George Washington Zombie Slayer (2 page)

             
“I do not know, Father,” George said sadly. “Those creatures seemed unharmed for all our efforts against them.”

             
“I have only one idea,” Gus said. “Go and fetch Denzel and bring him back here.”

             
George left immediately, leaving Gus alone in the shed. He hurried to the stables where he found the handsome slave, and directed Denzel to return with him to the work shed. The two made the short walk in the darkness, but as they approached, George could see his father standing with a candle in the yard, well away from the work shed. They were still far away from the structure, although George could see his father was holding some object under his arm.

             
As they approached the work shed, George could see that his father was holding a one-gallon wooden cask of gunpowder. The plug on the top had been removed, and Augustine Washington clutched the cask tightly to his chest. The early night air was totally quiet and absolutely still and George could hear his father’s whispered words even at the distance of twenty five yards.

             
“I love you, my son,” Augustine Washington said. And then he touched the lit end of the candle against the uncapped end of the gunpowder cask. And Augustine Washington was no more.

             
The cask exploded in a blazing sphere of orange flame and a deafening roar. The force of the blast knocked both George and Denzel from their feet. But when they sat up, near the small, smoking crater left by the explosion, George knew that his father had perished instantly.

             
The slaves all rushed out, as did Mary Washington, to see what caused such havoc. With ears ringing, George stood and stared dumbstruck into that smoking crater where his father once stood.  Although only eleven years old, George Washington realized that he was now the master of the Ferry Farm plantation house. And his father was truly gone.

             
Augustine Washington had found the one certain, selfless way to protect his family and stop himself from becoming one of the walking dead. He had consigned himself to the fiery oblivion of suicide, even to the potential peril of his own immortal soul.

Chapter 3

It Takes a Village

             
The Sawyer plantation sat along the banks of a small, meandering creek about twenty miles south of Fredericksburg, Virginia.  The plantation was, in point of fact, more of a small village than a single plantation, with tens of individual farmers building homes across the width and breath of the plantation grounds.

             
Elderly Jeremiah Sawyer, realizing a few years ago that he was too old and infirm to efficiently farm his 600 acre plantation, invited homestead farmers to rent plots of his large plantation and to raise crops of their own choosing.  Sawyer collected a fee of 30% of the crops raised, with the individual farmer keeping 70%. Thus, a thriving and efficient community had sprung up here, which the residents had begun to call the Village of Sawyerville.

             
On this quiet Sunday afternoon, the farmers and their families had gathered in the yard of the Sawyer House, the unofficial town hall, for an informal village picnic.  The women were busy at work preparing assorted breads and fruits and vegetables for the meal, while the men tended a large pig being spit-roasted over an open pit. The children played in the field near the dirt road just behind the main house.

             
In these simple days of 1743, children in colonial Virginia amused themselves with outdoor play across the meadows and streams of this vibrant land.  The children climbed trees and skipped stones across lakes and rivers. They swam in the streams and chased squirrels and rabbits through the woods. They played games like “hide and seek,” or “throw the black child into the pond.”

             
On this sunny afternoon, a strange sight greeted the children who played in the meadow behind the Sawyer farm. From along the dirt road came three unholy beings, staggering towards the farm. They appeared to be men, although their clothing was in tatters and two of the men had pale faces that made them look unearthly and ghost-like. The third man had a dark, sinister visage, as if his entire face had been charred and burned.

             
The children all stood silent for a moment, unsure if they should approach the strangers or run away. One of the children, a simpleton child by the name of O’Riley, headed towards the road and into the midst of the strange creatures. The other children stood watching, silent and transfixed.

Chubby little O’Riley
walked up to the three strangers, stood surrounded by them for the briefest of moments, before they set upon the lad and began to devour him! They pulled him apart, arms and limbs torn asunder before they cannibalized him in a bloody buffet of death.             

The other children all
ran screaming in the direction of their parents, who had already noted the approach of the strangers. Seeing the carnage, the women screamed also, some fainting, while the men grabbed whatever farm implements were close at hand and charged the three bloody creatures.  The angry mob soon descended on the monsters, striking and beating them, impaling them on pitchforks and slicing them with sickles, all the while the creatures still fought on, even after many minutes of mortal wounds being dealt.

By sheer force of numbers, the creatures were soon subdued and pinned to the ground, then tied fast with thick, strong rope, and were at last immobile.

“What are they?” asked Henry Fleming, while the creatures struggled against the ropes.

“The
y look like men possessed,” Reverend Colby answered. “Like demons.” The priest removed a small flask of holy water from his vest pocket and sprinkled some on the creatures, to no effect.

The crowd looked
to O’Riley Sr., father of the imbecile child William, who had just been eaten, and asked what he wished to be done.

“We hang ‘em high,” stated the angry, grief-stricken father.

The men dragged the three bound creatures to a nearby oak and slung three ropes over a tall, overhanging branch, quickly fashioning nooses to the end of each rope. Even the Reverend Colby helped the villagers in their task, content that such a hanging was righteous justice for the abhorrent crime he and the others had just witnessed.

The nooses were fixed tightly about the necks of the creatures, and the menfolk pulled each creature up in turn, hanging each cannibal ten to twelve feet in the air, suspended by the neck.

The men of Sawyerville had all seen hangings before, and knew it was not uncommon for victims to choke and gag and kick briefly while they strangled to death by suffocation.  Indeed, that is what each creature began to do after being hung. Only in this instance, that choking and snarling and kicking did not immediately stop, and it went on for an entire week.

For seven full
days and nights, in sun and moonlight, the three creatures hung by the mighty oak of the Sawyer farm, hanging by their necks until dead. For the full week, they snarled and growled and snapped at passers-by, many of whom made a sign of the cross, imploring a merciful God to deliver them all from evil.

As the creatures
’ bodies swayed in the light breezes through the passing days and nights, the ropes cut deep into their necks, wearing away the skin and flesh and sinew. And on the seventh day, as an angry thunderstorm approached, a ferocious wind rose up, jostling and bobbing the creatures in a gusty tempest, until at last their necks could not support the weight of their bodies, and all three fell, headless, to the ground below.

The next morning, the villagers all inspected the fallen hea
ds and bodies of the dead creatures at the base of the oak where they dropped, afraid to touch them, but confirming their lifelessness.

“God
be praised,” the Reverend Colby exclaimed to the gathered neighbors. “And I think it only fitting that we offer up a prayer of deliverance at this solemn moment.” The villagers removed their hats and bowed their heads.

“
Lord!” the Reverend began, looking heavenward. “We thank you for delivering us from these vile and terrible creatures who came among us to defile your true believers.  And though one of our own has fallen, devoured by these godless servants of Satan, we offer thanks that the only victim was the slow O’Riley child, who was always somewhat retarded and dull-witted and not so great a loss to his family as the other children might have been.”

“Amen!” exclaimed Mr. O’Riley
, who was even now gathered around his many children, while consoling his wife.

“
And Lord,” continued Reverend Colby, “ we know thy punishments are true and just, and your anger is swift and sure because of our own sinfulness. Yet in our sadness, we offer thanks,” the Reverend added. “For Mr. O”Riley still has many fine children who are uneaten, by your grace, and a fine, buxom young wife with wide, child bearing hips, who may yet still be bred for many years to come.”

“Amen!” O”Riley
shouted in reply.  “Amen,” the villagers all replied together.

The villagers were reluctant to give Christian burial to these f
iendish, headless corpses that lay beneath the mighty oak on the Sawyer farm. After some discussion, they began to pile dry wood and branches upon the corpses. They decided to consign the bodies of these creatures to flames as a burnt offering to the Lord.

The
villagers all contributed twisted wooden sticks and dried branches to the effort, and the wood pile grew and grew until, after two hours, it stood as high as the tallest villager.  Reverend Colby finally approached the mound of wood in the late afternoon, and gently touched a lit candle to the base of the stack. It burned slowly at first, then blazed higher, until at last the bonfire grew to engulf the entire stack of wood.

The villagers stood mesmerized by the sight of the funeral fire. 
As sunset approached, the flames grew even higher, perhaps fed by the fiendish corpses that lay beneath.  After nearly an hour, the flames reached their apex, at first blackening the mighty oak tree nearby, and then finally setting the entire mighty oak tree ablaze.

It was an awesom
e sight after sunset, the funeral bonfire burning and that giant, fifty foot oak now fully aflame, the light of its consumption visible for miles in all directions. The flames burned away the bodies of the three murdering, zombie cannibals, burned them all into the ashes of a sad and distant memory of a threat that would one day return to threaten America’s future.

Chapter
4

    
‘Till Death Us Do Part

             
George Washington stood in front of his father’s grave marker and reached down to brush away the leaves and dead twigs that the cold winter wind had blown in front of the lone headstone.  It had been over 15 years since his father had passed and George felt it his duty to visit his father’s gravesite on this day, January 6, 1759, the day of his own wedding.

             
Over these many years, George had served with the British army in North America, and had an illustrious career. He learned the lessons of leadership, military drill, discipline and battle. He had engagements with the Indians, who were fearsome, and against the French, whom it was well known made great wine and cheese, but lacked any skill or proficiency in military matters. When Washington failed to obtain a commission in the British army after years of service, he folded up his handsome uniform, and put on the cotton garments and wool coat of a civilian, gentleman farmer

             
Taking one last look at the gravestone, and saying a silent prayer, Washington rode off towards the Ferry Farm and his bright new future.

             
Now in his late-twenties, George had grown into a tall, impressive model of masculinity and physicality. Handsome, well-read, dignified, hard-working and strong, he was the ideal of southern aristocracy. And with his impending marriage to Martha Dandridge, George Washington would soon be one of the wealthiest landowners in Virginia.

             
Martha Dandridge was not considered to be an overly attractive woman. Plain looking, stout and barrel-shaped, she lacked the education, daintiness and grace so desirable in her time. She was additionally burdened by the fact that she was a widow, saddled with two children by her now deceased husband. But she was considered a valuable “catch” as a wife because of one desirable trait:  Martha Dandridge was as wealthy as hell.

             
The widow Dandridge certainly looked more attractive to her suitors reflected in this lens of unimaginable wealth, and she took full advantage of her economic value.  She would often attend social events in the most expensive of handmade silk dresses, imported from the finest of European dressmakers, and wearing bracelets and necklaces of the finest gold and jewels. She was also publicly accompanied by a cadre of slaves, one to fan her, a second following behind, holding the train of her dress, a third to dab the sweat from her private areas, and yet a fourth to fetch her cooling refreshments with an authoritarian wave of her hand.

             
Martha and George first met many months ago, when George attended an evening cotillion held by a wealthy Spanish Contessa who was the owner of a local plantation. Martha was present at the event and George was immediately impressed upon seeing Martha’s fine jewelry, expensive, embroidered dress and attentive slave entourage. “I am gobsmacked!” George exclaimed to Reebock, his own trusted slave and valet.

             
“A chick with a posse like that has got to have some serious Benjamins,“ Reebock observed. “And look at all dat swag, mon.”

             
“Indeed, I feel a swelling in my loins, unrelated to any urological condition,” George confessed in attraction to this ostentatious display of wealth.  “My codpiece grows firm and snug even now,” George added.

             
“Dat may be too much information,” Reebock confessed.             

             
George was upset that Martha was in long, deep conversation with Charles, the Earl Cornwallis, a wealthy nobleman from England who was engaged in what the British called “cruisin’ for totty.” The rules of social conduct required that George would have no opportunity to speak with the bejeweled sophisticate unless the Earl could be distracted from her. And George Washington, the master tactician, had an innovative plan for his romantic conquest of Martha Dandridge.

             
“I say… Reebock,” George said to his valet.

             
“Sir?” replied the slave.

             
“I wish to speak with her, but cannot do so while she is otherwise engaged in conversation with the Earl Cornwallis.”

             
“Just go over dere, mon,” Reebock suggested. “Just talk to her.”

             
“It would be undignified for me to interrupt his pursuit of totty,” Washington stated in truthful understanding of the social conventions of the day. “Unless he departs, I cannot speak with her.”

             
“Yeah, so what do you want me to do about dat, mon?” Reebock inquired with a growing sense of unease.

             
“Do you see how the Earl is sipping red wine from that crystal goblet?” Washington asked. “I want you to walk towards the Earl…” George began.

             
“OK…” Reebcok said.

             
“And bump into him hard so he spills his wine upon his shirt,” Washington directed.

             
“Um, OKaaaaay…” Reebock said, liking this plan less and less.

             
“The Earl Cornwallis will be so angry…” Washington continued.

             
“Uh huh…”

             
“That he will berate you and grab you and take you to the Contessa’s overseer and order that you be whipped for your stupidity,” Washington continued.

             
“Uh-huh…” Reebock said hesitantly.

             
“And thus distracted,” Washington happily concluded, “I will be free to speak with Miss Dandridge!”

             
“Um…” Reebock stammered.

             
“Why, it’s the perfect plan of attack!” Washington happily concluded.

             
“It, um, may have a few drawbacks,” Reebock said honestly.

             
“Nonsense, good Reebock,” Washington said, ending the discussion. “You have your orders,” he said, patting him on the back and gently shoving him in the direction of the Earl.

             
Reebock knew better than to argue and was therefore committed to Washington’s plan of attack, which went exactly as he had predicted. Reebock bumped into Charles the Earl Cornwallis, who spilled his entire goblet of wine across his fine, white silk shirt. Grabbing Reebock by his ear, the Earl howled angrily and dragged him from the reception hall to the cabin of the overseer.  The defensive perimeter withdrawn, George Washington approached the startled Miss Dandridge and introduced himself.

             
It was love at first sight for the young couple. Martha was immediately smitten with the tall, dashing, handsome, aristocratic gentleman. George, equally enraptured by Martha’s wealth, felt an immediate romantic longing for a woman who retained such an impressive dowry. They spent the rest of the evening together, even after the Earl returned, seething in anger and frustrated at being so skillfully out-maneuvered and un-tottied by Washington.

             
After dismissing her slaves for the evening, Martha walked with George on the grounds of the Contessa’s plantation late into the evening, long after the cotillion had ended. But as they passed the plantation stables in the darkness, Washington heard a haunting sound that was like the recollection of a long forgotten nightmare. It was a sound something between a human moan and a growl, a sound George had not heard since his childhood.

             
Suddenly, from around the corner of the stable, came a creature much like those George had seen as a child.  It was pale and bore the features of a man, with tattered clothing and the wild, savage look of a hungry animal.

             
Grabbing Martha’s hand, George pulled her away from the creature. George tried to enter the stable but the closest door was locked. “Come with me quickly,” George said urgently to Martha as they ran towards the distant barn. Entering the structure quickly, George could hear the creature just steps behind them.

             
“What is that ghastly creature?” Martha cried.

             
“My slave calls them ‘zombies,’” Washington said, scanning the interior of the barn for a weapon he could use against the approaching creature. “Stay behind me,” George ordered.

             
Martha screamed as the zombie entered the barn and staggered towards the startled couple. George scanned the assorted pitchforks and sickles hanging on the barn wall until at last he found his weapon of choice. Grabbing a long handled broad axe from a small shelf, he immediately stepped towards the approaching creature.

             
The zombie stopped for a second and then reached out towards George Washington. But that second of hesitation was all George needed as he mentally measured the distance between himself and the creature. George swung the axe horizontally, with great strength and speed and the sharp blade connected with the creature’s neck, severing its head from its body.

             
Martha screamed again as George killed the creature, averting her eyes from the headless corpse by placing her face against George’s chest, clutching him tightly. The zombie was slain.

             
“We must leave,” George said. “Come to my carriage,” Washington urged, fearful there were more of those creatures close at hand. The pair approached the carriage where the recently whipped Reebock sat uncomfortably upon a sore, recently whipped ass in the driver’s seat. George did not wait for Reebok to descend in the darkness but opened the carriage door himself and ushered Martha quickly inside.

             
From the darkness behind the carriage, both George and Reebock heard that inhuman growl from their childhood, and exchanged a quick, nervous glance at each other before George stepped into the carriage. Nothing more needed to be said.

             
Reebock pulled the horse whip he almost never used from its holder beneath his seat, and giving the two horses a sharp crack, snapped the reins and urged the horses quickly away and into the distance, making good their escape from the demons of their childhood.

             
“Thank you, Mister Washington,” Martha cried hugging him. “Oh, my protector!” she cried, hugging him in a most unladylike manner.

             
“Will you marry me?” George, ever the tactician, asked the frighted widow

             
“Oh, YES, George,” Martha exclaimed. “Yes I will!”

             
And with that act of protection, in the carriage ride to safety, one of America’s greatest gentlemen had found himself a fiancee.