On the monitors before them, the Governor continued to gnaw. The bald man was fighting back now, but the Governor remained firmly attached by the incisors. The Governor was crazed, and he would not unclench his jaw. As the Secret Service peeled him off, the Governor took with him a long thin strip of the man’s temple and forehead. Blood gushed. Onlookers screamed. The cameras did not cut away.
McNelis got back on his walkie-talkie and resumed barking.
The Tycoon frowned and shook his head. Then his phone vibrated. His picked it up, checked the caller, and put it to his ear.
“Hello,” he said.
“Are you watching this?” a voice came back.
“Of course I am,” the Tycoon replied.
“We’re going to hold you to your word,” it said. “Initiative X. You know what you have to do.”
“Do … do you really think—” the Tycoon asked.
“I’ll ask again; are you watching this?”
The Tycoon confirmed that he was.
“Good,” the voice said. “We expect action. Tomorrow at the latest.”
The call disconnected.
The Tycoon placed his phone back into his pocket. He looked at the bank of monitors. They showed a convention devolving into fear and chaos. Now the Governor was being led away by bewildered-looking security. His face was bathed in gore. He sported a goatee of blood. His eyes rolled wildly. He gnashed his teeth and snapped at the air, bestial and aimless.
The Tycoon knew these images would shortly festoon the front pages of every paper in the world, and that the tape would play in an endless loop on the networks.
“Rabies!” McNelis called into his walkie-talkie. “The future vice president contracted rabies in the course of performing charity work in … in … wherever the last place he went was. You know? That mission work his church did? Hang on. Let me come over there.”
McNelis ran out of the room, leaving the Tycoon completely alone.
THE REPORTER
It was late the next morning when Jessica Smith was finally able to take a break. The twelve hours since the Governor’s violent meltdown had been the busiest and most surreal of her life. It all still felt very much like a dream or fantasy from which she might suddenly awaken.
She and an equally-exhausted George Cutler allowed themselves to rest for a brief moment together at a table in their press room. Neither had slept. Though George was too old for Jessica (and, moreover, not her type) the two both exuded the spent bewilderment of people who had just gotten laid.
“See,” George said in the intervening silence. “I told you there was no way he could win.”
“You were right about that,” Jessica said.
“It’s funny,” George said. “I thought for sure I’d seen it all. I’ve been doing this so long, you know? But you’ve never seen it all.”
“What, you’ve never seen a pair of zombies running for president?” Jessica teased. “Oh come on. That must have happened at least once before. Like a really long time ago. You know, like back in the 1990’s.”
George smiled and shook his head.
“No,” he said. “What I meant is, I never thought I’d see a cub reporter who was about to win a Pulitzer Prize. And I’ll be doubly damned if I even thought she would be sharing it with a blogger from … what was it again?”
“TruthTeller,” Jessica said.
“Ah yes,” George said. “Suppose I ought to memorize it. My God, these are strange times. But you’ve done more than win a Pulitzer, my dear. Think of what you have done for the republic. Think of what those people—not even people—those things might have accomplished if they had been allowed to proceed. Now it will all be investigated. The candidates. The Uneeda Society. I’ll be impressed if most of them aren’t in jail before the end of the month.”
Details were hazy—and had remained hazy since the chaos on the convention floor—but it seemed that the Secret Service would not confirm that it currently had the Governor in any kind of custody. The precise location of the Tycoon was also not something that could be confirmed. The convention had ended after the Governor’s attack, and the Tycoon seemed to have somehow slipped away.
“The only question is, does this kill the whole party?” George said. “They haven’t cancelled the final night of the convention, but look for that any second now. And then what’s left for them? They regroup and … what? Appoint a new candidate? Throw it to whoever came in second in the primaries?”
Jessica lowered her head to the table.
“I don’t even remember who that was right now,” she said after a long sigh.
“No …” said George. “It’s over. They’ll nominate someone before the general, but it will be a safe choice. No one will like it. They’re going to lose every state. Maybe the Libertarians will actually have a shot this year, because these guys certainly don’t. Maybe the party will survive. In eight, twelve years—if they totally clean house—they could come back. They might have to change the name.”
“If they do, I hope they bring back the Whigs,” Jessica said idly, contemplating her Pulitzer. “I don’t remember who the Whigs were or what they stood for, but I always thought it sounded good.”
George nodded to say that there might indeed be worse titles for political parties.
“I’ve also been meaning to apologize,” George suddenly said. “I didn’t mean to be curt with you earlier in the week. If I’d only known what you were working on … Err, scratch that. That’s a lie, and we ought to be honest with one another. If you’d really told me what you were working on, I’d probably have fired you on the spot. There’s no way I would have believed you. I guess … I guess what I’m trying to say is that you did the right thing.”
“No hard feelings,” Jessica said. “I think I might have fired me too.”
“There’s still so much more work to be done,” said George. “God knows, we’re all going to be connecting the dots for weeks and months to come. What you got from Bob Hogson? The footage of Cornelius Van Bergen from your friend? Not to mention the role of the Knights of Romero—those guys, we’re still fact checking, but still … This is one of the biggest conspiracies in American history, Jessica. A small secret society of cannibal monsters trying to install themselves in the highest echelon of power? It’s almost too fantastic to believe. But now people will believe it. Because of you.”
“Thanks for saying that,” Jessica told George. “But I think I was just in the right place at the right time. Or maybe the wrong place, depending on how you look at it.”
George smiled and shrugged.
“I’m so exhausted I’m shaking a little bit,” Jessica said. “But I also feel like I can’t take a nap. My email inbox has exploded, every TV network wants to interview me, and my voicemail is full to bursting. But check this out. Before it filled up, I got a voicemail from my mom … who is now worried that I’m going to be assassinated.”
George shrugged.
“You could tell her that being assassinated is better than being eaten by a zombie. Probably.”
Jessica rolled her eyes.
“Frankly, I might be a little more concerned about your friend Tim,” George added. “Doesn’t he truck with the extremist crowd?”
“I think that he’s probably safer because of that,” Jessica said. “If anybody knows about black-ops and the ways they’d come after you, it’s him.”
George shook his head to say that all of this was moot.
“I think you’re quite safe, young lady,” he said. “The story is out there. The pictures are out there. The video is out there. Getting rid of the reporters doesn’t accomplish anything at this point.”
“I hope you’re right,” Jessica said. “To be honest with you, I’m almost too tired to care about assassins.”
Suddenly, there was the sound of raised voices in the hallway outside. Someone said: “Jessica Smith is not receiving visitors at this time.”
“Oh gawwwd, they’ve found us,” Jessica drawled.
“I seriously can’t talk to anyone else right now, George. I can hardly lift my head.”
“Don’t worry,” George said. “Our friends aren’t letting anybody in.”
The moment these words were out of his mouth, there was the unmistakable sound of a cheek being slapped. A moment later, Jay McNelis threw open the conference room door and barged inside. He looked around until his eyes lit upon the two exhausted reporters, piled like heaps at the end of a table.
Jessica lifted her head and said: “Oh shit.”
McNelis—who had also not slept—made his way over. He did not look as if he intended violence, but with him, you never knew for sure.
“You’re not supposed to be in here,” George said, wearily rising to his feet. “What the hell is wrong with you?”
McNelis ignored this completely, and sidled up next to Jessica.
“Is your phone working?” he asked her.
“I’ve had to turn it off ever since it started ringing every two minutes,” Jessica told him.
“You have voicemails—” McNelis began.
“My voicemail filled up five hours ago,” she cut him off. “I think the system stops at twenty messages.”
McNelis forced himself to wait for her to finish. When it was clear that she had, he repeated: “You have voicemails from the next President of the United States. Several. He wants to see you.”
“What?” Jessica said, rubbing her eyes and blinking.
“He wants to talk with you,” McNelis said. “Come along. I’ll take you to him. Please.”
“Where exactly is your party’s nominee at the moment?” George said. A reporter’s notepad and pen had seemingly materialized in his hands.
“Nice try,” said McNelis. “Jessica, will you come?”
She glanced over at George. At this moment, there was no interview in the world more desirable than the Tycoon. Even so, she had already done a Herculean amount of reporting in the last twelve hours. Nobody would blame her for tagging out at this point.
George seemed to sense her hesitation.
“There are other people we can send if you’re not feeling up to it,” he said.
Jennifer ignored this and stared at McNelis.
“Did you just slap one of our people?” she asked harshly. “You come here slapping folks, and then expect me to go with you.”
“That man slapped himself,” McNelis said.
“Why?” asked Jennifer.
“Because I told him to,” replied McNelis. “I can be very persuasive. Ask anyone.”
Jennifer looked him up and down, trying to detect the slightest indication that McNelis might be joking. It appeared that he wasn’t.
“Let’s just get this over with,” Jennifer said.
“Very good,” McNelis replied. “There’s a car waiting for us just outside. Follow me.”
Jessica forced herself to stand and gather her things. George began to do the same.
“Nope,” said McNelis. “Just her.”
“What?” George said.
“No deal, otherwise,” he said. “You want the hottest interview in the universe right now, you only send her.”
“Now wait a minute,” George said. “A second ago you were practically begging us to come. Now you’re making rules?”
“I wasn’t begging you,” McNelis said. “Just her.”
“And what if I want to come?” George said.
“Then I just might have to make you slap yourself,” McNelis said. As insane as this sounded to Jessica, George looked at McNelis as though he might possess precisely such a power. George did not seem willing to test it.
“I’m fine to go alone,” Jessica said. “It’s all right.”
“Call me if you need anything,” George said.
Then he looked back at McNelis. And the strain of having been awake for so many hours became all too apparent.
“If you guys hurt her, I will fucking put you in the ground—you damn criminal fucks!” George all but screamed, his voice cracking. “When my family came over on the boat, we weren’t called Cutler. Our name was fucking Coriglione. Don’t think I don’t know people who can find the most powerful man in the country and take him out. Because I do. And they would do it out of love. Love for me! Which is something you horrible rats will never even understand.”
Jessica could not believe what she was hearing. McNelis only blinked rapidly several times.
“Whatever happened to the impartiality of journalists?” he eventually said.
“Go fuck yourself,” George answered. “Jessica, be careful.”
Jessica followed McNelis out of the conference room, past a pair of informal sentries (one of which had quite possibly just slapped himself), and then out into the hallway, where a few sad-eyed conventioneers and security made a grim patrol. Jessica kept her head down and tried to avoid being recognized. McNelis passed through an exit door and she followed him out into the dawn light.
THE FAKE NEWSMAN
Tim Fife—who had not summoned the strength to stay awake all night—awoke to a vigorous rapping on his hotel room door.
He started, and his mind raced.
Had it all been a dream? A fantasy? The final culmination of a life spent marinating his brain in conspiracy theories?
But then he heard Ryan’s voice.
“Hey, open up Tim. You’re not going to believe what the boss sent over.”
Then Dan.
“Yeah man, it’s pretty sweet. Open the door.”
Tim felt as though he had been hit by a truck.
He glanced at the bedside table, and saw his bottles of prescription sleep and anxiety aids—which he only took in cases of great emergency—resting beside his keys and wallet. These pills always left him feeling thick-headed and forgetful the next day, but sometimes he needed them. Though he could not recall opening the bottle, it certainly felt right that last night must have been one of those occasions.
Tim rolled out of bed and waddled over to the door. He opened it to reveal Dan holding a large, technology-based gift basket, and Ryan with a stack of boxes containing extra large pizzas.
“Here,” Dan said, handing over the basket. “This was addressed to you specifically.”
“Yeah,” added Ryan, “but I assumed the pizzas had to be for all of us. There were a lot of them. This is just part.”
“Pizza?” Tim said, as they pushed past him into his room. “It’s—what?—eight in the morning.”
“It’s breakfast pizza,” Ryan pronounced, sitting at the small desk and opening the box on top. “See? Eggs and sausage.”
“The basket has a card,” Dan said. “I went ahead and read it. The boss is really pleased.”
“Yeah,” Ryan said between bites. “He ought to be. You just killed the fake news label forever. This is something that takes an outlet from zero to hero overnight, like when TMZ had the Mel Gibson DUI exclusive back in 2006 … only ten times bigger! Of course the boss is happy. You just increased what he can charge for ads by about fifty-fold.”
“I dunno,” Tim said thoughtfully. “People who want to hate us will still hate us. And they’ll say it was really all Jessica. That everything was her idea.”
“A gray area is not necessarily a bad thing,” Dan said. “It keeps us edgy. Keeps us outsiders. Albeit, outsiders who can charge fifty times more per ad.”
“Maybe our salaries will go up,” Ryan said as he chewed. “Not fifty times, but, you know. A little would be nice.”
While Ryan and Dan chatted and ate, Tim opened his laptop and began sifting through the ruins of the two-party system.
“Christ,” he said, rubbing his eyes. “I shouldn’t have fallen asleep. Jesus!”
“What?” said Ryan.
“I have ten thousand emails,” Tim said. “How am I supposed to … My phone!”
Tim went for his phone in its charger.
“Yeah, this is pretty much destroyed too,” he pronounced.
“If it’s any consolation, I think the bo
ss sent you a new one in that basket,” Dan said. “Along with a new laptop, a hoverboard, and lotsa other cool things.”
“Want some of this pizza?” Ryan asked.
“No,” Tim said. “I’m too freaked out to be hungry. I … I suppose I ought to write something new for the site. Last night seems so much like a blur. A dream. Jesus.”
“What exactly happened to you?” Dan asked. “We were monitoring the feed from your cameras, but we kind of lost track when things went to shit and the Governor of Indiana started eating people.”
“First of all, it got crazy up in the suite when Van Bergen realized the Governor was a zombie,” Tim said.
“Yeah, we saw that part,” Ryan said.
“It just got crazier from there,” Tim continued. “Van Bergen lost it. So did the guys up there with him. I busted out of there as fast as I could. All of them were screaming and upset and … my mind is foggy on the details. I guess I should watch the tape.”
“Sure, I’ll hook you up with it,” Dan said. “Email you a link to the raw feed recording.”
“I remember trying to connect with Jessica afterwards … to make sure she had everything she needed,” Tim continued. “But I was so freaked out. Van Bergen had this security guy, and I thought for sure he was going to kill me. I don’t normally get panic attacks, but when I do they’re awful. I guess I came back here and took some pills. I don’t remember much. Christ. When did you lose the feed from my recorders?”
“About then,” said Dan. “About when you commenced to running in cowardly terror.”
“Dude, if you’d been there, you would have done the same thing,” Tim said.
“I know,” Dan said. “Just razzing you. We’re all real proud. And I should let you know, a bunch of people want to talk to you, if you can’t tell from your phone and email. Reporters from other outlets keep stopping by our table downstairs … when they can find it.”
“Yeah,” Ryan said. “Now you’re one of those reporters who makes themselves into the news. I think officially that means we’re supposed to hate you, but only because we’re secretly envious? That’s what I heard, at any rate. You sure you don’t want any of this pizza?”
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