Give Death A Chance (10 page)

Ringo pointed out, “Zombies
always
go back on their word, mate.”

“Never, always, same difference. Semantics.” Before I could find out what that meant in terms of my freedom, John clapped his hands and said, “Where are we going, fellas?”

“
To the top
,
Johnny
!” Paul, George, and Ringo unison’d.

“To the top of what, fellas?”

“
The Toppermost of the Poppermost
!”

“That’s right, fellas. To the Toppermost of the fookin’ Poppermost.” He kicked open the van’s rear door, destroying it in the process—at this point, it didn’t matter if the van was intact or not, because if this little to-do went as planned, the van would be replaced by Air Force One—and the four of them jumped out and sprinted toward the White House at about a zillion miles per hour. It took them a few strides to realize I wasn’t keeping up, so George ran back, grabbed me by my hand—almost dislocating my shoulder in the process—and lifted me above his head, after which the Beatles resumed their advance. (I should mention that you haven’t lived until Zombie George Harrison has carried you across the White House lawn at a zillion miles per hour.)

The gunfire started without a word of warning, and the shots came from everywhere: above, below, left, right, center, diagonal,
everywhere
. Over the years, the Beatles had become masters at dodging bullets—literally and figuratively—but I don’t think they’d ever experienced the sheer quantity of ammo that the United States Secret Service emptied upon them. They weren’t scared…but they weren’t
not
scared.

Me, I was shitting myself, because I thought the lads were going to sacrifice me for the cause, but George didn’t use me as a human shield; rather, he pulled me into his gut, hunched over, and shielded me himself, which was fortunate, because he took about five shots in his back, shots that would’ve killed me. But George—impenetrable, cranky George—didn’t even flinch.

I’m sure the band was most worried about Ringo, as Ninjas can be killed with bullets, just like any other mortal. (Liverpudlian Zombies, conversely, have a pretty good tolerance for gunfire.) But no matter how good the Secret Service marksmen were—and from where I was sitting, they looked
damn
good—they couldn’t touch the great Ninja Lord drummer, because Ringo could flat out
move
. Suffice it to say that Richard Starkey would be able to beat a Brazilian Three-Legged Meta-Snake in a 50-meter race, and if you’ve ever seen a Brazilian Three-Legged Meta-Snake—and you probably haven’t, because there are only four in the world—you’d know what I was talking about.

We came to a halt at the front entrance, at which point the gunfire ceased. In the sudden silence, John pulled me away from George, put me in a relatively tolerable headlock, and called, “Do not resume fire, or I’ll kill my hostage and splatter his intestines all over the façade of this fookin’ place!”

I yelled, “Oh, come
on
! You guys suck.”

Paul whispered, “We won’t splatter you, y’know. This is just for leverage.”

John roared, “I don’t know if you blokes heard what Paulie here just said, but if you did, ignore it, because it’s a fookin’ lie! We get access to the Oval Office, or we’ll paint the hallways with the Scribe’s blood!”

George whispered, “He’s kidding.”

John yelled, “
I’m not kidding
!”

Ringo whispered, “He won’t do it.”

John yelled, “
I will absolutely do it
!”

Paul whispered, “Erm, won’t happen.”

John yelled, “
Will happen
!”

A voice then boomed from the heavens: “We will grant you access to the Oval Office, Mr. Lennon, but you will be accompanied by two Secret Service agents and four United States Zombie Guards.”

John mumbled, “I hate those fookin’ USZG’s,” then he roared, “That’s acceptable! Just make sure that Obama bloke is there!”

After a pause, the voice boomed, “The President is not available! You will have an audience with the Secretary of the Interior!”

John called, “What the fook is the Secretary of the Interior?”

George added, “
Who
the fook is the Secretary of the Interior?”

The voice boomed, “I don’t know the answer to either of those questions, but that’s the best we can do with such short notice.”

John shouted, “Well then, I guess we’ll just have to camp out in the Oval Office until your Mr. Obama returns! I think there are plenty of brains to eat in this dump to keep us sustained for a while.” I doubted the Secret Service were aware that Liverpool Zombies could go for months without eating a brain, and I also doubted that the USZG’s—who knew about that sort of thing—were on the scene that quickly, so that was actually a decent threat.

After a lengthy pause, the voice boomed, “The President will see you. Please don’t move. The USZG’s and our agents will be there momentarily.”

Ringo pulled a
shuriken
from his cloak, held it to my neck, and yelled, “Okay, but no funny moves, or your American pal gets it.”

George whispered, “He’s kidding.”

Ringo yelled, “
I’m not kidding
!”

John whispered, “He won’t do it.”

Ringo yelled, “
I will absolutely do it
!”

Paul whispered, “Erm, won’t happen.”

Ringo yelled, “
Will happen
!”

I said, “You know what, guys? Fuck you. And by the way, everybody hated ‘Free as a Bird.’
Everybody
.”

With a pained expression on his gray face, John said, “You really know how to hurt a guy, Scribe.”

Before I could go on a detailed explanation as to
why
everybody hated “Free As a Bird,” two be-suited agents sauntered over, followed by four USZG’s clad in matching red Hazmat suits and clutching what appeared to be industrial-sized cattle prods.

One of the guys in a suit said, “You guys be nice to us, and we’ll be nice to you.”

John said, “We’re always nice.”

The other suited dude said, “Sure you are.” As we walked across the White House threshold, he said, “It pains me to say this, but President Obama is looking forward to meeting you. Turns out he’s quite the fan.”

Smiling, Paul said, “Everybody loves the Beatles, y’know. I bet you blokes do, too.”

The biggest USZG said, “Until five minutes ago, I did love the Beatles.”

Paul glared at John, and said, “See, that’s the thing about taking this approach. Sure, we get to rule the world, but we lose fans along the way. Lost fans means lost record sales, y’know. And lost record sales means our royalty statements will be messy, and…”

In a tone that sounded what slow death must feel like, John said, “Shut it, Paulie. The Poppermost is near.” His tone was so creepy that Paulie shut it.

They’d evacuated the building, so for the next five minutes, our footsteps echoed up and down the empty hallways, until we arrived to the carpeted area outside the Oval Office entrance. The Secret Service agents took their positions on either side of the door leading to the inner sanctum, and the four USZG’s stood directly behind us, prods humming and ready. The agent to the left said, “The President will see you now.”

The smallest USZG said, “If you so much as harm a hair on the President’s head, we will end you and everything that is dear to you. And I will make it my mission in life to destroy every Beatles record in existence.”

“Good luck with that,” Paul said. “That’s a lot of records, y’know.”

“And don’t forget about the MP3’s,” I said.

John asked, “What the fook is an MP3?”

The agent to the left then repeated, “The President will see you now.”

And there he was, seated on his desk, my fellow Chicagoan, Barack Obama, appearing wholly presidential and wholly unfazed. For that matter, he even looked kind of happy. As we approached the desk, he stood up and offered John his hand. “Mr. Lennon, this is an honor. Call me Barry.”

John looked at the President’s hand, then at the President, then back at the hand, then back at the man. “I’m afraid I can’t shake the hand of a man I’m about to kill.”

If it was possible, Obama’s smile widened. He asked, “John, why do you want to kill me? I thought all you need is love, brother.”

After a quiet Zombie moan, John said, “We want to get to the Poppermost, and you’re in our way, so you must die. No Zombification for you. Just eternal sleep.”

Somehow, the President’s smile brightened. “The Poppermost? Hell, why didn’t you say so? That’s no problem. You can have the damn Poppermost.” He went back around his desk, pulled a briefcase from one of the lower drawers, and loaded it up with some papers. “It’s all yours. I’m outta here. This is the worst job
ever
. You guys’ll probably have an easier time with Congress then I ever did.” He pulled an iPhone from the breast pocket of his suit jacket, handed it to me, and said, “Listen, before I split, can you take a picture of me with the Fab Four?”

I was so blown away by this turn of events, that I dropped the phone on the floor; fortunately, it didn’t break—unlike
my
iPhone, the iPhone that, if you’ll remember, Ringo trashed. Not that I’m bitter or anything. I said, “My bad, Mr. President. Sorry, sorry, sorry…”

Obama chuckled, then pulled another iPhone from his other breast pocket and said, “Don’t worry about it. Now get cracking, because I want to be on a plane to Chicago before the press gets wind of this.” He motioned to the band and said, “Okay, gentlemen, bring it in. Let’s get a good picture, here.” After I took a few photos, Obama said, “Hold on a sec,” then turned to George and added, “Mr. Harrison, let me get a big old smile out of you. You’re Malia’s favorite.”

Ringo said, “George hasn’t smiled in twenty years. Good luck with that one.” But George was so charmed by the soon-to-be-retired President that he involuntarily grinned…. Thing is, years of eating brains hadn’t done wonders for his teeth, so I kept him out of the frame, because those choppers would’ve scared the shit out of Malia Obama. Hell, they scared the shit out of me.

After the photo op, Obama picked up his briefcase and, chuckling, said, “Time for me to get back where I once belonged. Have fun at the Poppermost, gentlemen!” And then he skedaddled out of the White House and into the private sector.

John, Paul, George, and Ringo stared silently at the door for a good long time, lost in thought. One might believe that upon reaching the goal that they’d sought for so long, they’d be in a celebratory mood, but I understood their contemplativeness. When you realize your dream—when you achieve something that in your heart of hearts that you never thought you’d achieve—it can be daunting, even for Zombies who have seen and done the kinds of things that the Beatles have. I couldn’t imagine what was going through their heads. Were they excited? Uneasy? Ecstatic? As much hell as they’d put me through, I’d come to care for them in a weird way, and was more than a little curious to find out their innermost thoughts, and I knew they’d tell me
exactly
what they were feeling, because that’s one thing the Zombie Beatles have always been:
Honest
.

Finally, after an almost unbearable silence, John gave each of his bandmates a deep, meaningful look, then took a deep, meaningful breath, and said, “This is fookin’ boring. Let’s go make a record.”

AUGUST 1, 2011

Bet you didn’t know there was a recording studio in the White House basement. Turned out that Jimmy Carter fancied himself a crooner, and he used to sneak out after hours and sit in at local Washington cabaret bars. But by the end of his term he never left the building for fear of being assassinated. Hence, the in-house studio.

The lads have been recording since the night Obama left them in charge of the country, and it’s going horribly. Since they last wrote any new tunes together, John and Paul have grown apart musically; John gravitates toward esoteric, distinctly un-rocking noise music, whereas Paul has become fond of smooth jazz-like R&B. It’s like Sonic Youth trying to collaborate with Boyz II Men.

George is being a good soldier, playing exactly what he’s told, but I can tell he’s ready to explode. Ringo just sits behind his drum set with a hangdog expression plastered on his normally affable mug. The good thing is that, unlike every one of their recording sessions between 1967 and the breakup, they haven’t gotten into one of those physical and verbal battles that left feelings hurt and entire villages destroyed.

Still, I wasn’t having the best time in the world.

At 10:00, I told the guys that I was going to bed—I was sleeping in the Lincoln Bedroom, which wasn’t all it was cracked up to be—but before I made it to the door, John dragged me into the control room, sat me down on the sofa, and said, “You know you can go, mate.”

I said, “I know. I’m going.”

“No, you can go home. You can go back to Chicago. Go hang out with that Obama bloke.”

“Yeah, I know. But how often do you get a chance to watch the Beatles make a record?”

John shook his head. “Quit talking shite, Scribe. You have better taste than that. This isn’t a record. This is a steaming pile of kangaroo dung.”

I wasn’t about to call a Lennon/McCartney song a steaming pile of kangaroo dung, but I couldn’t lie and say it was quality music, so I gave John a noncommittal grunt.

Nodding, John said, “That’s what I thought. And I appreciate your honesty.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“By saying nothing, mate, you said everything.” After a surprisingly companionable silence, John said, “I looked at your notebooks. I read what you wrote about us. More honesty. I didn’t like it…”

“I
told
you you wouldn’t.”

“But I appreciated that you wrote with your heart. Makes me want to keep you around for a good long while.”

Shaking my head, I said, “I’ve gotta get out of here eventually, John. This isn’t good for me.”

“What isn’t good for you?” John asked.

“Being around Zombies. Humans without any kind of paranormal powers and the undead don’t mix. I can literally feel my mind bending.”