Trump Daddy Saves the World

Chapter Sixteen

Time dragged on. Trump sat right next to the shelf, his rifle in his lap, waiting for something to happen. He needed to stick by that spot just in case somebody else walked into the room, but nobody showed.

Every so often he'd walk over to the computer and wake the mouse up, checking the time. And every time he groaned out, devastated that only thirty minutes had passed.

Before long, the room felt like it was closing in on him. The white sheets on the table stared back at him, the white cloth still pulled back from before.

A thought crossed his mind. Did they notice the sheet pulled back when they entered the room? He didn't think so. If they did, they would've tried harder to search for him.

He still wanted to know why Joe wanted him alive. Did he plan on...experimenting on him? He'd kill him before he ever let that happen.

The man was a zombie. That sentence still hadn't quite sinked into his mind.

No, the man was infected. His mind corrected him. He wasn't a zombie, yet. But it was two weeks since he became infected and he was still up and running around, threatening to shoot people.

How was that even possible?

Every once in a while Trump would meander around the room, gazing at all of the creepy glowing jars. There were different scientific supplies sitting next to them on the shelves. Microscopes, slides, tubes, including equipment he'd never seen before. It was crazy how much shit they had.

Although agonizing, time did pass and night fell. The closer to night, the more his nerves worked themselves up. He became jittery at the thought of creeping around the mansion at night, but it had to be done.

At twelve am, Trump stood next to the door, his gun clutched in his hands, his ear pressed to the wood.

Silence.

Quietly, he tried the doorknob, cringing as it slowly creaked open. He peaked through the crack of the door, his breath held. He slowly let it go as soon as he saw the basement room was empty, although dark.

He stepped out into the room, remaining catious as he stepped through it to the main door. The one that leaded to the rest of the house. He did the same with this door, waiting with his ear pressed, straining for any type of noise.

All was quiet. Too quiet. His mind played tricks on him, making him think he heard a creek or noise somewhere. He didn't, but adrenaline raced through him all the same.

Where would they keep supplies? The question ran through his head as he stepped through the halls. He kept his shoulder pinned to the wall, his rifle at ready for any guard making night time rounds.

Eventually he found his way into a kitchen. The entire room was large, but much like the second floor room when he first broke in, it was weirdly empty.

He pulled a cabinet door open. Nothing. He pulled more and more open, each one the same damn thing: nothing.

What the fuck? His face scrunched up. He continued searching around, but the only thing he found by the time he got to the fridge was stockpiles of raw meat.

Bloody, raw meat. The scent attacked his nostrils. He cringed and immediately closed the door. No food. Weird.

He moved onto the next him, his head checking around each corner. Like the last room, nobody was there. And the room was completely empty, except for a single, torn up couch perched in the middle.

The more Trump moved through the empty rooms of the mansion's first floors, the weirder the feeling got. The quiet darkness made everything more eerie, and the stale emptiness of it all exaggerated that feeling.

Eventually he found himself standing at the bottom of a giant, swooping staircase. It led to a closed door at the top of the steps—the entrance to the second floor. Probably where everyone was hiding for the night.

With nothing on the first floor, he had no choice but to go up. Carefully, he tiptoed up the stairs. When he got to the top, he put his hand on the knob, ready to turn.

Locked.

He whisper-cursed underneath his breath. Of course they were going to lock up the top floor. It definitely had valuables in it, guarded by all the inhabitants of the house. That fucking psycho.

He'd do the same if it was his shit, but it wasn't and he needed it. He gave the door a silent middle finger before he traced his steps back to the basement, spending the rest of his night cuddled up in the corner behind the shelf.

With his gun folded up uncomfortably in his lap, the safety mechanic on, he continued to fall asleep into different naps throughout the night. Only occasionally would he wake up in a cold sweat, his head jerking awake thinking somebody was watching him.

But nobody was even in the room.

*****

This was not working. The entire situation was doomed from the start. He couldn't get the supplies from the second floor, not without a key, and he had stumbled across some weird fucked up scientific experiment with zombies.

This was not good. It wasn't good at all. When he woke up early in the morning, his stomach growled. His throat was parched. He needed a drink of water, and he was kicking himself for not getting some from the kitchen tab when he was searching the house.

His mind was fogged down, the confusion muddling his brain. None of this was his usual routine. He didn't know what to do. The other option his mind kept coming back to was facing Joe Biden head on, either talking to him or shooting him.

He didn't really want to shoot him, though. But if it came down to it, if Biden was going to end up kidnapping him to be part of the experiment or kill him, he wouldn't hesitate to put a bullet through the fuckers eyes.

He also needed a final confirmation for himself that Joe wasn't a zombie. He needed to see the infection for himself. If it was true, if he was infected and somehow up there walking around, he was going to put a bullet through him.

Nobody was safe from the infection. They might've found some way to slow it down, but they were still going to turn into monsters. With many of those failed documents he found, he knew they weren't any closer to a cure. They were just slowing down the infection.

It wasn't worth biding the time.

Trump gripped his shotgun close to his chest, his ears pressed against the door once again. Slowly, he creeped back up to the stairs to the first floor staircase. He stood in front of it, his gun lined up with the door, his stance ready.

He was going to wait until someone got out from that door. Then the chaos would begin.

_________

Author's Note: 

This one feels like a slower chapter, but that's alright. The whole book is kind-of a slow burn anyway. I didn't intend for it to be that way, though. It was originally going to be 20k words MAX. It was supposed to span out 20 chapters and be 1000 words per chapter but...here we are and we're just starting. Oh well.

Any who, I've started reading it back and dear fucking Lord there are SO MANY TYPOS. I haven't fixed them yet, but I most definitely will when I'm done. I also hate how I wrote chapter two and three. You can just tell I wrote them directly on Wattpad. Also just the fact that they're SO unnecessarily short like DAMN BITCH GIVE US MORE. I think when I edit this book I'm going to combine those two chapters into one.

Until next time pookies <3