Zombie-in-Chief

by Scott Kenemore

  The screen showing the Tycoon departing with his entourage slowly faded to black. The projector drones stopped projecting. They rose back up to the scaffolding that ran along the arena roof. Soon they had disappeared against it.

  Down on the stage, the Tycoon continued. He probably assumed that whatever audio malfunction had transpired had now been corrected. The technical staff that had massed by the edges of the stage seemed to be calming. They still pointed and frowned and rubbed their chins, but the strange interruption—whatever it had been—now appeared to have passed. Secret Service men and women paced the edges like predators, clearly alert to the fact that an irregularity had occurred.

  For a quick moment, Tim lowered his binoculars.

  “Did you guys fucking see that?” Tim asked.

  “Saw it, and recorded it,” Ryan replied, indicating his camera.

  “Do you think this will be enough?” Tim said. “It’s weird … but it just looked like an AV malfunction. Are people going to understand the point of it? I mean … we see what they’re going for here, but we’re looking for it.”

  Dan lowered his own binoculars and shook his head doubtfully.

  “Yeah, I don’t know,” he said. “There’ll be a lot of room to say it was CGI or faked or something. The major TV networks haven’t cut in over his speech to say anything’s amiss.”

  Dan held up his laptop on which four network feeds played simultaneously. The focus on the Tycoon was tight. Viewers at home might have not even seen the disruptive video.

  Tim turned his attention back to the podium. The Tycoon appeared to be wrapping up.

  “I’m just telling the truth when I say I’m a winner who has experience at winning,” the Tycoon was saying. “The people who work for me, they know it. My rivals know it. But there’s another group of people who know it—my family. Which is why I’m so excited to be able to introduce the next speaker for this evening. She is a former jewelry designer and model. She is a business leader, and she is a champion of women’s rights all over the globe in a very big way. I’m talking, of course, about my daughter.”

  The crowed applauded and cheered as a photograph of the Tycoon’s oldest daughter came up on the screen behind him. The success of this projection seemed to relax the technical staff even further. Whatever had gone wrong, now the good guys were back in control.

  Then it happened.

  As the Tycoon began reading off a further list of his daughter’s accomplishments, something started to beep.

  Beep. Beep. Beep.

  It was a loud, mechanical beeping, and it was coming from the Tycoon himself.

  He stopped speaking. As the audience waited, he inspected the microphone and podium to see if he could locate the source. He patted his pockets and produced his cell phone. Verifying that he’d indeed switched it off—as, no doubt, Jay McNelis had instructed him to do a number of times—the Tycoon further patted himself down, looking for whatever was making the sound.

  He seemed to find it in his pocket. He reached in and brought out a small black box. The very same box that had been featured in the video moments before. The heart monitor. The light on it was flashing, and it was beeping loudly.

  Yet it was not beeping to sound the cadence of the candidate (or anyone’s) pulse, Tim realized. Rather, it was beeping to say “Here I am.”

  As the Tycoon held aloft the strange beeping box—turning it over in his hand, trying to make sense of it—a Secret Service agent rushed out onto the stage. He grabbed the device from the Tycoon’s hand, flung it to the ground, and then flung himself on top of it. A moment later, two other agents rushed on after him. They grabbed the surprised Tycoon and bundled him off, stage right. The convention floor erupted into alarm and chaos. The arena lights went up. Law enforcement sprang into the aisles. More Secret Service encircled the edges of the stage. A voice on the arena loudspeaker asked the conventioneer to remain in their seats and to remain calm.

  Only one noise was audible above this din. It came from drones hiding in the arena rafters. It was not a mechanical beeping. Instead, it was the beating of a human heart. It beat fast. So very fast. It was powered by the adrenaline coursing through the body of the Secret Service agent who doubtless believed he had fallen on some sort of explosive device.

  Tha-thump-Tha-thump-Tha-thump!

  More personnel arrived. The Secret Service agent holding the heart monitor was helped to his feet, and he—along with the device—was taken away. The audience clucked in confusion. Cell phones were out capturing everything from every possible point of view.

  Yet after a few moments, the heartbeat audio ceased. Perhaps the device had been smashed or thrown in a bombproof box. Police and Secret Service began to clear the stage. Technicians checked the microphones and muttered to one another. Eventually they left the stage too.

  Finally, improbably, the stage was cleared.

  Moments later, the Tycoon reemerged. He walked to the microphone. No great extemporaneous speaker, what he lacked in nuance and skill he made up for in enthusiasm.

  “Didn’t I tell you this would be the most exciting convention ever?” he asked.

  The worried audience, needing some stress relief, cheered wildly.

  “Okay, I’m told we had a technical problem,” the Tycoon continued. “We had a technical problem and it concerned my security. The Secret Service. They’re always so concerned about me. It’s like they don’t know what a tough guy I am. Like a beeper is going to hurt me? I’m really tough! Seriously, I am. People who know me, know that. I’m a tough guy!”

  The audience applauded wildly, and broke into chants of U.S.A.-U.S.A.-U.S.A.!

  “Anyhow,” the Tycoon continued, “it really annoys me that my security just did that, because I wasn’t finished telling you about my wonderful daughter. Where was I? Okay. Here we go again. She is an entrepreneur who has created jobs in the fashion industry …”

  The Tycoon continued and the audience settled down. When he had finished the introduction, his daughter strolled onstage. The two embraced—it lingered perhaps a bit too long, but this could be forgiven considering the security scare. Then the Tycoon walked off and she took the podium, launching into a speech about her father’s forthcoming initiatives for women in the workplace. All seemed disturbingly normal once more.

  Only a few attendees inside the arena—a number that included the entire staff of TruthTeller—noticed the technical staff rushing across the roof scaffolding to recover the drones.

  THE TYCOON

  “I really appreciate you taking the time to sit down with us today,” she began. “People have so many questions about what happened last night.”

  The Tycoon nodded froggishly to show his general understanding of this idea.

  “Of course,” the Tycoon said. “People are curious. I’d be curious if I saw something like that. But I’ll tell you something. It made for great television. And believe me, I know great television.”

  Diane Laughlin nodded and smiled enthusiastically from her chair opposite the Tycoon. Diane was the Tycoon’s favorite newscaster from his favorite network. When McNelis had insisted that they schedule something to nip any gossip in the bud, the Tycoon said he would do it if they could get Diane. McNelis had made it happen. Now McNelis watched from the corner of the suite as the Tycoon grinned opposite her in the glare of the portable television lights.

  “First of all, are you feeling all right after last night?” Diane asked. “The voters are going to wonder about that. If elected, you’d be oldest person ever to assume the presidency.”

  “Look, I don’t assume anything,” the Tycoon said, misunderstanding her. “I can tell you for a fact that my health is fine. Doctor Gitelman, my doctor, he’s one of the best doctors in New York. You’ve seen what he had to say about my health. The healthiest president ever.”

  “Right, right,” said Diane. “Though some questioned if he meant the healthiest for your age. After all, President Kennedy was only in his forties when he became p
resident, so—”

  “Excuse me,” the Tycoon said sternly. “He said I would be the healthiest president ever. And that’s a doctor talking. A doctor.”

  Diane Laughlin smiled politely and consulted her notes.

  “In the papers this morning, some people are saying the incident last night raises questions about how your campaign is handling security,” she said.

  “Okay, two things,” the Tycoon replied. “Firstly, people are right to be concerned about security. We have people coming into this country—nobody knows why they’re here. Our borders are not secure. There are ways for bad people to come here and do bad things. I get attention because I’m the only candidate talking about it. I’m definitely the only candidate who is going to do something about it. Secondly, what happened last night was—I’m told—one of the technical people had placed something in my pocket in the course of getting me mic’ed. It was a technical thing. Something to do with sound. It malfunctioned, and that was the noise we all heard. The Secret Service took it and destroyed it—which is, I guess, what they do with such things—and that was the end of it. The guy who screwed up and put that thing in my pocket? Is he fired? You better believe it!”

  Diane Laughlin nodded sympathetically.

  “Okay, right,” she said. “And it might sound a little bit silly, but I have to ask about the video that was projected behind you. The network cameras caught some of it, and then there was a complete version leaked onto YouTube earlier today. I know you and your staff have watched it. Anyhow, there is a general theory that the intent of the video was to imply that the device in the video was a heart monitor, and that it stopped working when it was placed it your pocket.”

  “Look,” the Tycoon said. “I’ve been called heartless before. Don’t think I haven’t. People have been calling me that for over forty years. Other names too. Far, far worse things. Things I can’t even say on television. When you’re powerful and successful you make enemies that are jealous of your constant winning. So, am I surprised that one of my detractors pulled a stunt to say that I’m heartless? Not really. But trust me, I’ve heard it all before.”

  “Um, yes,” the news anchor said cautiously. “But the point seems to be that they—whoever made this video—are trying to make the point that you literally don’t have a heart. That you’re not in possession of a pulse.”

  “A new low for fake news,” said the Tycoon. “Very sad. I can’t believe that anybody could believe it.”

  “So if I took your pulse right now …” Diane Laughlin said with a grin.

  “You would feel my heart beating just like with anybody else,” the Tycoon replied.

  The Tycoon paused. A rare smile came across his lips. He looked to Jay McNelis who nodded. Now was the time.

  “As you know, I hate fake news so much,” the Tycoon continued. “Any time you give me a chance, I will go against it. I will prove it wrong. I can’t believe we did this, but we actually brought a … whaddayacallit … stethoscope in. Here, James, can you bring it over.”

  While the Tycoon and the newsreader waited, McNelis produced a stethoscope from his jacket pocket. He walked into shot and showed it to the camera. Then, before Diane could protest—or even react—McNelis was placing the plastic earpieces into her ears.

  “Thank you, James,” the Tycoon said. “Now put the end of that thing right against my shirt, Diane. Go ahead. Tell the people what you hear.”

  Diane shrugged and smiled. She was game. She put the stethoscope bell up against the Tycoon’s chest.

  “Now what do you hear?” he asked. “Tell all the people at home.”

  “I hear your heart beating,” she replied, sitting back and taking the earpieces from her ears.

  “There, you see?” said the Tycoon. “I can’t believe we had to do that. It just goes to show what a crazy world we live in. The other side knows they can’t beat me on the issues, so they waste their time and money to set up wild conspiracies and fake news about me. I’m glad we could clear this up.”

  McNelis reappeared and took the stethoscope from Diane.

  “So turning back to the convention,” she said. “Your running mate, the Governor of Indiana, speaks tonight. Do you think his message is going to bring Americans’ attention back to the issues at hand?”

  “I do,” the Tycoon said. “As you know, I think the Governor is a tremendous fella. Just tremendous. He’s made Indiana a success story. He’s shown what we can do for the entire country. Take my word for it. There will be no more distractions. Everything else is going to go smoothly. And when I speak the next night, it will be a tremendous end to an already tremendous convention. So tremendous, people won’t even believe it.”

  The Tycoon removed the lavalier microphone and gave Diane Laughlin a cursory handshake. McNelis walked Diane and her crew down the hallway to the elevator. Moments later, he was back in the suite.

  McNelis had cleared out all of the regular staffers who usually clustered around during their morning meetings (hovering attentively and nervously like stuntmen waiting to be punched in an action film). This lack of administrative support meant that McNelis really wanted to talk today. That was good. That was what the Tycoon wanted too.

  The Tycoon stretched himself out on the sofa. McNelis took a more vertical position at a nearby desk chair. He turned on the suite’s wall-sized television, and tuned to the Tycoon’s favorite network, where the just-concluded interview would shortly air.

  “Well, what do we do now?” the Tycoon asked.

  McNelis, who seemed confident, answered: “I think we’ve just done it. I think we’ve deflected and deflated. In the minds of the voters, this wasn’t anything other than a stupid prank.”

  The Tycoon nodded seriously. He had recovered from his apoplectic fits of the prior evening. Now he was all coiled tension. He realized that their reaction to this unscheduled interruption was absolutely key. Everything might hang in the balance.

  “This was their knockout punch,” McNelis continued. “Imagine how much trouble it must have been for them to coordinate this. Set it all up. Get those drones inside. This was supposed to leave you unconscious on the canvas, but it looks to me like you’re still standing.”

  The Tycoon smiled. He liked the idea that he was tough and resilient, and could survive an enemy’s worst haymaker.

  “Think about it, what else do they have left?” McNelis said. “If they had other ammo, they would have used it. Anybody who believed their insinuations is going to get written off as fake news. I really do think we’re in the clear.”

  “That was a nice touch with the stethoscope,” the Tycoon said. “Worked like a charm.”

  “Thanks,” said McNelis.

  “Incidentally,” said the Tycoon, “how did you …”

  “One of our tech people rigged it up,” McNelis said. “Wasn’t cheap to get it done overnight, but you get what you pay for.”

  “It was worth every penny,” the Tycoon asserted. “A stethoscope is going to become a symbol of our movement. The political cartoons will have me as a doctor here to heal America. You’ll see.”

  “If this didn’t stop you, sir, nothing’s going to,” McNelis said.

  “What about the Uneeda members?” the Tycoon asked. “Be honest.”

  McNelis shrugged to say it was a small matter.

  “We got some calls saying they were concerned, of course. But I assured them we’re handling it. When your interview airs, they’ll see it’s been handled.”

  “Excellent,” the Tycoon said.

  McNelis began to scroll through his phone. It seemed as though something had just occurred to him.

  “Oh,” he said. “There is one other thing.”

  The Tycoon raised a hairy blond eyebrow.

  “Nothing to worry about,” said McNelis. “It’s the Governor. Apparently he’d like to meet with you this afternoon, before he gives his speech.”

  “Why?” the Tycoon said grouchily. He had better things to do.

  �
��Doesn’t say,” McNelis replied. “Maybe he just wants a pep talk from you. Maybe he thinks it’s traditional for the presidential and vice presidential candidates to commune before a big speech.”

  “Sentimentalist nonsense,” said the Tycoon. “But fine. We’ll get it over with as quick as we can. I know … Have someone put together a list of inspiring quotes that presidents have told vice presidents. I’ll quote some horseshit that feels historic to him, and we’ll be on our way.”

  “Of course, sir,” McNelis said.

  The Tycoon reclined even further on the couch and closed his eyes.

  He did not “sleep” in the traditional sense, yet the Tycoon found it pleasant, on occasion, to clear his mind and limit his interactions with others. Often, this was most effectively accomplished through the simulacra of a nap.

  McNelis took the hint and moved off to a different part of the suite to work.

  The Tycoon felt like a general who had just survived the enemy onslaught. Or maybe that wasn’t quite it. It was more like he’d seen the enemy’s superweapon, and it was a big ol’ dud. It felt to the Tycoon like he would not be stopped. Could not be stopped. At this rate, Initiative X would not be necessary.

  McNelis had done a good job. After he was president, the Tycoon would reward him. A seat on the National Security Council, say. (For whatever reason, McNelis was in that small fraction of the Tycoon’s inner circle who did not desire zombihood for himself one day.) Nobody was perfect, though. McNelis could have something else.

  The Tycoon allowed his mind to wander. As zombies did not need to breathe, he did not focus on his own respiration to relax, but instead on the low hum of the air conditioner in the next room. The Tycoon felt pleased and confident. Everything was going to plan.

  Sooner than he expected, the afternoon had rolled around. McNelis stood in the doorway and cleared his throat.

  “Got some Grade A sentimental hokum,” McNelis said proudly, dangling a dossier in his hand. “Starts with Washington’s advice to Adams and goes from there.”