Zombie-in-Chief

by Scott Kenemore

  “This is potentially connected to so many things!” Ryan interjected excitedly. “The Bilderberg Group. The Knights Templar. And what’s George Soros’s position on zombies? He’s got to have one.”

  “As corrupt as most politicians are, maybe having a zombie in charge of things wouldn’t be so bad,” mused Dan. “At least he’d be predictable. Slow, but predictable.”

  “So what do we do with this information?” Tim asked. “What can we do?”

  Jessica stood up again and carefully surveyed the empty conference room for any sign of a crack in the cheap, mobile divider wall that might allow someone to listen in.

  “If a major-party candidate is a zombie, we need to prove it,” Jessica said. “We’re going to need a lot of evidence, and it will have to be really solid. I almost … I almost wish this wasn’t happening.”

  Jessica suddenly looked a bit ill. Her face fell, and her shoulders slumped forward. Tim hadn’t seen Jessica in a couple of years, but he’d never seen her like this. She genuinely looked as though she might cry.

  “Hey,” he said, mustering the bravery to provide some comforting hoverhand just above her shoulder. “You’ve been through a lot. Most people would have a full-on breakdown if they were kidnapped in a shootout like that. Don’t push yourself.”

  “It’s not that,” Jessica said between sniffles. “It’s the story itself.”

  “It’s okay,” Tim assured her. “This isn’t a bad thing. It’s the scoop of a lifetime! When I was telling the guys about this before, we were all saying how big this is going to be. We’ll win awards.”

  Jessica gave Tim an annoyed glance.

  “Maybe this is the part of J-school you dropped out for,” she said. “But the bigger the claim, the more proof you need. The more evidence. Do you realize what we have to do now? A photo’s not going to cut it. We’ll need more. A lot more. TruthTeller can run whatever it wants. And if you get something wrong, your readers are quick to forget and forgive. If someone threatens to sue you, you claim it was all satire anyway—and that you weren’t really doing journalism. You were playing a character. But I am doing journalism! Papers like the one I work for have reputations that go back 150 years. We fact check it when somebody says the sun came up today. And you know why? Because when we’re wrong—and we have been wrong—countries go to war. People die. Really big shit happens. On top of all of that, I am brand-fucking-new. It’d be one thing if I was a senior editor with gray hair and 30 years of experience. But this time last year, I was reporting on what local bars were opening and which galleries had art shows.”

  “Plenty of young reporters have broken big stories,” Dan barked.

  Dan’s loud voice jarred Tim so much that he actually touched Jessica’s bare shoulder for a moment. Appearing aghast and terrified, Tim quickly shrank away. Jessica hardly noticed.

  “We’re going to need evidence solid enough to convince one of the biggest news outlets in the world to risk its reputation,” she said. “And I just … I don’t know if I know how to do that.”

  “It’s okay,” Tim said reassuringly. “Between the two of us, I’m pretty sure we can work something out.”

  Jessica was unsure what Tim meant by this. Was he just saying whatever he thought she might like to hear? But no. When she looked at him, something in his expression seemed genuine.

  “What do you mean?” she asked.

  “We can do a two-pronged approach,” he said. “I’ve thought about it, and I think it will work! Look, the candidate and his party hate your outlet, but they love mine—not necessarily because we support him, but because we ask the hard questions about his opponent—about her—that you in the mainstream media won’t ask.”

  “That’s because your questions are nonsense taken from internet memes,” she found herself replying automatically.

  Ryan and Dan both bristled, but managed to stay silent.

  “Be that as it may,” Tim quickly continued, “his side is going to be looking for support from us. How the hell do you think an outfit like ours got passes to this convention? It’s because they know they can count on us for flattering pieces. With you, they expect a poisoned dagger to be hidden behind each line you write. But with us, they certainly don’t expect questions they’ll have to think carefully about. Questions that might reveal something. And that’s where we’ll get them. When they’re not thinking.”

  Jessica’s head seemed to clear. Tim was making sense.

  “So you’re really ready to do this?” Jessica asked. “Remember, once they realize what you’re up to, you’re going to get shunned by the campaign. You’re going to risk sacrificing all the access you’ve built. Can I trust you to do that?”

  Tim looked genuinely hurt. Now that Jessica looked, the whole TruthTeller staff did.

  “What you can trust, is that we all care about the truth,” Tim said. “What you can trust, is that we give a damn. It’s never been any other way. If we seem like we’re harder on her—and not so hard on him—it’s because she lets on like she never has anything to hide. Which is nonsense. Which is bullshit. With him, you know what he’s done. He’s not smart enough to do anything too evil—just run-of-the-mill stuff—and he’s certainly not smart enough to cover it up. But with her … Let’s just say there’s room to wonder. That’s why we’re hard on her. If I’m being honest, yes, I still think she’s a smart criminal who is connected to globalists and hiding a bunch of things. It’s just that it looks now as if he might be a smart criminal too. Or at least smarter than he lets on.”

  Jessica nodded. She would have never believed that the first big risk of her career would involve utterly trusting a group of conspiracy theory neckbeards to be fair and balanced, but now it seemed she would be doing exactly that. She tried to steel herself. Something told her the great wheel was about to go into motion. When and where it would stop was anybody’s guess.

  THE FAKE NEWSMAN

  As Ryan and Dan looked on, Tim leaned back in his chair and dialed Tom Ellerman. Jessica looked on too. They waited while it rang.

  Tom Ellerman was officially an assistant deputy communications manager for the Tycoon’s campaign. He was about Tim’s age, was from Southern Illinois, and had begun his career working in a senator’s D.C. office. He had joined the campaign only in recent months, as part of Jay McNelis’s team.

  Whatever Tom Ellerman’s official duties might have been listed as on his LinkedIn page, his real job was to deal with entities like TruthTeller. The fringes. The bottom of the barrel.

  “Hello?” Ellerman’s voice came back after the fourth ring.

  Tim waited a moment to make sure it wasn’t voicemail. Ellerman’s demeanor and tone were so restrained that even in spontaneous moments he sounded pre-recorded.

  “Tom, it’s Tim Fife … with TruthTeller?”

  “Yes, go ahead,” Ellerman said.

  “Look, we’re at the convention, and just trying to get our stories lined up for the week,” Tim began.

  “We’re going to release the speakers scheduled very soon, but I can’t give you any previews if that’s what this is about,” the communications professional said. “I mean … maybe I can tell you that fans of 1980’s sitcoms will not be disappointed by one of our surprise mid-week speakers. But then … I’ve already said too much.”

  “Uh, that’s real exciting,” Tim said. “It’s actually not about that.”

  “How are the doughnuts?” Ellerman asked. “I was told we should have you guys well-stocked with doughnuts and coffee.”

  “The doughnuts are great,” Tim said. “Really, top notch.”

  “Then what else can I do for you at the moment?” Ellerman said.

  “It’s about your boss, actually …” Tim said.

  “What about him?” Ellerman replied. “He’s travelling at the moment. And the future president is with the future vice president in Florida.”

  “Yeah, so we’re kind of thinking it’d be neat to do a piece about how he’s the real story … yo
ur boss, that is. Sort of the story behind the story. The candidates have been done to death. Your boss hasn’t. We’d like to do a profile. Maybe snag a couple of minutes with him early this week?”

  “You want to interview Jay?” Ellerman said, sounding surprised.

  He had put no emphasis on the word “you,” but Tim knew it was there.

  Outlets like TruthTeller were expected to gratefully reproduce press releases from the campaign practically verbatim and call it a day. The only favor they could count on someone like Tom Ellerman granting was to issue an official “no comment” on one of the more outrageous accusations against the Tycoon’s opponent. Asking for an interview with senior staff was not something TruthTeller did. Jay McNelis went on Sunday political shows, attended million-dollar fundraisers, and he did interviews with outlets that had audiences stretching into the hundreds of thousands or millions. Without being explicit, Eller was asking Tim why he suddenly thought he got to wear the “big boy” pants.

  Tim had to make the case that his pants had changed.

  “See, this week we’re going to be doing a special series on gun violence,” Tim began. “Specifically, on the potential for gun violence in and around the convention. I think you know how concerned some people are about security, with so many passionate supporters of open carry in the area.”

  “The campaign has issued repeated statements on there being no higher priority than the safety of the citizens and attendees during the convention,” Ellerman replied. “I can resend those emails if you need. The Cleveland Police have assured us that—”

  “Sorry to interrupt you, but I’m not talking about that,” Tim said. “I don’t know if you heard about the shooting at Kidd’s Bar this morning? The place out in the suburbs? It was maybe random gun violence, maybe gang related, maybe something else. Anyhow, I’d like to talk to Jay McNelis about that. You can tell him I was personally present.”

  There was a very long pause.

  “You want to talk about a shooting at a bar with the person in charge of this campaign … during the most important week of the campaign?” Ellerman replied.

  It sounded to Tim that Ellerman might be close to hanging up.

  “All I can tell you is I think this will be important to Jay,” Tim continued. “I’m just asking you to pass along the request.”

  There was another very long pause. For a moment, Tim thought Ellerman actually might have ended the call. Then he heard the man breathing. Tim’s request was so bold and so strange that the communications pro was afraid he might be missing something. Either that, or wondering if Tim Fife had just plain gone crazy.

  “Yeah, okay …” Ellerman managed absently.

  Tim’s eyes widened, and a smile rose to his lips.

  “Is that a yes?” Tim asked gently.

  “Uh-huh,” Ellerman confirmed. “I’ll pass on the request. If Jay wants to do it, I’ll let you know.”

  “That’s great, Tom. Thanks so much.”

  Tim ended the call. He looked up at the group and pumped his fist.

  “What just happened?” asked Dan, running his tattooed hands over his bald head in confusion.

  “Let me explain,” said Tim. “The way things went down behind that bar this morning was a surprise to everybody involved. It was a fuck up for all sides. Nothing went to plan. The operatives who posed as the Knights of Romero—who lured us to the meeting with Francis—they have to be confused as hell right now. What happened to me? What happened to Jessica? How much do we know? And I’m sure that the candidate’s status as a zombie—and the force protecting him—is kept to a pretty tight circle. The first thing I want to find out is if Jay McNelis is in that circle. Does his whole campaign know? Do his closest handlers?”

  Jessica nodded as though this made sense.

  “If McNelis is in the inner circle, he probably got briefed on what went down this morning,” Jessica said.

  “No probably about it,” Tim said. “He’ll know for sure.”

  “And then he calls you right back,” Jessica said.

  “Uh huh,” said Tim. “Or he sends someone to wack us in our sleep tonight.”

  Dan glanced around nervously.

  “I’m kidding, Dan,” Tim clarified. “At least I think I am.”

  “And if he doesn’t know what’s going on … ?” Jessica said.

  “Then nothing,” said Tim. “He doesn’t bother to call us back, and he wonders why the hell we’re bothering him about a shooting in a bar parking lot. But in either case, we’ll know what he knows.”

  At that moment, Jessica’s phone buzzed. The three men looked on as she took it out of her purse and brought it up to her face.

  “It’s not the campaign,” she said. “It’s a text from my boss. He’s wondering where I am. I guess I need to get back to him for a while. I’ll keep in touch if anything else happens. Let’s circle back tonight sometime?”

  “Yeah, that sounds good,” Tim said. “I … I’m glad you’re all right, Jessica. I was really worried.”

  “Thanks Tim,” she said with a smile. “I’m glad you’re okay too. When you went face down like that. Ouch!”

  As Tim watched, Jessica collected her things and made her way back out into the convention center hallway. There she merged with the steadily swelling flow of reporters and delegates, and was soon out of view.

  THE TYCOON

  Time was short.

  The Tycoon and the Governor both understood the need to return to their campaign obligations sooner rather than later. The world would come knocking. Or at least Jay McNelis.

  But there was always time for a meal.

  Accordingly, the Tycoon and the Governor (now freed from his restraints) sat together in the Tycoon’s private, private dining room. There were many private dining rooms, but this was the extra-private one. Double private. The one that very few staff at the club even knew existed. (The Tycoon had long despised the title-inflation that seemed to beset the places and institutions that strived to cater to the upper classes. Executive lounges were filled with persons who were definitely not executives. First class cabins contained passengers who were not first class people. V.I.P. areas were always bluffing when it came to the “I” part. And, most assuredly, private rooms had a way of being accessible to just about anybody. Hence, his private, private spaces on the property. If it took using the same word twice to get the idea across, the Tycoon was happy to do it.)

  The walls of the private, private dining room were gold. As were the chairs. As was the molding that ran around the doorframe (which was, itself, also gold). The only thing that was not gilded was the dark dining table which ran the entire length of the room. There were only two place settings at the moment. One for the Tycoon, and the other for the Governor. They had been seated at opposite ends, a comically large distance apart.

  The Governor looked down the table and smiled politely.

  The Tycoon had been told that it was be politically undesirable to replace a vice presidential choice after the convention. But he trusted his advisors about as far as he could throw them. If the Governor proved resistant, the Tycoon was willing to replace him with extreme prejudice. A part of him kind of hoped that that would happen. The man looked delicious.

  One of the golden doors opened and an attendant entered carrying a silver tray covered with a cloche. He placed it in front of the Governor and removed the top. Revealed beneath was a filet cooked to perfection, and sides of potatoes and creamed spinach.

  “This looks wonderful … but I may not have much appetite,” the Governor said. “What I saw before—you in that water tank—it’s got me feeling a bit at odds.”

  The Tycoon shrugged to say the Governor could eat or not, as he pleased.

  “Are you going to have something?” the Governor asked. “I hope this isn’t all for me.”

  “It’s not,” the Tycoon said.

  The Governor forced himself to take up his knife and fork, and explore the meat that had been set before him.


  The attendant walked to where the Tycoon was seated.

  “We have several choices tonight, sir,” the man said. “Though I’d like to recommend the wealthy Midwestern tourist. Young and lean. Vacationing alone. We can bring him in lightly sedated or—”

  “No,” the Tycoon said. “Please bring it as-is. This will be a learning experience for my friend, the Governor. I’d like everything to be as fresh as possible.”

  “Very good,” the attendant said, and departed swiftly.

  The Tycoon looked back down the table. His expression was stern and he did not smile. The Governor took a small bite of steak and chewed nervously.

  “Do you know why I selected you as my running mate?” the Tycoon asked. “I don’t mean the bullshit that McNelis talks about; how we ‘counterbalance’ one another, and so forth. Do you know the real reason?”

  The Governor shook his head as he carefully chewed.

  “When my advisors brought me the profiles of all the different candidates, you went to the top of the pile for one reason,” the Tycoon said. “Now … there were some pretty prestigious people in those dossiers. Retired four-star generals. Fortune 500 CEOs. Senators. Yet you stood out above all of them—all of them!—for one reason alone. And that reason was your strong commitment to personal freedom.”

  The Governor, still anxious, smiled and nodded. Forced himself to spear a fingerling potato.

  “You’ve made the Hoosier State a fine example of so many things,” the Tycoon went on. “But your commitment to personal freedom stood you head and shoulders above the others. I mean … if I own a bakery in Muncie and I don’t want to bake a cake for a gay wedding, I should be free to not do that. That’s what you said. That’s what you pushed for. And to your credit, Governor, I don’t think your detractors realized that the door swings both ways. I should also be free to refuse cakes for weddings that aren’t gay. I can refuse to bake cakes for straight weddings. Or for weddings entirely. What if I don’t like weddings at all? What if I don’t like cake? What if I want to serve up something else entirely? Should I be charged as a bigot if that’s the case? I think you’ll agree, the notion’s ridiculous.”