by Wiles, David
“I think the best thing we can do at present,” Oprah said, “is to maintain an effective and efficient support system at the plantation, so as to minimize the stress related to daily operational matters. “ Denzel, LL Cool J and Beyonce all nodded in assent.
At just that moment, Reebok came running into the basement and called for help.
“Mister Washington’s guest Mister Franklin dropped his weed pipe on the parlor carpet, and it started a small fire!” Reebok exclaimed.
Jumping back into their slave personas, the four rushed upstairs. Denzel and LL Cool J ran to the nearby well to fetch buckets of water, while Oprah and Beyonce ran directly into the parlor. Washington and Franklin were stomping their feet on the burning carpet, kicking up hot embers with each step.
“Lordy, O’ Sweet Jesus, Lordy be!” Oprah shouted, running into the parlor and waving her arms frantically. “Stop yer stompin, ’Massah George,” Oprah implored. With quick thinking, she grabbed a large vase from the center table and pulled the fresh flowers from the vase, throwing them to the floor. Then she took the vase, filled with water, and emptied the water upon the smoking carpet. In a moment, the perilous crisis of fire was resolved.
“Is you all OK, Massa George?” Beyonce asked. “And you, Sir?” she asked Franklin.
“Yes, Beyonce, we are fine,” Washington replied. “Thank you.”
Just then, Denzel and LL Cool J entered with buckets of water. Oprah told them to pour additional water on the smoking rug, and to roll it up and carry it outside.
“Now you and Missah Franklin need to done git outta here while we get to a-cleanin’ up dis here mess!” Beyonce said, shoving both Washington and Franklin out the door of the study. “Go fer a nice walk out by da river,” she suggested.
“I’m so sorry,” Franklin said again to both Washington and the slaves, “for causing you all this trouble.”
“Now you don’t done worry ‘bout dat,” Beyonce said to the two men. “You just clear outta her and we’ll clean up dis here smoky mess.”
Chapter 9
An Army of the Undead
Washington and Franklin sat on a small bench on the hillside just above the Potomac River and just below the main house at Mount Vernon. It was an idyllic location as the great warmth of the sweet, grassy hillside was cooled by the sparkling river flowing beneath them. As they were quite hungry, the two men were each finishing their third burrito, washed down with some ale from the plantation’s own brewhouse.
“May I tell you something in the strictest confidence?” Franklin asked his old friend.
“Of course,” Washington replied. “Of course.”
“You may think I have lost my mind when I tell you this,” Franklin said. “But if there is anyone I trust, G, it’s you.”
Washington wiped the last bits of burrito sauce from his lower lip and looked intently at his friend Benny. He could tell by his demeanor that something was troubling him.
“A few months ago,” Franklin began, “I received a letter from the British Army, requesting my assistance in what they referred to as ‘anatomical scientific experimentations’ that were being conducted by the British Armed Forces. The letter did not specify what type of ‘experimentations’ were being conducted.”
Washington listened without saying a word. Thoughtfully. Carefully . Attentively.
“Thinking they would perhaps be better served by a Doctor with greater skill in human anatomy,” Franklin explained further, “ I replied with the names of several gentlemen I thought better qualified to be of service to soldiers in the field. But another letter arrived, again requesting my assistance, along with a handsome retainer in gold, I might add.”
“Indeed,” Washington replied simply.
“My visit with you here comes at the conclusion of my meeting with the British Military,” Franklin explained. “As I arrived in Richmond, Virginia, I was then taken, blindfolded, to meet with their military scientists at a secret military barracks.”
“Military… scientists?” Washington asked, having seldom heard that term used unless applied to Leonardo Da Vinci.
“Indeed, so, “Franklin said. “In fact, a rather large number of Britain’s scientific elite were there in Richmond with me. They were seeking my advice and assistance in the management of a special…military unit …that they have created. I was sworn to secrecy in this matter, an oath which I am now breaking by sharing this information with you.”
Washington said nothing, but he stared more intently at his friend now. His own heart began to beat faster, sensing his friend’s fear and anxiety.
“There is no way to say this without you thinking that I have gone mad,” Franklin admitted, “So I shall just speak it plainly: The British have created…an Army of the Undead!”
Washington said nothing, but beads of cold sweat accumulated upon his forehead now, and he felt cold, as if he had been suddenly taken from this sunny hillside and cast into some dark, forgotten shadow.
“I swear to you what I’m saying is true, “Franklin said in exasperation, “though I can hardly believe it myself.”
“My friend, my friend,” Washington admitted, “I have seen them also!”
Both men clasped each other’s hands firmly, pleased to find in each other an ally and friend who knew the truth of the existence of the undead. And yet they were disturbed as well, for the horrible truth of these facts weighed heavily upon them.
“I saw them when I was a boy,” Washington explained. “And again later, the night I first met Martha.” Washington’s childhood memories came flooding back. “One of those creatures killed my own father.”
“Fuck!” replied Benjamin Franklin.
“Of course I never revealed that truth to anyone,” Washington stated. “And I had no idea that these creatures were being used by the British!”
“They are,” Franklin said plainly. “And in organized military units. They’re being trained as soldiers! Although I declined to participate with this endeavor, the training continues.”
“I cannot imagine the creatures I saw as soldiers,” Washington said. “They were like wild, rabid dogs.”
“Well, even wild dogs can be trained,” Franklin stated. “There is an old maxim that says: He who trains a dog to bite will never find his new shoes during a volleyball match.”
There was a long silence while Washington contemplated the meaning of his friend’s homespun wisdom, to no effect. Franklin’s maxims couldn’t all be winners.
“In any case,” Washington continued, “we must alert other Colonial leaders.”
“Indeed so,” Franklin agreed, “Though others may think us mad when we tell them. But the British now have thousands of these undead soldiers, and they are ready for battle. I believe the King thinks that war and rebellion in the colonies is now inevitable. And these troops are meant to quell any rebellion. The other colonies must be warned.”
“It is a stroke of strategic genius,” Washington said, “to use soldiers that cannot be killed. But it is immoral, and an offense before God. You are right that others must be warned. But we must be careful with whom we share this knowledge.”
“I suggest we send letters to our friends and brothers throughout the colonies,” Franklin said. “Messages sent in secret and in strictest confidence. Messages signed by both of us. We must tell them of the British plans to use these undead soldiers, and what we know thus far about them.”
“Agreed,” Washington said. “We should contact John Adams In Boston and Patrick Henry. And Samuel Adams and John Hancock.”
“Yes and Thomas Jefferson and Alexander Hamilton,” Franklin added. “And others as well. But we must be sure to contact only men of certain sympathy to the American cause, lest we be charged with treason.”
“Very true,” Washington said. “We should spend this afternoon writing the letters, and Reebock will leave for Richmond tomorrow morning with our dispatches for delivery.”
“Then let us begin,” Franklin said, “for we ha
ve much to write.”
Chapter 10
The Order is Given
Lieutenant Smithers stood concealed in the darkness of the trees surrounding George Washington’s home at Mount Vernon. Through the first floor windows, he could see George Washington and Benjamin Franklin working by candlelight together at a large desk, writing many letters. It was not difficult to surmise the subject matter of their correspondence. Smithers withdrew from his hiding spot in the woods and made his way back to the large covered wagon parked nearby.
After Franklin had declined the offer to assist the British with the development and training of the Zombie soldiers, Cornwallis had ordered Smithers to follow him. Although Franklin was not previously suspected of being sympathetic with American “insurrectionists,” George Washington was an outspoken critic of the British. The fact that Franklin had come here meant that Franklin, too, could no longer be trusted.
Cornwallis had noted Franklin’s revulsion as being asked to assist the British with Project Z, and suspected that Franklin might soon divulge his newfound knowledge and inform other colonists of the existence of the zombie soldiers. Cornwallis was correct.
“If you find that Franklin has shared this information with others,” Cornwallis had told Smithers before he left, “then you must stop the dissemination of that information by whatever means necessary.”
Smithers ordered the Corporal to unload the wagon, and the Corporal began to play a simple, repetitive melody on his fife. Slowly, twelve zombie soldiers in full British uniforms emerged from the back of the wagon, and formed up in rows of four, all facing the direction of the Mount Vernon estate.
Smithers inspected the troops as they stood in formation in the darkness and was impressed with the order and formation of these undead creatures. Then he noticed something that displeased him greatly.
“Oh dear,” Lieutenant Smithers said. “Look at this!” he said to the Corporal.
The rotting eye of one of the zombie soldiers had putrefied to the point where it had popped out of its socket, and lodged itself upon one of the zombie’s shiny uniform buckles.
“Look here, Corporal,” Smithers said angrily. “This soldier has gone and dribbled his dislodged eye and puss all over his shiny buckle!”
The Corporal ran up attentively and, grabbing a white silk handkerchief from his pocket, plucked the gooey eye residue from the zombie soldier’s buckle and polished the buckle nicely.
“It wouldn’t do to have the King’s soldiers presenting themselves in such a state!” Smithers chastised.
“No, Sir,” The Corporal replied to Lieutenant Smithers. “Sorry, Sir.”
Per his earlier instructions from Cornwallis, there was but one thing to be done. Smithers gave the order to advance and attack, and the Corporal played a different melody on his fife. The order to attack was given.
In response to the playing of this song, the squadron of zombie British soldiers began to advance, in perfect battle formation, upon the Mount Vernon home of George Washington.
Chapter 11
Zombie Incursion at Mount Vernon
In the predawn hours of this warm April night, Reebock stood brushing a newly saddled horse from the stables in preparation for his departure. Reebock was told by Washington that he would be leaving at dawn to make a delivery of letters to the Potomac River Merchant Association, some twelve miles away. From there, the letters would be delivered throughout the colonies. Dawn was still some two hours away, but Reebock wanted to be prepared to get under way at first light.
His horse was tied to a post just to the right side of the main house, a single candle the only illumination as he worked. It was at that moment he heard a noise that was hard to describe. It sounded like the shuffling of many feet, feet perhaps plodding in the wet, dew-capped grass, feet perhaps walking in lock step?
Reebock looked up to see a sight that turned his blood ice cold when he viewed the twelve British zombie soldiers marching up the grassy concourse towards the main house of Mount Vernon. They were only a few feet away from the house, and from him. He froze for a fraction of a second in absolute terror and then, charged by a surge of fright-inspired adrenaline, he sprang into action.
Realizing he must warn his master of the immediate danger, Reebock untied the horse, slapping it on the backside, saving its life and causing it to gallop off to the other side of the yard. Reebock ran immediately into the house and into the parlor where Washington and Franklin were just finishing their letters.
“Fuck-Fuck-Fuck-Fuck-FUCK!” Reebock yelled as he ran into the parlor. Washington knew his slave and valet and friend would not make such a disturbance unless it were a matter of life and death.
“Zombies!” Reebock shouted, pointing at the main window. Franklin and Washington stood immediately just as the largest parlor window was smashed inward, and three Zombies clamored through the broken glass and entered the room.
Washington instantly realized they were at an immediate disadvantage in the confines of the house. It was a moderately sized parlor with little room for maneuver or tactical combat. And as it had two entrances, they could easily be outflanked. Also, should more zombies breach the perimeter of the house, Washington would be unable to prevent them from going upstairs, to the rooms of his wife and children. Franklin, too, realized the danger.
Although George Washington was certainly surprised to see fully uniformed British zombie soldiers come crashing through his parlor window, he reacted instantly, grabbing his sword from its wall mount and pulling it from its scabbard.
“We must keep them from breaching the house!” Washington shouted to Franklin.
The bloody, glass covered zombie that first crashed through the window was almost upon Washington, who swung his sword just as two more creatures began climbing through the window. His first slash missed as the zombie as it snapped its teeth and tried to bite him, but the second swing of the sword decapitated the undead creature with one clean stroke, and the carcass fell motionless to the floor.
Martha Washington and her two children came halfway down the stairs after hearing the crashing of glass but, seeing the zombies attacking, froze in panic on the stairs. Little Martha screamed at the sight and young Johnny, frighted as he was, let loose an enormous shit in his jammies. Washington directed Martha to take the children back upstairs, and to lock their bedroom door.
Benjamin Franklin, seeing the two zombies in the parlor, and two more climbing through the window, made a quick and bold decision. Quickly placing his hands on each end of his walking stick, Franklin held it before him like a battering ram and charged full speed at the four zombies in front of him, shouting a tremendous battle cry. So ferocious was speed and force of his attack that all four remaining zombies, as well as Franklin himself, went crashing back out through the window and onto the front lawn.
Men like Benjamin Franklin, men who were pudgy, short and stout, were always underestimated as fighters and warriors. Throughout history, it is a fact that wee warriors like Genghis Khan, Napoleon, Churchill and Yoda were never feared, until after they gave their adversaries a good ass-kicking. These men earned their respect in battle and combat. Such was the case with Benjamin Franklin.
Franklin sprang to his feet in a swift motion and pressed the secret button just under the silver cap of his walking stick, freeing the straight bladed samurai sword hidden inside. The razor sharp sword had been produced by the finest Japanese craftsmen, and was given to Franklin in his younger days as a gift from the old explorer Marco Polo.
Franklin moved as fast as lightning. Drawing the sword swiftly, he continued the forward motion of the blade and it passed through the necks of the two closest zombies, severing their heads from their bodies in a single swing. Dropping to one knee and spinning to his left, Franklin swung the blade at the knees of another creature as it lunged to bite him. As that legless zombie fell forward, Franklin swung the blade upward and decapitated it before it hit the ground.
Washington jumped out the window to
join his friend, and was immediately set upon by three of the angry creatures. He kicked one in the groin, which had no effect, but brought his great sword down hard and cleft its head in half like a melon. The other two zombies pushed forward and knocked him off his feet for a moment. But Washington rolled to his left, bringing his sword up in a sweeping motion as he stood, passing his blade through the necks of the two creatures that had pushed him, and removing their heads.
It was just then that the slave overseer, Mr. Kindly, emerged from behind the zombies with his slave-catching net in hand, and flung it at three of the creatures, who were immediately entangled and fell helpless to the lawn. Now only two creatures remained standing as a threat, one coming towards Benjamin Franklin, the other towards the slave Reebock.
Franklin stood fearless in front of the nearest monster and swung his sword to and fro in a blindingly fast display of swordsmanship. The zombie before him hesitated for a moment, looked down at its own body, before its arms, legs and head all slowly separated themselves from the creature’s torso, and it fell motionless to the grass with a guttural growl.
The last attacking zombie came directly at Reebock, nearly biting him in the ear. Reebock held a small hand sickle he had picked up from the porch, and began screaming and slashing and stabbing wildly at the creature’s chest. Reebock was sprayed with blood as the creature continued towards him in an unimpeded advance.
“No, no,” Washington shouted to his valet. “Go for the neck. The NECK! You must decapitate it!”
The pale, white zombie that attacked Reebock bled profusely from its chest as Reebok now began slashing at the creature’s neck. After ten or twelve slashes with the hand sickle, the zombie’s head finally fell away from its body and the creature fell motionless to the grass. Reebock also fell on the grass and landed on his back, covered in the creature’s blood, exhausted from his slashing of the creature.
