake was carrying a cattle prod like mine, not surprising since I'd gotten it from him in the first place. His family was in ranching, not that they call it that up here, before the Rising put an end to most of the beef industry. He'd had half a dozen of the things sitting in a corner of an old shed. He also had a C8PDW on a sling. It was a very short Canadian-made version of the AR-15, the size of a submachinegun but firing a standard .223 rifle round. When gun laws were relaxed after the Rising, Canadians were even more enthusiastic about acquiring firepower than my fellow Americans. I've watched Jake easily control full-auto bursts one-handed and put a single shot through a zombie's eye at 150 yards. I guess I should call them meters now, but habits are hard to break.
There wasn't any sign of our potential playmates at first, but then a chicken casually strolled around the corner of the barn with a pair of infected shuffling after it. The first one was reasonably fresh, dead just long enough to lose that new zombie speed. He was clutching a handful of feathers, but the bloodstains around his mouth were days old, indicating that the feathers were all he'd caught. The second had been dead at least over the winter, showing signs of frostbite. Not having enjoyed the Canadian winter myself, even with the benefits of shelter, heat, and a down parka, I almost pitied him. Almost.
Jake reached into a cargo pocket and pulled out a set of leg shackles he'd gotten the week before. “So, left to right, or left to left?”
I looked around the expanse of the barnyard. “Plenty of room. Give 'em a chance.” When I do talk, I keep it short and try to drop my voice into a bass register. Mom was a big fan of Barry White, and I attempt to imitate him. I don't quite get there, but at least I don't sound like me.
At the sound of our voices, the two chicken chasers turned their attention to us. We readied our cattle prods and patiently waited their approach. I mentally dubbed the frostbitten one 'Chilly Willy' and the other one 'Smedley.' Smedley got to us first and seemed intent on gnawing on my tender bits, so I dodged his lunge and gave him a jolt to the side of the neck. That dropped him to the ground. He was stunned but still twitching a bit, so the current hadn't fried what was left of his brain. Jake soon gave the same treatment to Willy. I could hear Jake narrating into his mic as he snapped one leg cuff around Willy's left ankle, but couldn't quite make out the words. No problem, I'd get it when he posted the video. He handed me the other end of the shackles, and I secured it around Smedley's right leg. Then we stood back and waited for the fun to start.
Smedley was the first one on his feet, and his attention was still focused on me. Too bad he wasn't strong enough to drag Willy along behind him. I smugly stood just out of his reach. Since the not-so-dynamic duo had been chasing chickens, they had to be far more interested in eating us rather than infecting us. After about a minute of futilely pawing the air in my direction, Smedley had his leg jerked out from under him and slammed face first to the ground as Willy lurched to his feet. Willy shambled towards Jake, giving Smedley enough slack in the chain to heave himself back upright. Moving more or less in unison, they followed us as we backed away, though Smedley was occasionally jerked to a halt until Willy could catch up.
That was what I meant about giving them a chance. With adjacent ankles cuffed together they could manage to walk. Cuffed right to right or left to left, with luck the best they could achieve was walking in circles. More likely, one or the other would get tangled in the chain. The shackles were a great trick, and I didn't mind that Jake had gotten the idea from me. Hell, I freely admit I stole it from a competitor.
We led the zombies on a slow but merry chase across the yard. I glanced over at the chicken and saw that she had been joined by three more, all apparently watching the action curiously. I hoped that had been caught on camera. When we were just about backed up to the fence, we took the simple expedient of splitting off in opposite directions. Smedley and Willy were determined to reach their chosen victims, and both crashed to the ground as they each tried to go a different way. Jake and I paired up again in the center of the yard and watched a solid five minutes of pratfalls before the zombies were both able to find their feet and give chase again. We led them back and forth across the barnyard for at least an hour, with Jake providing a running commentary. It was a bit long for my taste, but this was Jake's show. Canadians seem to have a longer attention span for that sort of thing.
Finally, Jake said, “Okay, time to cut them loose.”
I drew my chainsaw, flicked on the power, and squeezed the trigger. I sighed inwardly. Electric was a lot more convenient and reliable, but it lacks the satisfying roar of a gasoline motor. I have considered adding sound effects, but that would have been too corny. Once Jake had backed well out of splatter range, I moved in and cut through Smedley's knee, hitting the joint perfectly. He promptly fell over, freeing Willy to go after Jake, dragging Smedley's lower leg behind him. Jake led Willy around in a circle until he had the barn as a convenient backstop, then fired a short burst that stitched Willy from belly button to forehead. Meanwhile, I unslung and loaded my crossbow, then fired a bolt that transfixed Smedley through both temples. Damn. I'd been trying my entire career to get that shot, and now that I'd done it I couldn't take credit.
We recovered and bagged the shackles for later cleaning, then dragged the bodies and parts together. We liberally doused them and the surrounding bloodstained area with kerosene and tossed in a lit flare. As the flames shot up, the chickens ran off, but they resumed watching from a safe distance.
Jake looked over at them. “A chicken dinner would be good tonight.”
“Not safe. Can't tell which one Smedley got his hands on, or even if it was just one.”
“Smedley?”
“Chilly Willy and Smedley,” I said, nodding at the burning corpses.
“Ah,” Jake said, catching the reference. “Never made sense to me. Penguins aren't native to Alaska.”
I shrugged.
We went through the usual field test ritual and got back into Jake's Land Rover to drive back to the rest of the crew. Jake had replaced the upholstery and carpet, sealed every seam, and installed drains in the floorboards so that he can just hose down the interior. Good thing, because I can't completely avoid back-spatter when using the chainsaw. We reached the Unimog and took turns using the decon shower and clothing sterilizer in the back of it. By the time I was done, the sun was setting and there was a bit of a nip in the air. It felt colder because of my damp skin and hair. I had endured a lot of ribbing the previous fall for bundling up when the temperature was 'only' down in the 40s, whatever the hell that is in Celsius, so I stoically endured the chill. Luckily Jake isn't one of those masochists who cuts a hole in the ice to go swimming, so once we were back on the road he turned the heat on. When we got back to civilized territory, we hit a drive-through for some dinner.
He dropped me off at home before George could get too worried. Of course, she's always a little worried when I go out. After once again testing clean at the door, I walked in to find her sitting in the living room. A glance into the kitchen told me she hadn't thought to eat. I expected that, so when I got my own dinner I ordered something for her as well. She was so engrossed in her computer screen that she didn't notice me until I dropped the bag in front of her. She looked up in surprise, then eagerly tore into her food, updating me on her day between bites.
“I haven't been able to find anyone trustworthy that can supply us with IDs that will get us through airport security, much less hold up under scrutiny at the US-Mexico border. What I have managed to find is an independent tour operator that goes into the northwestern US states and can get us across the border.”
“That still leaves us a long way from Texas with no wheels. And can we trust this guy?”
“He's another expat American, has a real dislike of the government, and enjoys giving them the proverbial middle finger. He has too much to lose if he gives us up. Transportation from there is a bigger problem.” She hesitated.
“What is it?”
“I hit every contact I could, no luck. Maggie went to her dad, and he is providing a discreet introduction to Texas Biomed, but he says there are signs that somebody has been illegally hacking into information on his finances. He'll help if Maggie asks, but says he can't be sure of secrecy.” She hesitated again, looking down.
“George, what's wrong?”
“There were no other options, I had to contact the Masons.”
George was even less of a fan of our adoptive parents than I was. Still, they were among the longest running news bloggers in the business, and had the most extensive contacts. Dealing with them was like dining with the Devil, but as long as you were sufficiently paranoid you might get out okay.
“I was afraid it might come to that. How'd it go?”
“It was awful. They were playing up the 'concerned parents' routine, kept trying to get me to reveal our location. I was able to get a list of possibilities from them. Mom was really pushing one of them, so naturally I looked at the others.”
“What did you come up with?”
“There's a couple based in San Antonio. They're on a trip up this way, and plan to stop in Yellowstone in two days before returning home. I've gotten in contact with them and they've offered to help. The husband has a reservoir condition and says he's sure the CDC had already tried to arrange an accident for him before we broke the story. They both insist they owe us his life. And they're closer to our age than most of Mom's contacts. I think we can trust them.”
“Sounds good. Can we get there in time to meet them?”
“The tour operator I mentioned has a trip going there in the morning. We should get there tomorrow night.”
The rest of the evening was spent cleaning my weapons and packing. We fell into bed with the alarm set for an ungodly early hour, too tired to do more than cuddle. I suddenly found myself wishing I had fallen asleep sooner.
You're going to kill me.
Dammit. I'd been trying not to think about it, hoping Georgia wouldn't pick it up.
“You tried to kill George.”
Just wanted to fit in. You've killed Georgia Mason. She's a veritable mass murderer of Georgia Masons. I figure it's my turn.
I smacked the heel of my hand against the side of my skull. George stirred in her sleep and mumbled. I laid there trying to ignore Georgia's pleas until exhaustion finally claimed me.
Shaun sits just a few feet from me, but he might as well be on another continent. He's locked in a battle, of which I can only catch glimpses, that may yet claim me as a casualty. His weapon of choice, alcohol, which distances him from me further even as it protects him from the nemesis within.
From Expatriate Games, the blog of Georgia Mason
July 23, 2042 (Unpublished)
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Georgia In My MInd