to
you, and I’ll stay as long as it takes to get her better.”
Nathan laughed, sounding utterly
relieved. “I think I can stand a shot if it gets my baby girl better.”
“ Good.” I
smiled. “This won’t hurt a bit.”
Biography
Seanan McGuire
Born in California, Seanan
McGuire has long been fascinated by the fact that bubonic plague is endemic in
the local rodent population. This explains a lot about her, really. Seanan’s
interest in plagues and pandemics occupies much of her spare time; the rest of
her time is spent taking inordinately long walks and working on her various
writing projects. She is the author of the Toby Daye series from DAW Books. The
first, Rosemary and Rue, will be published in 2009, with at least two
more to follow.
Seanan has released three albums to
date. The latest, Red Roses and Dead Things , includes a lengthy musical
explanation of why the Black Death wasn’t actually the bubonic plague. No,
seriously.
Like many writers, Seanan is a cat
person, and lives with several Classic Siamese. She watches too many horror
movies, and reacts violently to people asking ‘Is that you, Johnny?’ (It’s not
Johnny.) You can catch up with her at www.seananmcguire.com, where she will
happily geek pandemics with you.
Afterword
As a fan of both pandemics and
California history, I was fascinated to learn that bubonic plague has been
locally endemic since at least 1900. Bearing that in mind, I wanted a
protagonist who’d know the medical ‘lay of the land’ in my home state, and could
really appreciate the devastation. Since a surviving doctor seemed a little too
convenient, I went with a veterinarian.
A lot of our domesticated animals
really can’t survive on their own any more. That got me thinking about what
would happen to most of my friends without their modern conveniences. How many
would make it? How many would want to make it?
So there’s Mercy. She’s doing what
she’s trained to do: ending pain. The question is whether what she’s doing is
moral, and, if it isn’t, why is it moral to do that to animals?
Plus I like being able to write
about plague.
Men of Faith
Ivan Ewert
I‘d never killed a man, not even
after the world went to hell. But so help me God, Preacher would have been my
first choice. In the dark of night, when everything was quiet and we were all
huddled around the fire, I could hear the fluid rattling in his chest; hear
that awful, sickly sound of a man struggling for breath. He said it was asthma,
or apnea, or whatever the hell it was, and Sarge and Bo believed him.
Not me. I figured he was catching.
“ You’re
dreaming,” said Bo when I brought it up. “Flu’s gone. Killed everyone it was
like to more than two months back, and I don’t think it’s headed back up
anytime soon. Burned itself out, the way I figure it. Besides, it moved quick,
remember? Preacher’s been snorting and snoring like that since the day we
picked him up.”
“ Maybe it’s
a new strain?” I asked, but Bo just laughed. He knew I’d barely managed to stay
awake in class back at Pat Henry High, and I should’ve given it up there. “I’m
no doctor, but I know that stuff like that changes. Mutates, right? It changes
and becomes something different.”
“ Hell, Dave.
Look at him. Preacher ain’t exactly the type to fight something serious off. If
it was the flu, he’d be dead. End of story.”
I looked back towards Preacher.
There he was, nose in that Bible and barely watching where he walked. That
pigeon-chest kept on swelling and collapsing like a blood blister, probably the
only kind he’d ever raised. Never done a day’s work in his life; never got a
callous. Never even raised a sweat except trying to sleep at night.
“ Still don’t
like it,” I said. Hell, I couldn’t help myself. “No reason to bring him along,
and believe me, the folks up at Grants Pass aren’t going to listen as nice as
you do. I’ll bet they throw us all out to the
you, and I’ll stay as long as it takes to get her better.”
Nathan laughed, sounding utterly
relieved. “I think I can stand a shot if it gets my baby girl better.”
“ Good.” I
smiled. “This won’t hurt a bit.”
Biography
Seanan McGuire
Born in California, Seanan
McGuire has long been fascinated by the fact that bubonic plague is endemic in
the local rodent population. This explains a lot about her, really. Seanan’s
interest in plagues and pandemics occupies much of her spare time; the rest of
her time is spent taking inordinately long walks and working on her various
writing projects. She is the author of the Toby Daye series from DAW Books. The
first, Rosemary and Rue, will be published in 2009, with at least two
more to follow.
Seanan has released three albums to
date. The latest, Red Roses and Dead Things , includes a lengthy musical
explanation of why the Black Death wasn’t actually the bubonic plague. No,
seriously.
Like many writers, Seanan is a cat
person, and lives with several Classic Siamese. She watches too many horror
movies, and reacts violently to people asking ‘Is that you, Johnny?’ (It’s not
Johnny.) You can catch up with her at www.seananmcguire.com, where she will
happily geek pandemics with you.
Afterword
As a fan of both pandemics and
California history, I was fascinated to learn that bubonic plague has been
locally endemic since at least 1900. Bearing that in mind, I wanted a
protagonist who’d know the medical ‘lay of the land’ in my home state, and could
really appreciate the devastation. Since a surviving doctor seemed a little too
convenient, I went with a veterinarian.
A lot of our domesticated animals
really can’t survive on their own any more. That got me thinking about what
would happen to most of my friends without their modern conveniences. How many
would make it? How many would want to make it?
So there’s Mercy. She’s doing what
she’s trained to do: ending pain. The question is whether what she’s doing is
moral, and, if it isn’t, why is it moral to do that to animals?
Plus I like being able to write
about plague.
Men of Faith
Ivan Ewert
I‘d never killed a man, not even
after the world went to hell. But so help me God, Preacher would have been my
first choice. In the dark of night, when everything was quiet and we were all
huddled around the fire, I could hear the fluid rattling in his chest; hear
that awful, sickly sound of a man struggling for breath. He said it was asthma,
or apnea, or whatever the hell it was, and Sarge and Bo believed him.
Not me. I figured he was catching.
“ You’re
dreaming,” said Bo when I brought it up. “Flu’s gone. Killed everyone it was
like to more than two months back, and I don’t think it’s headed back up
anytime soon. Burned itself out, the way I figure it. Besides, it moved quick,
remember? Preacher’s been snorting and snoring like that since the day we
picked him up.”
“ Maybe it’s
a new strain?” I asked, but Bo just laughed. He knew I’d barely managed to stay
awake in class back at Pat Henry High, and I should’ve given it up there. “I’m
no doctor, but I know that stuff like that changes. Mutates, right? It changes
and becomes something different.”
“ Hell, Dave.
Look at him. Preacher ain’t exactly the type to fight something serious off. If
it was the flu, he’d be dead. End of story.”
I looked back towards Preacher.
There he was, nose in that Bible and barely watching where he walked. That
pigeon-chest kept on swelling and collapsing like a blood blister, probably the
only kind he’d ever raised. Never done a day’s work in his life; never got a
callous. Never even raised a sweat except trying to sleep at night.
“ Still don’t
like it,” I said. Hell, I couldn’t help myself. “No reason to bring him along,
and believe me, the folks up at Grants Pass aren’t going to listen as nice as
you do. I’ll bet they throw us all out to the
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