George Washington Zombie Slayer

by Wiles, David

  “I will consider what you have said,” Washington said sternly. “Now, leave.”

  “Yes…Master,” Reebock replied. He seldom, if ever, used that term, preferring instead to use the title Colonel or Mister Washington. His use of the word Master here was intended to show his own displeasure

  “Mind your place,” Washington said sternly again. Reebock bowed his head meekly and walked from the room, closing the door behind him.

  Chapter 19

  A Most Joyful Resurrection

  Charles Cornwallis had received his promotion to General as a Christmas present from the British Monarch in 1765, and was named Supreme Commander of His Majesty’s British Forces in the American Colonies. And with the orders regarding his promotion, he also found a confidential packet of papers labeled “Tactical Assessment Report of the Royal Advisory Council as Regarding the British Military Deployments in His Majesty’s Colonies in the Americas.”

  As he was a brilliant tactician, General Cornwallis had long ago reached the conclusions contained in the report that, in general terms, there were we’re simply too many colonists to be effectively controlled contained by the British military. Thus, the British zombie army, an army of the undead, was a requirement to help the British maintain control. An army that could not be killed would assist in the maintenance of the balance of power.

  The report ordered Cornwallis to expand the zombie army by “as many additional thousands of zombie soldiers as the General Commanding deems practicable.” Thus, it was left to discretion of Cornwallis how many more “thousands” of zombie soldiers would be created.

  “They’re ready for you, General,” Smithers said as he walked up to the desk of Cornwallis.

  Cornwallis rose and walked with his subordinate outside, to the main courtyard of the secret military base where the British were now making, developing and training zombie soldiers. The process of “making” a zombie soldier was efficient and well-regulated, in the finest of British traditions, as Cornwallis was about to demonstrate yet again.

  On a tall wooden scaffold in the center of the courtyard, 12 men stood with both legs and arms securely tied. The men stood at equidistant points on the long rectangular scaffold, looking both somber and nervous. Each man had a rope noose around his neck, waiting to be executed. Cornwallis stepped forward and unrolled the scroll handed to him by a subordinate.

  “You men,” Cornwallis said loudly, “have been tried in a British Court of the American Colonies, by a judge appointed by His Majesty, and have been found guilty of such crimes and offenses that require that you hang by the neck until you are dead.”

  The men began to fidget upon hearing their sentences of death yet again, and one of the men began to weep.

  “But know you this,” Cornwallis continued. “That though you have been men of low morals and detestable character, your deaths will bring an opportunity for you to once again serve your King and Country in a manner befitting true subjects of the British Empire.”

  “Have you any last words?” Cornwallis asked. No man responded, though the men who were paying attention looked more than a bit confused, wondering how their deaths would provide an opportunity to do anything.

  Cornwallis waved his arm casually at Corporal Johnson, who stepped forward with a long, wooden pole in hand, at the end of which was a collared, hooded man, who Johnson walked towards the scaffolding, using his stick like a leash. The hands of this prisoner were pale white, and his clothes were somewhat tattered.

  Corporal Johnson held the pole securely and preceded his prisoner up the thirteen stairs of the scaffolding, then pulled the pole and guided his hooded prisoner up the stairs at a safe distance behind. Once atop the scaffolding, Corporal Johnson unhooded the collared zombie-on-a-stick, and all the bound prisoners gasped in terror upon seeing the creature’s ghoulish, pale, unearthly, zombie face.

  Using the six foot oak pole, Corporal Johnson guided the zombie toward each of the twelve bound men, who were now by this time all screaming in fright.

  “Sweet fucking Mary Mother of Jesus,” one of the bound prisoners exclaimed, before the zombie bit him once upon the shoulder, and was pulled away and guided to the next man.

  The second man simply screamed, and continued to scream, as the zombie bit his upper arm twice, and was pulled away to the next waiting man.

  And so it was with all of the condemned men. Corporal Johnson guided the hungry, snarling zombie to each bound prisoner, allowing it to bite the man one or two times, and then moved the zombie on to the next man. In a few moments, all of the prisoners were thus bitten …and infected.

  After re-hooding his zombie, Corporal Johnson walked off the scaffolding, guiding the well fed zombie behind him and then back to the barracks. The British Regimental Minister stepped forward to give a final blessing to the now bleeding, condemned men.

  “Lord,” said the minister. “These men have sinned against you and it is right and just that the punishment of death be visited upon them. But we ask you to have mercy on their souls, and to grant them a most…” the minister paused sadly and cleared his throat. “Joyful resurrection,” he finished. The minister then closed his Bible, said Amen, and walked away.

  A black hood was placed over the head of each condemned man, and General Cornwallis waved his hand at the young officer beneath the scaffolding, who pulled the large lever before him. The twelve doors atop the scaffolding opened instantly and twelve bodies dropped uniformly, jerking sharply when the force of gravity was abruptly stopped by the nooses around their necks. An audible “snap” of vertebrae could be heard distinctly. A few of the bodies jerked spasmodically with the last signs of life, which soon faded away. In under a minute, all the hanging bodies were lifeless, swinging slightly in the breeze.

  Twelve uniformed British soldiers stepped forward, all carrying long oak poles with collars affixed the ends. They assembled in a straight line of formation, parallel to the scaffolding. They simply stood and watched the bodies of the deceased, hanging lifeless from the scaffolding. There was absolute silence among these men, and the other assembled officers. All stood at attention for several more minutes.

  The first signs of “reanimation” were noted when the body of one deceased man, still hanging by its neck, began to twitch and jerk. The soldiers assembled took uneasy note of the movement, even though they had seen this all before. Yet to each of them, this all seemed somehow wrong, somehow…unholy. Soon more of the bodies were moving and before long, all of the deceased men were animated and thrashing about.

  The twelve corpses, still hanging by their necks, now started to cry out in a chorus of unholy growls and moans, and all listening were unnerved. The growls these creatures made while hanging by their necks sounded something like the howling death cry of a wild animal, but gurgling, as if underwater.

  The twelve uniformed British soldiers bearing the oak poles stepped forward as the bodies of the formerly deceased men were lowered to ground level. The nooses were removed, and the collars at the end of the oak poles were affixed around the necks of the twelve condemned men. The hoods were now removed, and the Regimental Surgeon approached each newly created zombie, looking each in the eye after doing a visual inspection.

  “I hereby declare the creatures fit for service,” the surgeon proclaimed. The newborn zombies were escorted back to the training barracks, and the assembled soldiers and officers were dismissed. The British zombie army was now expanded by twelve fresh soldiers after these executed criminals were given their most …joyful resurrection.

  Chapter 20

  Birth of the Zombie Slayer

  Spring of 1766 saw a prosperous George Washington expanding and diversifying operations at his Mount Vernon plantation. Especially notable were his expanded whiskey production and enhanced marijuana distribution network. His booze and pot sales were making George Washington an extremely wealthy gentleman.

  Opposition to the Stamp Act was nearly universal in the American Colonies, and Washington’s friend Be
njamin Franklin was sent to England to speak out against the Act in the British House of Commons, ultimately winning a repeal of the Act.

  And so it was that Washington’s slaves Reebock, Beyonce, LL Cool J and the other Mount Vernon slaves were no longer forced to wear the British taxation stamps upon their persons. Of course the British, being essentially arrogant cocksuckers, quickly passed the Declaratory Acts, which were just about as bad, or perhaps worse, than the Stamp Act had been.

  Washington had quite enough of being fucked with by the British and went on record against British policy, regularly speaking out against “taxation without representation” at public gatherings. As a well-known statesman and gentleman, Washington was named to the Virginia House of Burgesses, where he also vocalized opposition to British tax policy.

  It was in these governmental sessions that Washington learned and refined the language of public statesmanship. When he spoke out against enlargement of British forces in the Colonies (especially the zombie forces which so few knew existed) Washington stated privately in a note to a friend that, “if Colonists are shit-brained enough to allow more British troops to be stationed here, those troops will end up giving us all an unhappy anal rogering if the level of conflict escalates.” But the political statesman and gentleman Washington would verbalize a more refined public stance, saying only that, “Experience teaches us that it is much easier to prevent an enemy from posting themselves than it is to dislodge them after they have got possession.”

  Washington would confide to a close associate in a personal letter that he felt that unfair British taxes amounted to “…an ass-rape of Colonists, and nothing less, an unmanly, taxational boning of our collective sphincterous region by these bullying British monarchists.” Yet in public, he stated only that, “no taxes can be devised which are not more or less inconvenient and unpleasant.”

  The more Washington spoke and appeared in public, the more well-liked he became. He seemed to command respect, this ex-soldier turned Virginia farmer and gentleman. In an age where most American Colonists stood the size of dwarves and hobbits, George Washington stood an impressive six foot two inches in height. Poised, well-mannered and well-dressed, his aristocratic demeanor gave him an almost regal bearing. When in a crowded room, he was nearly always the center of attention.

  And yet something stirred in the heart of this man, feelings brought out by the great secret he carried within, about the zombie army that threatened to destroy the American Colonies he so loved. He carried the burden of this secret with him like a man would carry a very large sack of moldering potatoes. It was heavy, difficult to carry, smelled bad, and was unpleasant to think about. And it was a strange and unbelievable thing to be carrying in any case.

  Time and again, for several months, George Washington found himself turning to the document Benjamin Franklin had given him, the patrol routes of the zombie soldiers in Virginia and surrounding areas. For many weeks, George would sit beside the parlor fireplace in the evenings, carefully studying the document, memorizing troop strengths and zombie deployments and locations. Before long, he had memorized the document in full.

  A well-read man, Washington would also scan the local newspapers and periodicals of Virginia, searching for any sign or mention of zombies being seen. Every now and again, a paper might report an attack by a “ghoulish pale figure” or report “ghostly soldiers marching at midnight.” For the most part, however, newspapers contained few facts Washington could use.

  In May of 1766, George Washington decided to take action against the zombie forces of the British Empire. He would start by making a nighttime reconnaissance of zombie troop deployments on the evening of May 14.

  Washington notified Reebock that he would accompany Washington on his reconnoiter, although he found his slave somewhat less than enthusiastic at the prospect of willingly hunting zombies in the darkness of the Virginia night.

  “I’m not fuckin’ going, mon,” Reebock said plainly, his old, childhood Jamaican accent kicking in stronger as it often did when he was scared or excited. “Nope,” he reiterated. “Not fuckin’ gonna fucking do it, no fuckin’ way I’m gonna be huntin’ fuckin’ zombies, mon!”

  “Let me assure you,” Washington said angrily. “You will be joining me. Or you can explain your reluctance to Overseer Kindly and his whip. And after you have been whipped, you will join me anyway.”

  “Dat’s always your answer to every problem,” Reebock said. “Whip da black dude, whip da black dude. Slave give you attitude? Whip da black dude! Fork missin’ from da kitchen? Whip da black dude! Laundry ain’t clean enough? Whip da black dude! Sun aint’ shinin down bright enough? Shit, just whip da black dude! Bored and nuthin’ else to do? Go on, whip the black dude!”

  “Are you quite through?” Washington chastised.

  “If I ain’t through, do I get me a whippin’?” Reebock asked.

  “Yes, that’s right,” Washington replied.

  “Well den I guess I’m all through. Guess your ol’ friend Reebock gonna be a Zombie Hunter!”

  It was just before midnight when George Washington and his slave-valet Reebock, dressed in their darkest clothing, mounted their horses and rode off to the Valley Plank Road, about an hour’s ride from the Mount Vernon plantation. Washington knew that the British were deploying zombies in a training exercise that evening, and he wanted to see what the British were up to.

  Washington and Reebock travelled by horseback along the plank road until they came to the abandoned Brown Farm. They sequestered themselves in the thick overgrowth of a hillside to the south side of the farm, which afforded them a clear view of the fenced pastures below. Here they waited for a short time, hidden in the darkness, before three covered wagons approached the farm below by torchlight.

  Washington and Reebock watched as three British officers stepped out from the wagons. One of the officers carried a bugle, which he put to his mouth and blew a series of seven, short, sharp notes on the horn. Upon hearing the odd bugle call, the zombies sitting in the back of the wagons, thirty six in all, disembarked from the rear of the wagons and assembled in a series of three straight lines, parallel to the road.

  The third British officer grabbed a large, bound package from the front seat of the second wagon and kicked it to the ground below. He then climbed down and stood the package vertically. Looking on, Washington realized the package was, in fact, a bound man, hooded and wrapped in a burlap sheet, tightly tied around the neck, arms and legs.

  Even at this distance, Washington and Reebock could hear the bound man’s muffled cursing as he was dragged across the pasture and tied standing to the wooden fence post on the far side of the field, closest to where they watched.

  “Oh mon,” Reebock whispered to Washington. “Dey gonna feed him to da zombies.”

  Sure enough, a second bugle call preceded a shouted British command of “right wheel,” and the lines of zombie troops turned to face the bound man. A last bugle was made, and the British officer shouted to his unholy zombie soldiers saying: “Advance…and feed!”

  At the sound of this final bugle call and command, the zombie troops advanced in battle line towards the bound man. Washington and Reebock watched the zombie troops draw closer, coming slowly across the field. The bound man struggled against his restraints but could do nothing.

  Having only moments to act, Washington realized that something must be done.

  “We must save him,” Washington said to Reebock. “I will not stand by while a living man is fed to those ungodly creatures.”

  “I am absolutely piss-my-own-pants fucking scared,” Reebock replied. “But I will fight with you.”

  Both men, from childhood, knew the helplessness and fear of fighting zombies who hungered to devour human flesh. But they could not stand by and watch a bound, helpless man be murdered in this way. Although it might mean their deaths, they would not allow a helpless prisoner to be devoured and eaten alive. They charged down the hillside toward the bound man and the approachi
ng zombie soldiers.

  The British officers who stood in the distance saw the two men running down the hillside towards their prisoner, and the officer with the bugle blew a new series of sharp bugle calls. The second officer shouted the command “on the quickstep,” just as Washington and Reebock reached the three rail wood fence where the man was bound. The approaching zombies now came on faster and accelerated their approach upon hearing the new bugle call.

  “They’re using the bugle calls to control the zombies,” Washington said to Reebock as they tried to untie the bound man’s rope restraints before the zombies reached him. “Do not fear, Sir,” Washington said to the hooded, bound man. “We will have you free in a moment.”

  “No leave me,” the man said. “I will be fine, but you both are in terrible danger.”

  Washington and Reebock tugged at the ropes and burlap hood from behind the fence and tried to free the man. Washington drew his knife to cut the ropes but he knew they would be too late. The zombies were almost upon them.

  It was at this moment that George Washington saw that the bound man held a foot long silver bayonet in his hand, the blade mainly concealed in his coat sleeve. Although still hooded and tied, the prisoner pulled the blade downward and cut the ropes from his own wrists. With his free hand now holding the blade, the man cut the ropes from his legs and arms.

  Washington and Reebok tried to pull the still hooded man back to the safety of their side of the wooden fence but he stepped forward just out of their reach.

  “Hop over dis fence, you damn fool!” Reebock shouted at the man, with the zombies now only a few feet away.

  “The British think this is a zombie training exercise,” the hooded man said throwing the last of his ropes to the grass. “But I consider this a training exercise for me!”