“You know all the insider info right?”
“You could say I was privy to top-secret information, both before and after the outbreak. What are you getting at?”
“Conspiracies and stuff,” Russ said. “Come on, you gotta tell me some of ‘em. Was the moon landing real? What about Bigfoot?”
The new president sighed. “Okay, just one. Have you seen those cash for gold stores? It turns out the government was secretly behind them. We sold all the gold in Fort Knox years ago when prices were high. But we wasted the money and then we had to scrape together new bars when Germany wanted their own ones back from the federal vaults. It was a huge—”
“No, man. I’m talking about aliens, Bermuda Triangle, stuff like that,” Russ said, not bashful in the least bit about cutting the leader of the free world off midsentence.
“Fine. NASA detected distant alien life in 2010 and the government was planning to give full disclosure in 2020. Not anymore…”
“Ha, I knew it,” Russ said. “If there are zombies, there might as well be aliens too. Reminds me of the time I was hauling chickens through Kentucky and saw a flying saucer shoot right over my rig. Was hoping I’d get beamed up to wang-bang some green hotties or something. Of course, I was blitzed off trucker speed, some ludes, and a sixer of Old Mil. So it might have been a crop duster for all I know.”
“Yes, indeed,” President Childers said and chuckled to himself about his white lie. Due to the chemicals coursing through his veins he was definitely feeling better than he had for a long while. “This would be a great time for a selfie.”
“Selfie? Is that when you try to blow yourself? Never could master the skill. Not that I didn’t try.”
“No, Russell. It’s when you take a picture of yourself and then post it online for others to look at. I just thought it would be interesting to see the president of the United States flying with a zombie co-pilot while high on cocaine. Forget I mentioned it.”
And so the discussion went on like that for quite a while, but there was a method to the president’s madness. He was enjoying the conversation with the country bumpkin but was also mentally evaluating his new companion at the same time. The results were not spectacular. However, desperate times called for desperate measures. There was a lot of that going on lately.
Having sufficiently gauged Russ’ mental acuities, President Childers tried to relax and let his exquisite mind wander. This created an awkward lull in the conversation for about thirty seconds, and Russ would not stand for it.
“Man, I loved hauling freight. The freedom of the wide open road, the God-given beauty of America’s wilderness. The hookers.”
“Sounds lovely.”
“Speaking of hauling,” Russ said while digging into the white bag once more. “Any chance I could get my driver’s license back? With like a get out of jail free card? You are the president.”
“A pardon?”
“Did you fart?” Russ asked.
“No, not pardon me, a pardon. It’s like you said, a get out of jail card.”
“Sure, whatever you want to call it. I just wanna drive again when this whole thing blows over. Best time of my life was on the road.”
“Russell, I’ll be frank with you. An alcoholic zombie has no business behind the wheel of any vehicle, much less a forty-ton truck possibly hauling hazardous or explosive material. So no, you won’t be getting your license back.”
“Dang.”
“But it doesn’t matter, because this trip we’re going on… it’s one way for both of us.”
Russ’s creepy green eyes narrowed. “How so?”
“I said I didn’t know why we got invaded, but that wasn’t entirely accurate. You see, China was gripped by famine as its fields dried up and blew away. It made the Dust Bowl look like nothing. Their land, once sacred to them, became worthless, and the rest of the world shrugged.”
“I’m listening,” Russ said and did another bump. For safety precautions, of course.
“Which leads me to the opinion that they didn’t come here for the love of conquest or retribution. They came here to eat.”
“Like a bear coming into a campsite?” Russ said.
“Exactly. Take away the food, i.e. the breadbasket of the U.S., and the bear goes elsewhere. So that’s what we’re going to do, more or less. They have no supply line whatsoever, so we’re talking a Napoleon in Russia scenario here.”
President Childers pointed to an inconspicuous satchel in the corner of the plane. He had sawed it off the former president’s hand right before they left. “That’s a backpack bomb. An Atomic Demolition Munition to be precise. We’re going to take it inside an observation tunnel heading into the Yellowstone caldera.” Russ looked confused and the president clarified. “It’s a giant super volcano. We set it off and it covers half the country in ten feet of radioactive ash. That’s why I had you tell your friends not to cross the Mississippi. It’s called the Sampson Option, and it will end the war.”
“Jesus. But we’ll wreck half the country, won’t we?”
“Do you have a better idea, Russell?”
“Of course not. Kind of a man of action over here.”
The president softened his tone. “Look, the super volcano is going to blow up sooner or later anyway. Maybe next year, maybe next decade. We already paid Brazil billions to build temporary housing as a contingency plan. It doesn’t look like we’ll need it, though.”
Russ’s ever-present grin had disappeared as he set the cocaine down and tipped his bottle of rapidly disappearing whiskey. Even the drink could not tame the goose bumps on his hairy arms.
“It’s not all bad, though. You might end up saving the world. What will be left of it, anyway.”
The patented grin returned. “Hah, and some of my ex-wives said I’d never amount to shit.”
“What did the other ones say?” the president asked.
“Who knows? They had restraining orders out on me.”
It was the president’s turn to grin. “They were wrong about you, Russell. Dead wrong.”
The conversation was over and the two very different men pondered what tribulations were ahead. Dawn broke soon after, and the skies turned a beautiful pink while the small plane soared over the fallow fields below, carrying one president, one knucklehead, and one last chance for humanity.
About The Author
Richard Johnson (sort of) grew up in small-town Galesburg, Illinois during the 80s. He currently lives with his thriving family in a small town outside of Chicago, where he is a full-time parent and part-time yorkie wrangler/duck whisperer.
Richard is a self-acclaimed expert of the zombie genre and is the author of the wildly popular Dead Drunk series, with titles including “Dead Drunk: Surviving the Zombie Apocalypse… One Beer at a Time,” “Dead Drunk II: Dawn of the Deadbeats,” and “Weekend At Vidu’s… a Dead Drunk Short.”
Richard is a good friend, a bad cook, and a terrible dancer. If there is ever a real zombie apocalypse (fingers crossed), seek him out for advice and comic relief. But bring plenty of beer.
Check Out “Weekend At Vidu’s… A Dead Drunk Short”
Vidu, a used car dealer and d-bag extraordinaire, had been aimlessly wandering the streets of Chicago with only one thing on his mind… and that was before he got turned into a zombie.
Just when you thought you had seen the last of him, now you can find out what happened to Vidu after he left his friends behind during the pandemonium of “Dead Drunk: Surviving the Zombie Apocalypse… One Beer at a Time.” Humor, action, zombies, hangovers, gratuitous insults, and more Vidu!
This short story can be read as bonus material for fans of the Dead Drunk series, or as an introduction to the Dead Drunk world, where the only thing with more bite than the zombies are the jokes.
Credits
I would like to thank all of the people who have helped me finish this latest project as well as those who have given me encouragement along the way. I never in my wildest dreams belie
ved I would have actual fans, and now I have messages coming in from places like New Zealand, Great Britain, India, and Mexico. The support truly has been phenomenal.
I’d like to once more thank Derek Murphy of Creativindie Covers for creating another fantastic cover design, and the editors at Manuscript Magic for their excellent editing work.
Thank you to my friends and family for believing in me, thank you to my lovely wife, Kristin, and my boys, Kevin and Ryan, for keeping life interesting, and thank you to my parents for allowing me to watch gory zombie movies at an inappropriately young age.
Most importantly, thank you for taking an interest in my books. If you keep reading them, I’ll keep writing them, and that’s a promise.
Richard Johnson
Dead Drunk II: Dawn of the Deadbeats (Dead Drunk: Surviving the Zombie Apocalypse... One Beer at a Time Book 2) Page 20
