“Zombies,” Doughnut said again, pulling himself together. “What do we pay you people for, over at the C.I.A.? This is the biggest pile of horse manure you’ve come up with since the Bay of Pigs fiasco.”
“Take another look, sir.”
The President leaned over the top of the wall again, and looked more closely at the slavering face below him.
“They’re zombies all right,” he said. “It’s a good job I had this wall built.”
“It’s only a matter of time before they get some longer ladders sir. Then they’ll be able to get over the top.”
Doughnut didn’t hear those words because his mind was racing. He was remembering something about zombies. What was it? Oh yes, it was a telephone call he’d received from some limey or other. How long ago had that been? He couldn’t remember. It could’ve been weeks or it could’ve been months. Anyway, this limey had claimed he was from the British Foreign and Commonwealth Department or something like that, and he’d said there was a worldwide epidemic of celebrity chef zombies and they all had to have their brains blown out.
Doughnut knew all about the weird limey sense of humour and he’d treated the whole thing as a joke. He’d assumed that a practical joker in England had rung him up and tried to get him to do something stupid to discredit himself. But now he was realised, the telephone call had been for real. He shifted uneasily from one foot to the other, remembering the intel reports from the C.I.A. that he’d never bothered to read, some of which had had the word ‘zombie’ on the front, which he’d taken at the time to be a code word for the ruined economy of a small country he’d invaded. Maybe I should’ve at least skimmed through those reports, he said to himself.
“Sir, Mr. President Sir! It’s only a matter of time before they get some longer ladders and then they’ll be able to get over the top.”
The President emerged from his reverie and this time he heard what the CIA man was telling him.
There’s still time to extricate myself from this disaster, he thought. I just have to finish the topping-out ceremony without any of it coming to light, and then I can get someone to clear up the mess when there’s no-one around to see what’s going on.
“How long have we got?” He asked.
“Two hours, maybe three. Longer if we get our marksmen to start picking them off”
“Hold your fire for now. We don’t want to worry our guests, and we don’t want anyone to know there might be a problem with the wall. Get the waiters to bring the mains out straight after the starters, and the puddings out straight after the mains. That way we’ll get through the meal quickly. As soon as people finish eating, get them packed off to their hotels in their official cars. Another thing. Get that band to play all their songs up-tempo, at least twice as quick as they should be played, and don’t let them stop the music until they’re told; and don’t start shooting until all the guests have left. Have you got all that?”
“Yes, sir.”
Doughnut went back to his seat and nonchalantly tucked into his starter as soon as it arrived.
“That was jolly good,” said Bertie when he’d cleared his plate. “I could do with a nice relaxing break now, for fifteen minutes or so, before the main course arrives.”
No sooner had the words left his mouth than the main course was placed in front of him.
“Cripes,” he said. “That was quick.” He turned to Doughnut. “But that’s you Americans all over, isn’t it? You like to have everything quick, don’t you?”
“Not everything” said Doughnut, thinking of the gorgeous pouting twenty-five year old Eastern European girlfriend he had waiting for him back in his hotel suite. They were going to get married soon, and when they did, she’d be coming with him to engagements like this one as his First Lady.
Bertie ate rapidly, the high-speed music somehow forcing him to swallow without chewing anything. A waiter who was hovering behind Bertie snatched his dinner plate away as soon as he’d polished off the last morsel of steak from it. A second waiter deposited a piping hot pudding in front of him before he’d had the chance to dab the gravy from his lips with his napkin. He looked around to make sure that the president was eating and when he saw that he was, Bertie followed suit.
In no time at all, the three course meal, which had been scheduled to last for over two and a half hours, ended to the “William Tell Overture”. At the same time, the limousines for the dignitaries began to form a line at the bottom of the wooden platform.
Doughnut got to his feet to tell everyone to proceed to their cars in an orderly fashion. Just as he opened his mouth to speak, the first wave of zombies made it over the wall, having got hold of longer ladders quicker than anyone would have thought possible. The TV crews had their backs to the wall, as they were intent on recording every second of the topping-out ceremony. Consequently they were unaware of the danger coming at them from the other side. Within seconds they were overwhelmed, without having had the chance to film a single second of zombie action to broadcast to the nation. The zombies pulled the plug on the power to their equipment, to prevent news of their onslaught getting out.
The wave of undead Mexicans moved swiftly forwards.
CHAPTER 2
The C.I.A. men immediately interposed themselves between the president and the zombies and began shooting. A hail of lead whined through the air and tore into the dead flesh of the zombies without stopping them.
When they heard and saw gunfire and zombies, many of the women began screaming their heads off. So did some of the younger men, who, unlike older generations, hadn’t been brought up to behave like real men.
International politicians, businessmen, and heads of state panicked when they heard the screaming and got up and rushed in all directions, colliding with one another and turning over tables and chairs in their haste. The orchestra, having been told it was their duty to perform until ordered to stop by the C.I.A., continued to play. They struck up “I’m going Home to Dixie” as chaos spread like a forest fire across the deck of the wooden platform. All-in-all, it was a scene that resembled the deck of the Titanic just before it sank.
The first wave of zombies rapidly overwhelmed the C.I.A. men and got in and amongst the melee of panic-stricken dignitaries and overturned dining furniture.
Tyler grabbed Doughnut’s arm and propelled him from the platform towards his car.
Doughnut heard a posh British voice.
“Cripes, you look a bit off-colour. Aaaaargh!”
He glanced back just in time to see a set of zombie teeth sinking into Bertie’s pale throat. As Bertie lacked any sort of a chin, it was relatively easy for the zombie to target his huge Adam’s apple and rip it out. Blue blood fountained from Bertie’s mortal wound into the air and joined the common blood of the many other guests caught up in the general melee.
“This way, sir,” said Tyler, propelling Doughnut to the safety of his official limousine and quickly following behind him.
When they were both in the back seat of the car, Tyler slammed the door shut.
“Albuquerque!” He shouted to the driver. “And step on it!”
The driver put his foot on the gas and sped off into the desert of New Mexico with his passengers.
Doughnut looked out of the rear windscreen and watched as a band of survivalists and Klan members charged up the staircase to the platform to teach the zombies a lesson for disrupting their hero’s party. They soon found their way into cooking pots in the vast catering kitchen that the platform had been equipped with, which the zombies had requisitioned within minutes of eliminating the presidential bodyguards.