Their every move was being recorded by a major TV company known as DTV. It was broadcasting the event with a ten-minute time lapse to allow for editing, in case the President made a gaff. The other TV companies had been barred because they all had female reporters whom Doughnut had fallen out with at some time or other.
DTV had cameras set up along the platform with lighting and sound crews. The cameras swivelled to follow Doughnut’s progress. He and his Aide took their places at the seats that were reserved for them.
The tables were already occupied by dignitaries who included congressmen from the Republican Party and a large number of world leaders. The Queen of England had been invited, but had cried off, citing a prior engagement as the reason, and had sent an obscure relative in her place. At least he was wearing a crown. Doughnut had insisted that any royals who attended the event should wear their crowns, and in the case of the British royals, their ermine as well. Bertie Windsor, the queen’s tenth cousin twice removed, was sweating profusely beneath his ermine. At the president’s insistence, he was sitting at the top table with him. Everyone else at the table, other than for the British foreign minister and president’s Aide Tyler, was a C.I.A. security man. The security men were all wearing dark glasses, dark suits, and earpieces with a springy cables attached to them. Not one of them so much as cracked a smile.
The British Prime Minister Camemblert had been invited to the event but he’d pulled rank and sent his Foreign Minister instead, somewhat to the President’s chagrin.
Still, Doughnut told himself, at least I’ve got a Royal here. That’s going to be great for my image.
As soon as Doughnut and Tyler sat down, champagne corks were popped and fizz was handed out amongst the assembled dignitaries.
Bertie looked closely at Doughnut. There was something about Adolf Doughnut’s black cowlick of hair and toothbrush moustache that reminded Bertie of someone, but he couldn’t think who.
Doughnut took out his mobile phone and held it in front of him, and he reached with his free arm around Bertie’s royal shoulders.
“Smile, King Bertie,” he said. “You’re with the President of the United States of America, and we want the world to know how happy you are to be here.”
Bertie tightened his lips rather self-consciously into a ‘u’-shape, and Doughnut took a selfie of the two of them, and immediately posted it on his Twitter account. Somewhere in a remote White House office, an obscure lackey dreamed up a flattering caption and added it to the selfie.
That should be good for at least another couple of points on the ratings, Doughnut told himself.
The black car that Doughnut had spotted earlier made its way to the wooden platform and pulled up at the front of the crowd. It had the Seal of the President of the United States on the side of it and underneath that were the words ‘Presidential Messenger’. The driver climbed out of the car and made his way to the bottom of the steps that led from the ground up to the platform. He was wearing a grey suit and a pained expression. There was a security man at the bottom of the steps. The driver showed the security man an official pass and he was allowed to ascend the staircase. He walked rapidly to the President’s table, and leaned over Doughnut’s shoulder.
“Sir,” he said. “I’m sorry to disturb you, but I have something you should see. It’s an urgent message from the President of Mexico.”
The Mexican president was one of the few world leaders who wasn’t attending Doughnut’s topping-out ceremony. He hadn’t given any reason for his non-attendance; he hadn’t even replied to his invitation.
Doughnut nodded and the messenger handed him a brown envelope.
Doughnut opened the envelope and frowned. There was a bill in it. It was the bill for the 50 billion dollar cost of building the wall. Doughnut had sent the bill to the Mexican president. He wondered why it’d been sent back to him. Doughnut would have understood if the Mexican president had simply ignored the bill, but not this. It didn’t make sense. He turned the bill over. His frown deepened. There was writing on the reverse. The Mexican president had scrawled the words “Fuck you Gringo” on the back of the bill.
Bertie saw the bill in Doughnut’s hands and read the words at the same time as the President did.
“I didn’t know your name was Gringo,” he said.
The president quickly thrust the bill into the pocket of his suit trousers.
“That God-damned wetback bastard,” he muttered under his breath. Then he turned to Bertie.
“It’s not,” he said. “Gringo is the name of the pet cat we keep in the White House. Sometimes he receives hate mail from cat-haters. You know how some people are.”
“Cripes,” said Bertie. “Cat-haters, eh? You wouldn’t think that anyone could possibly hate cats. They’re so cute and fluffy.”
Just then one of the security men pressed his earpiece further into his ear. He was maintaining a grim facial expression, the way he’d been trained to do at the C.I.A. headquarters in Fairfax. He adjusted his facial expression from grim to seriously grim and stood up. He looked through his dark glasses at his colleagues and nodded at two of them, who also stood up. The three of them walked to the wall and looked over it onto the Mexican side. Two of them stayed by the wall; the third returned to the table. He bent over and whispered into Doughnut’s ear.
“Excuse me, Mr. President, there’s something you need to see,” he said.
“Can’t it wait?” Doughnut asked impatiently. “I’m talking to the Queen of England.”
“It’s a Code Red, Mr. President,” said the security man.
The president dabbed at his lips with a napkin to remove some drops of champagne from them, and then he pushed his chair back so as to be able to extricate his massive belly from under the table. He struggled to his feet.
“All right,” he said. “Whatever this is, it better be important.”
“It is. Follow me, sir,” said the security man. He led Doughnut to where he’d left his two C.I.A. colleagues, who were still looking over the wall.
“Take a look, sir.”
Doughnut had to stand on tiptoe to look, because he was rather short. He peered over the wall. On the other side he saw a mass of Mexicans milling about at the bottom of the wall. Some of those at the back were carrying ladders. There were more ladders amongst the mass of Mexicans that were being passed overhead from the rear of the crowd to the front. When the ladders reached the front of the crowd, those in the vanguard placed them against the wall. As Doughnut watched, a number of Mexicans began to climb up the ladders. There was something about them that was rather threatening.
The leading Mexican was just below the point where Doughnut was sticking his head over the wall. He looked ravenous, and his skin was yellow. He opened his mouth to reveal a set of sharp teeth and he reached up as if to grab Doughnut, but that wasn’t possible, as the top of his ladder stopped short a good distance below the top of the wall.
“Good job we built the wall so high, sir,” said the security man.
Doughnut, who was shaken by what he’d seen, stepped back.
“Yes,” he said. “Yes, it is. Those things are not just Mexicans. Who — who — or what, are they?”
“Zombies, sir. They’re zombies.”
“Zombies?” Doughnut asked in disbelief. “Zombies don’t exist. They can’t. They’re fictional creations you only get in books and films.”
“That’s what we thought, sir. But then we heard rumours through our intel gathering at Fairfax and we began to investigate. We sent you some reports about it. We warned you that the Mexicans might have a plague of zombies on their hands, but this is the first time we’ve had a confirmed sighting.”