Feedback by Mira Grant Page B

Audrey patiently. “Now, I recognize that murdering you widows Ben and leaves me without a girlfriend, but if you don’t get your clothes on and get downstairs in the next five minutes, I’m going to consider it. Are we on the same page now?”
    I stared at her for a beat. Then I grabbed my sundress, abstractly pleased to see that she’d fished the patriotic one from the back of my closet—white fabric, red and blue stars. I’d worn it to my citizenship ceremony, and then on my first zombie hunt as a genuine American Irwin. The bleach damage was minimal, and as long as no one was staring at my ass, they probably wouldn’t notice.
    â€œOh, good,” said Audrey. “You’re finally moving.”
    â€œDo I need shoes?” I demanded. “I don’t think I have time to blow-dry my hair, can I go downstairs with wet hair
and
no shoes? Is there some sort of deportation offense in appearing in front of a presidential candidate with no shoes?”
    â€œI don’t think anyone’s going to be looking at your feet,” said Audrey. She picked up my discarded towel and hung it on the wall to dry while I was still struggling into my sundress. Then she folded her arms, giving me a critical up-and-down look. “You’ll do. You look like you’ve just come out of the field, but under the circumstances, that can only be a good thing. Now come on.”
    She turned to open the bathroom door. I leaned past her, using my longer arms to push it shut again before she could get out into the hall.
    â€œAudrey, breathe,” I said. “How serious is this?”
    She looked at me for a moment. Then she leaned up, kissed me, and smiled. “This could change
everything
,” she said. “Now come on. Let me out, and let’s go meet the woman who’s going to make us famous.”
    I took my hand off the door. Audrey slipped out into the hall and I followed her, feeling a little awkward padding down the stairs in my bare feet.
    The men who’d met me at the garage door were standing in the kitchen doorway when we arrived. Each of them was holding a blood testing unit. I stared.
    â€œIs this a joke?” I asked.
    â€œNo, ma’am,” said one of the men. He held his blood testing unit out toward me. The other offered his to Audrey. “You must have a clean bill of health before we can allow you to enter.”
    â€œI took a blood test to get into the house.”
    â€œYes, ma’am.”
    â€œI just finished a full decontamination shower. I smell like bleach.”
    â€œYes, ma’am.”
    â€œThere is no
possible way
I’ve been exposed to live-state Kellis-Amberlee between the bathroom and here.”
    â€œYes, ma’am.” Through it all, the man continued patiently offering me his blood testing unit.
    Audrey already had her thumb on the unit that was intended for her. She looked my way and rolled her eyes. “Just do it, Ash. This is going to take forever if you try to argue with them. These are not men who have a ‘negotiation’ button.”
    â€œBloody Americans,” I muttered, and pressed my thumb down on the testing pad.
    I’ll give them this much: Their technology was much more advanced than ours. I didn’t feel the needle go in, just the soft chill of the cleansing foam hitting my skin and preventing even that hairline prick from bleeding. The lights on the top of the test flashed between red and green for several seconds before settling on green, marking me as uninfected. That was a lie—we’re all infected—but I wasn’t an immediate danger, and that was essentially the same thing.
    Audrey had already passed her own blood test by the time I was cleared, and was waiting for me, twisting a lock of her hair anxiously around her finger. She dropped her hand when the men stepped aside, and smiled at me before stepping into the kitchen. I followed. I had followed her this