I sold my Malibu house to a rightwing nut job and moved my company inland. Anyone with a man inside got tipped off that Colorado was safe. I and the other overpaid overcompensators headed further north, up to Wyoming.
The population of Casper had multiplied by fifteen. Locals carried shotguns to get their morning papers; I spent most of the day on the treadmill in my bunker.
Millions would perish in the “drop-offs” – that’s how the Democrats referred to the landslides. Me, my husband, Eric, and stepson, Jessie, were settling in fine. Eric is an architect. The bunker is his magnum opus.
I watched the morning news from the treadmill. At mile 10, a call came in from the White House.
“How’s my favourite publicist?” the President asked. “Mole life suits me.”
“You keeping that body tight?”
I remembered why my assistant called him Dead Eye. Dead Eye would say outlandish things without any change to his countenance.
“We’ve got James Cameron directing the campaign. We’d like you on PR.” “What campaign?”
“We’ve defrosted Abraham Lincoln.”
“What does he look like?” I asked.
Eric appeared at the door and mouthed, “Who?”
I turned the treadmill off. Down the hall I heard Jessie playing Call of Duty.
“Huge,” Dead Eye replied. “Smells something awful.” He barked out a laugh that got caught in his throat.
I shut myself in the bathroom and gamed things out. The military said in five years the new government should be up and running.
“Just getting caught up here,” I put Dead Eye on speaker. “How is Abraham Lincoln going to help during the drop-offs?”
“Wyoming’s gonna be fine. You’ve got enough food, don’t you?”
“Eric’s a prepper.” Over the last eighteen months, he’d been stocking the freezers with local trout he caught himself. I ran the bath.
“What are you doing?” Dead Eye asked. “Getting in the tub. Need to think.”
“Sure.” His voice sounded breathy. He was imagining me naked. “Abe’s remarkable, even after the unfreezing. It’s just…the press is sniffing around. Fucking slime.”
“We only have a few days until the story leaks,” I thought aloud. “Our only hope is a charm offensive.” I’d need to get Abe caught up on TikTok, cross-brand him with a lovable green brand, call Greta Thunberg’s people…
“We can send a jet out this afternoon.”
“Let’s do it. One last gig before I become a bunker person.” “Hell yeah. Talk soon.”
I opened the door. Eric and Jessie stood on the other side whispering.
“I gotta see the President.” I raised my eyebrows then added, “Both of them.” I leaned into the action hero delivery. Jessie looked mildly interested.
I put on my all-black Stella McCartney exercise outfit, packed a few sweaters and my Gucci blazer. I assured the boys that this was just a Hail Mary to get the important folks where they needed to be. Otherwise, it would be the 2008 financial crash times Covid. An avalanche of calamity. The only solution was to keep things running for as long as we could.
Eric kissed me on the forehead somberly.
At 4pm, I landed on the tarmac in DC. James Cameron stood alongside Dead Eye with a dozen Secret Service.
“Mr. President.” I said, shaking his hand. “You look great.”
Secret Service surrounded us like sausage casing.
James Cameron took out a small handheld camera and said, “I’m Jim. This is for the documentary – once all this blows over.”
We filed into an Escalade and tore through the airport. Protestors clamoured outside the gates. I twisted away from the window, drinking in the rank odour bouncing off my companions and grimaced.
“There’s no cure for the smell.” The President said dejectedly. He sprayed three squirts of Binaca in his mouth and Jim put his camera down.
At the Pentagon, the odour grew stronger. Jim took a whiff of a small vial and replaced it in his pocket. Secret Service opened the door and a gray Sequoia of a man appeared. I wanted a moment to catch my breath, but Abraham Lincoln stooped his head down like a microphone boom.
I studied the crown of his wiry hair and elephant-sized ears. I tried to smile but realised too late that my mouth was hanging open.
A divine sadness took over him. I looked down at the floor, partially out of shame and partially against the miasma.
When our eyes reconnected, he looked on the verge of tears. Or maybe I was. My vision looked soupy. The smell from his nostrils made my stomach turn. I was going to be sick.
“Excuse me.”
I found a toilet and threw up. A few minutes later, I washed my hands and tidied my hair.
I was happy to find President Lincoln sitting with his back to the rest of us, facing a window. I took a seat on the loveseat nearest the restroom. Jim was sitting on a couch on the other side of the room facing the window. Judging by the look on his face, he was staring into Lincoln’s head wound.
“Young lady,” Lincoln said. “Never you mind about hurting my feelings.” His voice was kind.
Dead Eye laid a hand on Lincoln’s shoulder then joined me on the loveseat. “Mr.
President, Jennifer is here to manage your re-entry.”
“Forgive my position.” He licked his lips. “I find that when my mouth is facing away from people, they tolerate my odour better. I hope you don’t take my lack of eye contact as rude. But truth be told, I’ve always been shy.” I studied the faces in the room. We shared a rapt expression.
“Mr. President.” They both looked at me.
“President Lincoln,” I clarified. “May I speak freely?” “By all means.”
“The smell from your body is…pungent.” Lincoln winced. “How are you explaining this?”
“Rat infestation.” Jim smiled. “I have doctors coming in and out dressed as exterminators.”
“Great. How do we fix it?”
“Tonight, they’re doing skin grafts for his head. When he’s under, they’ll do his teeth and gums. Dental health is-”
“The Christian right will use this to proselytise.” I interrupted. “We don’t want them to take this as their win. This is our win – a win for America.”
“Yes!” Dead Eye gave me a high-five. “That’s it.”
“President Lincoln has got to work his magic.” I said. “We need Abe out with kids, tossing a football. Is he safe to ride a roller coaster?” Dead Eye shrugged. I crossed it off my list.
Dead Eye found a bottle of whiskey under a desk and strode to Lincoln’s side. “It would be my honour if you united the nation one more time.”
Lincoln stood up and rebuttoned his jacket. Facing us now, he clasped his hands behind his back and chuckled.
“I am rather good at that.” His eyes flickered.
Jim cut a semi-circle around Lincoln then panned the camera up, making him look even taller.
Dead Eye extended his glass. “Jennifer hasn’t heard you do Gettysburg.”
Abe nodded then launched into, “Four score and seven years ago, our fathers brought forth, upon this continent, a new nation, conceived in liberty…”
He was magnetic.
We drank more, feeling a patriotic swell in our chests. Secret Servicemen wept.
That night, I arranged two “exterminators” to do a little facial rejuvenation. Nothing major, just shaving down his eyebrow ridge and pinning his ears back.
When he came to, his wound was stitched up and his visage looked youthful, but still ashen. Everyone dressed in gray to complement his complexion.
The next day, news channels showed the Hollywood sign sliding into the Pacific. Aerial footage showed jammed freeways from California to Idaho.
I gave Lincoln a phone with restricted access so he couldn’t search #dropoffs. He came to understand Instagram on an intuitive level. He loved memes and developed a playful use of emojis. He called Dead Eye a “Chad” and took to “bruh” when he was feeling silly.
The networks decided on a simultaneous broadcast on TV and Instagram. Then Great Britain, Germany, South Korea, Japan and Australia agreed to the same as well.
When we arrived at the CBS studio in Manhattan, each host greeted us excitedly. Because climate was off-limits, the hosts glommed onto the “Lincoln loves technology” angle even though we expressed that Lincoln had developed complicated feelings regarding AI. Someone asked about the threat of tech. Lincoln unleashed the following:
“Technology and morality have oft-been construed to have interchangeable meaning, and yet, technology is the absence of morality. In many ways, slavery, too, was a form of technology. But I suspect we’ve arrived at the conclusion of man’s great technological curiosity. Icarus flew too close to the sun…But, perhaps, on the other side of this, I imagine, is a great reconnecting.”
An hour later, the producer counted us in.
“Tonight’s program is a special episode. We’re living in a time where so little is known about the future. It’s easy to forget what a country we were, how we used to be.” Jimmy Fallon said. Seth Meyers continued, “America is a country of unity and fortitude. We are a country of freedom, innovation, and progress.” Jimmy Kimmel picked it up, “Many of us are scared. Hell, I’m scared too. It’s hard to know what the right thing to say is. It’s hard to know who to look to for advice.” Stephen Colbert brought it home, “But in the annals of history, few men have as illustrious a career as our guest tonight. It’s hard to believe he’s joining us live, in studio. No. Don’t adjust your television. This is not a trick. A team of scientists has regenerated the 16th President of the United States and it is my greatest honour to welcome tonight, President Abraham Lincoln.”
I got live satellite photos from gas stations, malls, and drop-off shelters. Cars were pulled over in the shoulder as people huddled together to watch. Across the country, neighbors clamoured together on couches watching TV. It was glorious.
After the cameras cut, we drank champagne. Across socials, people loved him. Lusty teens commented, “Why he kinda…”
Secret Service alerted me that my plane was ready. Lincoln walked me to the jet and kissed my cheek. “Everything is going to be alright, Jennifer.”
The smell was gone. Or maybe, his stench was so ingrained in me and I wanted a keepsake.
The Secret Service drove me home in an armoured car. The handsome one said, “Don’t worry, ma’am,” when he let go of my hand.
The next day, Eric made pancakes. A car door slammed and we saw on the security camera that a skinny father and son were surrounding our house.
“What do they want?” Eric rushed the front door as Jessie checked the bolts. “Heard you was somebody important.” The dad sneered into the security camera. “Nobody panic.” Jessie’s voice was calm and low.
As the three of us stared at the bolts of the front door, we huddled tightly together. We were Malibu people, but we’d been preparing for this moment all our lives. Years of dieting made us strong-willed. The cruelty of hoarding when so many had so little had made our minds tough.
The father and son circled for hours.
My breath, which had been ragged, now smoothed. “Everything’s going to be alright,” I said.
Abe’s words hadn’t been a promise for the country. They’d been instructions for me. He’d known something was wrong. Why else would we have disturbed his eternal slumber?
The father stomped out the camera and vanquished our eyes to the outside.
I reached for the shotgun behind the bookcase and aimed it at the front door. “Go, mom.” Jessie beamed. It was the first time he’d called me that.