Jack Strange - Zomcats!

Pratt felt he could leave her and went to the butcher to get some meat. He bought a joint of beef, roasted it in the oven, and served it up with gravy and veg. When he took it downstairs, it met with the same fate as the bangers and mash he’d given her earlier.

She glared at him, and he felt intimidated and retreated hastily to the safety of the upstairs front room, where he sat pondering what he should feed to his creation, and when she would next be hungry.

Then a disturbing thought occurred to him. He hurried out to the hardware shop and bought four sturdy bolts and two locks, and fitted them to the cellar door.

It was a mystery.

Brian Philpott couldn’t understand why anyone would break into his factory, far less why they would break into it without taking anything much of value. But that’s just what they’d done. A burglar had smashed open the back door, presumably late at night, entered, and stolen only three items, or six items, depending on which way you looked at it.

Philpott was the last clog-maker in Huddersfield, and the burglar had stolen three pairs of his finest clogs. Philpott wouldn’t miss them, and he wasn’t concerned about the cost of repairing his back door. He could afford to cover these minor losses. Business had been brisk lately. He’d been taking orders for clogs from all over the country, as people prepared for the nationwide flurry of zombie clog-dancing festivals that were soon to be held in every city, town, village and hamlet in the United Kingdom.

Still, he couldn’t help but wonder what possible motive the thief could have had for his rather peculiar crime.

A C-17 Globemaster III touched down at Heathrow. It was one of the largest transport aircraft available to the American military. As it pulled up on the tarmac a group of airmen emerged, opened the doors of the hold and went inside. They emerged a few minutes later driving the specially adapted Cadillac limousines that were to be used for the President’s motorcade. There were ten in all. The men went into the hold again, and this time appeared on Harley Davidson police motorbikes that would drive ahead and at the flanks of the motorcade. They parked all the vehicles in a neat line on the landing strip next to the huge aircraft.

An hour later, the President’s personal airplane — Air Force One — touched down on the same airstrip and taxied up close behind the C-17 Globemaster. Members of the American Press climbed out — all of them male — followed by an army of CIA men wearing their usual uniforms of dark suits, white shirts and dark ties, dark glasses and earpieces. Then the President himself emerged and stood at the top of the steps, posing and waving his hat. For once, there was no waiting band of admirers on the ground below, just a bunch of members of the American and British media, but he made the most of it, smiling and looking upbeat.

He turned his head so that he could speak to Tyler, who was just behind him.

“Why didn’t you arrange to have a crowd of admirers waiting for me Tyler? God-dammit, you’ve made me look like an unpopular ass-hole!”

He turned to look at the press once again, a beaming smile on his flabby face, and descended the steps. When he got to the bottom, he cast his eye approvingly over the long line of cars. “This better be the biggest motorcade any American President ever had, Tyler.”

“It is, Mr. President. I made sure of that.”

They climbed into the lead car and the motorcade set off for the gates in the Heathrow fence that were open to let them through. British police on British cop bikes were waiting for them outside the gates. Doughnut nudged Tyler and pointed at them.

“See that,” he said. “Those Brit cop bikes aren’t anywhere near as cool as our American Harleys. We’re winning the P.R. war already.”

The motorcade proceeded through London with great fanfare to Buckingham Palace, where Doughnut was met by the queen. She was waiting for him at the doors of the palace. He climbed from his limo and headed confidently over to her, and then realised that he wasn’t sure whether he should shake hands or bow, as he hadn’t listened to the briefing he’d been given on Presidential protocol when meeting other heads of state.

I don’t know what I’m meant to do, but I’m certainly not going to be obsequious , he told himself.

He reached the doors of the palace and held out his hand, and the queen looked puzzled for a moment before taking it, and even more puzzled as he shook it vigorously.

“I’m pleased to meet you, Queen Elizabeth” he said, fumbling in his trouser pocket for his mobile with his free hand. It slipped from his grasp and he got frustrated.

“Tyler, get my mobile and take a picture, will you?” He said.

Tyler stuck his hand in the President’s trouser pocket and grimaced as he probed with his fingers, a look of mild disgust crossing his face for a moment. Eventually he got hold of the mobile, pulled it out, and took a picture of the queen and President together.

Doughnut and the queen then went inside the palace and the Queen did the meaningless small talk with him at which she exceled after decades of practice, then she gave a discrete signal to one of her uniformed courtiers who politely informed Doughnut that his audience with the Queen was at an end. Doughnut stood up and despite himself did a sort of half-bow and left, escorted by the courtier.

He got back in his car and the motorcade proceeded along Whitehall to Downing Street.

“I think that went very well Tyler,” said Doughnut. “The Queen is real nice, unlike Their Prime Minister. She talked to me about her dogs and she even let me pet one of them, and she got one of her butlers to make me a cup of tea. They have uniforms, you know. As soon as we get back to America, I’m going to get some uniformed butlers in the White House.”

The motorcade proceeded along Whitehall without difficulty as the police had made sure that no other traffic could enter the road while the President was on it. This caused untold fury all around London, as thousands of cars backed up in every direction unable to move. Eventually the procession reached Downing Street, and the gates to the street were opened to accommodate Doughnut’s limo. The rest of the limos had to wait outside because there wasn’t room for them.

Tyler passed his laptop to Doughnut as their car drew to a halt.

“Look at this Mr President,” he said.

Doughnut scrutinised the screen. There was a news bulletin on it:

“Anonymous Government sources have today confirmed that the President is having an emergency briefing from the British Prime Minister to assist him with domestic policy affairs at home.”

His brow furrowed.

“Why, that treacherous limey bastard. He’s done exactly what we didn’t want him to do. Get onto the White House right away. Tell my P.R. men to deal with this.”

He noticed something else on the screen, a news item about a tragic incident in Jacksonville. A huge explosion had destroyed several buildings near the famous Jacksonville beach, including restaurants and shops. There had been scores of casualties.

“My God, Tyler,” said Doughnut. “We have to get this over with and get back to Washington before that lunatic Havoc blows up the entire eastern seaboard.”

He climbed from the limo all smiles as cameras flashed. The press were eager to talk to him, but lines of police held them back. He walked to the door of number 10 with Tyler following a few paces behind.

“Is it true you’ve got problems in America that you can’t handle?” One of reporters shouted.

“Why do you need our help?” Another shouted.

Doughnut gave them a bland smile and waived.