George Washington Zombie Slayer

by Wiles, David

  This correspondence is to be burned after being read.

  Though he had received the directive many months ago, Cornwallis had kept it locked securely in his desk. Finally, he placed the letter back in its envelope and tossed it into the fire. There was now no official, historical documentation that Project Z existed, or that Cornwallis was involved in it.

  Colonel Cornwallis stood to leave his office for his daily Training Barracks Inspection. Although he had done this now for many weeks, he still could not quite overcome his personal displeasure, or the sickening feeling he had in the pit of his stomach each day at this time.

  He sought personal advancement, above all things. If the King and his Advisory Council ordered him to complete preparations for Project Z, then he would do so to the best of his ability. His personal feelings would be put aside in this matter in exchange for personal gain.

  Cornwallis rose from his chair just as a knock sounded at his door. He opened the door, greeting Lieutenant Smithers briskly.

  “Colonel Cornwallis,” Smithers began, “shall we begin the daily inspection, Sir?”

  “Yes, lead on Lieutenant,” Cornwallis replied. He always pronounced Smithers’ rank as LEF-tennant, like any good Englishman should. He might be temporarily stationed in these colonies, he thought to himself, but he would be damned if that would make him any less of an Englishman or a gentleman.

  “Shall I alert the barracks Captains to prepare for your arrival?” Smithers asked.

  “Make it so,” Cornwallis responded. Smithers stepped away for a moment, handing a small rolled paper to his subordinate, then returned to the side of Cornwallis holding a small ledger and a pencil. They walked outside together and approached a large, stone building, which stood on a row with countless identical buildings. “Barracks Number One,” Lieutenant Smithers said as he opened the door of the building for his commander.

  Cornwallis entered and was followed quickly by Smithers. The sight of what lay before Cornwallis sickened him at first, as it always did. For here in this barracks stood row and after row of undead zombies, chained to metal posts in long, double rows that extended the length of the interior of the building. The creatures were wearing the uniforms of British soldiers, including the distinctive red coats.

  These zombie soldiers stood almost disinterested, chained by their ankles and nearly immobile as they were. There were four living British soldiers in the room, guarding and supervising these creatures.

  “Sound Attention,” Cornwallis spoke softly to Smithers.

  “Sound attention!” Smithers shouted aloud in the barracks.

  From the rear of the room, one of the living British soldiers, called the Regimental Musician, began playing a slow “tap-a-tap tap tap,” on his drum, and immediately these zombies stood at attention and faced the drummer. Through much training, it was discovered that these undead creatures could be trained to respond to various stimuli of sight, sound and smell. Like well trained dogs, the zombies could be made to stand, walk in formation, and attack.

  “One hundred soldiers in the First regiment, Battalion Two, present and accounted for,” shouted the Captain of the barracks. Smithers made a small notation in his ledger.

  “Very good, Captain,” Cornwallis said nonchalantly and walked out of the barracks with Smithers trailing behind.

  “Barracks Number Two,” Smithers said as he opened the door of the second barracks. And so it went, with clockwork efficiency, as they made their way from building to building in the camp. Cornwallis would take a walk down the main aisle inspecting the undead, zombie troops, and Smithers would make the appropriate notation in his ledger. After two hours, they stood at last inside barracks Number Twenty Five, the final building to be inspected.

  “Two Thousand, five hundred and forty seven zombie soldiers present and accounted for in total,” Smithers said as he walked and read aloud the total in his ledger.

  As Smithers and Cornwallis walked down the main aisle of Barracks Twenty Five to complete the inspection, neither man noticed a small length of excess chain from around a zombie’s leg looped into the walkway. As Smithers passed, the tip of his boot snagged the chain, and caused him to stumble and fall off the narrow walkway and land on the floor between two of the undead British soldiers.

  Smithers stood up and brushed himself off in embarrassment but realized in an instant that he had a small abrasion on the palm of his hand, with a few small droplets of blood. The two zombies chained near him, smelling the fresh blood, were on him in an instant.

  The pair of undead creatures each grabbed the Lieutenant’s forearm but pulled in opposite directions, causing a loud snap, with the jagged edge of bone now protruding from the arm. Smithers screamed but did not fall and instead, with quick thinking, stepped back into the safety of the walkway as two British guards pushed the zombies back with long, sharpened sticks. The Regimental Musician immediately began to play the “yield” command on his fife, and the zombies all dropped to one knee in unison, conditioned as they were to do so after many months of training.

  Cornwallis was exceedingly upset at this injury. “Look here,” Cornwallis said, picking up the small ledger that Smithers had dropped when he fell. “Look here!” he repeated angrily. “You’ve smudged the ledger!”

  Smithers stood ashamed and embarrassed holding the arm with the compound fracture. It dripped just a small amount of blood, and he wrapped it with a white cloth that one of the guards had just handed him. “I’m sorry, Colonel Cornwallis” Smithers apologized.

  “And now it’s nearly tea time,” Cornwallis said with growing irritation. “Who’s going to make my tea with you in the infirmary?”

  “It’s not too badly broken, Sir,” Smithers replied. “I’m sure I have time to brew us up a spot of tea before I see the company physician.”

  “Are you sure?” Colonel Cornwallis asked. “You do know that I just cannot tolerate the manner in which Corporal Biggs brews tea.”

  “No, Sir,” Lieutenant Smithers replied.

  “And his fresh crumpets are a travesty,” Cornwallis added.

  “Yes, Sir” Smithers agreed. “I’ll just head over to headquarters now and get to work on our tea.”

  “That’s a good lad,” Cornwallis said happily. “But once we’ve finished our tea, I want you to head directly to the infirmary,” he added. “As soon as you’ve cleared and washed the cups and saucers.”

  “Very good, Sir,” Smithers said, heading back to headquarters.

  And so it was that the British officers demonstrated innovation in military training of zombies, a strict sense of duty, and an almost complete lack of common sense.

  Chapter 7

  Acts of British Parliament

  The American Colonies were in an unfortunate position in the year 1765. While most “Americans” regarded themselves as Englishmen, the sad truth was that they lacked the real and true rights of English citizens. Especially objectionable to these colonists was the fact that they were unable to elect representatives to a British Parliament that was authorized to impose taxes upon them.

  Thus, American colonists were subject to taxation without representation.

  The British Parliament was greedy and hungry for income to support an English government burdened by ever-growing expenses. Certainly, English citizens at home were unwilling to pay higher taxes themselves. And they were unwilling to pay for large numbers of military troops commanded by politically connected officers in patronage positions.

  But those same troops, some 10,000 strong, could very easily be viewed as necessary to the “safety” of the American colonies, which were deemed by Parliament to need “protection.” And the cost of this military protection would fall upon the colonists themselves, who reaped the harvest of safety and security from these unwanted troop deployments. So Parliament decided British troops would be deployed in America, and that the American colonists would pay for them.

  George Washington first learned of his new tax obligation while reading his
favorite business publication, the Virginia Slave Owners Quarterly, and he was angry. By an Act of Parliament, a “sugar tax” was to be imposed on every person and business that produced sugar products, and upon every person or business that purchased sugar products. It was in essence a “double tax,” because it taxed sugar as it was grown and processed, and once again as it was purchased by the consumer.

  And not just sugar. The tax was also imposed on honey, chocolates, candies, mints, and lollies (a queer English word for “sweetstuffs,” whatever the hell those were). Additionally, the sugar tax was imposed upon artificial sweeteners like aspartame, Nutra Sweet, Equal, Splenda, and even Sweet and Low, a company that had produced artificial sweeteners since 1757.

  Parliament even went so far as to apply a one cent tax upon “sugary expressions of sweetness” such as when a man referred to his wife as honey, sweetie or sugar. And a two-cent tax was imposed on the use of the term “Sweetheart.”

  As he fumed over his new tax obligations, it was at that moment that the slave Reebock entered Washington’s study to announce the arrival of a visitor, who Washington had directed Reebock to bring in.

  “The Honorable Benjamin Franklin of Philadelphia, Pennsylvania,” Reebock said.

  Franklin walked towards Washington and the two exchanged a firm, warm handshake, followed by a heartfelt hug and embrace. The two were old friends, although they had not seen each other for several years.

  “Benny, my good friend,” Washington said to his guest.

  “It’s good to see you again ‘G,’ ” Franklin replied. “It’s been too long.”

  “Please have a seat,” Washington said, motioning his friend forward.

  The two men took a seat in comfortable padded chairs by the fireplace and each grabbed a smoking pipe and a glass of whiskey from the tray Reebock held before them.

  Benjamin Franklin was a short, stout, tea-kettle of a man with the top of his balding head ringed by a circumference of long, stringy hair around the sides and back of his head. He wore a long, brown frock coat, which Reebock had taken at the door. He was somewhat advanced in age, as evidenced by the spectacles perched on the end of his nose, although he appeared quite fit. He carried a silver capped oak walking stick in his right hand.

  George Washington and Benjamin Franklin were friends for many years, ever since an incident many years ago in New York City. History records that the two were carousing with a small group of friends in an alehouse called the Blue Mule’s Nutsack, when some drunken whaling sailors had taken a decidedly un-hetero liking to the curvaceous Franklin with his long hair and fine, silk knickers.

  As the drunken assault against Franklin began, the drinking buddies all ran for the nearest exit. All fled, except George Washington, who stood fast and ready to assist Franklin during the confrontation. Franklin simply grabbed his walking stick and proceeded to give the four sailors a good thrashing, saving himself from a near certain onslaught of moby dick.

  “I received your open invitation to visit several months ago and happened to be in Virginia this week on …business,” Franklin explained.

  “Your business has resulted in my pleasure,” Washington replied. “It’s my honor to be visited by one of the colonies greatest scientists, inventors and statesmen.”

  “And my honor, indeed,” Franklin said, “to be so highly thought of by one of Virginia’s finest citizens. But I am no statesman,” Franklin grumbled. “I was just recently defeated in my effort to be elected to the Pennsylvania Assembly.” Franklin said sadly. “Politics is a dirty business.”

  “Indeed, so,” Washington agreed. “Was it a difficult contest?”

  “My opponent disparaged my character in a most shameful manner,” Franklin said angrily, but gaining some catharsis from discussion of the matter. “He said I was a pawn of the English, and that I had been careless with government funds,” Franklin fumed. “He later alleged I was fucking my maid as well as various prostitutes on the side,” he added. “When he was finished blaspheming me, he had painted me as an irresponsible, lecherous, senile, diseased, corrupt, crack-smoking, child molesting, gambling addict and drunkard.

  “A dirty business, indeed,” Washington observed.

  “It’s just as well,” Franklin concluded, “for I am content with my printing, my inventions, and my scientific experiments.”

  “I have read of your great works and inventions, like your Franklin stove,” Washington admitted. “And is it true that you have even invented an artificial breast implant for surgical insertion into a woman’s chest, which will allow her to have larger hooters?”

  “Aye, ‘tis true,” said Franklin smiling. “It was my hope in creating my ‘breast implants’ that I might allow every woman to have the benefits of a fulsome bosom for the enjoyment of her husband. But it has met with only limited success,” Franklin confessed. “I have found that, although my artificial implants created a larger and more shapely breast, the solid mahogany hardwood used in the insertion was perhaps too… firm to the touch, and carried with much discomfort by the dutiful wives.”

  “Ah,” Washington cringed.

  “But my other experiments have met with greater success,” Franklin said proudly. “And I am even now researching and designing experiments with electricity.”

  “Truly amazing,” Washington exclaimed. “Electricity!” he repeated. “Why, I sometimes feel that the American colonists could tame nature itself, were we not harassed and interfered with.”

  “Ah, you mean harassed by the fucking British,” Franklin suggested.

  “Aye, Benny,” Washington exclaimed, handing Franklin his copy of the article regarding the Sugar Tax. “Can you believe this shit? A fucking tax on sugar!”

  “I’m afraid that’s old news,” Franklin said sadly. “And I have some even worse news as well. Parliament has also imposed a new ‘Stamp Tax’ upon the American colonies!”

  “Oh, fuck me! “ Washington exclaimed. “I’m almost afraid to ask. Does it tax our postage?”

  “Oh it’s far worse than that,” Franklin reported. “It requires all goods and property and merchandise within the colonies to have a special stamp of British taxation applied directly to each item of property.” Franklin explained. “So all goods, all merchandise, all newspapers and magazines, and all property must now display a properly authorized taxation stamp. And of course,” he added, “there is a small fee charged for each stamp.”

  “Oh that’s bullshit!” Washington said. “So we have to buy tax stamps to be affixed to everything we own?”

  “Yeah, that’s pretty much what the Stamp Act says,” Franklin admitted.

  “British fucktards!” said George Washington.

  “Fucktards, indeed,” replied Benjamin Franklin. “The question is G,” Franklin asked, “what are we going to do about it?”

  “Well right now,” Washington said, “I’m stressed, and I’m going to smoke a little of this.” He grabbed a small clay pipe from the table in front of him and a cellophane bag full of some green herb. “This is Mount Vernon’s finest Queen Gungi Weed,” Washington said, filling and lighting his pipe, and handing the bag to his friend.

  Franklin filled and lit his own pipe and took a long, slow, deep inhalation. “Oh, Christ this is some fine, fine shit,” Franklin concluded. “Weed and booze are proof God loves us.”

  And so the two old friends sat in George Washington’s parlor for an hour, smoking weed and trying to chill out their stress over the fucking British.

  Chapter 8

  Slaves in Conference

  The four slaves owned longest by George Washington were Beyonce, Oprah, Denzel and LL Cool J. All had worked at the Ferry Farm plantation when Washington was a young boy, when they were not much older than he. Secretly self-educated but fiercely loyal, these slaves were actually trusted by Washington in a way that most slaves never were.

  Oprah and Beyonce, the two main “house” slaves, were in charge of the main house at the Mount Vernon estate, and actually superv
ised over twenty domestic and kitchen slaves.

  Denzel and LL Cool J worked the stables and plantation grounds, and supervised over one hundred farm, labor and stable slaves. Although Mr. Kindly was the Slave Overseer, and was technically in charge of all the slaves, he rarely interceded in operational matters at the plantation unless corrective discipline was required. In reality, the four slaves who sat this evening in the basement of the Mount Vernon main house were the slaves who handled the day to day operation of the plantation.

  “Several of the crossbeams of the main stable have rotted due in insect infestation and the corrosive effects of water infiltration,” Denzel said. “I’m really concerned about the structural integrity of the stable roof with the weakened supports, but I pointed out the problem to Mister Washington this morning.”

  “Was he very angry?” Oprah asked.

  “No, not at all,” Denzel stated. “Why should he be angry?”

  “Well he was in a bad mood after breakfast this morning,” Oprah said softly. “It seemed that he and the Mrs. Washington had that same argument again. She is still not yet pregnant.”

  “Of course you know,” Beyonce said, “that Mister Washington had a case of smallpox years ago, which nearly killed him. And it is well established that an individual with a history of smallpox might have fertility issues, and might even become infertile as a result of the disease.”

  “They do not assign blame to each other,” Oprah said. “But inter-marital conflict is often inevitable when a couple fails to achieve pregnancy and childbirth in this socio-economic climate, where the production of offspring is the main function of the marital union.”

  “Well my concern,” LL Cool J began, “is that Mister Washington has become increasingly stressed in recent weeks and his health seems to be suffering as a result.”

  “Well it’s a fact,” Denzel stated, “that psychological stress can have a detrimental effect on an individual’s physical health, and fertility, especially when the stress is persistent and ongoing.”