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that, combined with the culture of fear, keeps the checkpoints in operation. As I’d expected, my infection status hadn’t changed during my solitary, zombie-free drive; also as I’d expected, the guards eyed my stripped-down Jeep like it was some sort of rolling death trap and waved me through just as fast as federal regulations would allow. I offered them a brilliant smile, making their nearly identical looks of discomfort deepen, and drove off the freeway to the surface streets.
    My crew’s apartment building is less than half a mile from the freeway, a quirk of location that makes it perfect for our needs and less desirable to the rest of the population, keeping the rent lower than it might otherwise be. We don’t even have our own parking garage. Instead, we share a secure “community structure” with half the other buildings on our block. Every local resident and business pays into a neighborhood fund that goes to pay for security upgrades and salaries for the guards. It’s definitely money well-spent. After the End Times regularly contributes extra cash, just to make sure things stay as close to top-of-the-line as possible.
    I arrived to find James on duty at the guard station, his feet propped on the desk next to the monitor and the latest issue of
Playboy
open on his knees. He was studying the centerfold without shame, although he was paying enough attention to raise his head when Ipulled up to the gate. Smiling, he hit the button for the intercom.
    “Afternoon, Mr. Mason. Have a good day out there?”
    “The best, Jimmy,” I said, returning his smile. “You want to buzz me through?”
    “Well, that depends, Mr. Mason. How do you feel about passing me your residency card and sticking your hand in my little box?”
    “Pretty damn lousy, Jimmy,” I said. Digging out my wallet, I produced my residency card and dropped it into the guard station’s miniature air lock. It would be disinfected before James ever touched it, and he’d still wear Teflon-coated gloves when he picked it up to run it through his scanner. Protocol. Gotta love it, because anything else would lead to madness.
    While James ran my card through his system and checked it for signs of tampering, I stuck my hand into the guard station’s built-in blood test unit, gritting my teeth as the needles unerringly managed to hit right on top of my freshest puncture wounds. The worst thing about going into the field isn’t the zombies or the driving. It’s all the damn blood tests.
    “Well, Mr. Mason, everything looks to be in order,” James said, still cheerfully. He dropped my card back into the lockbox. “Welcome home.”
    “Thanks, Jimmy,” I said, withdrawing my hand. His welcome was the only confirmation that I’d actually passed my blood test. Unlike the private units, which have to show you your results, business units often display only to the people who need to know—that is, the ones whose job it is to kill you if you fail.
    Offering him a wave, which he amiably returned, I retrieved my card and drove on, leaving him to his comfortable Plexiglas box and his pornography.
    Building underground in California isn’t strictly safe, but neither is walking on the streets. That’s the brilliant logic that led to the construction of underground tunnels connecting the community structures to their associated buildings. Our building’s tunnel is about the length of a football field. As I walked along it, I amused myself by pondering just how many zombies would be able to pack themselves inside if there were ever a lapse in security. I had just reached the conclusion that the tunnel could hold somewhere around two hundred infected bodies, assuming they were all of average size, when I reached the door, swiped my residency card through the scanner, and was home.
    The building consists of three floors and ten apartments: two on the first floor, four each on the second and third. My staff has three of the four third-floor apartments, and