Zombie-in-Chief

by Scott Kenemore

  If TruthTeller could recast these things so handily and effectively—turning negatives into positives at every turn—then a little zombification should be no problem at all.

  Tim knew they had the skills, and that the Tycoon’s team understood this acutely.

  In order to learn more about the Tycoon’s status as a zombie, they might need only to offer their services.

  “What?” Dan wanted to know. “Why are you smiling like that?”

  “Because I’m starting to feel like we can do this,” Tim said. “Like maybe we’re the best positioned to pull it off. I sort of can’t believe it.”

  But believe it, Tim had to. They all did.

  The next morning Tim met Jessica for breakfast at the horrible buffet in the hotel lobby restaurant. They met early, as soon as the place opened. Reporters rose early, but Tim thought they’d still be safe from most prying eyes. He knew that this might be the last time it would be safe for them to be seen together. For the moment, they could still play it off as J-school chums reconnecting over eggs and toast.

  The arena and surrounding hotels were becoming more crowded now. The convention would start properly the following day. A carnival atmosphere pervaded. Not a first-rate carnival, but maybe a second- or third-circuit one—the kind that usually played county fairs and high school fundraisers. There were unlicensed vendors of every sort on the streets outside, selling unauthorized and copyright-infringing political t-shirts, stickers, and hats. Ahh, the ubiquitous red hats. They were flooding in, and showed no signs of stopping. It seemed that every other man—and a few of the women too—sported a red cap in addition to his trademark khaki pants and blue blazer. There were also rabble rousers of every sort. Protestors and rock bands. It all had the feeling of the night before a battle. And maybe, in a way, it was. Tim and Jessica had never experienced anything quite like it.

  “I’ve scheduled a chat with McNelis for later this morning,” Tim whispered over a pair of pre-fab eggs benedict, extra hollandaise.

  “So your plan is we play both sides?” Jessica said.

  “Correct,” Tim said. “Pincer formation. You’ll come out aggressively on the zombie stuff. I’ll make like my team is ready to defend his side against it. I, um, may have to attack you personally—depending on how this goes.”

  Jessica turned her head to the side and wrinkled her nose.

  “In the early stages, I mean,” he clarified. “To gain their trust. In the end, we’re on the same team. It’s just that nobody can know.”

  Jessica nodded thoughtfully, then appeared to hesitate.

  “What?” Tim said. “You look like something’s wrong with your food.”

  Jessica shook her head.

  “My food’s fine,” she said. “It’s just … You don’t think there’s any chance that we’re wrong about some part of this, do you?”

  “Wrong?” said Tim. “We wondered that last night. Dan brought up how it could be a false flag. But after all we’ve seen? The shootout. The Knights of Romero. The way Hogson and McNelis have reacted …”

  “Yeah, I know,” Jessica said absently. “It’s just that if this keeps up, I may be breaking this story as a freelancer.”

  “What do you mean?” asked Tim.

  “After he stormed out of the interview, Hogson called my boss and gave him an earful. As far as I can tell, Hogson only characterized me as combative, and partisan. Said that I was ‘way out of line.’ That’s enough to get me in trouble. But he didn’t say that I had brought up cannibalism or zombies. I think that’s good. I think Hogson is hoping I’m some kind of rogue agent that needs to be taught a lesson.”

  “You kind of are,” Tim said.

  “Stop,” she replied with a smile. “Anyway, I think his call to George would have been different if he thought George had put me up to it. Hogson thinks I acted alone.”

  “Was George pissed at you?” asked Tim.

  “Kind of, yeah,” Jessica said. “I have the sense that he’ll probably give me a mulligan because I’m new, but I feel like I just used it. I also said I struck out with human interest stories when I was really getting kidnapped yesterday, so … Let’s just say the paper is probably not super-happy with me right now.”

  “So George didn’t ask to listen to your recording?” Tim asked.

  “No,” Jessica replied. “If he does, I’m just going to say I already deleted it. But whatever happens next, I’m on thin ice.”

  Tim nodded to say he understood.

  “So what’s next for you?” Jessica asked.

  “I’m going to try to make some overtures with McNelis when we meet,” Tim said. “Anything he gives me, I’ll turn around and share with you. Hopefully you can find a way to use it on offense.”

  “Okay,” Jessica said. “I was up half the night scanning broadcast tapes of the debates, looking for anybody else who might have reacted like Hogson did. I haven’t found anything definitive, but I’m going to keep looking. And meanwhile, I have to churn out some stories for George too.”

  “Sounds good,” Tim said. “Keep your eyes open. You never know when you’re going to see something or hear something that ends up being useful. But you don’t need me to tell you that. By the way, did you turn off your phone before you came here, and leave your smart watch in your hotel room?”

  Jessica nodded. She had.

  “I think that’s how we’re going to have to play it from here on out,” Tim continued. “Just assume we’re being watched and tracked. Our emails will probably be monitored too.”

  “How should we get in touch with one another?” Jessica asked.

  “We should try to meet in person when we can,” Tim said. “You need to find me, drop by the TruthTeller booth. You can trust Ryan and Dan if you need to leave a message with them. If nobody’s around, leave me a note with the name of the bar we used to drink at on 110th Street written on the outside of the envelope. Or use something else only you and I know about.”

  “Okay,” Jessica said. “This is so crazy.”

  “Yes,” Tim said ominously as he finished off his eggs. “It certainly is something.”

  After breakfast, Tim showered, thought about shaving, and then put on his finest pair of jean shorts. He consulted a map of the conference center until he found Entrance C1-AA, which was where Tom Ellerman had said McNelis would be. Tim sniffed his armpit and decided his shirt was probably okay for another day. Then he grabbed his laptop bag and headed out.

  His hotel was connected to the convention arena by an umbilical walkway. Tim hurried across it, not wanting to make McNelis wait. Tim could feel himself sweating from anxiety and too much coffee and the general strain of walking faster than a slow amble. He forbid himself from thinking about what he was preparing to do, and what the implications might be. There was no going back now, only forward.

  A few paces into the arena it became clear that going forward would mean contending with an enormous crowd of people. To think, the convention did not properly get underway for another twenty-four hours, and already it was like this! The hallways were filled with staffers and reporters and early conventioneers—in addition to other persons whose functions were a total mystery to Tim. Yet they all wore expressions that said that they were supposed to be there. That, and their lanyards, seemed to be enough.

  Cruising at near his top speed, Tim made his way down these crowded hallways until he located the forbidding double doors that would lead to Entrance C1-AA. As near as he had been able to tell, this entrance was a loading area from which equipment (or people) might gain quick in-out access to the convention floor. Tim wondered if it was where the speakers would arrive and depart when things were in full swing.

  Tim pushed through the heavy doors and found a utilitarian metal staircase beyond. It went down to another set of doors. The lighting inside was stark and utilitarian. There was a man in a grey suit standing with his back to this second set of doors. He wore sunglasses and gave just enough of a grin to tell Tim that he had found the
right place.

  Tim huffed and puffed down the metal stairs, and passed through the doorway. Beyond he found a loading dock with a segmented garage door that had been raised. A large black town car was parked at the entrance to the dock. In the second that it took Tim to gawk at the vehicle, a back door opened and a familiar voice—familiar to those who covered political campaigns, at least—called out.

  “Mr. Fife?” it said.

  Tim smiled and awkwardly saluted with his laptop bag.

  The town car door opened wider. There, in all his ruddy glory, was that patron saint of spin and broken blood vessels known as Jay McNelis. Tim nodded hello several times like a supplicant approaching a king.

  “Get in,” McNelis said. “It’s such a nice day, I thought we’d go for a drive.”

  It was not a nice day. It was overcast and muggy.

  “Sure thing,” said Tim, hoisting himself into the seat beside McNelis. Tim slid his bag to his feet and crossed his hands across his chest, trying to make himself as small as possible. The back seat was designed for three people, but he and McNelis filled it up completely.

  The driver—another nondescript anonymous man in sunglasses and a suit—slowly pulled away from the convention arena. Apparently he had whatever clearance was needed, because McNelis seemed comfortable speaking in front of him.

  “So, a kerfuffle broke out in a suburban bar?” McNelis said. “Shame to hear it. And you were in the vicinity? What are the chances? I hope you’re not any the worse for wear.”

  “Well my neck brace …” Tim began, then stopped himself. “But no, I’m fine. More than fine, actually. That’s what I wanted to talk to you about.”

  McNelis raised an eyebrow.

  “You want to talk about how you’re more than fine?” asked the campaign manager.

  Tim nodded.

  “See, the things I heard and saw in the back of that bar revealed some things to me,” Tim said. “Some incredible things. Some exciting things.”

  “Go on,” McNelis said after a very long pause.

  Tim wondered if the driver was waiting for a code word from McNelis, at which point he would spin around and hit him twice in the chest with a silenced 9mm.

  Despite mounting terror, Tim kept talking.

  “I just want you and your team to know … that we’re on board,” Tim said.

  He swallowed hard and waited for the hitman’s bullet. No gunshot came, silenced or otherwise. Instead, McNelis only smiled disingenuously and blinked. It was impossible to gauge the meaning of this reaction. (The man’s cratered moon-face was so deformed as to make his expression inscrutable half of the time. Tim began to wonder if he knew this, and intentionally used it to his advantage.)

  Eventually, McNelis said: “What do you mean, ‘on board’? What are you on board with?”

  Tim breathed a sign of relief. He was not dead yet. Now it was time to wheedle.

  “All I’m saying is that we at TruthTeller see a lot of advantages to a presidential candidate having unique qualities that might make him stronger, braver, and more special than his opponents,” Tim said carefully. “You know … A president who couldn’t be assassinated through traditional means—except maybe with a headshot—would be a good thing. A boost to national security. Having the toughest leader in the world? Who wouldn’t want that?”

  McNelis said nothing. It was a heavy kind of nothing, pregnant with possibility.

  “Or a president who never needed to rest?” Tim continued. “Think of the advantages there. No more ‘Do we wake the president?’ when something happens at three a.m. The president will always be up. How is that not a positive? How does that not make our nation safer and more secure?”

  McNelis looked hard at Tim with his scotch-soaked eyes, but again stayed silent.

  “And what about implications for things like the estate tax?” said Tim. “We know that that money’s already been taxed once—and that taxation is theft, anyway—but if certain Americans, like maybe very prominent ones like the president, aren’t going to be leaving an estate because they aren’t going to be ‘leaving’ at all, then TruthTeller would be excited to tell the story of how that changes everything on the issue. Makes a good case for getting rid of that tax entirely.”

  Then, the remarkable thing.

  Almost imperceptibly, McNelis nodded. (For an instant, Tim worried it might have only been the jostling of the town car. But no. It was real. A definite nod.)

  “And anyone who criticized a candidate with these new, exciting enhancements … ?” Tim continued excitedly. “Well, they would be bigoted, wouldn’t they? A strong word, yes, but the correct one in this case! They would be discriminating against someone’s innate orientations and inborn proclivities. By God, the other side would be hypocrites if they said a single word against it. I can’t wait to make the memes, let me tell you!”

  McNelis sat back in the plush leather seat of the town car and thought. The car had now moved away from the convention area, and drove silently across a great truss bridge that crossed the Cuyahoga. A pair of strange stone sentinels attached to pylons looked on as the vehicle passed. For a moment, Tim Fife and Jay McNelis were as still as the statues.

  Then McNelis spoke.

  “It is good to know that we have your support in any eventuality. Campaigns are strange things. Just when you think you know what’s going to happen, things go haywire. Scandals appear. Most of them break up like waves against a rocky cliff, but now and then something tidal does occur. It warms the cockles of my heart, Tim, to know that if fantastic rumors do begin to circulate …”

  Here, Tim opened his mouth to pledge further undying support, but McNelis silenced him.

  “If rumors circulate, you will be there to help us,” McNelis continued sternly. “If. But at present, there is no pressing need to create excitement where none yet exists. Do you understand?”

  “I … I do, absolutely,” said Tim.

  “And you will wait to hear from me before you print a single article or you craft a single political cartoon,” McNelis said. “Do you understand.”

  “Yes,” Tim said anxiously. “One-hundred percent. I just wanted to meet now because I respect you so much, and I wanted to tell you face-to-face that you have TruthTeller’s support. No matter what.”

  McNelis gave Tim a squint from the side of his eye. The meaning was clear. A master bullshit artist was wondering if he was being bullshitted. Tim stayed very still and tried to look earnest. His head suddenly felt very heavy. For a moment, he worried he might pass out.

  Then McNelis turned off the high beams and directed his gaze back out the window.

  “All right,” McNelis called to the driver. “You can take us back to the convention, Steve.”

  The town car performed a dramatic U-turn into oncoming traffic. The driver steered as though quite confident he was above the law. Tim was jostled back and forth.

  Tim looked over at McNelis, but the man was already working on his laptop and a cell phone had appeared between his neck and ear. Tim realized the campaign manager was done with him. There would be no small talk.

  The car pulled not to Entrance C1-AA, but to a side street a block away from the arena. It took Tim a moment to realize why the car had stopped. McNelis appeared to be listening to a conference call now. The driver signaled to Tim that he could exit.

  “Oh,” Tim said. “Thanks.”

  He opened the door and turned one last time to McNelis.

  “Thank you,” he said with mock enthusiasm, and flashed a thumbs up.

  McNelis regarded him as though he were an insect, and turned his attention back to his call.

  Tim walked down a street filled with mounted police, vendors, and protestors. The town car sped away. A moment later, it was out of sight. For a moment, Tim felt nothing. Then, gradually, he began to lose himself in the din of people around him. He was lost enough to let the mask fall from his face. And he smiled. A great and knowing smile.

  He had done it.
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br />   McNelis had said very little, and neither man had used the z-word, but it was enough. Tim felt his veins fill with the electric lava of hope.

  He had never been so excited or so possessed. He knew that he was among those making history.

  The walk back to the TruthTeller conference table in the second-rate media room was a blur. Tim felt as though he were walking on air instead of concrete and cheap casino-style carpeting. He hardly noticed the crowds of people he pushed past.

  Tim found Ryan and Dan waiting. Their faces were filled with anticipation. Tim sat down and they huddled close.

  “McNelis didn’t say it, but he didn’t have to,” Tim told them. “I think this is real, and I think he just confirmed it. Also … I think maybe they were taking me somewhere to bump me off if I said the wrong thing, but I didn’t, so I’m still here.”

  “Holy cats,” said Ryan. “Bump you off? Like in the movies?”

  Dan just grinned.

  “So, um, there’s something we should tell you,” Ryan said. “Something happened while you were gone. And if all this weren’t going on, it would be the big thing we’d be all excited about. But as things stand, I guess it feels a bit like an afterthought.”

  “What?” Tim said. “What is it.”

  Dan took over.

  “All our most reliable sources are reporting an unexpected meeting of the Uneeda Society. Like, we think it’s happening tonight. Based on where the private jets are headed, we think it will be somewhere in the American Southwest.”

  This certainly was unexpected, thought Tim. And it would definitely have been the biggest news of its kind … on any other day.

  The Uneeda Society was one of the international organizations of powerful globalist elites monitored most closely by TruthTeller. It was always mentioned in the same breath as the Bilderberg Group, Bohemian Grove, and the Trilateral Commission. Yet of all of them, it was probably the least known. Its membership was reckoned to be the smallest, clocking in somewhere between fifty and one hundred members. It was also one of the newest. Bilderberg could trace its origins back to the 1950s, the Trilateral Commission to the 1970s, and Bohemian Grove all the way back to the 1800s. The Uneeda Society, in sharp contrast, had seemed to come into existence sometime during the 1990s. The origins of the group—and even its founding principles—were rather murky. But several of the most prominent leaders in finance, politics, and the arts were said to be members. And that, Tim suddenly recalled, included the Tycoon.