Zombie-in-Chief

by Scott Kenemore

  THE TYCOON

  Absurdly, the Tycoon found himself able to concentrate on everything except his speech, mere moments away. The Tycoon lounged in the backstage area, in a green room designed especially for him, and waited to be told that it was time. So much rode on what he did next that no brain—zombie or human—could truly grasp the scope of it. Perhaps this was a mercy. For failure would not only mean the end of him, but also the end of many others like him. He could be remembered as a credit to his caste, or as the man who undid it utterly.

  Outside the green room, McNelis flitted about like a large hummingbird powered by Adderall and scotch. Though McNelis had composed the draft of the remarks that afternoon, the Tycoon had made several substantial changes known only to himself and the teleprompter operator.

  Instead of musing on his soon-to-be-determined fate, the Tycoon regarded the patriotic embellishments some thoughtful soul had placed in the green room. In addition to an American flag cake and red, white, and blue table setting, there was a long ribbon that ran along the walls. It too bore patriotic colors, and was also decorated with the faces of prominent presidents.

  There was always a first, the Tycoon thought to himself. We had a first Catholic president. A first handicapped president. A first black president. And now, we would have a first zombie president.

  They would find him not so different than the others, the Tycoon thought to himself. Not if they really thought about it.

  U.S. Presidents had literally killed men. Some had done it wholesale, on a massive scale, dropping bombs from planes while fighting in wars. Others had kept it personal, dueling with enemies mano a mano. The American people knew this. They knew this and voted for these men anyway. The urge to kill, at least occasionally, was not inhuman. Rather, it was entirely human. Voters would not shy from it, the Tycoon assured himself. Alone in the ballot box with nobody looking, they would relate to it. They would remember that it was who they were as well.

  The Tycoon’s eyes slowly worked their way along the ribbon. It showed him many men of great inherited wealth. It showed him skirt-chasers. Bigots. Gamblers. Drunks. Warmongering expansionists. Men who had used every form of deception to get ahead.

  Yet if one thing struck the Tycoon about these celebrated personages set before him, it was that they were not better than him. They were like him, but not better. The things they had done were things he could do. He seemed to know this innately. Their accomplishments were all within his wheelhouse. Given the right advisors and assistants, and how hard could it be? Probably, the Tycoon mused, he could outperform these men in all the real, meaningful ways. Many U.S. Presidents had made mistakes. They had shown weakness. They had started fights they could not finish.

  These men were not better than him. If anything, he was better than them.

  The Tycoon heard McNelis’s frantic footsteps approaching. Time was short. The Tycoon stepped back and looked at all the presidents on the ribbon together. It seemed, for just a moment, that they were looking back.

  “You’re not so special,” the Tycoon said. “You’re not so smart! You did it back when it was easy. You were like those athletes from olden times. Sure, Babe Ruth could hit all those homers because nobody could throw ninety yet. Well I’ve got to do it today. I’ve got to run with the liberal media dead set against me. In a world where everything I do is recorded. I’ve got to campaign when every person has a phone in their pocket, and every phone has a camera in it. I make one mistake, and it’s preserved forever. Then they can put it online and the whole country sees it immediately! Is that the world you campaigned in? I’ve got news for you. It wasn’t!”

  The Tycoon made a slow circle of the room. He extended a finger and pointed it accusingly at the ribbon of faces.

  “You will not judge me. You will not keep me out of your club just because I am a zombie. I built my own club, did you know that? And people pay six figures just to join. They beg to join. There’s a waiting list. You were not so different from me. Hell, you were me. And I am one of you. I will make this country greater than any of you could ever imagine.”

  The Tycoon heard someone clear his throat. He turned in a slow circle and scanned the faces. Who had it been? Washington? Lincoln? FDR?

  Then the Tycoon rotated to face the door to his green room and saw that it was only McNelis.

  “Sir, ten minutes ’till—”

  The campaign manager’s face fell.

  “Your m-makeup,” McNelis stammered. “You aren’t wearing your makeup.”

  “Tonight, the American people are going to meet the real me,” the Tycoon said. “I want that to be true in every way possible, so I told the makeup lady she could go home. The hair fella too. Combed it myself. I think it looks all right.”

  “But sir, you’re known for your makeup,” McNelis said. “What’s more, everybody wears it on television, not just you. Hell, I wear it when I go on the talk shows to campaign for you.”

  “Well, I don’t wear it anymore,” the Tycoon said, crossing his arms.

  “Remember the Nixon/Kennedy debate? Nixon refused the makeup and Kennedy didn’t. They say it cost Nixon the election.”

  “I don’t care,” said the Tycoon. “My mind is made up.”

  “Sir … I say this to you because I love you,” McNelis managed, swallowing hard. “Without your makeup, you look scary. Your skin is …”

  “Like a cadaver?” the Tycoon said. “Like a ghoul? You’re getting warmer, McNelis. I look like what I actually am.”

  “It’s just that I don’t know if the voters …” McNelis tried again.

  “The voters will understand,” he said to McNelis. “That’s all I can tell you. I’ve made the decision. It’s done.”

  McNelis hung his head.

  “Now, what were you saying?”

  “It’s ten … nine minutes until you go on,” McNelis said, glancing at his watch. “We ought to move you into place.”

  “Very well,” the Tycoon said. “Lead the way.”

  McNelis did, conducting the Tycoon through a backstage area and onto the red X marked in tape by the side of the stage. As they moved into place, the Tycoon noted that the entire arena—both out in the audience and their area behind the scenes—felt somehow devoid of life. The seats were full, but the conventioneers were quiet.

  “This feels like the walkthroughs, the rehearsals we did,” he whispered to McNelis.

  “People still aren’t sure what is happening,” McNelis said. “Folks are edgy. Understandably.”

  “It looks like most of the floor is still filled—out there, I mean,” the Tycoon said, gesturing to the audience.

  “Yes,” McNelis said evenly. “We had some defections, but those have been compensated for. Some new supporters have arrived. These newcomers like you more because you are a zombie.”

  “Outstanding,” said the Tycoon.

  “They are your most extreme supporters,” McNelis said. “The kind of people, for whom, you can do no wrong. They really like you … and they really hate her.”

  “Ahh, the kind that read that website. What’s it called? TruthTeller?”

  McNelis nodded.

  “Yes,” McNelis said. “Initially, it was thought that TruthTeller’s coverage regarding your differently-alive status might be a negative. But as you see, they love you all the more for it. They post online about how other candidates can eat their opponents alive figuratively, but you can do it literally. They’ve come to view you as superhuman because of it. We’ve granted that outlet unprecedented access, accordingly.

  “Speaking of unprecedented access,” the Tycoon said as a small figure in a rumpled two-button powersuit emerged from the shadows.

  “Hello there,” Jessica Smith said. “Sorry I’m late. I had a hard time waking up.”

  “You’re here, and that’s what matters,” said the Tycoon.

  Jessica looked him up and down.

  “Are you all right?” she asked. “You’re not sick are you? You look … differe
nt.”

  “Zombies don’t get sick,” the Tycoon said dismissively. “And I’m feeling fine. Now, are you ready to see a politician deliver the most important speech in American history?”

  Jessica did not immediately respond.

  “Whether or not you’re ready, it’s what you’re about to see,” the Tycoon asserted. “Believe me. What I’m going to do tonight. It’s going to be big. The biggest ever.”

  “We’re all excited for your speech,” Jessica said neutrally.

  “Good,” the Tycoon replied. “You should be. Everyone should be if they know what’s good for them. And afterward, like I said before, you can ask me anything you want.”

  Jessica nodded and stepped away.

  Then the Tycoon noticed another familiar—albeit unexpected—face standing off to the side of the backstage area. Several paces behind Jessica. It was a man known to him, and, indeed, to most of the world. The actor was Hollywood royalty. Famous for playing the tight-lipped lead in Westerns and cop films of the 60’s and 70’s, he was now an elder statesman of Tinseltown, still making films as a director. He was also a member of the Uneeda Society, and had been for several years.

  A longtime supporter of the Tycoon’s party, the actor could probably go anywhere he liked at a political convention—even backstage. But his presence on this evening was no good-natured show of support. The Tycoon understood immediately that it was quite the opposite.

  As if to confirm this, the actor dropped his hand to his hip and came up with an invisible double-action six shooter. He levelled it at the Tycoon, cocked it, and pulled the trigger—bucking slightly under the imaginary recoil. Then he gave the slightest wink.

  There was no mistaking the message. If the Tycoon did not pull this off, he was dead. The Uneeda Society had had a good thing going for several decades. Now, that was probably all fucked up. Even the failsafe device meant for these sort of situations—Initiative X—was probably fucked up. (The Initiative called for a member of the Uneeda Society to identify him or herself as a member of the undead publicly, while disavowing any association with the society. It was meant to be like jumping on the grenade to save the entire platoon.) If the Tycoon did not right things tonight, then the next gun pointed in his direction would not be imaginary.

  “Okay,” McNelis said, turning to the podium where a successful tech venture capitalist was introducing the Tycoon. “It’s almost go-time. Ms. Smith, we’ll talk to you again after the speech.”

  As was customary before big speeches, McNelis faced the Tycoon to give him one final going-over, brushing away lint and looking for cowlicks. But staring up into his wan, pale face, it was clear to McNelis that this was not a normal speech. The Tycoon was doing things in his own way. His appearance was so stark and startling, that McNelis decided some cowlicks might do him good.

  The venture capitalist at the podium drew to a close. McNelis and the Tycoon listened in.

  “…which is why I’m so proud to introduce him. I give you a man who is not just a thinker, but also a do-er. The man you have chosen as your nominee. In ways that no one has expected, he has come to define the new face of what is possible in America. He is an extraordinary man, in every sense of the word. He is here to earn your trust and earn your vote. I could not be more proud to present you with … the next president of the United States!”

  “Go get ’em,” McNelis said, giving the Tycoon a final pat on the back.

  The venture capitalist intercepted the Tycoon halfway to the podium. The men shook hands and smiled for the crowd, but the Tycoon had time to see the capitalist’s face fall (and stay fallen) the moment he stepped past. This man was here out of obligation. Now, that obligation had ended. In a few short minutes the man would be on his private jet headed back to Silicon Valley, and that would be that.

  As the Tycoon strode out to the podium and heard the applause building, it was as though he were carried along by legs that were not his own. The clapping and cheers continued. He stood ready to begin his speech, patriotic music blaring and American flags waving behind him. Yet the Tycoon could see hesitation on the faces of many in the audience. Where was their bright, shining orange hero? What was this pale, sickly ghost standing in his place? This poor imitation?

  The crowd continued to applaud and to wiggle in the air the signs that bore his name, but it all seemed hesitant and halfhearted.

  No matter, thought the Tycoon. In a moment they would see. In a moment they would understand.

  The Tycoon looked into the teleprompter and began to speak.

  “Friends, delegates, and fellow Americans, I am here tonight to accept your nomination for the presidency of the United States. But I’m also here to do more than that. When I announced my candidacy one year ago, we were living in a very different world. America was different, you were different, and I was different too.

  “Throughout my life, I have grappled with the question of my own identity. The question of who I truly am. Perhaps this is because I’ve been so many things. I’ve been a successful businessman. I’ve been a philanthropist. I’ve been a television celebrity who got amazing ratings, just amazing; they were just unbelievable. I’ve been all of these wonderful things … but I still had questions about who I truly was, and how to share that truth with the American people.

  “And so I did what you do when you’re looking for something important. I went on a quest. A very, very important quest. A quest for my party’s nomination. In undertaking this quest, I discovered you all. I discovered America. I discovered places I had known, but in most cases never visited before. And I met people. Wonderful people. People who accepted me even though I was different from them. I met people who were of different faiths than me. People who saw me as a city-slicker who dated supermodels, went to gallery openings, and lived in a skyscraper. I had never been to a tractor pull or gone bow hunting. But even so, these wonderful people showed me love. They looked straight into my eyes and said that even though I was different, I was their man. My skills as a dealmaker and negotiator might not be the same as skills like skinning a buck or running a trotline, but they didn’t care. They wanted me to put my skills to work for them, and for the entire country.

  “I realized I had found what I was looking for. I had found myself. Looking into the faces of the Americans from coast to coast who welcomed me with open arms, I realized that it was okay for me to be different. In fact, it might even be preferable. Because I could bring my different skills and talents to do the work that will make America great again!”

  Here, the Tycoon paused because the volume of the applause had become overwhelming. The audience was responding to his message. Despite his new appearance and lack of orange glow. They were connecting with his words.

  The Tycoon forced himself to wait for the clapping and cheers to die back down. A quick glance over his shoulder into the wings showed him McNelis beaming. The Tycoon had jettisoned his favorite speechwriter’s words, but all that mattered was he had the audience now. They were with him.

  “So you see,” the Tycoon continued, “where … at first … I had hesitated to let people at events and campaign stops see ‘the real me,’ I realized that, the more I dropped my guard, the more they liked it. The more certain they became that I was their man for the job. And that is why I am here today not just to accept the nomination, but to say something I’ve never said publicly. Something that I believe will position our party to crush all opposition in November and take back the White House. Today, I am here to tell you my truth … that I am a Zombie-American.”

  And the Tycoon paused again.

  A more cowardly candidate would have continued on, hurrying to frame this stark admission in positive terms. But the Tycoon knew that to do so would be already to admit defeat and failure. To show he found it necessary to employ the kind of subterfuge and skullduggery he had so lately forsworn.

  And so the Tycoon let it linger. He let the word reverberate off of the rafters at the top of the arena. Zombie-American. />
  The cat was really out of the bag. The bag was empty. That was it. Now his whole being—his whole future and everything else—truly did hang in the balance.

  Then the sound.

  Uttered from the mouth of a young man. (Probably, one of these new supporters from the internet McNelis had been telling him about.) One sound. Not even a real word. Just a sound.

  “Ow!”

  But it was no exclamation of pain. It was the kind of “Ow!” one said after a band member had finished a particularly spectacular guitar solo at a heavy metal concert. It said “rock on” and “keep it up” and “more of that.”

  Did they want more?

  He would give it to them. Oh yes he would.

  The Tycoon smiled.

  “Some in the biased liberal media have questioned whether our party should be holding this final night of this convention, or whether I should still be the nominee. I am here tonight to tell you that nobody, but nobody, can do the job that I can. I will lead our party back to the White House. I will do it as a Zombie-American, yes, but more importantly, I will do it as an American!”

  More cries of support. More cheers. Then a slow swell of applause. It washed over the Tycoon like a warm bath. Like a magical wave that healed all that was broken within him, removed all doubts, and restored him to former and future glory.

  “Under my administration, we will be a country of law and order again!” he continued. “Attacks from outside our nation, and out-of-control crime in our inner cities, both threaten our way of life. Anyone who does not grasp that is not fit to lead. I tell you, I grasp that bigly! The crime and violence that afflict our nation will soon come to an end. Believe me, when I am president, evildoers will fear me. When I am president, order will be restored!”

  Thunderous applause.

  “And I don’t have to tell you that times are tough in America right now. Things are hard for working men and women. But when I am president, Americans will come first again. Other nations will treat us with respect. I tell you, it’s us against them! Big business, the liberal media, and elite donors are all lining up behind my opponent because they know she will keep the rigged system in place. She is the status quo. Her message is that things will not change. My message is that things have to change, and I am the one to change them. I am your voice. I am the laid-off factory worker struggling to put food on the table. I am the weeping mother who has lost her children to drugs and violence. I am the zombie shambling across the plains and mountains and deserts of America. I will give a voice to all Americans—rich and poor, male and female, alive and undead. Now, nobody is forgotten. Now, everybody has a voice.”