Two men, faces as pale as the lab coats they wore, watched it unfold on the gigantic plasma screen in their lab.
“The apocalypse will be televised, after all,” the older one said. “God help us.”
“God forgive us, you mean,” the younger one said.
On the TV, soldiers fired machine guns and RPGs into the mass of former humanity, packing the streets. The front ranks fell, but the next ranks simply walked over them.
“They’re hardly making a dent, Ben!” the older one exclaimed. “Why don’t they retreat?”
“Where would they retreat to, Joe?” Ben gasped. “Hey! Isn’t that—?”
The camera, protruding from a window above the fray, zoomed in on one particular zombie. His expensive suit hung in tatters, slick grey hair sticking out in tufts—but if this wasn’t the failed presidential candidate, it looked just like him.
Joe chuckled. “Commander in Chief of Zombie Nation. He got what he wanted, after all.”