by Shawn Weaver
Pushing the basket to the front door, I set the pillowcase on top of it, and grabbed another basket from the stack.
Walking back down the aisle, I passed quarts of motor oil, antifreeze and the usual display of cardboard air fresheners. On the endcap were two small shelves of canned goods and diapers. I grabbed every can I could: chili, tuna, Speggetios, and baked beans. Soon this basket overflowed as well.
At the front, I grabbed a “People” magazine and a “Weekly World News.” No bit of gossip inside those pages mattered anymore. But it would give me something to pass the time with. And I could use it for kindling when I was done.
I divided that basket’s contents into another. Through the window, I could see long shadows starting to cross the front of the buildings across the street. The sun was setting so I had to move fast. Tying the pillowcase shut, I pocketed the flashlight and hooked a basket in the crook of my arm.
A cold breeze snaked up my sleeve when I stepped outside. At that moment, I wished that I had another layer to wear. Maybe when I came back I could check the storeroom. If I were lucky, I would find something warm. Stores like this always had t-shirts or sweatshirts with the Chicago skyline emblazoned across the front.
With the basket banging against my hip, I hurried across the street and into the alley. Entering the barbershop, I let the back door close behind me hard. The report makes me stop as it echoed through the room. The sound was loud, too loud to just be the door slamming. My mind instantly asked the question, Was that a gunshot or a car backfiring? I wasn’t sure. So I stood as still as I could, listening. My heart ticked off the seconds. No sounds followed. Figuring my mind was playing tricks on me; I headed up the stairs and dropped my load in the kitchen.
I headed back to the store. Making the snow across the alleyway glow, the sky cast a deep blue, turning to black at the horizon. I turned the flashlight on and crossed the street.
In the store, I stomped my feet on the tile, determined to find something to warm myself with. Making a beeline for the back, I walked past the coolers on my left into a tight hallway with a bathroom on the right. The large steel door to the cooler dominated the wall beside me. The walls of the short hall were covered with flyers of activities going on in the area; so many that they overlapped in a congealed mass of color.
A brown door stood at the end. The words Keep out, employees only were embossed on laminated paper hung by a blue thumbtack in the center.
Reaching for the gold doorknob, I froze. A nervous shiver snaked down my spine. Then I realized why. Here in the hallway I was warm. Not springtime warm, but warmer than outside. This part of the building had to be well insulated.
Warmth meant movement. And movement meant that if there were any dead behind the door, they would be hungry. I was determined and had to take the chance. My luck had been good so far. Maybe it would hold out for a little bit longer.
I needed winter clothes before winter really hit. If this week was any indication of the months ahead, I would be dead from the cold by the end of the year.
The cone of light emitting from the flashlight circled the storeroom door. I listened for anything on the other side. Hearing nothing but the beating of my heart, I gripped the knob and pulled the door open before I had any second thoughts.
Stale air, heavy with dust and mold, hit me in the face, making my nose itch. Swinging the door open all the way, I shone the light in. Tracing the wall, I saw it change from modern day sheetrock to squat red bricks with thick bulge’s of mortar between them. Rough-cut wood beams supported the roof, which was covered by plastic sheeting stapled from one end to the other. Through that, I saw the brown paper that wrapped layers of insulation.
I moved the light in a clockwise pattern, covering everything from floor to ceiling. Boxes were stacked against the walls. On the far side, a modern steel door had a paper exit sign taped to it. On the other side sat a pallet stacked with 12 packs of soda.
To my right stood another door, not made of steel but original to the building. A thick 2x4 kept the door shut by U-shaped brackets driven into both sides of its crooked frame.
A small placard hung on the wall to the right of the door. Shining the light on the yellowed paper inside, I read:
During the prohibition 1920-1933 An elaborate 25-mile system of underground tunnels were used to transport alcohol and illegal goods for the notorious mobster, Al Capone.
The city of Chicago herby declares this building to be a historic landmark.
I had heard of these underground tunnels in first period history. According to Mr. Baxter, only a few portions still existed. Most of them were destroyed by the city as it grew over the years.
I was surprised to find a tunnel this far from the city.
Tempted, I reach out and touched the 2x4. What could be on the other side? Boxes of booze that had not seen the light of day since 1920, stacks of money, and crates of Tommy guns like in the old black and white gangster movies with James Cagney and Edward G. Robinson.
Then again, the door was barred so what lurked in the dark was probably as bad as what had been lurking in the streets before the deep freeze.
Moving back to the boxes, I rifled through them, finding duplicates of everything inside the store. Some items were not on the shelves yet, seasonal items like snow scrapers, and boxes upon boxes of rubbery Halloween finger puppets with bulging eyes that reminded me of goldfish.
Finally, in a beat up corrugated box, I found a dozen extra-large sweatshirts with the Chicago skyline embroidered across the chest. The god ugly shirt offered warmth, so I grabbed three and pulled them on.
After rolling up the sleeves, I slipped my coat back on and returned to the store. Looking towards the picture window, I saw the moon had risen.
Holding the flashlight in my mouth, I grabbed the remaining baskets and struggled to get out the door. The beam bounced everywhere as I crossed the street and into the alley. Within moments, I was back in the apartment, adding to the fire, and gorging myself on baked beans and soda.
CHAPTER FOUR
I should have rationed myself better the first few days after finding the cache at the convenience store. Low willpower and a caffeine high sent me over the edge, not to mention my grumbling stomach.
For once in months, I was neither cold nor hungry, though I was extremely bored. Over the last few days, I had read the People magazine and the Weekly World News repeatedly, until I eventually had to burn them to keep the fire going.
I sat on the couch, looking out the window in the small living room, gazing at the train station and the snow covered mound. My mind drifted to the hidden tunnel at the convenience store.
Curiosity of what could be down there kept poking at me. I kept telling myself that I did not want to see what was behind the door. Feeling nervous energy coursing through my veins, I got off the couch and paced the room. By the thirtieth lap from the sink to the kitchen to the couch, I had memorized the steps—16 one way, 32 back, 480 steps until I convinced myself that I could go back and restock. This time I would grab a couple paperbacks to fill my time. At least that’s what I told myself as I took the flashlight and straight razor, and headed down the stairs.
My trail to the store was a clear marker if anyone came by. Entering, I snapped on the flashlight and grabbed the last plastic basket from the rack. Making a beeline for the canned goods, I stacked as much as I could inside.
Taking the basket to the door, I left it on the floor. Then I grabbed a plastic bag from the counter. The bag wasn’t large enough to hold two-liter bottles. But I could slip in a couple 20-ounces and a few paperbacks.
The selection of paperbacks was small, twelve titles in all by James Patterson, Anne Rice, and Stephen King. I grabbed the thickest two and shoved them in the bag. The door to the storeroom started to call my name, just a nudge at the back of my mind. Not loud, but just enough to make my eyes look in that direction.
I glanced at the picture window. Sunlight filtered through, showing me there were stil
l hours of light left. Looping the plastic around my hand, I squeezed the bag and headed down the short hall to the storeroom.
Opening the door, I shined the light around the backroom. I knew it was empty. Still I checked every spot that I had when I first came here. Everything was the same, no sudden appearance. Nothing had been disturbed. I was safe for now.
Running the light over the barred door, I took a few deep breaths. Building courage, I grabbed the 2x4 and lifted it free from its brackets. The door swung towards me, its tilted hinges squeaking with rust. The smell of moist air drifted out, carrying a hint of dirt and mold.
Using the toe of my sneaker, I pushed the door open a little farther and shined the light in. Unconsciously, I raised the plastic bag to use as a club if I had to. I knew the books would not do much if zombies were down there. Nevertheless, it might give me a chance to run.
Brick walls framed wooden steps that went down twenty feet. Nervously, I pushed the door all the way open. It snagged on the concrete floor.
When I tentatively stepped in, the 90-year-old wood creaked against my weight. Down I went, one-step at a time, slipping into 1920, when mobsters ruled the city and no one had to worry about the dead coming back to life.
Reaching the bottom, I felt grit under my feet. Dust hung thick in the air. I could taste it, fresh, not stale like a closed tunnel should have.
The walls were close, maybe five feet across, supported by rough-cut beams with hand-forged nails. The stonework was not regular; bricks of all shapes and sizes were held together by thick slabs of mortar.
Shining the light to the right and then left, I head in the direction of the gas station. I soon found myself under the building. The smell of gas and oil had seeped through the ground into the tunnel’s beams and bricks.
Pieces of gravel were scattered across the floor. That’s when I noticed a light breeze carrying flakes of snow.
A few yards farther, I figured that I had passed the gas station and was under the road. The amount of rubble grew. Shining my light around, I saw that less than half a dozen yards ahead the tunnel ended. Clearly, when city workers were digging to lay sewer pipes, the ceiling had come down. A light flicker of sunlight drifted down from a crack in the rubble.
Not being able to go any farther, I turned around and retraced my steps. Moving past the stairs, I found myself in an intersection with a small storeroom to the left. Filled with boxes and boards leaning against the walls, this spot was used as additional storage for the convince store. The tunnel continued straight ahead as well as to the right. I was not sure which way to go. The beam of light stopped after twenty feet.
The sound of tumbling boards echoed through the small room behind me. Jumping, I spun around to see a rat, the size of a cat, scurry along the wall. Zipping as quickly as it could, it ran out of the beam of light and down the tunnel.
The sound of laughter echoed, bouncing off the walls and filling my ears with a sound that I had not heard in months. As the laughter died, I froze, realizing that it was my own. All of the tension of the last few months flowed off my shoulders. The flood of endorphins made me light-headed for a moment. God that felt good to let out.
“Hello,” I shouted just to hear another voice, even if it was my own.
My voice echoed back with a squeak from the rat as I frightened it once again. Running in both directions, the words came back in a fading echo, losing a letter each time it repeated until it was just an O.
I heard the rat skittering along the wall, and then caught sight of it as it entered the beam of light. As quick as its tiny legs would take it, the rodent passed me, disappearing into the dark. Then I heard the squeak of more rats and caught sight of three greasy coats heading in the same direction as the first.
Moving the flashlight, I followed their progress until they disappeared. I shined the light back into the tunnel they had run from. Then I saw why they were running. A man staggered into the light. Mud caked work boots twisted at impossible angles held up his weight. Kaki colored jeans soaked in mud and blood hung on his frame, while a bright orange vest glowed in the light over a once white T-shirt.
The tiny teeth of the rats that had gnawed on him before he had reanimated had ravaged the man’s face. His bulbous eyes glared at me. His tongue stolen by the scavengers, the man opened his lipless mouth and gurgled a scream.
It was clear that the man had been one of the city workers laying pipe before the tunnel collapsed under him in an attack of the undead.
Feet slipping on the grit-covered floor, I ran. The flashlight streaked across the walls as my arms pumped. I missed the first step of the stairs. Smacking my shin, I fell. On my hands and knees, I climbed until I reached the door and crawled out onto the storeroom floor.
Breathing hard, my heart pounding out of my chest, I rolled over and grabbed the door. Stuck on the cement, it held for a moment, then with a jerk, popped free. As the door swung shut, I saw the construction worker reach the stairs. His eyes glinted in the beam of my flashlight. A hungry scream crawled up the stairs as the door closed.
I heard him struggling to climb up the wooden steps. Grabbing the 2x4, I slammed it into place just as the dead man pushed against the door. The brace held as I scrambled back. Pulling my knees to my chest, I sat watching the door rock back and forth as the construction worker tried to get through. His pitiful moans made my ears ache.
For a moment in the tunnels, I had forgotten what had become of this world. Now I was forced back to reality, a reality I did not want to face.
CHAPTER FIVE
Panicking that the mangled man would break through the thin wooden door, I rushed out of the store, leaving everything behind. The sound of the ringing bell atop the door chased me as I crossed the street. I no longer had my bag of books. Somewhere between the appearance of the construction worker and slamming the door, the thin plastic had ripped, spilling out its contents, and leaving me with a trailing bracelet of plastic.
I rounded the corner to the alleyway sidestepped a rusted blue Dodge Ram parked along the curb and stopped, putting a hand on the cold brick wall. Breathing hard, I pulled off the plastic bag, which had left a welt on my wrist. To my left, a picture window revealed the dark interior of a small coffee shop.
Looking across the road, I expected to see the construction worker come busting out the door. I knew that I had to go back in and grab the basket of canned goods. I needed the food and did not want to scavenge through the houses across the tracks until my other resources had been exhausted.
I pushed away from the wall, forcing myself to return to the convenience store. My nerves were ready to run at the slightest sound. I dug my nails into the palm of my hands to keep steady.
An itch crossed the back of my head. Not one that I needed to scratch, but one that said eyes were on me. Stopping, I looked both ways down the sidewalk at the empty street.
The bell rang when I opened the door. I cringed at the sound, expecting the roar of the dead. The construction worker had stopped pounding on the door. That didn’t mean he wasn’t there waiting. I had seen the dead stand in one place for days, watching for something living to come by. Then like a caged animal, they attacked.
Daring to walk in, I stepped to the bookrack. When I grabbed a paperback, the next copy fell off the shelf. Though the sound was not loud, it sent the dead man into a frenzy. His fists pounding on the thin wood made the door rattled loudly. A cry seeped out, painfully etching into my ears.
I grabbed the basket and raced out of the store, dropping a few cans along the way. I never once noticed the additional footprints in the snow. Locking the backdoor, I rushed upstairs. Entering the kitchen, I let go of the basket, the frozen cans spilling onto the linoleum.
Dropping heavily onto the sleeping bag, I grabbed a corner and pulled it over my shoulders. Low heat emitted from the stockpot, the coals inside glowing a nasty red with a smattering of gray along the edges.
Tossing a few sticks into the pot. I stirred it with a metal spat
ula to get air to the coals. Within a minute, whips of smoke rose. I listened to the wood crackle as it caught fire. Pulling the sleeping bag tighter, I settled back.
My pile of kindling was getting as bad as my food stock was this morning. But there was no way I was going out to get more.
As the fire grew in the pot, I laid down, burying myself in my nest. Hunger was now just a knot in my stomach. Pulling myself into a ball, I could feel the cold slowly slip away. But I continued to shiver as the construction worker kept appearing every time I closed my eyes.
My area of safety had been broken. The winter that had ensured the division between the living and the dead was gone.
Chapter Six
I woke the next morning, cold, and the fire dead. My mouth felt like I had eaten cotton. I drained a water bottle, crushing the plastic to force every drop out.
I got a small fire going lickety-split with what kindling I had left. Popping open a can of SpaghettiOs, I set it next to the pot and watched the block of frozen sauce, and pasta slowly thaw.
A good half hour would pass before the can would get hot enough. Stomach growling, I couldn’t wait for the food to come to a boil. The can was hot on the side that leaned against the stockpot, its contents tepid at best. Wrapping the can in a crusty old blue towel, I held it tightly. Rummaging through my blankets, I found a sticky spoon. I wiped it on my shirt until I thought it had some semblance of being clean. I knew that it wasn’t. Nothing was clean anymore. Water was too precious a commodity to use it for washing, even though I desperately wanted a hot bath.
I swirled the spoon around. The contents on the bottom were hotter than the rest. Glad that I didn’t have to eat a cold breakfast, I dug in without really tasting anything. I climbed out of my nest and walked stiffly into the small living room. Morning light poured through the windows, making the room seem warmer than it really was.
Tapping the spoon on the edge of the can, I sat down on the couch and curled my legs underneath me. I gazed out the window at the tracks below, wondering how many more months it would be until the snow started to melt and buds would appear, signaling spring on the horizon.
