The Ultimate Undead

by Anne Rice

  She rotted.

  Z IS FOR ZOMBIE

  HARLAN ELLISON

  HOWARD Hughes did not die in 1976, no matter what they tell you. Howard Hughes died in 1968. It was not a spectacular death, down in flames in the Spruce Goose or assassinated by his next-in-command or frightened to death by an insect that found its way into his eyrie. He choked to death on a McDonald’s greaseburger during dinner one night in July of 1968. But wealth has its privileges. Johns Hopkins and the Mayo Clinic and the Walter Reed in Maryland sent their teams. But he was dead. DOA, Las Vegas. And he was buried. Not in 1976, in 1968. And Mama Legba, with whom Hughes had made a deal twenty years earlier in Haiti, came to the grave, and she raised him. The corporate entity is mightier than death. But the end is near: at this very moment, training in the Sierra Maestra, is an attack squad of Fidel Castro’s finest guerrillas. They know where Hughes went when he evacuated Nicaragua one week before the earthquake. (Zombies have precognitive faculties, did you know that?) And they know the 1976 death story is merely misdirection like all the other death rumors throughout the preceding years. They will seek him out and put him to final rest by the only means ever discovered for deanimating the walking dead. They will pour sand in his eyes, stuff a dead chicken in his mouth, and sew up the mouth with sailcloth twine. It would take a mission this important to get the fierce Cuban fighters to suffer all the ridicule: bayonet practice with dead chickens is terribly demeaning.

  CORRUPTION IN OFFICE

  DON D’AMMASSA

  WHEN Paul Norton received the emergency summons to the Oval Office, he acknowledged the call curtly, then buzzed his chief assistant. “Anything hot, Bob?”

  “No, sir. Nothing out of the ordinary. The coup in England seems to be winding down, and there haven’t been any cease-fire violations in Canada for almost a week.”

  “All right, thanks. I’m going over to the White House for a meeting. Hold the fort, will you?” He clicked off, tapped his finger impatiently for a few seconds, then asked his secretary to arrange transportation.

  With her usual efficiency, she arranged for a private shuttle, which was ready and waiting by the time he had taken the elevator to the roof of the State Department office building. A few minutes later, the pilot set him down on a small landing field on the White House grounds, where armed guards remained attentive even after he passed through the scanners, grudgingly allowing him into the building.

  Jennifer Frakes was waiting just inside. The jowly Chief of Staff had served President Torgeson for over twenty years, rising through the backrooms of the insurgent Unionist Party while Torgeson progressed from state representative to governor to senator to President.

  “Morning, Jennifer. What’s up?” Norton glanced at his watch, frowned. “I thought the President was meeting with the King of Romania this morning.”

  “We’ve had some problems. His schedule has been suspended … indefinitely.” It was voice rather than words that tipped him off that something was seriously wrong. Ordinarily, Frakes was gruff and overbearing, using force of will to maintain discipline among subordinates and associates alike. Uncertainty and hesitation were not among her attributes. “Come on. We’ll talk in my office.”

  Once the door was closed, Frakes pointed to a chair and Norton sat. Frakes remained standing as she delivered the news. “The President is dead. He came down to his office early this morning, just as he always does, and apparently died almost immediately after arriving. One of his bodyguards found him a short time later, slumped over his desk, but it was too late for medical treatment, and the guard wisely called me instead of raising an alarm.”

  It took a few seconds for the meaning of the words to penetrate. Norton had never considered Torgeson a friend, but the man had been instrumental in his own spectacular rise from the parishes of New Orleans to head the State Department.

  “I’m terribly sorry to hear that.” The words came out automatically, but Norton realized they were sincere as well. Vice President Curtis was a frenetic, shallow man who had bluffed his way through several crises by disguising utter panic as ceaseless energy, and the prospect of him sitting in the Oval Office, even for the few months that remained before the election, was not pleasant.

  “Does the Vice President know?”

  “No, and he’s not going to.”

  Norton blinked. “I … uh … I don’t understand.”

  Frakes leaned back, arms crossed, and stared directly into Norton’s eyes. “Do you really think Samuel Curtis is capable of leading this country?”

  “Well, no, as a matter of fact.” His first inclination had been to dissemble, but perhaps because the shock of the revelation was beginning to sink in, he felt unable to remain evasive. “I think he’d be an utter disaster even in the best of times. With the budgetary crisis and the taxpayers’ revolt and the Republicrats gaining steadily in the polls, I think it would be a national as well as a party disaster.”

  “Exactly. Curtis was only put on the ticket to keep the western states from bolting the Unionist Party. As Vice President, he’s not in a position to do any real harm. We expected him to remain there through this year and Torgeson’s second term.”

  “Which is now impossible.” Norton’s head was whirling. Who would the Unionist Party turn to now? The New Hampshire primary was only a few weeks away.

  Frakes picked up a thick file from her desk, opened it as though to check something, then snapped it closed. “We did an extensive background check before Torgeson nominated you to be Secretary of State, you know.”

  “Of course.”

  “I understand that for several years, you served as a houngan in Lepatria Parish.”

  Norton felt as though the temperature in the room had just plummeted thirty degrees. “That was a baseless charge raised by my opponent when I was running for the state legislature.”

  Frakes made an impatient gesture. “Drop it, Norton. This is the big time here. We knew all about it before we approached you to join the cabinet. You covered your tracks extremely well, almost enough to throw us off. But the White House has people who specialize in finding the invisible. As a matter of fact, the efficiency with which you concealed your involvement in voodoo was one of the reasons we decided to put you in State. Deviousness is a prerequisite for that job, as I’m sure you’ve come to realize.”

  Although he thought about bluffing, Norton recognized a lost cause when he saw one. “All right, yes, I was involved in a very minimal way during my twenties. But I dropped it all ten years before I first ran for office.”

  “But you were a houngan.”

  “A very inept one.” He laughed briefly, without humor. “That’s one of the reasons I gave it up, to be honest. I seemed to have the talent, but not the control. Some of my magic … misfired.”

  “Have you ever raised a zombie?”

  Norton started to shake his head, then realized the implications of the question. “You’re not suggesting … ?” Frakes’s steady gaze never wavered. “You’re serious, aren’t you?”

  “Absolutely. President Torgeson must serve out his term; no other solution is acceptable. If Curtis succeeds to the presidency, he’ll ruin the party—if not the country—and it would be difficult to deny him the nomination to run for a term of his own.”

  “Even if Torgeson … serves out his term, there’s no one of comparable stature for the campaign. The problem is delayed but not solved.”

  “True. But at least we buy some time.”

  “We could never bring it off. I mean, zombies aren’t quite as graceless as they appear in the movies, but they lack any real spirit, their body temperature drops off, and they begin to smell after a while. Even their voices lack inflection.” Not that Torgeson had ever been a particularly vibrant speaker, he thought silently.

  Frakes made a dismissive gesture. “Mechanical details. We can work around them. After the last two assassination attempts, it won’t surprise anyone if Torgeson cuts back on public appearances. We can use one of his do
ubles for the rare occasion when it’s necessary, and televised speeches can be synthesized by computers accurately enough to escape detection.”

  It was hard for Norton to accept that Frakes was serious, but she was not known for her sense of humor. He began to wonder if this was some bizarre loyalty test she and Torgeson had dreamed up between them, to find out how he would react under stress.

  As if she were reading his mind, Frakes stepped forward. “Come on.”

  “Where are we going?”

  “I want you to take a look at the President. We have him laid out on the couch in his office. We need to know if there’s anything we need to do right away, anoint him with olive oil or put garlic in his mouth or chant some prayer over his body.”

  “No, nothing like that. But he’ll need to keep to a strict salt-free diet.” It was a miserable attempt to break the tension, but he was speaking more to himself than to the Chief of Staff, and he followed meekly as she led the way.

  There was no question that President Torgeson was dead. His body was already cool to the touch, and the presence of death was so palpable that it stirred Norton’s long-dormant houngan abilities. Two bodyguards stood near the door, trying to look professional but only succeeding in appearing uncomfortable.

  “Who else knows?”

  Frakes glanced at the guards. “Besides the four of us, only Adamson at the CIA. I’ll have to speak to the party leadership, of course. Thank God Torgeson is … was a bachelor.”

  “How about his personal physician?”

  “Christian Scientist, remember? No doctor.”

  “Oh, right.” Norton scratched his chin.

  “So what do you need for the ceremony? Herbs? Magical artifacts? Drugs?”

  Norton sighed. “Look, I think this whole thing is crazy under any circumstances, but even if I thought we might be able to pull it off, you’ve got the wrong man for the job. I’ve never raised a zombie; my talents aren’t really strong enough for that kind of magic.”

  For just a second, it looked as though Frakes had let her shoulders slump. “You were the best chance we had.”

  “Maybe not. Look, I know a man who might be able to help. But you’re not going to like this.”

  “There’s nothing about this situation that I like, Norton, but I’m grasping at straws here.”

  “Nelson Djibwa.”

  That stopped her, at least for a few seconds. Nelson Djibwa was a thorn in the side of the Unionist Party. He’d run for office several times under their banner, twice winning a seat in the Louisiana legislature, twice defeated for a second term, primarily because the party refused to acknowledge him as a legitimate candidate.

  “There must be someone else.”

  Norton nodded. “There probably is, but we have to move quickly here and he’s the only one I know with the skills we need.”

  Frakes shook her head. “Then there’s no choice but to make Torgeson’s death public. God knows, I shudder to think what Curtis will do to this country, but having the President under the control of a man like Djibwa is too terrifying even to consider.”

  Norton shook his head. “You don’t understand. I’m not suggesting that we have Djibwa raise the President. I’ll perform the ceremony with his assistance. That way the zombie … I mean the President … will be bound to me personally. But we can draw on Djibwa’s expertise.” He paused to let that sink in. “You do realize that once raised, the President will be completely subservient to my will, don’t you?”

  “Yes, I assumed that. Don’t worry, Norton. We’ve checked you out thoroughly. I think you can be trusted to act responsibly, and I’ll be the first to blow the whistle if my judgment proves faulty.”

  Norton experienced a brief glimpse of his future. “This is going to be a logistic nightmare. I’m scheduled to visit Europe next week, you realize.”

  “I’ve considered that. My staff is preparing press releases announcing a few changes in the administration.”

  “Changes?”

  “Yes. Effective tomorrow morning, I am resigning my position as Chief of Staff in order to head President Torgeson’s re-election campaign. A useless but necessary fiction, I’m afraid, but it will keep the public’s attention centered until we come up with a new candidate. You’ll have to resign as Secretary of State to take my old job. I know it’s going to look like a step backward for you careerwise, but once I’ve had a chance to speak to a few members of the party leadership and explain the situation, I think you’ll find you’ve accumulated a few favors.”

  Although Norton had mixed feelings, he realized the sense of what she was saying. And the possibility of being the Vice Presidential candidate in 2012 or 2016 was the unspoken undertext of her words. Who knew what might lie beyond?

  “Then you’ll bring in Djibwa?”

  “I suppose we have no real choice. I just wonder what he’ll want in return.”

  As it turned out, Djibwa wanted to be governor of Louisiana.

  “Out of the question!” Frakes spoke angrily, while Norton, CIA director Adamson, and Unionist Party Chairman Estelle Novarro all regarded their slender, ebony-skinned visitor with thinly disguised hostility. “The governorship is a public trust, not a commodity to be bartered.”

  Djibwa’s face remained expressionless as he sat back in his chair, letting his eyes roam around the walls of the White House conference room. “We are all sophisticated people here.” His voice was deep and rich. “Is there time for us to indulge in the pretense of negotiation when we all know the truths of power?”

  They all recognized that the Unionist Party enjoyed great popularity in Louisiana, had held the governor’s mansion for three consecutive terms, and Governor Lavalier had already announced he would not seek a fourth term. An official endorsement would do more than legitimize Djibwa’s candidacy; it would almost assure him election.

  “You’re asking a great price for your services,” Novarro commented dryly.

  “You’re asking for a very great service.”

  In the end, they had no choice.

  The ceremony itself didn’t take long. Djibwa was ushered past security into the basement crisis room where the President’s body currently lay in a cryogenic unit. Norton joined him there, and the two men unpacked the ceremonial robes and artifacts of their craft while the President thawed under the watchful eyes of a CIA technician. Frakes had originally announced her intention to observe the process, but at the last minute demonstrated an uncharacteristic queasiness and excused herself.

  “You’re certain we can do this?” Norton was experiencing the old uncertainty, the lack of confidence that had marred his earlier attempts to master voodoo.

  Djibwa’s face and voice were neutral, but his eyes betrayed his contempt. “Your participation is not necessary, and your doubts may interfere with my concentration.”

  At that moment, Norton desperately wanted to find some way to escape the situation, but there was no choice. Unless he was present and actively involved, Torgeson’s reanimated body would be bound to Djibwa, an outcome they could not accept.

  “My soul is at ease,” he answered ritually, “and my will a tool for the shaping.”

  Djibwa continued to regard him doubtfully, but finally nodded and crossed to the body. “I believe we can start the ceremony now.”

  Two hours later, President Torgeson opened his eyes and rose obediently to his feet.

  It took a full week before Norton began to believe they could get away with it. The President’s hands had been covered with synthetic skin gloves. Torgeson’s grip was a little weak, but the President had never been one to press the flesh very much, and they figured it would pass. Fortunately, his craggy face had never been particularly expressive, so its present calm stolidity was actually a plus.

  A synthesized television press conference went well. In fact, Torgeson’s approval rating rose a full point the following day.

  “We eliminated that damned hesitancy of his when he spoke,” explained Frakes. “It was a sub
conscious signal of weakness and insincerity. How are you handling Curtis?”

  “Just as we discussed. He’s always been kept pretty isolated by Torgeson. Curtis understood why he was on the ticket and there was no love lost between the two men.”

  As Chief of Staff, Norton’s constant proximity to the President had been legitimized; since both men were unmarried, it was not considered particularly newsworthy when he moved into the guest wing of the White House on a more or less permanent basis. It was impractical to remain near at hand all the time, naturally, and the small group of people who knew the truth was slowly expanded until Torgeson was effectively insulated from discovery.

  Norton saw the first reports of a double mutilation killing on the television in the rear of his limo the following morning.

  “Two unidentified men were discovered literally torn apart in a room on the fourteenth floor of the Sheridan Hotel,” announced the newscaster. Norton, who’d been listening with only a fraction of his concentration, turned the volume up, remembering that Frakes had arranged for Djibwa to stay at that hotel under an assumed name.

  “Although neither man has been identified, the authorities are looking for Donald Cipher …” the screen faded and was replaced with a fair likeness of Nelson Djibwa, “… in connection with the incident. Although there has been no official confirmation, it is believed that Cipher was the guest registered in the room where the killings took place.” When the story changed to a progress report on the Quebec Peace Talks, Norton turned the volume back down.

  Frakes was sitting in his new office, her old one, when he arrived. Her face was deeply drawn and lacked its usually aggressiveness.

  “What’s going on?”

  “We’ve lost Djibwa.”

  Norton frowned, then experienced an epiphany. “My God, you tried to have Djibwa sanctioned! I heard it on the radio on my way here.”