Give Death A Chance by Alan Goldsher Page B

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.