The world has ended. It was the zombies’ fault. Mostly the zombies. George Bush is kind of relieved about that. For years it was supposed to be him; he’d turned up to work every morning and had people say to him “You’re destroying the planet!” “You’re destroying America.” Nobody ever said the zombies would destroy America. He feels vindicated. But remains niggled by a faint suspicion that the zombies will turn out to be his fault too.
Not that it matters now. Not when he’s standing in a corpse-strewn alleyway in a burning New York City. He was the only survivor when the presidential helicopter turned out to have a zombie on board. Hard to catch those zombies. Always sneaking in somewhere. Condoleezza Rice had survived the crash too, but ten minutes later was overwhelmed retrieving twizzlers from the food-court of a shopping mall. George Bush had to leave her.
The president pokes his head into an empty street. Almost empty. In the light of a burning shopfront he can see a group of men standing in a loose circle on the sidewalk. They’re mostly black, however, so they don’t concern George Bush. George Bush doesn’t care about black people.
He moves off in the other direction. A vehicle is what he needs. He’s trying to decide between Washington DC and Texas. He should probably hit Washington, see how the country’s doing. But, if things really are finished, he figures Texas is where he wants to be. Probably less zombies on the ranch, too.
No more gas anyway, he thinks. He wonders whether they have horses in New York City. Everyone should have horses. Maybe if he told people he was the president they would give him a car and gas. Or even a helicopter.
He meets two zombies around the next corner. They move towards him, leering with bits of gross oozing out of their faces. But these zombies misunderestimated the heck out of George W. Bush and he dispatches them with a few blows from his mighty fists.
If someone does give him another helicopter, he thinks, he’s going to make damned sure to check inside for zombies this time. “Fool me once, shame on you,” he mutters to himself moving down the street. “Won’t get fooled again.”
In the distance he sees a couple of white guys who don’t seem to be lurching so much as walking. “Hey fellas!” he shouts, breaking into a run. “It’s me. It’s the president.” They turn to face him, raising their fists to cheer his approach. He wonders what kind of helicopter they own. Mission accomplished.