Zombie-in-Chief

by Scott Kenemore

  Tim nodded, understanding completely, and savoring the dangerous intrigue.

  Jessica turned to Francis and said: “I understand him, but why me? Why not contact my boss?”

  “Because you’re new and don’t know any better,” Francis said. “You’re here, aren’t you? Do you think any reporter who’d been on your staff even a few months would have followed up on something like this?”

  Jessica looked unsure.

  She said: “Possibly. It could happen.”

  “Sure it could,” Francis said.

  Tim smiled.

  “Okay, so how did you get these images?” Tim asked.

  “And I’m guessing there are more?” Jessica said.

  Francis nodded.

  “These photos were taken by someone in my organization,” Francis said to both of them. “By someone who risked life and limb to get them.”

  “Your ‘organization?’” asked Tim.

  Organizations within organizations were one of Tim’s specialties at TruthTeller. The more secret and more organized the better. He all but salivated when he heard someone use the “o” word.

  Then Jessica asked the question that Tim realized he should have started with.

  “Who are you, and what do you want?” Jessica said.

  The older man leaned back in his chair and smiled. He looked not to Jessica, but to Tim as he gave his answer.

  “You have heard—I am sure—of the Knights of Romero?”

  Tim made a sound like air escaping from a punctured tire. Then he finished with a loud snort that was half excitement, half sleep apnea.

  “The knights of what?” Jessica said, looking back and forth between them. “Hey. Hello? What aren’t you telling me?”

  “The Knights of Romero,” Tim said quietly. “They’re supposed to be an ancient order that has worked in secret across the centuries to keep humanity safe from zombies. Like, they’ve put down zombie uprisings over the years. Worked to quell outbreaks. And they keep it all very hush-hush.”

  “Zombies?” Jessica said doubtfully.

  Tim smiled and shrugged.

  “I mean, I’m the last person who wants to dismiss something,” Tim said. “But the evidence I’ve seen for the Knights of Romero has been patchy at best. Every few years someone will swear that something was actually the Knights working behind the scenes—an old corpse found with a fresh cleaver in its head—but … I dunno. I have a little trouble buying it.”

  Jessica grinned.

  “And this from the guy who always swore the moon landing was faked, Hitler lived until 1975, and members of the British royal family are actually lizard people.”

  “It’s not many members,” Tim clarified. “Two or three, tops.”

  “I don’t know about lizard people, but the Knights are very real,” said Francis.

  “I mean, I’d like to believe you,” said Tim, turning back to the older gent. “What makes you sure?”

  “Because I’m a member,” Francis said.

  Tim raised an eyebrow and adjusted his neck brace. He had a series of questions he’d learned to ask over the years when confronted by information that seemed, even for him, a bit too fantastic to credit. He had honed the ability to dig deeper without offending his subject.

  “Tell me …” Tim began carefully. “Are there … other members of the Knights of Romero, or is it just you?”

  “Of course there are,” said Francis. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

  “And if I wanted to meet some of these other members?” inquired Tim.

  “I’m hoping to arrange that directly,” said the man.

  Tim nodded cautiously. So far, so good.

  “Hang on,” said Jessica. “If your organization is a secret one, then why have you contacted us?”

  Francis’s face grew stoic.

  “Because there are some things even we cannot do,” he said. “You have seen the photos. You know what it will mean if this man becomes president.”

  “I don’t actually,” said Tim. “But I can imagine, I guess.”

  “He’s not supposed to win,” Jessica added. “I mean, the polls show he’s way behind. Like, way behind.”

  Francis frowned seriously.

  “Even so, it’s not a risk we can be willing to take,” he said. “The stakes are just too high.”

  “Why have you contacted the two of us?” Jessica asked.

  “Because you represent the whole spectrum,” Francis said. “You’re real news and fake news, or fake news and real news—depending on who you listen to. One of you is with a print publication that started on the East Coast back in the 1800’s. One of you is a web-based getup that wasn’t around last Thursday.”

  Tim opened his mouth to object, but Francis gave him a look to say that he was speaking figuratively.

  “Point is,” Francis continued, “if both of you report the same thing, then folks across the country’ll be more likely to believe it. Everybody, from all locations and political affiliations, will see that this is real. And that’s what needs to happen.”

  Tim did not quite know what to say. Jessica put her head in her hand thoughtfully.

  “You’ll have to give us more than one photograph, you realize,” Jessica said. “It’s nice, but it’s not enough. If you’re pushing a narrative about zombies—zombies, for goodness sake!—you’re going to have to give me a little more.”

  “I mean, I’d run with just this,” Tim said. “If there’re other photos, that’s great, but I’d say TruthTeller is going to be on board.”

  Francis smiled.

  “I anticipated this,” he told them. “So I’m going to provide both of you with more evidence—irrefutable evidence—which you can study as long as you’d like, photograph to your hearts’ content, and share with your organizations.”

  “Okay,” Jessica said cautiously. “What evidence?”

  “A lot of things,” Francis said, seeming, now, to grow a bit defensive. “Witnesses who’ve seen this happening firsthand, and who are willing to go on the record. Video and audio recordings. And a real-life zombie we’re keeping at our safe house. You can study him all you wish. Just don’t get bit.”

  Tim looked at Jessica. He inclined his head slightly to the side to ask if she was game. Jessica grinned back at him. Her expression said she hadn’t come all this way to ask a bunch of farmers what they thought about a border wall.

  “All right then,” Francis said, pushing back his chair. “I’m parked in the back of this bar, and the safe house is not ten minutes away. Y’all can ride with me.”

  “I’ve got a rental car,” Jessica said. “Can I follow you?”

  Francis shook his head.

  “My people … the other Knights … they’re expecting me to return solo. They might get antsy if it looks like I was tailed.”

  “I took the bus here,” Tim volunteered. “So I’ll ride with you, Francis. That’s fine.”

  “It’s both of you, or nothing,” Francis said sternly. “We need to establish trust if we’re gonna do this thing. I need y’all to show me that you trust me. After all, I’m trusting you.”

  Tim looked imploringly at Jessica.

  “All right, we’ll ride with you,” she said. “But how long will we be gone? My boss will wonder about me.”

  “Less than an hour,” Francis said, heading for the back door of the bar. “Don’t worry. Your car won’t get ticketed or towed. This ain’t New York City.”

  Francis held open the back door, and they walked out into the late-morning sunshine. Behind the bar was a small parking area. The air was crisp and cool, and seemed doubly so to Tim after spending time in a dingy tavern where the furniture still smelled like smoke (despite a ten-year-old ban). Francis headed toward an old red Plymouth parked under a tree. The area behind the bar was covered in gravel but not paved. There were no other people in sight.

  What happened next happened very fast.

  All three of them heard the alarming SHUSH of a car going too fast
down a gravel road. They turned in time to behold a large white SUV pulling around the side of the bar. The windows were down, and the vehicle was full of intense-looking people. Men and women. At least a couple of them were holding automatic weapons.

  Tim heard Francis say: “Aww, what in the hell …”

  Then Tim glanced over and saw the old man reaching into the front of his high-waisted pants. A moment later, he came out with a Dirty Harry revolver—the barrel at least ten inches long.

  “Oh Jesus,” Tim said. “What are you …”

  He could not tell if he fell to the ground reflexively, or if his knees simply gave out under the sheer weight of the terror coursing through him. Whatever the case, an instant later he was facedown on the ground, his plastic neck brace clattering against the gravel.

  Then someone in the SUV started shooting. Tim heard several distinct pops. Francis started shooting back while sprinting for his car. The man was old, but he could still run quickly. Jessica shrieked. The SUV’s tires SHUSHed to a halt and the doors opened. Tim heard new footsteps racing across the gravel. Still essentially prone, Tim tried to inch himself back in the direction of the bar’s back door.

  A strange, male voice called urgently: “Get her! Get her!”

  There were more gunshots, seemingly from everywhere. Then the male voice suddenly cried out in pain. Tim risked looking up.

  He saw a group of strangers bundling Jessica into the white SUV. One of them, however, was now lying facedown in the gravel. A man in late middle age, by the looks of it. He had been shot by Francis.

  “My God; he’s dead!” cried one of the SUV people.

  Just then, the sound of first-responder sirens began to wail in the distance.

  Tim looked the other away across the lot and saw Francis leaning against his Plymouth. He was covered in blood and seemed to have been shot in several places. Yet he was still alive. He held his long-barreled revolver close to his chest and breathed hard.

  One of the SUV people suddenly darted in Tim’s direction, as if intending to close on him. Francis came out of cover, leveled his long revolver, and shot at the man. The gravel in front of Tim exploded.

  The man from the SUV hesitated. He looked back at the rest of his group. They had just pushed Jessica—resisting and screaming—into the back of the SUV. The sirens of the first responders grew louder and more distinct.

  “Just leave him!” an angry female voice cried. As Francis took another shot at him—hitting only the gravel once more—the man ran a zig-zag pattern back to his compatriots. He jumped into the back of the vehicle where Jessica was. The tires churned violently, and the SUV pulled away. The fallen man was left behind, unmoving and prone.

  As the SUV drove out of sight around the side of the bar, Tim glanced frantically back to where Francis was resting against the car. Abruptly, the older man’s chest stopped heaving. His head tipped back and the weapon fell from his hand. He had succumbed to his wounds.

  “Oh … shit …” Tim whispered quietly.

  He was astonished, disoriented, and breathing hard. He pushed himself up onto his hands and knees, then forced himself to stand. His neck brace fell away and clattered to the gravel in several parts, but he hardly noticed. His adrenaline raced. What should he do? What had just happened? What fate awaited Jessica Smith?

  He tried to think.

  The sirens drew closer. He looked at the two dead men lying across from one another on different sides of the lot. Then he heard a noise behind him. It was the bar patrons. A few had summoned the temerity to crack the back door a bit. Soon they would see him, if they hadn’t already.

  Tim had only one idea; he must flee.

  There was a second side entrance to the lot behind the bar, not far from where Francis had parked his Plymouth. Tim made for it. Not accustomed to moving at great speed, he surprised himself by managing a slow but steady lope. He heard the curious cries of the bar patrons behind him, but did not turn back. He ran. He ran and ran. By lucky chance, the emergency vehicles—he could not see them, but assumed police and fire—pulled up to the front of the bar and stopped there.

  Tim escaped unmolested into the wooded yards beyond.

  THE TYCOON

  “Well, what do you think?”

  It was a question he had asked of many top leaders of commerce and industry. Of A-list movie stars and people in the Rock & Roll Hall of Fame. Of literal princes and princesses. And of course, of women. Of so many women. (In his pre-undead days, of course.) More women than he could count. More than he could remember. They tended to blend together over the years. To meld in his mind until they were all one woman.

  The Governor put his hands on his hips and leaned back a bit, taking it all in.

  The immaculately manicured lawns. The beaches and pools and spas. The exquisite event spaces. The breathtaking Spanish architecture.

  The Tycoon’s private club in Palm Beach was internationally famous. Elite local families paid six figures to join. Yet for all its luster and glamour, no one seemed to have any sense of its true purpose. What the facility was truly designed to be and to do. The patch of land it occupied was in one of the oldest settled parts of the United States. It was practically part of the Caribbean. And the Caribbean? That was where the undead had started. Where darkest arts had first raised them, and where they had then gestated for centuries. The Tycoon’s private club was more than a secret sanctuary for the undead. It was their beachhead on the mainland. Their center for recruitment.

  The Tycoon looked into the Governor’s eyes and wondered. Seriously wondered …

  The warm afternoon wind whipped up and rustled the palm trees and grass. Small lizards, about the size of human thumbnails, scuttled across a nearby railing. The waves lapped peacefully in the distance.

  “It’s really neat!” the Governor pronounced.

  He turned and gave the Tycoon an innocent smile.

  The Tycoon’s eyes wondered if there was not something more? But the Governor continued only to nod and to smile. That was indeed the diagnosis.

  Neat.

  The Tycoon let out a deep, unnecessary breath. His question of what people thought had elicited a bevy of responses over the decades. But “neat” wasn’t among the ones he’d heard before, at least not from anybody over the age of eight.

  “Can’t get this kind of view in Indiana, eh?” the Tycoon said, pressing for more.

  The Governor shrugged noncommittally.

  “You might be surprised what we can get in Indiana,” the Governor said. “The moonlight on the Wabash can be pretty special. But no, we don’t have palm trees or sea breezes. This is really neat, what you’ve got here.”

  Now we were up to “really neat.” Slow progress, but progress nonetheless.

  “Perhaps we could take a walk down by the water,” the Tycoon said. “You won’t need your coat. My man here can take it.”

  They had come directly on the Tycoon’s plane from Cleveland, and still wore their jackets. The Governor dutifully surrendered his coat to a waiting valet. Then the pair began to stroll down the ornate flagstone path that would take them across manicured lawns to the club’s private beach. Security observed them from a great distance, nearly invisible.

  “There’s something I was hoping we could talk about,” the Tycoon said as they walked. “I want to come to it directly, because I can see you’re a straight-shooter.”

  “Good, yes,” said the Governor. Then he let out a small yawn and smiled apologetically. Both men had been working hard, and had slept little on the plane. But the Tycoon knew what he had to say next would jostle his running mate back awake.

  “Imagine you had never seen a house before,” the Tycoon began. “Far-fetched, but imagine it. Now suppose that someone took you to the worst part of a major city—a real slum—and showed you a house that had holes in the roof, cockroaches and termites scuttling across the floors, and walls covered in black mold. Would you want to live in a house? Would that appear desirable to you—supposing,
again, that you had never seen one before in your life?”

  “Where was a living in, if I didn’t know what a house was?” said the Governor. “I must be living in something, right?”

  “Hell, I don’t know … a cave,” said the Tycoon.

  “Well,” said the Governor, stroking his bare chin. “A cave does sound better than roaches and mold and all that.”

  “Good,” the Tycoon continued. “Now imagine you had never seen a woman. Like the fellow from that musical with the pirates at the beginning. Anyhow, you’ve never seen a woman, and then you meet the worst kind of hag. Warts everywhere. A beard. Her gums are black and green. Use your imagination from there.”

  The Governor continued to smile his million-dollar smile, but was obviously troubled by the request.

  “Can you say that you would be interested in one for … you know… to take as your wife?” asked the Tycoon.

  “You’re not asking if it would make me … like men instead?!” the Governor said, recoiling in shock.

  “No, no, no,” the Tycoon quickly reassured him. “I don’t mean that. Let’s say it’s imagine yourself with this hag woman, or nothing at all. Being celibate.”

  The Governor squinted his eyes in a way that said he was processing.

  “I suppose I can imagine that,” said the Governor apace, forcing himself to grin. “I’m not used to thinking about things like this, but I suppose I can picture it. And I guess I’d likely tell that woman thanks, but no thanks.”

  “Good,” said the Tycoon. “Now I’d like you to tell me what you think of … when you think of a zombie.”

  The men were silent for a moment. The only sound was their expensive shoes against the flagstones.

  “I don’t think about zombies,” the Governor eventually replied. “Why should I do that?”

  “But if you did,” the Tycoon pressed. “If I asked you to do it right now …”