George Washington Zombie Slayer

by Wiles, David

  “It’s a bit harsh,” George noted, still coughing.

  “Aww, that’s just the first hit,” Reebock explained. “You getting’ acclimated.”

  “Mmmmmm, “George said as inhaled again. In a few moments, he could indeed feel a relaxing sense of serenity wash over his troubled mind, a sense of both pleasure and relaxation.

  “Dat’s what I’m talkin’ ‘bout,” Reebock said. “What you feelin’ now is the love of the Jamaican Gunji Queen.”

  “Her love is indeed potent,” Washington concluded, inhaling the last of the herb. “Perhaps we shall consider planting it during the next crop rotation.”

  Just then Oprah burst into the stable, rushing up to the startled young men.

  “Massah George, yer Mama is a-callin for you! Yer Father Colonel Gus has done woken up!” Oprah exclaimed. George rushed from the stables and back to his father’s room in the main house. But whatever blossoming hope George felt at his Father’s newfound consciousness was quickly extinguished as he entered the room.

  Augustine Washington was now nearly unrecognizable as he sat up in bed, his eyes straining to stay open. His pale flesh and sunken eyes gave his face a skeletal look that George felt was a certain portent of death.

  “You father wishes to speak with you,” Mary Washington said simply, and walked from the room.

  “I have spoken with your mother regarding our family affairs, and all is in order,” Gus said to his son. Then, to George’s shock and amazement, his father swung his pale legs over the side of the bed and made a wobbly effort to stand. “Here, boy, help me up,” Gus ordered.

  Gus placed his arm across his son’s strong back, while George gripped him gently around the waist. Gus put on his long overcoat, which was now many sizes too large for his emaciated frame and began walking towards the bedroom door.

  “Help me to the work shed,” Gus said resolutely. George grabbed the small lit candle and holder from the bedside table and walked with his father out of the bedroom. Augustine Washington spoke carefully and thoughtfully as they made the slow walk to the work shed out behind the stables.

  “I fear I have been…infected with whatever malady afflicted those poor souls that tried to devour us,” Gus stated plainly. “I have heard tales of such creatures, of dead walking, feeding off the living, but always thought such tales were told only to frighten children. I now know otherwise. I just wish it wouldn’t have bitten me on my fucking balls.”

  “I was frightened, father,” George admitted. “Both then and now.”

  “Aye you may be frightened, George,” Gus explained. “And such fear is a wise thing, a good thing. But you are no child. You have seen nearly eleven summers, but you are more of a man now than most men shall ever be. You shall bear our family honor and our legacy unto greatness,” Gus stated as they unlocked and then entered the work shed. “Of this I am sure.”

  George set the candle down to illuminate a shed that was an overflowing storehouse packed with lumber and nails, panes of glass, iron tools, saws, ropes, shackles and chains, casks of gunpowder, knives, muskets and the various valuable odds and ends needed for the operation of a large southern plantation. Gus sat upon a wooden stool and drew his son in close.

  “I have been having dreams, son,” Augustine said ominously. “Dark, frightful dreams of being dead and yet walking among men. Dreams with evil thoughts in which I am craving the taste of human flesh!” he whispered energetically, almost frantically. “I would not have that happen. I will not have that happen. I will not become one of those poor, soul-less creatures that tried to feed upon us. And yet, how do you kill that which is already dead?”

  “I do not know, Father,” George said sadly. “Those creatures seemed unharmed for all our efforts against them.”

  “I have only one idea,” Gus said. “Go and fetch Denzel and bring him back here.”

  George left immediately, leaving Gus alone in the shed. He hurried to the stables where he found the handsome slave, and directed Denzel to return with him to the work shed. The two made the short walk in the darkness, but as they approached, George could see his father standing with a candle in the yard, well away from the work shed. They were still far away from the structure, although George could see his father was holding some object under his arm.

  As they approached the work shed, George could see that his father was holding a one-gallon wooden cask of gunpowder. The plug on the top had been removed, and Augustine Washington clutched the cask tightly to his chest. The early night air was totally quiet and absolutely still and George could hear his father’s whispered words even at the distance of twenty five yards.

  “I love you, my son,” Augustine Washington said. And then he touched the lit end of the candle against the uncapped end of the gunpowder cask. And Augustine Washington was no more.

  The cask exploded in a blazing sphere of orange flame and a deafening roar. The force of the blast knocked both George and Denzel from their feet. But when they sat up, near the small, smoking crater left by the explosion, George knew that his father had perished instantly.

  The slaves all rushed out, as did Mary Washington, to see what caused such havoc. With ears ringing, George stood and stared dumbstruck into that smoking crater where his father once stood. Although only eleven years old, George Washington realized that he was now the master of the Ferry Farm plantation house. And his father was truly gone.

  Augustine Washington had found the one certain, selfless way to protect his family and stop himself from becoming one of the walking dead. He had consigned himself to the fiery oblivion of suicide, even to the potential peril of his own immortal soul.

  Chapter 3

  It Takes a Village

  The Sawyer plantation sat along the banks of a small, meandering creek about twenty miles south of Fredericksburg, Virginia. The plantation was, in point of fact, more of a small village than a single plantation, with tens of individual farmers building homes across the width and breath of the plantation grounds.

  Elderly Jeremiah Sawyer, realizing a few years ago that he was too old and infirm to efficiently farm his 600 acre plantation, invited homestead farmers to rent plots of his large plantation and to raise crops of their own choosing. Sawyer collected a fee of 30% of the crops raised, with the individual farmer keeping 70%. Thus, a thriving and efficient community had sprung up here, which the residents had begun to call the Village of Sawyerville.

  On this quiet Sunday afternoon, the farmers and their families had gathered in the yard of the Sawyer House, the unofficial town hall, for an informal village picnic. The women were busy at work preparing assorted breads and fruits and vegetables for the meal, while the men tended a large pig being spit-roasted over an open pit. The children played in the field near the dirt road just behind the main house.

  In these simple days of 1743, children in colonial Virginia amused themselves with outdoor play across the meadows and streams of this vibrant land. The children climbed trees and skipped stones across lakes and rivers. They swam in the streams and chased squirrels and rabbits through the woods. They played games like “hide and seek,” or “throw the black child into the pond.”

  On this sunny afternoon, a strange sight greeted the children who played in the meadow behind the Sawyer farm. From along the dirt road came three unholy beings, staggering towards the farm. They appeared to be men, although their clothing was in tatters and two of the men had pale faces that made them look unearthly and ghost-like. The third man had a dark, sinister visage, as if his entire face had been charred and burned.

  The children all stood silent for a moment, unsure if they should approach the strangers or run away. One of the children, a simpleton child by the name of O’Riley, headed towards the road and into the midst of the strange creatures. The other children stood watching, silent and transfixed.

  Chubby little O’Riley walked up to the three strangers, stood surrounded by them for the briefest of moments, before they set upon the lad and began to devour him!
They pulled him apart, arms and limbs torn asunder before they cannibalized him in a bloody buffet of death.

  The other children all ran screaming in the direction of their parents, who had already noted the approach of the strangers. Seeing the carnage, the women screamed also, some fainting, while the men grabbed whatever farm implements were close at hand and charged the three bloody creatures. The angry mob soon descended on the monsters, striking and beating them, impaling them on pitchforks and slicing them with sickles, all the while the creatures still fought on, even after many minutes of mortal wounds being dealt.

  By sheer force of numbers, the creatures were soon subdued and pinned to the ground, then tied fast with thick, strong rope, and were at last immobile.

  “What are they?” asked Henry Fleming, while the creatures struggled against the ropes.

  “They look like men possessed,” Reverend Colby answered. “Like demons.” The priest removed a small flask of holy water from his vest pocket and sprinkled some on the creatures, to no effect.

  The crowd looked to O’Riley Sr., father of the imbecile child William, who had just been eaten, and asked what he wished to be done.

  “We hang ‘em high,” stated the angry, grief-stricken father.

  The men dragged the three bound creatures to a nearby oak and slung three ropes over a tall, overhanging branch, quickly fashioning nooses to the end of each rope. Even the Reverend Colby helped the villagers in their task, content that such a hanging was righteous justice for the abhorrent crime he and the others had just witnessed.

  The nooses were fixed tightly about the necks of the creatures, and the menfolk pulled each creature up in turn, hanging each cannibal ten to twelve feet in the air, suspended by the neck.

  The men of Sawyerville had all seen hangings before, and knew it was not uncommon for victims to choke and gag and kick briefly while they strangled to death by suffocation. Indeed, that is what each creature began to do after being hung. Only in this instance, that choking and snarling and kicking did not immediately stop, and it went on for an entire week.

  For seven full days and nights, in sun and moonlight, the three creatures hung by the mighty oak of the Sawyer farm, hanging by their necks until dead. For the full week, they snarled and growled and snapped at passers-by, many of whom made a sign of the cross, imploring a merciful God to deliver them all from evil.

  As the creatures’ bodies swayed in the light breezes through the passing days and nights, the ropes cut deep into their necks, wearing away the skin and flesh and sinew. And on the seventh day, as an angry thunderstorm approached, a ferocious wind rose up, jostling and bobbing the creatures in a gusty tempest, until at last their necks could not support the weight of their bodies, and all three fell, headless, to the ground below.

  The next morning, the villagers all inspected the fallen heads and bodies of the dead creatures at the base of the oak where they dropped, afraid to touch them, but confirming their lifelessness.

  “God be praised,” the Reverend Colby exclaimed to the gathered neighbors. “And I think it only fitting that we offer up a prayer of deliverance at this solemn moment.” The villagers removed their hats and bowed their heads.

  “Lord!” the Reverend began, looking heavenward. “We thank you for delivering us from these vile and terrible creatures who came among us to defile your true believers. And though one of our own has fallen, devoured by these godless servants of Satan, we offer thanks that the only victim was the slow O’Riley child, who was always somewhat retarded and dull-witted and not so great a loss to his family as the other children might have been.”

  “Amen!” exclaimed Mr. O’Riley, who was even now gathered around his many children, while consoling his wife.

  “And Lord,” continued Reverend Colby, “ we know thy punishments are true and just, and your anger is swift and sure because of our own sinfulness. Yet in our sadness, we offer thanks,” the Reverend added. “For Mr. O”Riley still has many fine children who are uneaten, by your grace, and a fine, buxom young wife with wide, child bearing hips, who may yet still be bred for many years to come.”

  “Amen!” O”Riley shouted in reply. “Amen,” the villagers all replied together.

  The villagers were reluctant to give Christian burial to these fiendish, headless corpses that lay beneath the mighty oak on the Sawyer farm. After some discussion, they began to pile dry wood and branches upon the corpses. They decided to consign the bodies of these creatures to flames as a burnt offering to the Lord.

  The villagers all contributed twisted wooden sticks and dried branches to the effort, and the wood pile grew and grew until, after two hours, it stood as high as the tallest villager. Reverend Colby finally approached the mound of wood in the late afternoon, and gently touched a lit candle to the base of the stack. It burned slowly at first, then blazed higher, until at last the bonfire grew to engulf the entire stack of wood.

  The villagers stood mesmerized by the sight of the funeral fire. As sunset approached, the flames grew even higher, perhaps fed by the fiendish corpses that lay beneath. After nearly an hour, the flames reached their apex, at first blackening the mighty oak tree nearby, and then finally setting the entire mighty oak tree ablaze.

  It was an awesome sight after sunset, the funeral bonfire burning and that giant, fifty foot oak now fully aflame, the light of its consumption visible for miles in all directions. The flames burned away the bodies of the three murdering, zombie cannibals, burned them all into the ashes of a sad and distant memory of a threat that would one day return to threaten America’s future.

  Chapter 4

  ‘Till Death Us Do Part

  George Washington stood in front of his father’s grave marker and reached down to brush away the leaves and dead twigs that the cold winter wind had blown in front of the lone headstone. It had been over 15 years since his father had passed and George felt it his duty to visit his father’s gravesite on this day, January 6, 1759, the day of his own wedding.

  Over these many years, George had served with the British army in North America, and had an illustrious career. He learned the lessons of leadership, military drill, discipline and battle. He had engagements with the Indians, who were fearsome, and against the French, whom it was well known made great wine and cheese, but lacked any skill or proficiency in military matters. When Washington failed to obtain a commission in the British army after years of service, he folded up his handsome uniform, and put on the cotton garments and wool coat of a civilian, gentleman farmer

  Taking one last look at the gravestone, and saying a silent prayer, Washington rode off towards the Ferry Farm and his bright new future.

  Now in his late-twenties, George had grown into a tall, impressive model of masculinity and physicality. Handsome, well-read, dignified, hard-working and strong, he was the ideal of southern aristocracy. And with his impending marriage to Martha Dandridge, George Washington would soon be one of the wealthiest landowners in Virginia.

  Martha Dandridge was not considered to be an overly attractive woman. Plain looking, stout and barrel-shaped, she lacked the education, daintiness and grace so desirable in her time. She was additionally burdened by the fact that she was a widow, saddled with two children by her now deceased husband. But she was considered a valuable “catch” as a wife because of one desirable trait: Martha Dandridge was as wealthy as hell.

  The widow Dandridge certainly looked more attractive to her suitors reflected in this lens of unimaginable wealth, and she took full advantage of her economic value. She would often attend social events in the most expensive of handmade silk dresses, imported from the finest of European dressmakers, and wearing bracelets and necklaces of the finest gold and jewels. She was also publicly accompanied by a cadre of slaves, one to fan her, a second following behind, holding the train of her dress, a third to dab the sweat from her private areas, and yet a fourth to fetch her cooling refreshments with an authoritarian wave of her hand.

  Martha and George first met many
months ago, when George attended an evening cotillion held by a wealthy Spanish Contessa who was the owner of a local plantation. Martha was present at the event and George was immediately impressed upon seeing Martha’s fine jewelry, expensive, embroidered dress and attentive slave entourage. “I am gobsmacked!” George exclaimed to Reebock, his own trusted slave and valet.

  “A chick with a posse like that has got to have some serious Benjamins,“ Reebock observed. “And look at all dat swag, mon.”

  “Indeed, I feel a swelling in my loins, unrelated to any urological condition,” George confessed in attraction to this ostentatious display of wealth. “My codpiece grows firm and snug even now,” George added.

  “Dat may be too much information,” Reebock confessed.

  George was upset that Martha was in long, deep conversation with Charles, the Earl Cornwallis, a wealthy nobleman from England who was engaged in what the British called “cruisin’ for totty.” The rules of social conduct required that George would have no opportunity to speak with the bejeweled sophisticate unless the Earl could be distracted from her. And George Washington, the master tactician, had an innovative plan for his romantic conquest of Martha Dandridge.

  “I say… Reebock,” George said to his valet.

  “Sir?” replied the slave.

  “I wish to speak with her, but cannot do so while she is otherwise engaged in conversation with the Earl Cornwallis.”

  “Just go over dere, mon,” Reebock suggested. “Just talk to her.”

  “It would be undignified for me to interrupt his pursuit of totty,” Washington stated in truthful understanding of the social conventions of the day. “Unless he departs, I cannot speak with her.”

  “Yeah, so what do you want me to do about dat, mon?” Reebock inquired with a growing sense of unease.

  “Do you see how the Earl is sipping red wine from that crystal goblet?” Washington asked. “I want you to walk towards the Earl…” George began.