“No, I’m good,” Tim said. “What about Jessica? Has she checked in?”
“We haven’t seen her, but she might be around,” Dan said. “She was filing stories all night.”
“Then maybe I can catch up to her before she collapses from exhaustion,” said Tim. “Look, can you guys clear out and let me take a shower and put on a clean shirt? I’ll meet you back downstairs in ten.”
“Yeah, that’s fine,” Ryan said, grabbing a trio of slices for the road. “And hey, congrats again. This really is something special.”
“Thanks guys,” Tim said.
He watched Ryan and Dan file out. As soon as the door shut behind them, Tim collapsed back onto his bed for a moment. He felt horrible, as he always did when he took sleeping pills but did not give himself eight hours in which to actually sleep. Swearing he would never do it again—this time, for real—Tim grabbed a clean-looking shirt and fresh-ish underwear from his suitcase and headed to the small hotel bathroom. He turned on the shower, fiddling with the unfamiliar knob before finding the hot water. Then he took off his shirt and threw it to the floor, fumbled for his toothbrush on the counter, and began to brush his teeth. The mirror slowly fogged as the water behind him heated, and so he nearly missed the long scrape along his right shoulder.
Nearly.
Tim lowered his toothbrush and spat into the sink. Then he fished around for a hand towel, and used it to wipe a small circle in the moisture-covered mirror. He leaned in close to take a look.
A long, deep furrow had been torn down the side of his shoulder. It started at the top of his arm and extended several inches down along his back. It was like something done by a nail. Or—Tim thought with mounting anxiety—a fingernail.
He began to feel lightheaded. He braced against the sink to steady himself. The previous evening, when the Governor had gone crazy and Tim had attempted to flee the skybox, there had been so much chaos. But now, as his head gradually cleared, it seemed to Tim that he could remember more. Van Bergen and his men had tried to keep him there, at least at first. He’d had to fight his way out. Everyone had been so confused. He remembered all of them—including Van Bergen—tugging at him, pulling at him, and all the rest.
The hidden cameras he’d worn had been forward-facing. There might be no record of who or what had injured his shoulder. Except for his own slowly-recovering memory.
But could it actually have been Van Bergen? At first glance, the old zombie seemed far too frail to do such damage as this. Yet Tim remembered the strength of the branchlike arm that had held him in his seat, and the way his wizened hands appeared to have devolved into something like claws. Maybe he had learned to use them like claws too.
Tim turned off the shower and wiped the whole mirror clean. Once more, he inspected the deep scrape. Everyone knew that zombie bites were a surefire means of transmitting the infection, but scratches were a grey area.
“Fuck …” Tim said out loud. “Fuuuuuuuuuck.”
There was only one thing to be done. He had to know.
He left the bathroom and crept to the nightstand where his wristwatch rested beside the pill bottles. He brought the watch up close to his face. He stared intently at the second hand tick-tick-ticking past.
Then he took a deep breath and held it.
THE TYCOON
Deals.
The Tycoon knew all about them.
He made deals in New York real estate all the time (which, he had been assured, was among the toughest places to do them). He made deals in his personal life, and when negotiating rights on his reality television show. He had literally written a book about deals. (Well, not really. But a reporter who’d once interviewed him had ghostwritten it, which was almost as good. Better, probably. Maybe that was the ultimate demonstration of skillful dealing. Make a good enough book deal, and you don’t even have to write it!)
As the Tycoon sat in the empty office in the warehouse and waited for Jessica Smith to arrive, he reminded himself that this was just another deal. Everything was a dealmaking if you thought hard enough. Everything. And he was the master.
Sometimes you made deals from positions of strength, and sometimes you made them when you were flailing and on the ropes, but you could always do it. You could always deal. That was the creed by which the Tycoon had always worked. Accord could always be found if both sides looked hard enough. Parties could always come up with ways to help one another.
Hiccups happened, sure. Setbacks? Yeah, absolutely. That was true for a major Manhattan construction project, and for a project of any size. It did seem to the Tycoon that the bigger the project, the more setbacks you could expect. Experience had taught him that. And becoming leader of the free world was the biggest project of all. So of course he ought to have expected this, he told himself. Of course there would be huge setbacks. Huuuuge setbacks. But setbacks, he had found, could always be handled … with further dealing.
And deal he would.
Deals were his art form. He was their Michelangelo. He reminded himself of all of this, repeatedly and aloud, until he became aware that someone was approaching.
“What the hell is this place?” he heard Jessica Smith distantly query.
The next voice belonged to McNelis.
“He can tell you that.”
“No, you tell me,” she insisted. “Or I can just turn around and leave. Get an Uber back to the hotel. Don’t test me, McNelis. You know I’ll do it.”
The political operative sighed.
“This building is owned by a very significant donor to the campaign,” McNelis said—now close enough that the Tycoon could hear their footsteps. “He has allowed us to use it while the campaign recharges and regroups.”
“Recharges?” said Jessica. “I guess that’s one way to put it.”
If McNelis made any response it was not verbal, but McNelis’s barely-contained rage was palpable as he opened the door and stepped into the small office room. Jessica followed.
The Tycoon stood.
“Hello, Ms. Smith,” he said. “Thank you for coming. Would you like to have a seat?”
Jessica sat at one of the two visitor chairs that faced the desk. Instead of seating himself behind the desk, the Tycoon sat down right beside her.
“All right, McNelis,” the Tycoon said. “You can leave.”
“I’ll be right outside,” McNelis replied.
The Tycoon waved his hand to indicate that this was already too much information. McNelis silently exited.
The Tycoon turned his attention back to the reporter. She had already produced a laptop from her bag, and was now preparing to set up her recorder. She had bags under her eyes and looked ten years older than her online pictures. No doubt, this was a natural consequence of the previous 24 hours.
The Tycoon spoke delicately.
“I wonder if, before we go on the record—and we certainly will go on the record—you would permit us to first have a small, informal exchange.”
Jessica flashed him a look that said she had not let herself be dragged all this way for anything informal. Nonetheless, she leaned back in her chair and looked at him like a woman resigned. The Tycoon realized he was being allowed to proceed.
“Thank you,” he said. “I just want to, well, do something I make it a practice never to do. And that’s apologize. I’m sorry that it was necessary to be so tricky. I hope that what I can do here today is show you why it was.”
“Did you know your running mate was a zombie?” Jessica asked. “And you better believe this is on the record.”
“It’s almost impossible to answer that question,” the Tycoon began.
“Okay, I didn’t come here for prevaricating, doublespeak bullshit,” Jessica said. She closed her laptop, stood up, and started gathering her things.
“It’s almost impossible … because I knew him both before and after he became one,” the Tycoon added.
Jessica slowly sat back down.
“Before and after?” she asked.
> “Yes, before I made him into one,” the Tycoon said.
Without taking her eyes off of his, she slowly opened her laptop again.
“You made him into …”
“Yes, that’s correct,” the Tycoon said. “Into a zombie.”
“So you are definitely a zombie?” Jessica asked.
“Of course,” the Tycoon said. “Had you really not figured that out yet?”
Jessica remained cautious.
“And so why are you telling me this now?” she said. “What do you hope to accomplish?”
“What do I hope to accomplish?” he said. “The same thing I hoped to accomplish when I started this campaign!”
“To … become president?”
“To save the world,” he said. “From her.”
Jessica screwed up her face.
“From … your opponent you mean?”
“Of course,” said the Tycoon. “Who else?”
“I don’t see how being a zombie … I mean … Why would …”
“Vampires,” the Tycoon said.
“…”
“Is it so hard to believe?” the Tycoon pressed. “My opponent and her running mate are also members of the living dead, only a different kind. They are vampires.”
The Tycoon reached onto the desk where a manila folder had been positioned innocently among paperweights, invoices and bric-a-brac. He picked it up and tossed it into Jessica’s lap.
“Here,” he said. “In case you don’t believe me.”
The Tycoon watched as the reporter carefully opened the folder and began to sort through the printed images inside. They were candid shots, always taken from a distance, and always in situations that made it clear the subjects were unaware. Jessica knew less about vampires than she did about zombies, but there was no missing it. The opponent baring her fangs during an argument. Levitating off the ground in her pantsuit. Appearing to feed at the neck of one of her unlucky aides.
“She can’t go very long without fresh blood,” the Tycoon explained as Jessica flipped between photos. “You saw when she passed out the other day before her handlers could get her into that van? It wasn’t the flu-bug all the press releases said it was. That was a vampire that’s gone too long without feeding. Between you and me, I think the protective makeup she wears was also coming off. You know, the kind that allows a creature like her to go out into the sun? It’s all very hi-tech now, as you must be able to imagine.”
“This … this is almost unbelievable,” Jessica said, continuing to flip from photo to photo. “A few days ago I wouldn’t have believed it. But if one party can be zombies …”
“Yes,” said the Tycoon. “The other can, unfortunately, be vampires. I say ‘unfortunately’ because our two kinds are so bigly different. Huuuuge difference. The American people have a very important choice to make in this election; perhaps a more important choice than they’ve ever made.”
“What?” said Jessica, aghast. “You can’t believe that the election will still take place in light of … I don’t even know what to call this. Don’t you see that these disclosures change everything?”
“That’s where you’re wrong, kiddo,” the Tycoon said with a grin. “It changes nothing. It only makes the differences between the candidates and their parties easier for the public to see.”
Jessica looked at the Tycoon as if he had gone deeply, irreparably insane.
The Tycoon rose slowly, then began to pace around the room.
“Vampires are the wrong choice for America because they are natural globalists and elitists,” the Tycoon began. “Picture a vampire. What do you picture? This person is wealthy. This person is finely attired—probably spends more on a single suit of clothes than most hardworking Americans earn in a month. This person likely speaks with a foreign accent. This person has snuck his or her way into the upper-crust of society; they rub elbows with kings, queens and world leaders.”
“You’re mostly describing yourself,” Jessica interjected. “You realize that, right?”
“Then picture the zombie,” the Tycoon continued as though she had said nothing. “Stalwart, plucky, hardworking—and totally free from being fancy and pretentious. The zombie is local. It rises out of the ground where it has been planted—literally the soil of its home country, how patriotic is that?—and then it sticks around. If it travels at all, it travels real slowly. A zombie doesn’t care how it looks. Personal appearance is not even on the radar. But it displays an all-American sticktoitiveness that vampires lack completely. A zombie is, simply, not capable of giving up. No matter how hard things get. No matter how the odds may be stacked against it. No matter how poorly it’s doing in the polls. A zombie will never give up. It believes in itself.
“If my opponent—she and the other vampires—if they win, then the globalists win. They are in it for other powerful vampires all around the world. They will use our nation’s highest office to consolidate that power. They will make it into a place where favors are done for their kind—vampire and globalist, both! Loyalty will no longer be to the hardworking, soft-spoken, men and women of the soil! Instead, they will be made to serve those who are already elite, to help them to advance their obscure and decadent projects. Huuuge betrayal of the American people. Very, very bad deal.”
“Most of the country isn’t vampires, but they’re not zombies either,” Jessica interjected, clearly struggling to see his point.
“Not technically,” said the Tycoon, with a shrug to show this objection didn’t matter much. “But they are slow moving. Americans get more sedentary every day. But they’re also really, really self-reliant. On some level, they all crave a smaller government that will get off their backs and let them do their thing—whether that thing is eating brains, practicing their faith, or engaging in free trade. Americans are uncomfortable with the confusing, gender-ambiguous sexuality of vampires. They want something that is slow, straightforward, and easy to understand. A zombie’s all of these things. It is the Joe Six-Pack of the monster world. He’s not above you. He’s one of you. There’s no comparison to vampires. No way.”
The Tycoon sat back down. Jessica’s eyes searched the corners of the room.
“So you brought me here because I exposed your side as what you actually are … and now you expect me to do the same for her—for the vampires?”
“No,” said the Tycoon, gently taking the folder of images from her hands and placing it back on the desk. “That is the opposite of what I would like you to do.”
“Just when I thought I couldn’t be more confused,” Jessica said.
“It may have been a mistake not to tell everybody why I was really running for president,” the Tycoon said. “But I’ll fix that this evening when I deliver my remarks.”
“You … ? You’re still going to accept the nomination tonight? The convention is still happening?”
“It is. Trust me. My people are seeing to all of that. McNelis and his boys are making sure. But listen. My point is that I want to be the bigger man. I’m going to come out and admit who I am. Then we’ll see if she has the guts to tell the American people the truth and admit who she really is.”
“So, you have all this intel on her … and you’re not going to use it?” Jessica asked.
“No,” the Tycoon said. “And I’m going to ask you not to use it either. Not for the moment, at least. What I am going to do is ask you to give me a chance. I know you don’t like me. Let’s be blunt. You probably hate me, or think you hate me. But I’m asking you to get to know me. To understand what my project is. What I’m trying to do for this country. If you do that—”
“My personal feelings don’t enter into this,” Jessica said. “As a journalist, I have certain duties and responsibilities.”
“Journalists withhold information all the time when it’s in the interest of national security,” the Tycoon reminded her. “Your own news outlet has done it during every war fought in the last hundred years. How is it not a matter of national security to see
whether a major political candidate will admit that she drinks the blood of living people and flies around like a bat?”
And for the first time, the Tycoon saw precisely what he wanted to see. Hesitation. The Tycoon could see Jessica pausing to consider the way forward. He knew she was considering calling someone for advice on how to proceed.
“All I’m asking is that you report on what I have to say tonight honestly and fairly … If you can agree to do that, then I am prepared to offer you unprecedented access during the general election. And I don’t mean you’d get the press releases an hour before everybody else. I mean that you’d be embedded with me personally. Tonight, for example—if you want—you’ll be with me backstage. This campaign is going to be all about openness, from this moment forward. We want the public to see our commitment to making America great again. From here on out, we have nothing to hide.”
This was the moment of truth. The line was in the water. The Tycoon waited to see if he would get a bite.
Jessica appeared to consider this offer. Then she spoke.
“I still have so many questions. When did you become a zombie? How? Why? Which of the stereotypes I’ve heard about zombies are true? How many other zombies are in politics, or in Manhattan real estate? Why are the Knights of Romero so dead set on destroying you? Why—”
“There’ll be time for these questions,” the Tycoon said. “I assure you, I’d love to sit down with you and go over them one-by-one. At the moment, however, I have much to do before my speech. We’ll go over them at a later date, okay? Like tomorrow maybe?”
Jessica looked as though this might be acceptable to her.
“Yes, I think I can make that work,” she finally pronounced. “But look … If we do this. I’m not going to pull punches. I’m a real journalist, and I’m going to ask you real questions.”
“Of course you are,” the Tycoon assured her. “And of course you will. That’s what I’m planning on.”
“All right then,” Jessica said. “So long as we’re clear.”
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