Free Doomsday Warrior 09 - America’s Zero Hour by Ryder Stacy Page B

lengthy list of repairs Zhabnov had ordered. “I want you to round up a team of art experts to scour the land, search every museum and art collection for undiscovered Keane paintings. Notify me as soon as they’re assembled,” Zhabnov added as he dismissed Gudonov with a wave of his hand.
    As soon as Gudonov had left the room and closed the door behind him, Zhabnov’s stomach sagged. The effort of holding himself in was always a strain. The Red President gazed about the room after he changed into his pajamas. Even here in his room, Zhabnov couldn’t escape the ravages of the White House. Buckets were placed strategically on his nightstand, bureau, and floor to catch the constant leaks. His carpet was water stained and his purple velvet curtains drooped. It was not a fit room for a leader such as he.
    He stared at the emptiness of his king-size bed. He was alone. No nubile young maiden awaited him to ease the cares and woes of the past horrid hours. He slid between the cold damp sheets and stared vacantly at the darkened square that should have held his greatest portrait. He thought again of Keane’s masterpiece, “Big Eyed Tears,” and began to sob. He reached for his covers.
    He clutched the pillow tightly to his chest as if for protection and drifted to sleep . . . Vague thoughts of flying bats filled his mind. He fell into dreams. He was being caressed by a beautiful young girl—naked. He fondled his pillow as he dreamed that she handed him a single perfect rose. He reached to take it, but it turned to red paste that dripped down her body. A big tear appeared in her eye and was followed by another and another. The tears turned to blood and soaked the bed, seeping through to the floor.
    The bed groaned and creaked as Zhabnov tossed and turned. Deeper and deeper in dream . . . The bed fell through the floor down to the basement. He got out of bed and winced as his bare feet hit the clammy basement floor and shuddered as a damp icy chill spread through his body. A chill he could feel to his bones. An army of skeletons assembled to mop up the blood that oozed through the ceiling, wringing their mops out in pails. He walked over to the nearest skeleton and demanded to know what was happening.
    “Who are you?” asked the skeleton, its fleshless jaws hanging agape.
    “I am President of the U.S.S.A.,” Zhabnov croaked in fear and anger.
    “You’re not the President,” said another, its jawbone dropping until it dangled, held only by a gold chain.
    Zhabnov stepped back aghast and watched in horror as the skeleton retrieved its jaw and set it back in its place.
    “He is President,” the skull said, pointing to the left. Zhabnov followed the long bony finger to where it was pointing until his eyes came to rest on Stuart’s portrait of Washington.
    “But he’s dead!” Zhabnov protested.
    “Not in spirit,” said a ghostly voice that echoed through the basement.
    “Who said that?” Zhabnov shuddered nervously.
    “I did,” the voice replied with an icy tone. Zhabnov noticed the painting’s eyes move.
    “I think that Stuart managed to grasp the essence of my spirit, don’t you?” asked the painting. Now Zhabnov saw Washington’s lips move.
    “This can’t be,” Zhabnov stammered. “You’re only a portrait. I must be losing my mind to be talking to a painting.”
    “Actually, we’ve been expecting you,” said Washington, parting his lips in a hideous, toothless grin of bloody gums.
    Zhabnov gasped, as a misty face was beginning to emerge from the picture. He nearly screamed when the pulsing phantom of Washington stepped slowly out of the portrait and onto the cold floor beside him. He put his hands over his face.
    “I’ve done nothing to you. I even kept your painting,” he protested.
    “Look at me,” the phantom commanded. In spite of himself, Zhabnov peered through his fingers. The now-solid-appearing apparition had a ghastly pallor tinged with a faint flush of fever. The accusing eyes were of