The Undead President: The Apocalypse Is Coming … and It's an Inside Job

By Todd Richardson

The President of the United States is assassinated by a domestic terrorist organization and lies dead on the operating table. Rather than announce the news, the administration secretly reanimates him through an untested medical process. He comes back to life with an undead agenda that threatens global Armageddon.

The administration struggles to explain away the Presidents increasingly bizarre behavior to the media. The fate of the world rests with three unlikely women: a reporter for a tabloid cable news network, the estranged first lady, and the isolated vice president. The big problem: no one can really be sure of the undead Presidents plans as he spins out of control.

It seems the President hopes to remake the world in his own undead image. A single reanimated corpse now holds the fate of humanity in his hands, and few people know the truth. No one knows what really happened to the President, no one knows what hes planning next, and no one knows how to stop him.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Jun 1, 2015
• ISBN: 9781496972224

Todd Richardson

Todd Richardson is associate professor in the University of Nebraska at Omaha's Goodrich Scholarship Program, which provides full-tuition scholarships and challenging curriculum in cultural diversity to low-income Nebraska residents.

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© 2015 Todd Richardson. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 11/04/2015

ISBN: 978-1-4969-7220-0 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4969-7221-7 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4969-7222-4 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2015903043

Cover illustration by Todd and Surisa Richardson

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Contents

Part I

Free Reign

Chapter 1 Shots

Chapter 2 Dead or Alive

Chapter 3 Ricochets

Chapter 4 Intensive Care

Chapter 5 A New Door

Chapter 6 Meet the Press

Chapter 7 Two Interviews

Chapter 8 In the Brady Room

Chapter 9 The New Normal

Chapter 10 Recruiting Drive

Part II

Haiti

Chapter 11 Sur Barain

Chapter 12 Pooling Leads

Chapter 13 Occupational Hazards

Chapter 14 Dissonance and Accord

Chapter 15 Invading Forces

Chapter 16 Address to the Nation

Chapter 17 Hot and Cold

Chapter 18 Camp David Summit

Chapter 19 An Inside Exclusive

Chapter 20 In the Underworld

Part III

The World

Chapter 21 A Hit and a Miss

Chapter 22 Mixed Reviews

Chapter 23 Buildup to War

Chapter 24 Back in the Brady Room

Chapter 25 Lights Out

Chapter 26 Connections

Chapter 27 The Grander Scheme

Chapter 28 President and Pretender

Chapter 29 Parting Shots

Chapter 30 Requiem

For Astrid-

Part I

Free Reign

Chapter 1

Shots

The President has been shot.

The words sliced through every distraction, cut short every conversation within earshot of a television set. Across the country, a hush fell, heads turned, all eyes fixed intent on the screen, where the grave face of the announcer delivered the shocking news.

President Holden, in Boston today to address an economic summit at the Harvard Business School, has been attacked by an unknown assailant who appeared with a handgun and fired multiple shots at close range.

The text on the screen confirmed the report. At the top, in bold yellow, Special News Report: President shot, a red banner across the bottom, Assassination attempt in Boston, a crawl starting to scroll underneath, President Holden received multiple gunshot wounds prior to speech at Harvard Business School, unidentified shooter, seriously injured, … The network logo in the lower right corner, a rough silver oval like a penciled circle marking the critical term, AEX-TV.

There is no official word yet as to the President’s condition, but he collapsed on the scene and is receiving emergency medical treatment. The assassination attempt occurred in a corridor outside the lecture hall, and apparently was not captured on film.

The America Uncovered Exchange, or AEX, was a cable network established only two years earlier, still trying to position itself as a reliable news organization. The parent company’s flagship organ for many years was America Uncovered Weekly, a print news outlet distributed nationwide primarily on racks at checkout stands in supermarkets and drugstores. The Weekly established its reputation decades ago as a fearless herald of the exposé, breaking stories of scandal and corruption that more conventional news organizations shied away from covering. But riding the decline of the newspaper industry and beset with criticism that it had become just another vulture of celebrity gossip, the Weekly began quietly pursuing a strategy of media diversification. The online presence blossomed nicely into a family of related sites catering to an array of news appetites, but the launch of AEX-TV had been a gamble, a major investment aimed at building a mainstream presence.

The identity of the gunman has not been disclosed, but it appears to have been an individual white male. The reasons for the attack are not immediately apparent. The shooter was himself shot in an exchange of gunfire, and has been taken into custody. His condition, like the President’s, is not presently known.

The correspondent was a familiar face, sitting in his trim dark suit at the slick desk in the AEX-TV newsroom, bustling in the background with the determined activity of a dedicated news enterprise. Cedric Lane, for years, had been a staple on CNN, a crusty handsome face full of old-school journalistic integrity, with a deep rolling tongue to deliver serious news with resonant polish and somber gravity. When he left CNN over a programming scuffle, refusing to cede airspace to a younger anchor with a more airy demeanor and inferior reporting pedigree, the fledgling America Uncovered Exchange was quick to offer him an opportunity to head up a major new operation, with full journalistic control and a generous compensation package. To a network anxious to secure credibility and instant brand recognition, his ponderous brow and rich baritone were worth every penny.

Again, the breaking news, President Alexander Scott Holden is the victim today of an assassination attempt in Boston, shot repeatedly by a single gunman. Both the President and the shooter went down in a rapid exchange of gunfire. The condition of both men, at this time, is not known. Stay with us at AEX-TV as we keep it here to report the information as it becomes available, on this tragic turn of events.

. . .

Grace Livy heard the news two minutes before it was reported on the network. She was coming out of a lecture at the Massachusetts College of Art and Design, for a continuing education class she was taking on basic film and video technique, when she got the call on her cell from Kenneth Weis, her sometime boss for her part-time gig with AEX-TV.

Hel –

Are you anywhere near the Harvard Business School right now?

Well, sort of, not really.

Get there right away – the President has just been shot.

What?

She’d heard that President Holden was going to be in town, speaking at some economic event at Harvard, but it never registered it could possibly have anything to do with her. She’d served for nearly a year as AEX’s designated correspondent in Boston, covering a dozen or so stories with a Bay State angle, but it hadn’t provided the steady work she hoped to develop. So far it was a few sporting events, a sex scandal involving a zoo employee and a Hollywood actor’s DUI on the Turnpike – nothing like the President delivering a speech at a stuffy gathering of brainiac economists.

What about Gerald? she asked.

He didn’t make the trip, it doesn’t matter.

Kenneth was losing patience. Gerald Devaas was the official Washington, D.C. correspondent for AEX-TV. That, of course, was a full-time gig. She knew Kenneth had worked very hard to get Gerald his credentials for the White House Press Corps, squeezing all the legitimacy he could extract from the association with Cedric Lane. Gerald was a former ESPN personality, hired away for name recognition and a sardonic delivery, not especially noted as a Beltway insider.

Grace, you need to be moving right now, Kenneth spilled the words in a rush, Get to the Harvard Business School. His voice was pleading. Please.

I’m on it, boss. She started running. I’ll call you when I get close.

She sprinted south to Huntington Avenue, thinking as she ran. Not good. A cab would be hopeless, even if she could snag one quick it would be impossible to get anywhere close by driving into the site of a presidential assassination attempt. She was almost on top of the Longwood T stop on the Green Line, but no straight shot to her destination. The nearest to that would be Harvard Square on the Red Line, which would mean backtracking all the way downtown to Park just to switch trains, then circling to a stop that was still across the Charles River from the Business School, half an hour at best. She could hear Kenneth whimpering with frustration in her mind’s ear.

Grace paused at the subway entrance, reluctant to commit. Faster to run it, must be a couple miles. Alive or dead, the President would be long gone before she could possibly get there. They’d probably take him to Mass General, a direct dash from the Harvard B School on Storrow Drive, hugging the river, the largest hospital in the region, one of the most prestigious in the nation. But maybe not. Brigham and Women’s was a little closer, not such an easy drive, but it also served as the research hospital for the Harvard Med School. Keep it in the Harvard family. And Brigham and Women’s Hospital was just up the road off Huntington, only a couple blocks, she could be there in nothing flat.

She was racing across Longwood Avenue, dodging traffic, before she could second guess the sudden notion. If she was wrong, Kenneth would be furious, every second for him was clearly an agonizing eternity. But in that case, she’d run north to the Business School and lose only a couple minutes, no need even to mention the little detour. And if her hunch turned out to be correct, well, she’d be there in two minutes, probably even before an ambulance could get there from north of the Turnpike. She might be in a position to cover the arrival.

Already passing the southern end of the hospital complex, she turned right onto Francis Street, looking for the Emergency entrance. Seemed to be a separate brick complex on this end, trees, a ledge, the expanse of the main hospital up ahead. Finally, the front of the building fell back past a turnaround area, a flurry of activity, cars going in and out, a big blue sign saying Ambulatory Services and Parking, but no mention of Emergency. Can’t waste precious time going in the wrong place, the Emergency Room must be further up the road. She hardly slowed, still running hard, dodging pedestrians. Another block, a seemingly endless stretch of building, she must have made a mistake, should’ve taken the first entrance.

Slowing in doubt, she looked ahead, the brick was giving way to a glass structure beyond, where an elevated walkway crossed Francis to another glass building across the street. Is that the end of the hospital, the start of something else? Then she saw it, another blue sign, Main Entrance, it said, and yes, Emergency. With a fresh burst she closed the distance, realized the glass edifice rested on concrete pillars overhanging a paved turnaround, an ambulance was sitting there, sliding doors beyond. Heart pumping, she raced in.

Half expecting a storm of excitement surrounding a dramatic effort to save the life of the President of the United States, Grace had to adjust her flushed scramble abruptly. It was quiet inside, no one was moving fast, no sign of agitation. A corridor one direction, people walking calmly, a woman in a wheelchair being rolled out of an elevator by an elderly man in a leisurely fashion. The other way, past a legend Emergency Services, a reception counter, a man standing with one arm elevated, digging out an insurance card with the wrong hand, a woman behind the counter in a pale green frock, presenting him with a set of forms to sign, another hospital employee in pale green sitting behind her, keying information into a computer with an air of tedium. Scanning the waiting area, a dozen or fifteen people lounging on drab cushioned furniture, clutching various body parts but otherwise waiting, patiently or not, resigned to a status of indeterminate delay. Everyone was watching an elevated television screen, where Cedric Lane was reporting the breaking story of the shocking assassination attempt.

Damn, damn, damn. Wrong place. Story of her life. She worked hard, she had ideas, she was persistent and resourceful, but it always seemed to come back to this, can’t buy a break. Her phone chose that moment to start buzzing. Kenneth, obviously dying for an update. Not going to be happy to hear she ran hard as she could to the wrong location. Face the music, girl, she was always good at that, anyway. Then she noticed. The pale green woman sitting at the computer behind the reception counter had answered the phone, stood up, and turned, her face drained and slack. She dropped the phone in her chair, gripped the arm of the other employee and whispered furiously in her ear. The other shot her a glance of shocked disbelief, surveyed the waiting area numbly, and moved out in a daze from behind the counter. Grace picked up her call, speaking low and fast, eyes on the unfolding development.

Kenneth, don’t say a word, I’m in the Emergency Room at Brigham and Women’s Hospital, they’re about to bring in the President. The only camera I have is my iPhone, so when I call you back, be ready for a live feed. Do you understand? Say yes or no.

Yes. Bless his soul, there wasn’t the slightest pause.

Won’t be long, maybe a minute.

The receptionist ushered the man at the counter back into the waiting area, while her co-worker headed back to the triage rooms opposite. Grace hovered near the entrance until the hospital employee stepped forward and turned to address the waiting patients, then slipped behind her gaze to the edge of the counter. A man in a blue jumpsuit and a hairnet, presumably a nurse, led a woman pressing a wad of gauze to her scalp out of a triage room, to join the waiting room crowd, while the other worker in pale green rushed farther back through the swinging doors beyond, No Admittance, Hospital Personnel Only. Grace, steeling her nerves, cool under pressure, glided around the counter behind the nurse and woman with the head wound, and stepped nimbly into the vacated triage room, hidden from the view of the waiting room, facing the entrance that opened perpendicular to the No Admittance doors.

The hospital personnel in the waiting room, pale green and blue, were announcing to the waiting patients that they had to move temporarily across the hall to the Admissions Department. The plan, predictably, precipitated loud groans of disbelief and some vocal resistance, quickly escalating to shouted insistence by the hospital authorities. The employees did not explain their instructions, but evidently felt the pressure to clear the room immediately, describing it to the annoyance of their audience as an emergency. The patients moved off with sore feelings, herded by the workers with nervous eyes. Grace dialed Kenneth on her iPhone, hit the FaceTime option. He appeared instantly, staring up intently on the touchscreen, eyes watering with misery, mouth pursed stubbornly shut.

Don’t make a sound, she whispered. They’ve cleared the Emergency Room, it’ll be any second now.

A hush fell on the scene, beyond the quiet of a vacated room, a sucking sensation as though the very air suddenly realized something important was about to happen. Then a distant squeal pitched higher and resolved into approaching sirens, vehicles screeched to a halt outside, and a burst of action exploded through the hospital entrance. A tight crowd of suits and uniforms dispersed in a pounding wave inside, establishing a perimeter, calling out status checks to each other. They held back the onlookers across the corridor in the Admissions Department, covered the elevators, conducted a rapid search of the waiting area, looked behind the reception counter. An EMT jogged forward with three men in suits, pointing to the swinging doors that said No Admittance, Hospital Personnel Only.

One second to react, Grace dropped down on a chair, grabbed a bloodstained washcloth left behind by the gauze woman, and pressed the iPhone against the side of her head under it. When the Secret Service agent reached the entrance to the triage room a moment later, she gave him her best look of dizzy blond confusion. He started, lip twitching with frustration, grabbed her arm roughly and pulled her up, began to say You need to … But it was already too late to escort her back to the Admissions Department with the others. Another crowd was already blasting through the entrance, suits, EMTs, doctors, all buzzing around a stretcher being wheeled at a run directly towards them. The agent couldn’t pull her out of the triage room without blocking the way, so he held her there in the doorway as the frenetic ensemble rushed past.

Timing it perfectly, she flipped the face of her phone out and down as the stretcher went by. One, two, three, a clear steady shot of the figure lying motionless at the center of the chaos. The faces around the stretcher were strained and animated, intent on their tasks, watching the path ahead, their flaring eyes returning always to their charge, fearful of any change for the worse. The heavy frame strapped securely to the white surface had lost its characteristic vigor, no longer an imposing presence radiating authority, instead now a formless mass of gray flesh half-covered by a bloodstained sheet. The blunt shoulders and chest were crisscrossed with bandages, holding soaked red dressings in place around the ribs, under the collarbone, and, held in place by three pressing hands, a massive tangled cloth directly over the breastbone drenched with blood. The face floating past, so familiar in profile, was joltingly vacant, no color in the rolling cheeks, no sparkle in the half-lidded eyes, no strength to turn the pasty lips in any expression of pain or emotion. One, two, three, then he was gone, crashing through the swinging doors with his wake of attendants.

Realizing her window of liberty was about to close, Grace turned the phone on herself at arm’s length and began speaking rapidly.

For AEX-TV, this is Grace Livy reporting from Boston. Sir, what can you tell us about the President’s condi -- ?

The agent whirled with an angry scowl, snatched the iPhone from her hand with an invisible strike before she could turn it in his direction to get his comments. He tapped the connection off without exposing his face to the camera, and snarled at her, suppressing an urge to smack her in the face. Without a word, he handed her off to an arriving police officer and moved through the swinging doors, slipping her phone in his pocket.

Hey, she called, I’ll want that back!

He ignored her. The policeman pulled her, none too gently, past the reception counter, through the waiting area, and across to the crowd being held back beyond. A third wave of humanity was starting to rush through the hospital entrance: the press had arrived, reporters, cameramen, correspondents. The authorities cordoned off the entire Emergency Department, and were directing the media into a milling posture in the corridor.

For the first time all day, Grace smiled.

. . .

The President, once again, received at least three gunshot wounds to the chest, and was rushed to Brigham and Women’s Hospital in Boston, clinging to life. He has been in surgery now for close to two hours, and an anxious nation awaits word on his fate, hoping for the best but fearing the worst.

Cedric Lane delivered the maudlin lines with solemn conviction, and somehow elevated the moment to meet the consequence and mood of the day’s events.

From the White House, Gerald Devaas reports on the impact of the assassination attempt on those closest to President Holden. Gerald?

Shift to a ruddy face, scrubbed of its usual smirk, outside holding a microphone, with the White House looming in the background over his left shoulder.

The mood here, Cedric, is grim.

In the Brigham and Women’s cafeteria, Grace snorted and rolled her eyes at Manny Roscowicz, her trusty camera operator, sound man and hair/makeup stylist. Manny gave a dour shrug, what-do-you-expect-from-Gerald? They were watching the AEX coverage on Manny’s laptop, at a small table to themselves. His phone buzzed again, Kenneth calling for Grace for the fiftieth time.

Anything? without salutation or preamble.

No sir. She met Manny’s eyes with a glimmer of tired amusement. I promise, if we find out anything I won’t keep it a secret.

Okay. Well, let me know.

The cafeteria had been appropriated as a press room. A fight nearly broke out early on over what channel the television in the lounge area of the cafeteria would be tuned to, but the hospital scared up four additional sets to distribute around the room, so each major network could have its own camp following its own coverage. Some of the independents leeched onto the majors, but a few, like AEX, staked out their own modest turf away from the gangs. The on-screen personalities each claimed a patch of wall or spot in the hall or place outside to tape their segments, scrambling over the prime locations, like anything with the Brigham and Women’s logo or the word Emergency visible. The hospital officials told everyone that any and all announcements would be made at a designated podium in the cafeteria, and in the meantime anyone interfering with the smooth functioning of the hospital as a health care institution, or harassing any patients, or trying to interview hospital employees without express authorization, would be immediately ejected from the premises.

The minutes stretched interminably into the eternity of hours, and still there was no official word from the hospital or the Holden Administration as to the President’s condition. The images Grace had captured of the President on the stretcher were the only clear post-shooting footage anyone had, to Kenneth’s delight. She expected it to be an exclusive, but Kenneth made it freely available to all the news outlets, subject to the prominent display of Courtesy of AEX-TV. Soon every major network was running it, panels of medical experts were analyzing the visible wounds it showed in excruciating detail, and viewers everywhere were bombarded with the AEX name.

Grace had put off a bathroom run as long as she could, certain that news would break as soon as she stepped away, but the coffee caught up and would not be denied. She tossed Manny his phone and said she better grab the opportunity before Kenneth calls back again. A quick dash to the ladies’ room, a bare minute of relief in the stall, then she was washing her hands, checking her hair in the mirror, when a sound of raised voices outside became suddenly louder as the door opened. A middle-aged woman in a blue jumpsuit leaped inside, saying loudly, I told you I don’t know anything! Her male pursuers paused at the threshold, their pursuing questions fading in futility, and the nurse stepped into the sanctuary, breathing heavily. Grace started drying her hands under the blower and glanced over, giving the woman her needed space. At a suspicious look from the nurse, she smiled politely and braved a comment.

Tough day, huh?

Tell me about it.

Grace nodded and continued not to stare. The nurse, however, favored her with a look of surprised recognition.

You’re Grace, aren’t you?

It happened a lot. Grace had been a contestant on Survivor: Antigua, had lasted all the way until the second to last episode, was a popular favorite among the viewership, but had finally been eliminated through a cruel betrayal by the eventual winner, Ryan. She nodded with another polite smile at the nurse, who shook her head.

You should’ve won that show. That Ryan was a rat.

Tell me about it.

There was something familiar about the nurse’s face, the eyes. Of course, it was one of the faces crowded with intensive anxiety around the stretcher when the President was wheeled in to surgery. Grace weighed her words with care.

Shouldn’t you be in the operating room?

The nurse’s eyes dropped, her mouth shrugged with a spasm of distress. For a moment, it seemed she was not going to respond, but then she spoke in a quiet voice.

They sent us out. There was nothing more we could do. Poor man. I suppose they’ll be making the announcement soon.

Grace bowed her head in respectful silence. She waited, but when it was apparent the nurse was not going to say anything more, she shook her head with a sigh, gave the woman a last glance in the mirror, and stepped out.

. . .

And now, intoned Cedric Lane, for an AEX Live Update from Boston, we take you to Grace Livy. What’s the latest, Grace?

Unlike her brief appearance earlier, when she turned the iPhone on herself for two seconds of air time, she’d had time now to prepare to face the camera and AEX viewers everywhere. In place of uncontrolled curls hanging lank from a vigorous run, she had her sandy blond mane tamed into a coherent tumble glowing around her tapered face. Her aquamarine eyes, even and bright, were set off now by liner and a tasteful tinge of cool shadow. The broad mouth and generous lips were moist with a muted rose tint. In place of the plain blue tee shirt, an ivory silk blouse. Manny held the camera opposite her in the corridor next to a sign to the Emergency Department, and could be relied on to show her to advantage.

Even though there has been no official announcement as yet, Cedric, sources inside Brigham and Women’s Hospital are now indicating that President Holden did not survive the emergency surgery following this morning’s shooting. Repeat, our information is that the President died on the operating table a short time ago.

. . .

AEX was the first to break the story that the surgeons at Brigham and Women’s Hospital were unable to save the President’s life. Within fifteen minutes, all the networks and news organizations were repeating the same message: no one yet willing to go on the record, no official confirmation, but undisclosed sources telling reporters that it was over and the President was dead. Since nobody was quoting anyone in a position to say for sure, there was no way of telling how much the rumor was feeding itself. For all Grace could tell, the first few were just repeating what she’d reported, and pretty soon everyone felt a need to provide the unconfirmed update simply to avoid missing the boat.

The expected announcement, however, was not forthcoming. Both hospital representatives as well as members of the Holden Administration were maintaining a steady No comment policy, refusing to admit, deny or address in any way the reports that the President had succumbed to his wounds and had been pronounced dead. The coverage was left in limbo, unable to unsay the assertion the President had died, but not positioned yet to discuss the consequences with officials or move on to the coverage of national mourning and funeral plans. Panels of political commentators discussed the ramifications of presidential succession, a few bold networks began running reactions of those far from the scene, like camera-hungry legislators and average citizens, but the hard questions to those immediately affected and the eulogies from foreign dignitaries and close colleagues would have to await the formal signal from the proper authorities. An hour passed, then another, and still it didn’t come.

When everyone’s nerves were frayed beyond repair, and speculation on when there would be an announcement and what was causing the delay had been eventually abandoned in despair, at long last a ripple of excitement stirred in the cafeteria. Spotters outside spread the word that a group of important-looking officials with serious expressions was moving down the corridor in their direction, including an apparent surgeon still in scrubs and the President’s Chief of Staff, Carlo Scarelli. They ignored opportunistic journalists throwing out questions as they approached, and moved resolutely to the podium, ranging themselves behind a man in a gray suit who was serving as official spokesman for the hospital. As he stepped forward, a hush fell.

Chief Surgeon Joseph Wallinger.

A bare introduction, without preamble or news, and the spokesman stepped aside, turning to the doctor in scrubs, hand politely gesturing him forward to the podium. The doctor nodded, took his position, gazed out across the assembled crowd of media correspondents. He seemed weary, preoccupied, but resigned to deliver the announcement.

The procedure has now been completed, and the patient has been transmitted to Intensive Care in critical condition. I am pleased to report that the President is alive.

Chapter 2

Dead or Alive

Randolph Thomas Holden, who went by Tom, was working at his desk in the White House, reviewing the latest intelligence reports on the economic cross-currents inside Turkey, when the call came in from Tyler Welsh, Director of the Secret Service. Tom was the second call made by Tyler regarding the disaster in Boston, technically out of order, ahead even of his own immediate superior, the Secretary of Homeland Security. As Director of the National Security Agency, Tom was under the Department of Defense and not in Tyler’s direct chain of command. He was, however, the President’s older brother and the appropriate conduit for alerting the President’s family. He was also, as everyone involved in the intelligence community in the Holden Administration well knew, the