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Автор Мира Грант

This book is dedicated to Kathleen Secor, Diana Fox, and Sunil Patel.

Without their efforts, I would never have made it this far.

BOOK I

From the Dead

People say things like “it wasn’t supposed to go this way” and “this isn’t what I wanted. ” They’re just making noise. There’s no such thing as “supposed to,” and what you want doesn’t matter. All that matters is what happened.

—GEORGIA MASON

I honestly have no idea what’s going on anymore. I just need to find something I can hit.

—SHAUN MASON

My name is Georgia Carolyn Mason. I am one of the Orphans of the Rising, the class of people who were under two years of age when the dead first started to walk. My biological family is presumably listed somewhere on The Wall, an anonymous footnote of a dead world. Their world died in the Rising. They didn’t live to see the new one.

My adoptive parents have raised me to ask questions, understand the realities of my situation, and, in times of necessity, to shoot first. They have equipped me with the tools I need to survive, and I am grateful. Through this blog, I will do my best to share my experiences and opinions as openly and honestly as I can. It is the best way to honor the family that raised me; it is the only way I have to honor the family that lost me.

I’m going to tell you the truth as I understand it. You can take it from there.

—From Images May Disturb You, the blog of Georgia Mason, June 20, 2035.

So George says I have to write a “mission statement,” because our contract with Bridge Supporters says I will. I am personally opposed to mission statements, since they’re basically one more way of sucking the fun out of everything. I tried telling George this. She told me that it’s her job to suck the fun out of everything. She then threatened physical violence of a type I will not describe in detail, as it might unsettle and upset my theoretical readership. Suffice to say that I am writing a mission statement. Here it is:

Glad to oblige.

—From Hail to the King, the blog of Shaun Mason, June 20, 2035.

One

My story ended where so many stories have ended since the Rising: with a man—in this case, my adoptive brother and best friend, Shaun—holding a gun to the base of my skull as the virus in my blood betrayed me, transforming me from a thinking human being into something better suited to a horror movie.

My story ended, but I remember everything. I remember the cold dread as I watched the lights on the blood test unit turn red, one by one, until my infection was confirmed. I remember the look on Shaun’s face when he realized this was it—it was really happening, and there wasn’t going to be any clever third act solution that got me out of the van alive.