37.
The swirling, whirling credits of Crosshairs were right out of the 1990s, and Brock Olivera hated them. But his producer, Lindsay, had convinced Brock that his key audience demographic was deathly afraid of change, so it was best not to mess with the intro.
Brock leaned back in his chair as his make-up person applied the final touches to his square-jawed visage. For this expanded episode, Lindsay had called in the show's occasional and nominal co-host, a sniveling milquetoast named Alden Jones. Brock nodded to Jones, who was just stupid enough to believe that they were somehow peers.
"Let's get going," Lindsay shouted. "Ready to begin taping."
A moment later, cameras rolled, and Brock Olivera dropped his pleasing baritone on America.
"Good evening, my fellow patriots," Brock said. "This morning, Helga Tilden kicked off the unlikeliest presidential campaign we have ever seen. With the possible exception of that whole Ralph Nader thing a thousand years ago. What was that all about, anyway?"
Brock swiveled in his chair to face camera two, and he said, "Right now, we will analyze the Tilden phenomenon. Right here. Right away. I'm Brock Olivera."
"I'm Alden Jones," said the vapid co-host.
"And you're watching..."
"Crosshairs."
The cheesy intro music played as Brock and Alden pretended to talk. When Lindsay cued Brock, he said, "Like Hannibal marching through the Alps, like Sherman marching to the sea, Samuel Tilden is marching to Washington, D.C. What does this mean for America?"
"It's electrified the campaign season," said Alden.
Brock ignored Alden and said, "I will tell you what it means. Voters will have a real choice in November. Business as usual with President Fremont and his establishment flunkies."
Alden laughed.
"Or a powerful, no-nonsense leader who is the very embodiment of American can-do spirit and political incorrectness."
"He's a zombie," Alden pointed out.
"Samuel Tilden is all tenacity and decisiveness. He is pure patriotism mixed with the survival-of-the-fittest mindset that made this country exceptional. Tilden stands for all of us. And if you don't see that, something's wrong with you!"
"Well put, Brock," said Alden.
"Back after this brief message from these fine sponsors."
Brock leaned back in his chair, quite thrilled with himself. Alden Jones grinned happily, like a first-grader who had just avoided being picked last for the kickball team. And Lindsay the producer just bit her lip and wondered if all this was such a great idea.
38.
The six survivors of the Brewerville and Brodfoot massacres didn't see Helga Tilden's press conference. Nor were they aware of Brock Olivera's fervent embrace of the zombies on Crosshairs. No, they had all been asleep.
After coming upon a motel at dawn, they had dragged themselves into its lobby and rang the front bell, with each one of them taking a turn pounding on the ringing, tinny instrument until Twisney picked it up and threw it against the wall.
"I presume that nobody else noticed there's only one car in the parking lot of this motel," Knut said.
"Actually, I noticed that immediately," said Dr. Nguyen. "Clearly, the news about the zombies has spread, and people are evacuating as quickly as they can. One person was apparently so upset that he or she ran screaming into the night, leaving the car behind."
"It should be my news story that sends people screaming into the night," Twisney said. "All this over Brock Olivera's stupid, unsubstantiated tweets?"
"His last one is wild," Lenny said, looking at his phone. "He says zombie leadership will guarantee freedom for all Americans."
Lenny glanced away from his phone and stared off into the distance. He said, "Wow, I wonder if he's right."
Shelby sighed and said, "You are everything that's wrong with this world, Lenny. I can't believe I let you do me, doggy style."
"Enough," Big Jake said, trying to shake the mental image out of his head. "Let's get some sleep. I'm sure there are plenty of empty rooms. After a few hours to get our shit together, we'll take that car and drive far away from all this."
The other five mumbled their assent, and everyone headed for the elevator.
"One problem," Dr. Nguyen said. "If the zombies catch up to us, we don't want to all be out cold. Someone should stay up as a lookout."
"We'll take turns keeping point," Big Jake said. "We can draw straws."
"Daddy, I'm not taking point, whatever that means," Shelby said. "I'm tired like everybody else, and I'll stay here today. But tomorrow I'm taking the car and going back home."
Twisney said, "Let me tell you why that's not going to work, Shelby. You're welcome to stay here, but I'm going after the zombies tomorrow. I'm going to get the Peabody and every journalism award known to the universe once I get the story. So I need that car."
Shelby nodded and appeared thoughtful, and then she said, "That's strange. I don't remember talking to you, bitch."
Twisney took a step toward Shelby, who didn't flinch, and all of the men got between them.
Big Jake said, "That's enough, Shelby. Where are you going to go? Our home has been destroyed. We need to stop the zombies."
"Oh, spare me, Daddy," said Shelby. "You don't give a damn about stopping zombies. You just want to get laid."
"So do I," said Lenny in an exhausted mumble. "Can we go to bed now?"
Shelby turned on Lenny, who snapped back at her, and Big Jake shoved the idiotic teenager for getting uppity with his daughter. Twisney launched a verbal aside at Shelby, who took it out on Dr. Nguyen for his wretched idea to keep watch, and soon the yelling and shouting escalated.
Knut ignored everyone, walked over to the bell that Twisney had hurled, and picked it up. He turned and rang the dented cone repeatedly until his bickering, sniping companions stopped to look at him.
"Everybody shut up," Knut said. "I'm so tired that if a zombie showed up right now, I would let him kill me, just to get some rest and to be free of you people."
The others glared at him, but Knut was used to being despised, so he went on.
"We're going to get some sleep, and when we wake up, Dr. Nguyen and I will figure out what to so next because we're the smartest people here."
The others nodded at this clear truth, and Knut said, "Good. Now everybody find a room."
They each grabbed room keys from behind the desk, and they disbursed in separate directions.
"Fine," Shelby said as she went up the stairs. "But I still think Twisney is a bitch."
Twisney shot Shelby an unrelenting glare as she walked down the hallway. Big Jake hurried after Twisney.
"We should probably sleep near each other," Big Jake said. "You know, for protection."
Twisney got to her room and opened the door. She turned and spoke in an annoyed tone.
"Look, how is sleeping with you going to help me out?" Twisney asked.
Big Jake looked at Twisney in shock and fumbled for his answer. No, he wasn't the smoothest.
"That is why you are here, right?" Twisney said. "Standing outside my door."
"Well, yeah," Big Jake admitted. "But what do you mean, how is it going to help you out?"
"You know, further my career, help with the zombie story, comfort me in a time of need, and so on and so on. What's the hook?"
Big Jake pondered this statement for a moment as Twisney looked on impatiently. He brightened and gave her his best elevator pitch for sex.
"I could give you a first-hand account of what it was like to battle the zombies for my home," Big Jake said. "You know, it could be a human interest element, which sometimes gets lost in today's cold, pessimistic news stories."
Twisney thought for a moment and nodded.
"Not a bad angle," she said.
She looked at Big Jake from head to toe. She shrugged and said, "Also, I could use the distraction, and you'll do."
Twisney signaled for Big Jake to enter her room. He happily rushed in, and she closed the door behind him.