What just happened there?
Three of them in perfect, synchronous angles attacked. As she sighted through beads of sweat forming on her brow, Brenda had a second to wonder. Is that just a coincidence? Are they learning to hunt? For sanity’s sake, the idea was discarded. A sliver of the moon appeared among the clouds of smoke again and some of the dead acted with a predator’s instinct. They shunned the imagined vulnerability of the light and retreated to the refuge of the shadows in Millennial Park.
To her left a parking garage beckoned. She discarded it as a death trap. An enclosed space that was a cul de sac and no refuge. The lights above the garage still glowed obediently on leaning white pillars that seemed to dare gravity. As she continued to circle, Brenda saw that the Art of institute of Chicago would be no help as well. She crossed the bridge with the tram tracks beneath and saw scattered shadows standing on the iron ribbon lines watching her. They were distant, engaged spectators to the drama above them. She poked her head briefly above her gun sight to look for Chalmers. He was nowhere to be seen amid the gathering forms.
Movement……
It was more like a landscape in motion than a single action. Like the murmur of a crowd is unlike a single voice. Brenda stared down Monroe and began making them out one by one. They had been hidden by the darkness of the waves meeting the horizon in the distance. Another moment of moonlight brought clarity to the shadows. They walked with a slow, careful gait of an animal in camouflage. Did they know I couldn’t see them? She thought. Some were soaking wet, perhaps they had come ashore from boats that bobbed among the waves. The outlines of the sailboats and motorboats had a gentle motion to them. Like a black curtain before an open window on a summer night.
The more she watched the more became revealed. She noticed a few dozen before upping the figure to a few hundred. You don’t have enough ammunition, she had already done the math. A slow pan to the left revealed the shadows of Millennium Park to be on the move. Were they feeling confidence in numbers, perhaps? Were they capable of such thoughts? Brenda tried to remember how much ammunition she had and decided to change clips now. The basic training test of re-assembling your rifle blind folded and performing other such actions without eyesight suddenly were clear. Brenda remembered the competitive intensity of being a woman. “They don’t expect you to do half as well as these fucks”, Maggie whispered in her ear. “Rock ‘em, girl.”
“Well done, private.” She heard the voice of a surprised drill Sergeant when she beat more than half his boys.
“Thank you, sir.” Brenda was back to reality as she panned left while the next clip slipped smoothly clicked into place.
The Art Institute was back in her field of vision. The streetlights that still illuminated the surroundings allowed her to see the small details that had been missed. The garden beside the Institute was a stark contrast to the pristine white of the building. It was like a cavern of darkness surrounded by an iron fence. The classic kind from the 1800’s with its metal spear posts at attention like an invisible ancient army. It seemed to circle the garden on all sides.
Brenda allowed herself to move closer, her head began to perform in a careful motion from left to right. Her peripheral vision took care of the distance behind her and the slow moving shadows from the lakeshore. In the center of the garden was a white wall with a semi oval entrance. Artwork with a subliminal message for the student. It beckoned in the dark. Hop the fence and leave them behind?
She paused for a second and then charged up the street.
The first figure to challenge her was a tall black man with intellectual, hypnotic eyes. They were luminous and pleading as opposed to ferocious. Just let me touch you, they seemed to beg as his hands rose and came closer. A squeeze of the trigger, a muzzle flash and the man’s head pulled back like he had hit an invisible wall. His body shuddered once before surrendering to gravity.
A preteen girl appeared a few yards later on her way to the fence. She wore a White Sox jersey with long, cavernous gouges on her face. Dried blood lines looked like rivers on her skin. Her delicate fingers curled into claws and raised up toward Brenda as an almost metallic squeal escaped her lips. A 5.6 millimeter shell penetrated her skull below the hairline. Her head snapped back suddenly and the incandescent fury in her eyes burned out. The eyelids closed as her body found its final resting place on Monroe Street in a fetal position on the asphalt.
In a half dozen more paces she tossed her rifle over the fence. A twitter of anxiety passed over Brenda as she watched the rifle vanish into the black abyss. Brenda’s head lowered and her arms sprinted forward like a runner off her mark. After a few more paces the hands reached out and gripped the glistening rails of the fence and her feet went airborne. She passed cleanly through the night air and into the darkness. Shrubbery branches scrapped her pant legs and the uneven ground was invisible to her eyes. She was like a plane landing on instinct. A fire sprang to life in her ankle and surged up to the knee. There was that moment of incredulity and shock before her senses had completed any kind of inventory. The pain quickly returned as it seemed to gather around her left ankle. It felt fatter, more tender and definitely unusable. She tried to stand and knelt down quickly. You can crawl if you have to. Brenda thought she heard a voice say.
Voorhees leaned back in the grass and looked up to the fence she had just cleared. It was the most beautiful thing she had seen in a long time. She watched forms illuminated in the streetlights grasp into darkness and come no further. A lanky boy of perhaps eighteen with a crew cut caught scent of her in the dark and leaned over to grasp wildly into the night. One of the spears punctured his skin below the rib cage and then exited through his back between his kidneys and spinal column. It was fly paper to an insect. He could move no further. His body flopped up and down in complete frustration and his lungs howled at the darkness. The fence was just high enough to stop them and its metal composition insured it was strong enough to hold back hundreds. She was six years old in her mother’s basement and amid pillow cushions and blankets. She had found her fortress.
She couldn’t help but let her eyes wander to the white aperture sculpture before her. The symbolism was not lost on Brenda. It had an almost mosque-like middle eastern appeal. An entrance, a doorway or a new beginning. All of the above, perhaps. The pristine white walls reflected some light to the surroundings as her eyes grew accustomed to the dark. The illumination was sparse. But shades of black became discernible.
A patch of white on black seemed to hang in mid air beyond the aperture. A table cloth caught in the maze of a shrubbery. The slight breeze rippled the fabric and allowed more to become visible. A dash of red borders displayed itself before her eyes. A red cross, she realized. The breeze that moved the white sheet passed over her and she gagged.
…..rotting meat….fucking rotting meat…….
Another splash of light color on the ground 20 yards to her left. It was like a carelessly thrown white sofa cushion in the grass. Splashes of darkness with no distinct pattern were here and there on the surface. Like dirty smudges picked up from dirt and grass stains. They were spreading, why are they spreading?
Oh Jesus, Brenda had her hand in front of mouth uncontrollably. Its blood……..its blood and that’s a Red Cross nurse’s uniform.
Then, the darkness…..moved.
The fabric of the garden took on structure. The white patch of uniform disgorged two dark shapes that were suddenly human heads. The white walled sculpture reflected just enough light to catch the luminosity of their puss yellow orbs. Animals, she heard them hiss. They’re like animals in the dark. The eyes glowed with ravenous electricity. Slug like forms struggled to move in the darkness, body bags. Those are body bags. She tried to stand again and her ankle gave way as she fell on to smooth metal in the grass.
Brenda pulled her M16A3 to her chest and let a sob escape her mouth. No…..not like this……..
CHAPTER ELEVEN
“Sir,” Symons drawled to Pinder quietly. “I’m go
ing to take a look outside.”
“Outside?” Pinder asked in a whisper. He was clearly concerned about any noise level.
“I just want to see if the coast is clear,” Symons explained as his finger found the safety on his M16A3 for luck. “You know, just to make sure there are no surprises.”
“Good idea,” Pinder nodded. “Go ahead.”
Symons nodded and started toward the door. A quick facial expression with Moshood and the big man eased the door open as soundlessly as possible. Symons could feel the atmosphere of the night envelope him as he stepped outside. It was that primal awareness, like he had just broken into somewhere that you weren’t supposed to be. His eyes adjusted themselves to the pits of darkness punctuated by pools of streetlight. He took a slow, careful scan of his surroundings before moving another step.
The silence was like nothing he had ever heard. It was like an abyss, absolute to the core. If a pin dropped at the Chicago Board of Trade he swore he could have heard it. So the gunfire a few blocks away was easy to pick up. It was in bursts. Then, silence would retake the night for a few seconds. The night air would again be invaded by the BOOM of a grenade echoing down the streets. After that, there was sound of a heavy sheet being ripped in two. An M16A3 on automatic giving a long burst.
He wanted to run to her. He wanted to protect her. Fight for her. But, that just wasn’t the plan. He was to get the bus as close to Macy’s as possible and get everyone out safely. Everyone, except Chalmers, Brenda and Maggie.
He suddenly remembered her lounging on a beach chair in a black one piece swimsuit at dusk with her mouth curled upward and a sensual glow in her eyes. You’re staying here tonight, her eyes said. It was a million years ago and he could still taste her. How the hell did we get here? He gritted his teeth and looked for something, anything to take out his anger on. Nothing revealed itself. The night awaited his next move and mocked him with sporadic gunfire.
“We’re in the clear, sir.” Brett kept his eyes averted from everyone in the room as he stepped back in.
“Thank you, Sergeant.” Pinder said solemnly and then paused for a minute as if he had more to say. He then changed his mind, nodded his head and turned around to walk into the kitchen. He found Esterhaus carefully explaining the plan to the civilians. A boy in metal crutches stood while others were seated about the cafeteria. The only others standing were the husband and wife who had lost their son. She was pale as picket fence paint and motionless. He stood behind her with his arms wrapped around her shoulders. Comfort? Or was he keeping her from another outburst.
“What about the boy?” Pinder whispered to Esterhaus when he was finished.
“We have a plan, sir.” Esterhaus nodded to the boy who eyed him curiously before sheepishly smiling back.
“All ready for your ride, my man?” Moshood eased his large frame through the door and smiled at the boy who looked up and nodded. Pinder watch the two converse as Bradley closed in to help out. Pinder turned back to Esterhaus and arched his eyebrow.
“Private Moshood is a champion at piggy back, sir.” Esterhaus’ eyes sparkled for a second. Pinder gave him a nod a small smile. Good idea.
THUMP!………THUMP!
Pinder felt the after shiver on his skin of anyone who has ever been startled. He stared at the couch blocking the stairway and watched it move ever so slightly. He thought about the elevator, other stairways and a million other places that nightmares can slither through.
“We should leave now, sir.” Symons was suddenly beside him watching the couch intently.
“Yes, we should.” Pinder matched his tone and watched the fire escape door try to open as coldness crept through his heart.
“Private Bradley, “ Symons’ voice was leveled steel. “You have the front door.”
“Yes sir.”
Bradley eased the door open and two soldiers stepped out and turned left. When they were in the streets the rifles pointed at the pavement swung upwards and scanned the darkness. Symons was out next with the bus driver right behind him. As they rounded the front of the bus Brett spotted a figure in a sliver of an alley way slowly turning to face them. He decided against taking a shot to keep under the cover of silence. The large man slid into his seat and nodded to Brett. The Sergeant turned and gave a thumbs up as seven more soldiers formed a fast, tight perimeter. The only noise in the night was boots moving as quietly as possible. Here and there, heads in the shadows turned slowly and regarded the movement with just a breath more than curiosity.
At a nod from Esterhaus on the perimeter. Civilians started spilling out the door and were quickly guided by Moshood with the boy clinging to his back. It felt like a weird, tense ballet. Everyone knew their part but were not sure of the outcome as the shadows began to grow eyes and watch with a ravenous interest.
Pinder finally made his way out and tapped the two soldiers who had turned left on the shoulder. The signal to withdraw and follow had been given. The perimeter collapsed and single filed into the bus. Brett marveled at how few there were of them. He felt a knife in his heart when he understood the reason for the empty streets. More gunfire punctuated the wound. The bus driver and Pinder stared at him for a long minute before Symons realized he was the only one not on the bus. Gunfire again.
He looked around one more time. Brett felt helpless, lost among the shadows that were starting to take on physical form. He turned and exited the night into the bus as the gunfire and a grenade seemed to call out his name.
“Now comes the tough part.” Joel Anderson muttered as he thought of the cracked axle while turning the key. The engine came to life and the headlights automatically came on. A figure in the intersection ahead froze like a deer as his eyes glowed in the artificial luminosity.
The bus shuddered forward in a slow, grinding pace. The figure caught in the headlights had company now. The noise, motion and scent in the air of human activity brought them out of the shadows. Brett saw one middle aged man in sweatpants and a muscle shirt just stand on the sidewalk in motionless curiosity. It hissed at the side of the beast as it slowly moved by but did no more.
“I’m not sure about turning this thing.” The bus driver was yelling over the grinding noise coming from underneath the bus. Every face seemed tuned in to every shudder, shake and metallic complaint the machine made. Symons glanced over at Bradley and saw his lips moving slowly and rhythmically in prayer. Hell, whatever works.
The bus was like a beast out of its environment as it slowly wound its way around the corner of Monroe and State. Anderson took his foot off the gas and let it coast slowly around, anything that made a few more feet possible. The figure caught in the headlights charged directly at the left lamp. It came out of the shadows and into the artificial light and howled at the bus in rage. The eyes were wide with an unnatural, almost phosphorescence about them. Brett could swear everyone in the bus had the same feeling at this moment. He’s looking at me……………
The bus was going slowly enough that the thing tried to grasp on to the doors and force his way in. He squeezed his hands through the rubber dividers and pressed as far forward as he could to gain access. The hand waved about the room like a moth on a leash, feeling for anything to get a hand hold on. Brett shook his head, glanced at Pinder and stood up. In three long strides he was at the door and he inserted the barrel of the M16A3 through the rubber dividers. As he took aim, their eyes met. He was a man about forty, bald with tufts of brown and grey hair clinging bravely to each side of his head. His thin build was hidden by a shirt with rolled up cuffs and jeans. If you walked by him on the street he might not get a second glance. But now…….
The eyes burned like two furious suns in a puss yellow sky. It was the rage that made Brett pause for a hypnotic moment. Who were you? How did you get this way? What the hell is happening? The reply was the hand that had now encircled itself around the barrel of his rifle and tried to pull it through the opening. The eyes never for a second broke eye contact with him. Communication was pure rage pu
shed on by voracious hunger.
Crrrrrrrrrrrrrrrraaaaaaaaaaacccckkkkkk!
“That’s’ it,” Panic started to rise in the bus driver’s voice as the bus lurched to the right. Brett slammed into the doors and stared at the face now a few inches away. The eyes grew impossibly wide and the teeth slammed into the plexi-glass. They began exploring the surface in a series of bites and snaps, searching for a way to get closer. The teeth maneuvered toward the rubber edges of the door and the hand withdrew to try and pry the rubber open just a bit more. Brett found a silver handhold with his left arm and pulled himself back from the doors. The teeth had found the space between the doors and was pushing as far forward as it could. For a second, the only thing visible was a ravenous set of teeth and desperate fingers. Brett steadied his feet and pulled the rifle back out of the door in one quick motion. Without thinking he pulled the trigger. The single report sent the teeth and fingers back into the night. Brett dared not look out the window to see the body. He knew he would see them again, those eyes…….
The Drumhead Page 17
