I smashed a nail into the Resolute Desk. My desk! Hit it with a hammer. Antique hammer. Historic. Force.
I became President before the dead rose up.
Reality is always stranger than fiction. Always. Sometimes, anyway.
Why would I care about killing a million civilians?
They asked me that this morning. COS boi. All serious. All somber.
“Mr. President.”
Shaking.
Gulping.
“Mr. President.”
Fuck off. What exactly am I the President of anymore?
America?
Sure. What is America now?
Fourteen million left. That's the estimate. Soon Thirteen, apparently.
Woo.
And how many millions of square miles are now owned by walking corpses? How many of them are out there now?
It's twenty to one and who the fuck cares.
All we have left are pockets. No states. No people.
Could be worse. Could be.
I grabbed the hammer again and threw it at George.