Zombie-in-Chief

by Scott Kenemore

  “Boy,” it said. “Come and sit by me for a moment.”

  Tim realized the speaker was Cornelius Van Bergen.

  His twin handlers looked at one another in surprise.

  “Move, you two,” Van Bergen croaked. “He is a wide young man. You will have to make some space.”

  Tim swallowed hard.

  Van Bergen wanted Tim to side beside him. He could think of nothing more fortuitous to his investigation. And nothing—nothing in the moment, at least—that sounded more abhorrent than being physically close to such a creature. Van Bergen rotated his horrible neck nearly 180 degrees. His eyes were cloudy but his gaze nonetheless piercing. He smiled to reveal prominent canines, ancient and yellowed beyond all reckoning.

  Tim summoned his courage and forced himself to advance. The twin assistants glowered as they scooted over. Tim pushed past and gingerly seated himself next to Van Bergen.

  Tim did not know if he had ever been this close to a zombie. It aroused his curiosity as well as his abject disgust. How long had Van Bergen been a member of the walking dead? Had he been bitten late in life and preserved in advanced age, or had he been bitten as a younger man? And did the signs of age on his face arise from something other than passing human years? Was he supernaturally aged? Did zombies deteriorate in some other way, not yet understood outside their own circles?

  He could imagine Van Bergen as one of the original Dutch patroons, settling New York before the British. He could also imagine him as a twentieth century industrialist who had come to zombihood in retirement. Who knew what to believe?

  The only thing Tim understood for certain—as he chummily sidled up next to the creature—was that the thing invoked disgust and fear as deep as he had ever known. It was no longer a mystery to Tim why people ran screaming from the walking dead.

  “Young man,” Van Bergen said, looking down at the convention speaker below. “You’re not the first person who was ever been keen to do a favor for the Uneeda Society. Not many look to help us without an eye to their own membership. Jay McNelis is the only exception to that rule I know. Something is deeply wrong with that man.”

  Tim nodded and hoped Van Bergen would not look him in the face again. It was easier when the man’s ancient, milky eyes were turned away.

  “Those two vultures over there?” the zombie continued, staring hard at his handlers. “They want it. They’re in line. A whole lot of people are. Too many, it seems to me. And how about yourself?”

  Tim thought carefully about how to respond.

  “I would be lying if I said I’d never thought about it,” Tim answered. “I mean, who wouldn’t be tempted? Living forever. Getting to spend your time pursuing the one thing in the world that you know can bring you happiness and pleasure? That sounds like magic to me.”

  Van Bergen smiled. A grim and horrible smile to be sure, but still a smile.

  “Perhaps it is magic of a sort,” he said. “But it may not be around much longer.”

  Tim smiled politely, wondering to what the man might be referring.

  “As you already know, there are those in our membership who have decided to wager it all—everything we undead have carefully built for ourselves—out of a desire for even more,” Van Bergen continued.

  The zombie gestured to the podium below where the speaker prepared to introduce the Governor of Indiana.

  “What did you think all of this was?” he continued. “I’ll tell you, young man. It’s a bid for more. Some years it’s the oil companies. Other years, the defense contractors. Well, this year it was our turn.”

  “That’s got to be exciting though, right?” Tim asked innocently.

  Van Bergen smiled again.

  “That’s one way of putting it,” the zombie said. “The undead are making themselves vulnerable like never before. That is true.”

  Suddenly, there was a great roar from the audience below. Music began to play. The tired conventioneers stood. The Governor of Indiana had been introduced. Now, in just a moment, he would take the stage.

  Tim felt this would be the ideal time to depart. He had what he needed. In spades. He could not wait to connect with Jessica, and with his TruthTeller colleagues, and decide upon the best way to break the story.

  “Well, I’m sure you’ll want to watch the Governor,” Tim said, easing out of his seat. “I believe I’ve taken enough of your time.”

  Yet as he stood, Tim was stopped abruptly by something that felt like the stiff branch of an old tree pressing hard against his shoulder.

  Tim looked over and saw he was in the ancient zombie’s grasp.

  “What is your hurry, young man?” Van Bergen asked.

  “Oh,” Tim said hesitantly. “Nothing, really. I just assumed you’d like your privacy.”

  Van Bergen leaned in close. Tim immediately wished that he had not. Van Bergen no longer smelled human. There was a “thinginess” about him now. He was no longer a “who” but an “it.” Zombies like the Tycoon doubtless concealed this aspect beneath makeup, cologne, mouthwash—and who knew what else. Van Bergen, it seemed, did not feel the need for these pretenses. He presented himself just as what he was. And that was a thing which was quite horrible indeed.

  “Between you and me, I get sick of those two buzzards,” Van Bergen said, glancing down at his assistants. “Why don’t you stay and watch the next speech with me? I could use the fresh blood around.”

  Tim visibly blanched.

  “Ah, I don’t mean that you are on the menu,” Van Bergen said, flashing his terrifying yellow chompers. “Only that your company would be appreciated. And this matter with your reporter friend … It sounds as though it will sort itself out, no?”

  Tim wondered if perhaps he really ought to stay. If Van Bergen sensed anything amiss, it would be easy for him to call for the large security guard at the door. And besides, the footage and audio recordings he’d captured so far were safe in the cloud. In other words, he had what he’d come for. If the mission required he spend a few moments more with this unpleasant fossil, Tim would grit his teeth and do it.

  “Sure,” Tim said, shrinking back into his seat. “I’ll stay. Bet it’ll be a stemwinder of a speech! The, uh, Governor of Indiana’s an incredible man. Brings a lot of balance to the ticket.”

  The applause below became deafening as the Governor took the podium.

  “Done wonders for his home state, he has,” Tim prattled on, raising his voice over the din. “I can’t want to hear what he says. In fact—”

  At that point, Tim stopped talking because he could tell that something was wrong. Beside him, Van Bergen had frozen. And not in a typical, zombie sort of a way. The old man looked aghast. Moments before, Tim would not have deemed this physically possible, but the expression somehow made Van Bergen’s features even more unpleasant.

  “Son of a bitch,” Van Bergen said slowly. “He has the look!”

  “What?” Tim said, wondering if he had misheard the elderly zombie above the din.

  “See how he stands!” Van Bergen shouted. “That is the pose of the recently converted. See how he hesitates a moment too long before changing his facial expressions. See the awkwardness of his wave! Of his smile! See the fresh thirst in his eyes!”

  Tim stared at the Governor, and wished he’d brought along his binoculars. The Governor did seem to be standing stiffly and waving awkwardly … but also, he was just a stiff, awkward guy. To Tim, nothing on display necessarily signaled more than an ill-fitting suit and natural nervousness arising from giving the biggest speech of your life.

  Tim pointed this out, but Van Bergen remained unmoved.

  “Don’t you think I can tell one of my own?” the ancient Dutchman barked. “This was not in the plan … This was never …”

  Van Bergen seemed to forget that Tim was present. He called over to his assistants.

  “Get me McNelis, quick!”

  The two quickly drew their cell phones like guns and began tapping madly.

  “He’s not pick
ing up,” one of them said. “I’ll keep trying.”

  “Do you realize what this means?” Van Bergen asked Tim.

  Tim looked back and forth and shook his head.

  “Now …” Van Bergen said ominously. “Now everything is going to change.”

  THE TYCOON

  The Tycoon sat in an improvised lounge in the backstage area and watched the bank of monitors. They had been arranged so that he could see the Governor on every camera feed.

  “I think he looks good,” the Tycoon said chummily to McNelis.

  His eyes flitted over, daring the man to disagree.

  “Considering what he’s been through in the last six hours,” McNelis said carefully. “I guess I’d agree.”

  “Harumph,” responded the Tycoon. “He looks fine. More than fine. He looks great, and he’s going to do great precisely because he’s one of us now.”

  McNelis did not immediately comment.

  “He is going to do great,” the Tycoon asserted.

  McNelis sighed.

  “Is there a record of a member of your order ever engaging in public speaking within twenty-four hours of a conversion?” he asked casually.

  The Tycoon seethed.

  “You know there isn’t,” he replied. “But if there was, I’m sure the record would say that his speaking was bigly improved.”

  McNelis raised his forehead and shrugged in a way that said this scenario was not technically impossible. Then he and the Tycoon returned their attention to the bank of screens. While they watched, the Governor finished his opening thank-yous, announced that he was there to accept the nomination (to more applause), and launched right in to the meat-and-potatoes of his speech.

  “You know,” the Governor began, in a dry, halting voice. “I never thought I would be the one standing here tonight. I thought for sure I’d by watching this convention back at home with all my friends and family in the Hoosier State. But life has a way of surprising you. And just a few short days ago I found myself in New York City meeting with the man who beat a score of primary opponents, won state-after-state-after-state, and then captured the nomination.”

  The Tycoon smiled. The Governor was speaking carefully and slowly, but he was pulling it off. So this was fine. This was all going to be fine.

  “I stood there and accepted my place on the ticket from this colorful, charismatic, exciting man,” the Governor continued. “I’d heard about his larger-than-life personality. I’d heard about his shoot-from-the-hip style. But I’d never heard … Never heard …”

  Here, the Governor hesitated. It was brief and passed quickly, but he seemed definitely to lose his place momentarily. Anyone not watching for signs of strain or stress might have missed it entirely. But the Tycoon and McNelis did not.

  They exchanged a glance.

  “Let’s just say I’d heard a lot of things about him, but it turned out I hadn’t heard it all,” the Governor continued. “What I’ve learned in the last few days … well, you just wouldn’t believe.”

  “Is he going off script?” the Tycoon asked. “I don’t remember that wording in the draft we approved.”

  McNelis opened his laptop and attempted to find the final version of the document.

  “I have to tell you …” the Governor continued. “While our party’s nominee was getting to know me, I was getting to know him. I was taking the measure of my running mate. Doing some observing. I’ve seen the way he treats the people who work for him, and how he treats the people he meets for the first time. Now, I can’t hide the fact that he can be a little rough when debating politicians on a stage. He seems like he could eat them alive, right? But I’ve got to know this man one-on-one, and I’m here to assure you that he cares! He is utterly devoted to his family! He is committed to making America great again!”

  Applause echoed through the arena.

  “That line about eating them alive wasn’t in the original,” said McNelis, gazing at his glowing laptop screen. “He’s sticking to the script generally, but that line was ad libbed.”

  The Tycoon furrowed his brow.

  “Family is important to my running mate, but I want you to know it’s important to me as well,” the Governor continued. “Even if you do the honor of making me the next Vice President of these United States, no title anybody can give me will ever mean more than those three special letters, D-A-D.”

  The audience applauded. McNelis nodded to say this was all as scripted. The Tycoon frowned in satisfaction.

  “And even if I am sworn-in and Vice President on Inauguration Day,” the Governor continued, “no day in my life will ever be more important to me than the day 31 years ago when I first met my lovely and talented wife. She has been my best friend and my strongest asset. There are those in the liberal media who like to scoff at me because I won’t eat women other than my wife … eat with women other than my wife … but I will always be a traditionalist when it comes to my values.”

  McNelis looked at the Tycoon over the top of his computer.

  “What?” the Tycoon said. “He misspoke. It happens to everybody. I do it all the time. You yourself said it makes me relatable!”

  McNelis chose to remain silent, but looked direly concerned.

  “Now I can’t address this upcoming election without talking about our opponent,” the Governor continued to a round of boos. “I know, I know. Just at the moment when America cried out loudest for a new direction and new leadership, they’ve gone and picked the most predictable name possible! The embodiment of the status quo! The first lady of the failed establishment! Do I even need to say her name?”

  A new flurry of boos assured the Governor that he did not.

  “So we have a choice to make,” he continued. “We have to choose where we want to go, and who we trust to get us there. We have to … We have to …make the decisions. The hard decisions that will protect … that will protect this nation, and lead … and … and lead to economic prosperity. Now, I … I …”

  The Governor began to falter in a serious way.

  “What the fuck is this?” the Tycoon demanded angrily as the Governor descended further into stammers. (The audience, for its part, was patient, and seemed willing to allow the man time to find his place.)

  McNelis scanned the array of television screens as if looking for a clue.

  “He’s not even looking at the teleprompters anymore,” McNelis shrieked. “It’s like he can’t focus. He’s just staring down at the crowd at the foot of the stage. What’s he looking for? Do we have an angle on it?”

  And then McNelis saw, and the Tycoon did too. Once they found the right monitor—the one that showed a camera angle from somewhere above and behind the Governor’s shoulder—it was impossible to miss.

  In the first row, amongst the delegates from Indiana, was a man with the biggest, baldest head either of them had ever seen.

  Immediately, the Tycoon recognized the symptoms.

  “Oh no,” the Tycoon said. “He’s got the brain frenzy. Got it bad, from the looks of it. Fight it, damn you! Fight the urge!”

  “Brain frenzy?” McNelis said.

  “You wouldn’t know a thing about it,” the Tycoon said. “No zombie is completely immune, but it hits the newer among us hardest of all. What was anybody thinking, putting a man with a head like that right in front of him!?”

  On the screen, they watched as the Governor lost his place again and again. He no longer seemed aware of where he was. He only stared into the first row. He seemed to have lost the ability to blink. He began to lick his lips.

  “Okay,” McNelis said, rising to his feet. “We have to fix this.”

  He gripped a walkie-talkie and began barking orders into it.

  “Clear the first row! Do you copy? Clear the first row of the audience. Get them all out of there now. Yes! You heard me right!”

  McNelis ran his hands through his hair. His eyes flickered back and forth between the concerned Tycoon and the screen where the Governor lingered, unmoving and
transfixed.

  “Should we have Secret Service rush him, like we did for you?” McNelis asked. “Make it look like a security threat? Should—”

  Then the Tycoon screamed.

  It was not like a scream of terror or pain. It was the noise a man makes when he puts his life savings on a horse that has fallen over a few feet short of the finish line.

  “Nooooo, damn you!” the Tycoon cried, his eyes glued to the monitors. They showed him the fresh unfolding horror from every possible angle.

  Without further ceremony, the Governor leapt into the audience like a stage-diving rocker. At the same moment, a confused team of Secret Service emerged from the wings and attempted to secure the front row. However, the Governor proved more aerodynamic than anybody had imagined. Sailing through the air, he landed squarely atop the small business owner from Westfield, Indiana with the enormous, sweaty head. Both men tumbled to the floor. Before anyone knew what was happening, the Governor tucked in. The small businessman screamed as the Governor bit him at the brow. Yet the cries were lost in the general chaos that erupted.

  The Tycoon hung his head and mumbled something.

  “What did you say?” McNelis asked urgently.

  “I said he’s an amateur,” the Tycoon remarked. “The way he’s trying to bite right into the skull? See that? A first-timer mistake. Heads are much stronger than the horror movies lead you to believe. He’s going to find that out the hard way.”

  “Erm, yes,” said McNelis. “In the meantime, how the hell do we play this? Quick! We need a dossier on the bald man being eaten. Was he an enemy of the Governor? Could he be a terrorist assassin? Did he have a criminal past? The Governor was …”

  McNelis gesticulated wildly in the air as he attempted to compose a narrative.

  “The Governor was protecting the rest of the delegation from this man, yeah?” McNelis announced proudly. “The candidate was bravely sacrificing himself—interrupting his own convention speech, even—in order to protect everyone from … from … Well, I’m sure we can find something on this guy. We’ll plant something if we have to. A gun, a knife, a bazooka if that’s what it takes.”