“He’s a member, isn’t he?” Tim said to his TruthTeller colleagues. “I mean, he’s supposed to be, right?”
“That’s right,” said Dan. “And the campaign just announced that while the future vice president left Florida to return to the convention, the future president would not have his schedule made available until sometime the following day.”
“Yeah,” Ryan chimed in. “They want people to believe he’s still relaxing at his club.”
“Huh,” Tim said. “Dan, you’re more of an expert on the secret societies than I am, but doesn’t Uneeda usually meet …”
“Once a year, in Kentucky,” Dan said. “That’s right.”
“So what are they doing now?” Tim said. “What are they doing in … in …”
“We’re hearing from contacts that there’s a sharp increase today in private plane traffic at the Tucson International Airport,” Ryan added. “Though it’s all being kept out of the logs. If we didn’t have so many air traffic controllers who read TruthTeller, we’d never have known.”
“Okay,” Tim said, running his fingers through his hair. “Wow.”
“We’ve got to run something,” Dan said. “This is the biggest secret society scoop since the Bilderberg food poisoning in Davos.”
“I agree,” Tim said. “But let’s leave names out of it for the moment. At least names of politicians. Take an angle that’s hard on the artsy types instead. A bunch of A-list Hollywood actors and wife-swapping Nobel laureates meeting to decide there are now 37 genders. That sort of thing.”
“Can do,” Dan said excitedly.
“But also, keep your ears open for what’s really going down,” Tim quickly added. “An unscheduled Uneeda meeting right before the convention? It can’t not be connected. Something’s going on.”
The TruthTeller reporters rubbed their (often multiple) chins and considered what mysterious conspirings might be afoot in the distant deserts of the Southwest. Then they sprang into action and began to type.
THE TYCOON
The door to the Tycoon’s jet opened slowly. The warm desert air blew inside.
The Tycoon almost never traveled in airplanes that were not owned by him and bore his name emblazoned across the side. For this trip, however, an exception had been made. An anonymous unmarked craft had been chartered. The Tycoon would normally have been annoyed to travel without all the familiar amenities he enjoyed on his personal craft, but at the moment they hardly registered. There was simply too much on his mind.
The Tycoon had travelled alone. He sat by himself in the cavernous interior of the jet, waiting for the door to finish lowering. He had brought nothing with him. No luggage. No computer. Not even his phone. (The urge to Tweet could be overwhelming, and he did not trust himself not to accidently betray his current whereabouts.)
When the walkway was finally in place, the Tycoon exited the aircraft and strode directly to the car. Limousines were conspicuous. Uneeda members learned to make do in the passenger seats of sedans with tinted windows, and with drivers dressed to look like local residents. The man in the Arizona Cardinals cap gave the Tycoon a perfunctory nod as he climbed inside. Then they pulled away from the airport and into the sandy reaches beyond.
The Tycoon drummed his fingers on the door of the car and assured himself that all would be well. He would make his case. Of course he would. They had come this far. They would not ask him to pull out now. It was a nearly done thing.
Somewhere in the foothills of Mt. Lemmon, the sedan turned down a side road appearing to be reserved for government vehicles accessing a remote ranger station high in the hills. Turning down a further unpaved side road, the car began a precarious climb into the pine-covered mountains above the city. The sedan’s engine strained and sputtered. Eventually, the Tycoon noticed another unremarkable American car making the same trek along the road ahead. Moments later, another moved into position to the Tycoon’s rear.
In minutes, the Tycoon’s car reached the secluded luxury hunting lodge nestled high atop the hills. Private security had formed a tight perimeter around the building. Other men with automatic weapons and trained security dogs patrolled in the distance. The rocky escarpment in front of the lodge had been turned into a parking lot where fifty or so vehicles had already been left. The cars and SUVs were unremarkable and certainly not high-end. This gave the lodge the appearance of a working-class restaurant on a busy Saturday night. Yet when one looked closer at the men and women slowly filing inside, it was clear that these were not farm or factory workers enjoying a day off. These were titans of industry. The world’s most powerful leaders. And those who had influenced art and culture for decades, and would influence it for years to come.
Yet even among this most-exclusive company, the Tycoon was the one who turned heads. As his car pulled to the door of the lodge and he stepped outside, the reaction from the onlookers was electric. Heads turned. Fingers pointed. Whispers rippled through the warm mountain air. The Tycoon tried his best to treat it like any other campaign stop. He grinned and gave a cursory wave, then ducked inside the venue.
The lodge—usually a Spartan, dusty place—had been fitted for the meeting with no expenses spared. Armenian and Turkish carpets covered the floors. The windows had been cleaned. The heads of dead animals that regularly festooned the walls had been moved into storage. The center of the lodge had been converted unto a meeting room where about a hundred people could sit comfortably. At the front was a small mobile stage with a single lectern.
The members of the Uneeda Society chatted with one another, grimly and softly. Yet all conversation shushed when the Tycoon stepped into the room. As he made his way to the lectern, the Tycoon stopped to perfunctorily shake hands and accept congratulations from several society members. Here, a tech startup whiz-kid worth billions of dollars (in stock at least). There, the aging Hollywood director who had essentially defined the 1980’s. After that, one of the world’s most powerful CEOs. The Tycoon negotiated all of them as quickly as he could, but it still took several minutes. By the time he had actually reached the podium, the last of the society members had filed inside the lodge. Unseen assistants closed the door and shuttered the windows. Their group was now quite alone. The Tycoon cleared his throat. The gathering was so intimate, no microphone was necessary to amplify his voice. The members of the society took their seats.
“Ladies and gentlemen of the Uneeda Society,” the Tycoon said. “A little over a year ago, I addressed this body to put forth an idea that, I believed, could change our organization forever. I outlined a plan to take bold new steps toward creating a world where we could live openly, securely, and without sacrificing the positions of power we have made it our lives’ work to obtain. Not everyone liked my plan. I understand that there were concerns. I understand that many of you still have concerns. That’s why I promised that when everything about my presidential run was finally settled, and all loose ends had been secured, I would convene an emergency meeting and personally provide an update. So here I am.”
The Tycoon smiled. Unlike the enthusiastic cornfed audiences at his rallies, this room of billionaires delivered no automatic showers of applause. Instead of cheers and hollers, the Tycoon was greeted by a hundred intense stares.
“And I have good news,” he said, trying to keep things positive. “The best news, actually.”
“What?” someone shouted. “Your running mate decided to join us?”
The Tycoon stared in the direction from where the voice had come. The room was dark and it was hard to tell who had spoken.
“That was never going to be necessary,” the Tycoon said. “He’s not that sort of man, anyway. At least I don’t think he is. But he is a man who can know a thing and keep his mouth shut about it. He has shown me that in a bigly way.”
“There are already too many who know!” someone else called.
“This makes me very uncomfortable!” said another.
“You’re taking more unnecessary risks!” cried another
still.
“There is no reward without risk!” the Tycoon snapped. “You all know that. All of you are here because you are risk takers. Doers. Empire builders. I say again, there is no reward without risk. And what a reward it will be. Imagine the world we can build together after I am president. A world where we are free to walk in sunlight as our true selves. A world where no one will dare to criticize us because we are different. A world where our diversity is accepted. With the Governor of Indiana fully on our side, we are going to be unstoppable. And after what happens in Cleveland this week, there will be no room to doubt it.”
The CEO of Europe’s largest oil company looked left and right, then around the rest of the room. Really? Was nobody else going to say anything about it? Really? Fine, then. He would have to do it.
“There are reports that the Knights of Romero have resurfaced,” this CEO said loudly. “In Cleveland. As recently as two days ago. This is despite our use of leading technology and expenditure of virtually unlimited resources to eradicate them. Still, they persist. If our best efforts are unable to eliminate a small splinter group of radicals, then what assurances can you give us that information integrity can be maintained until your administration is installed in Washington D.C.?”
A round of murmurs broke out. The Knights of Romero were reckoned as having been defeated “for real, this time” on several previous occasions. They had an irritating habit of popping back up after they’d seemingly been put down for good. (A bit like a zombie, the Tycoon privately considered.)
The Tycoon nodded to say he understood the serious nature of the CEO’s concern.
“I am aware of the … incident,” the Tycoon said. “And I can assure you that steps are being taken to ensure that no further surprises occur.”
The CEO stood and expressed exasperation. (He did so in his own language, which the Tycoon could not understand. This annoyed the Tycoon, because he did not like feeling left out.) Another round of murmurs came. Their tone seemed to indicate that the Tycoon’s answer had not been sufficient.
The Tycoon realized more drastic measures might be needed.
“Listen, everyone … everyone,” the Tycoon said, raising and lowering his flattened palms in an attempt to quiet his audience. “The Knights are not going to stand in our way. Are you kidding me? They’re pipsqueaks. Runts. A bunch of losers and amateurs. We’re literally the most powerful people in the world. They are … nothing.”
“You know the dangers of overconfidence!” someone else shouted.
“I do, believe me,” replied the Tycoon. “I know it in a very big way.”
Yet the murmurs rose. The most elite zombies were, not coincidentally, among the most cautious. They might not yet rule the world literally. They might not be able to walk openly as their true selves. But what they had was still pretty goddamn good, and they knew it.
Some of the society members stood, as if they might soon depart.
The Tycoon had a decision to make. Something that had been turning over in his mind for months. Really, he knew that he ought to discuss such an announcement with McNelis first, but there was no time. This was a moment that called for brave, decisive action. Wasn’t that precisely what U.S. Presidents were supposed to do? Act decisively? That sounded right to the Tycoon.
“Which is why …” he said, now raising his hand over his head to quiet the din. “Which is why—if necessary—I am prepared to execute Initiative X. You heard me. Initiative X. I’ll do it. Just me.”
The room hushed. There was a clattering sound as a cane fell from a wizened hand, and a high-pitched tinkling as a monocle literally popped from a socket. You could have heard a pin drop.
An elderly zombie seated near the front—by day, he was president of an Ivy League university—croaked: “You are saying that you …”
“Will assume all of the risk, while sharing any reward,” the Tycoon said. “But I am willing to do it. For the good of all of us. If it comes to it, you understand. My operatives tell me that everything is still very much going to plan. We’re not sure what happened earlier in the week was even the Knights. It could have been impostors, imitators, cosplayers. I don’t anticipate having to use Initiative X, but I’m telling you that if it comes to it, I am ready.”
A stunned silence pervaded. The Tycoon could see the Uneeda Society members trying to make up their minds. They looked at one another. They looked at him. They whispered. Then they began to shrug and to nod.
The Tycoon realized that he had done it. For the moment at least, he had saved the day.
THE REPORTER
Jessica spent the balance of the convention’s opening trying to get back into the good graces of her boss. She filed several pieces in quick succession about the impact of the conventioneers on the Cleveland economy, the role of Gen Y’ers in the election, and the potential for violence breaking out. She interviewed and wrote. Wrote and interviewed. She filed stories that George hadn’t even asked for, just to show that she was working hard.
Her heart, however, was elsewhere.
As the convention speakers were—eventually—announced, she studied each one for signs of zombification. The old general. Had he been bitten by a member of the undead while serving in foreign lands? The New Jersey governor. Did an outsize taste for human flesh explain his girth? The ageless 1980’s sitcom actor? Had his long absence from the limelight been due to an extended zombification process? (And what was that process? Jessica still had so many questions. There were resources on the web that claimed to reveal the secrets of the walking dead, but so much of what Jessica found did not comport with what the Knights of Romero had told her. That zombies had become their own sort of secret society. That they had learned to blend in. Jessica second-guessed every speaker, worrying she had missed some telltale sign of membership in the legion of the dead.)
At the end of the first day of the convention, Jessica stepped outside for a rare smoke break. She had told herself she would curtail the habit completely many times before—or at least move to vaping—but the bracing knowledge that the next leader of the free world might be a zombie seemed to override the impulse for self improvement. There was a large smoking area on the side of the arena. Jessica joined perhaps a hundred others in lighting up and milling about idly.
Jessica’s head swam. She could not remember feeling so exhausted and unnerved, yet so galvanized at the same time. Some part of her wished desperately to curl up with an electric blanket and a bottled of schnapps for the next 24-48 hours. Blueberry schnapps. Definitely blueberry.
Jessica hardly noticed when a small figure concealed in a baggy pink sweatshirt eased up beside her.
“Got a light?” a voice said.
Immediately, Jessica snapped back to the present. Blankets and schnapps were suddenly light years away. The voice was familiar. It was the bald member of the Knights of Romero. The one they had called Trish.
“Don’t look,” Trish said as Jessica leaned over, all agog. “Just light my smoke and keep looking straight ahead.”
Jessica tried to do so.
“I’ve been wondering if I should get in touch with you,” Jessica whispered. “I found out that Bob Hogson knows. He let it slip in an interview. More or less.”
“At the moment, Hogson is small potatoes,” Trish said. “Listen to me carefully. Tomorrow something’s going to happen during the convention. Something very important. You know how there’s a slot in the evening schedule where it just says ‘An Address’?”
Jessica did. But everyone knew that the Tycoon was expected to use it to make a “surprise” appearance and welcome attendees to the convention. Just a little hello before his big speech on the final night. It was the worst kept secret in town.
“We’ve got something planned,” Trish continued.
“Okaaay,” Jessica said, still staring straight ahead. “What do you need from me?”
Trish did not turn, but Jessica felt something small and plastic being pressed into her hand.
�
�Take this,” Trish said. “It’s a drive.”
“What’s on it?” asked Jessica.
“You’ll see that tomorrow night,” Trish said. “The whole country will see, if our plan goes off … which I think it will.”
“You think it will?” said Jessica. “What if it doesn’t?”
“That’s what that drive is for,” Trish said. “If nothing happens tomorrow night during his speech—if it all goes off just like you’d expect it to—then it means we’ve failed. And I want you to open the drive and look at what’s on it. You’ll know what to do from there. But you have to make us a promise.”
“What?” said Jessica.
“You have to promise you won’t look at what’s on there beforehand,” Trish said. “And we’ll know if you do. The moment that drive is plugged into a computer—any computer—we’ll know.”
“Okay,” Jessica said. “But … tell me what’s going on.”
“I can’t do that,” Trish said. “There are too many potential leaks already. Too many places where there might be holes in our armor. We can’t afford another person knowing. Even a good-intentioned one. It should be enough for you to understand that after tomorrow night, if things go right, the world is going to be a different place.”
Jessica did not know how to respond, and so only stood and smoked her cigarette. Normally, when people said things like that to reporters, they were not well mentally. But something gave Jessica the feeling that Trish was not insane, and not bluffing or in need of psychological help. The thumb drive felt heavy in Jessica’s hand. She tucked it into her suit pocket. When she looked back at Trish, she saw the woman in the pink hoodie disappearing into the crowd. Jessica opened her mouth, but could not think of anything to say. Soon, Trish was lost entirely in the throng.
Zombie-in-Chief Page 12
