When the carnage of the topping-off ceremony was far behind him, Doughnut switched on the presidential television in his limo and began searching for news of the disaster that had overwhelmed his topping-out ceremony. There was none. All he could find were advertisements promoting himself, Adolf ‘The Doughnut’ Doughnut and his achievements as President, or his one achievement, which was building a bloody big wall.
“Why can’t I find any news, God-dammit?” he growled as he flipped channels in quick succession and saw only more and more images of himself wearing his bright-red baseball cap.
“It’s because you bought up all the air time sir, remember?” Said Tyler.
Then Doughnut did remember. The main reason he’d won the election was because he was the richest man on the planet. So rich, in fact, that he’d been able to purchase all the available air time on all the T.V. channels in America and strangle the life out of the campaigns of all of his rivals.
After he’d been elected, he’d bought another big tranche of air time just to make sure he remained in the public eye and his ratings didn’t slip. So much air time was now devoted to promoting the president that very little was left over for legitimate programming, even the news.
“Now I do remember,” Doughnut replied. “Maybe it’s just as well I did that. It means we can release information about what went on back there in our own time, the way we want to release it. Get that organised for me, Tyler.”
“Yes, sir, Mr. President.”
“And make sure no-one gets to know that a bunch of zombies was able to climb over that wall we just spent fifty billion bucks of taxpayer dollars on. If that news were to get out I’d be finished.”
“Yes, sir, Mr. President.”
“And tell the Pentagon to deal with those Mexican chef zombies or whatever the hell they are. Tell them to make sure that no more of them get over that wall. And another thing, and this is probably the most important thing you have to do today Tyler. I need you to come up with a plan to cover this mess up for me. Cover it up and completely bury it so that no-one ever gets to hear about it.”
“Will that be all Mr. President?”
“That’ll be all for now, Tyler.”
As the car sped through the desert, Tyler got on the phone and made numerous calls. He then logged onto the presidential internet connection and sent a tranche of emails to see that the president’s instructions were carried out.
Doughnut, meanwhile, wondered how he’d put a positive spin on things if word got out that his wall had proved ineffective against wetback zombies using nothing more sophisticated than ladders to climb over it.
The thought made him tense. How can I relax? He asked himself. Then he thought of his young girlfriend in his Albuquerque hotel suite.
When they got to the hotel, Doughnut’s girlfriend met him in the lobby and he took her arm.
“We need some private time together, babe,” he said, propelling her towards the lift.
She assumed the smile she’d become expert at, the one that hid what she was thinking, and feeling, and allowed herself to be led by Doughnut into the lift, out of it, and into their suite.
“What’s the matter with you, honey? Are you tense again? Because if you are, don’t worry, I know how to relax you.”
She began to peel off her clothes and so did Doughnut.
A short while later he was lying on the hotel bed next to her, flushed and satisfied.
“That was great babe. You’ve gotta excuse me. We can have dinner together later.”
“That’s all right. Don’t rush back on my account.”
He dressed quickly as his girlfriend got into the shower. He called his Aide.
“Tyler, get up here. I need you to brief me on what’s going on about that mess back there with the wall.”
Tyler made his way to the President’s luxurious hotel suite.
“All right,” said Doughnut, as soon as Tyler walked through the door. “Give me the low-down on what you’ve done. I want to know everything.”
The two men stood together in the middle of the room and Tyler began.
“I’ve organised a complete news blackout on the Topping-out ceremony, sir,” he said. “I justified it as being in the interests of national security. But that won’t bury the story. We need to be able to explain why all those camera crews and the rest of them never made it home. So I’ve been in touch with the C.I.A. about it. They’ve organised an air crash on the wall. That will simultaneously wipe out the zombies and provide us with an explanation for why those people disappeared. As far as the networks are concerned, the DTV news broadcast went off air because of the plane crash. Maybe it won’t completely stack up, but we’ll probably be able to sell it anyway. We just have to hope to God that no-one had the chance to catch any of it on a mobile phone and get it on the internet.”
“Good work, Tyler.”
“I think we should involve the Pentagon as well as the C.I.A. We may need to send in the marines, in case there are some zombie air-crash survivors who need to be suppressed.”
“Don’t tell me about it Tyler, just do it. I need deniability, so you shouldn’t be telling me these things. I don’t want to hear anything that might incriminate me, if there’s an inquiry later. You should know that by now.”
Tyler nodded.
“Consider it done, sir.”
“Another thing, get onto the C.I.A. again, and find out if those Mexican zombies aren’t the only ones we’ve got to deal with. Tell them to find out if we’ve got a zombie problem here in the U.S. of A. I want them to concentrate on chefs. Celebrity chefs. Get the low-down on ’em. I’ve been hearing rumours.”
“What kind of rumours, Mr. President?”
“The rumour kind of rumour, God-dammit! I don’t have to explain myself to you, Tyler; you’re my Aide, not some snotty female limey interviewer from the BBC.”
“Very good, Mr. President. Er, did you say celebrity chefs?”
“That’s exactly what I said, Tyler. Now get onto it right away.”
Forty-eight hours later, Tyler hurried along the White House the corridor leading to the Oval office.
“I have a report for you, Mr. President,” he said when he got there. “It’s from the C.I.A. I think you ought to look at it right away.”
Doughnut, who was standing next to his desk practising his golf swing, lowered his club and glared at his Aide.
“God-dammit Tyler,” he said. “What’s the matter with you? Can’t you see I’m busy? Put it on my desk. I’ll look at it later.”
The President raised his golf club again and wiggled his backside.
Tyler stepped forward and put the report on Doughnut’s desk.
“Now you’ve made my desk untidy. Can’t you find somewhere else to put it?”
Tyler waved the report around uncertainly as he tried to decide where it should go. Eventually he said:
“You really should read it right away, sir, it’s important.”
Doughnut lowered his golf club again.
“Just tell me what it says. I’ve got to practise my swing. I’ve arranged a round of golf with the Veep this afternoon, and I don’t want that sonofabitch to give me another licking.”
“It says those rumours you heard were correct sir. We do have a plague of celebrity chef zombies on our hands, here in the United States.”
Doughnut dropped his golf club to the floor.
This was news he’d been dreading.
CHAPTER 3
“We have to do something about these Zombie sonofabitches before the problem gets out of hand, but what?”