Chicago Undead (Book 2): Deep Freeze

by Shawn Weaver

  A cold mist of snow had settled over the stones. I felt the temperature change as well. Hopeful, I started to scramble up the loose stones. I pried at the opening trying to make it larger, tossing chunks of ice and stone behind me.

  The bearded man regained his footing. Still warm, his flesh hung from a jagged tear across his neck and shoulder. Padding from his parka fell to the ground in tufts as he moved.

  The cold cut into my fingers as I dug. I finally had a hole barely large enough to crawl through.

  The bearded man was faster than I had expected. He grabbed my sneaker and tried to pull me back into the tunnel. Even in death, he was stronger than I was. My sneaker slipped off, sending the dead man down the pile of rubble. He lurched at me again. Teeth gnashing, he tried to take a chunk out of my foot. Swinging my sneaker, I connected with his face before his teeth connected with my flesh. I felt and heard a wet pop as something gave in his face, stopping him for a moment.

  Stones continued to fall behind me as I forced myself forward, but they did not slow him. The dead man shoved his hands upward, trying to get at the larger portions of my body. There was not enough room for him to get between the rocks and me.

  Farther up, I felt the stones change to gravel, then frozen clay and dirt.

  My fingers broke through to the surface. The temperature plummeted as I pried at the ice. Particles rained down on me, slipping between every layer of clothing I wore. Warm blood trickled where the ice-cold stones cut my fingers. I wiggled furiously and worked my way up and out the tight crevice.

  Growling, the dead man continued to force his way up. His shoulders were too wide for the space. Within a few lurches, he trapped himself between the unmoving stones. I did not need to see his face to know that his dead eyes tracked me hungrily.

  I crawled out of the ditch, my toes going numb on the cold ground. Limping, I looked around the construction zone. The area was calm, as if nothing had ever happened. Stepping away from the ditch, I pushed through a hole in the chain link fence.

  Across the street, the convenience store, the only place I knew had food, now contained two undead monsters. And the apartment that I had called home was now unsecure. Worst of all, I wasn’t sure about the boy who I had killed. Was he still there with a broken neck? Or did he, like the others, rise up after a while? Did you need to get bitten to turn? Or was it in the air and everyone eventually ended up hungry for human flesh? I had spent many nights thinking on that subject. So far, I believed that those already dead, or killed by something other than a bite from the dead, would stay in the ground. At least I hoped they did.

  I had to move on and find a different place to live. I could not trust anyone. Those who were still alive were as bad, if not worse, than the dead were. At least it seemed that way. Deep inside I knew there were good people out there. Just where they were, I had no idea.

  I needed my things: my sleeping bag, what food was left after those creeps helped themselves, and shoes. There was a pair of loafers in the next apartment, a men’s size eight. Way too big for me, but I could stuff them.

  A few hours of daylight remained. I needed to find a place to rest for the night and get a fresh start in the morning.

  Hugging myself to ward off the cold, I limped across the street. By the time I reached the alley, my sock was waterlogged, and pulling off from the buildup of snow. Kicking it off, I hurried to the barbershop. By the time I pushed through the broken door, my toes tingled like mad, and I worried about frostbite.

  The stillness of the large room made me notice just how eerie the barbershop was. Its two chairs sat dusty and unused. Mirrors reflected the emptiness that I felt since all of this began.

  The boy lay twelve feet from me by the front door. Keeping distance between us, I crossed the room. There was not much blood around him, but his twisted head, and his arms hanging askew indicated he was broken up inside. Then I noticed his eyes, open, staring straight ahead, seeing nothing.

  A yellow handled broom leaned against the wall between the chairs. I grabbed it, wielding it in front of me like a shield. Ready to run for the safety of the alleyway, I moved forward. Five feet away from his body, I stopped. Reaching out with the head of the broom, I poked his shoulder, the bristles bending at the resistance of his cooling body. I poked him again, getting no response.

  Confidant that he was not going to rise, I passed him in two steps. My feet barely touched the floor as I grabbed the railing and jumped to the third step. Without looking back, I rushed up the rest of the steps, stopping only when I reached the landing.

  Leaning the broom against the wall, I smelled burning paint and plaster. Walking into the apartment a haze greeted me. I heard the crackle of the fire from the stockpot. My eyes watered, and my nose started to itch from the acidic smell.

  The stockpot had changed color from the heat. The limbs stuffed into it burned rapidly, charring the ceiling. I knew it wouldn’t be long until the ceiling burst into flames.

  Taking a chance, I stepped into the room. My sleeping bag lay untouched in the corner. I grabbed it and pulled it into the living room. Without looking, I tossed it towards the couch.

  Daring to step back into the kitchen, I spied a couple of unopened cans on the floor near the stockpot. If I knew that I could find more food in a few hours, I would have left them. The weeks where I had gone without eating made me desperate enough to try to grab them.

  Crouching down, I reached for the closest can. The wrapper was partially scorched off, and as soon as I touched the hot metal, I pulled my hand away. Shaking my hand, I blew on my fingers and checked for burns, finding none.

  I needed something to grab the cans with. The wide brush end of the broom would do. Rising, I started for the front door. A sharp crack sounded behind me. Looking over my shoulder, I saw a line racing along the ceiling. A smoldering chunk suddenly broke from the heat. It would be mere minutes before flames engulfed the entire roof.

  As I came around the door, I found myself face to face with the boy. His broken body somehow supported itself. His head cocked at an impossible angle. A vicious look filled his eyes and he took a staggering step forward. I was sure the boy had died falling down the stairs, not taken down by the undead. That was, unless he had been bitten before the trio had arrived here. If he had been bitten, wouldn’t the others have known? Unless he somehow hid it underneath the winter coat, he looked so warm in.

  Letting out a yelp, I swung the door shut. He caught it with the side of his face. Showing no sign of pain, he pushed against the door with his shoulder. Putting my body weight against the door, I tried to force it closed. I don’t know where he found the strength. He was clearly broken. Did the mad need to taste my flesh give him some kind of super strength?

  His hand slipped through the gap in the door, flailing, trying to grab whatever he could. I ducked twice, missing his grasp by mere inches. On the third try, he got a handful of my hair. Yanking hard, he pulled his hand back through the gap, taking my hair with it, making it impossible for me to keep my weight against the door.

  He forced his head in, teeth snapping, and tried to take a piece of my scalp.

  Twisting, I reached up and grabbed his hand. A handful of my hair tore free. When I lost purchase against the door, he burst in. Stumbling back, we struck the coffee table, then the floor. Clumps of my hair ripped out when his hands got tangled again. I jerked to the side, and he gnashed his teeth on empty air where my head had been a second before.

  I drove a forearm into his face. I felt the snap of his nose as he snapped at my arm, catching nothing but sweatshirt. Jerking my arm free, I kneed him hard in the jewels. He didn’t react the way I expected. Swinging wildly, I finally forced myself free of his grasp. Getting to my feet, I took a few steps back, trying to catch my breath. The boy lunged at me again, turning like a snake on the floor.

  I slapped his hands away and back-stepped. The heat of the kitchen warmed my back as the plasterboard on the ceiling crackled.

  The boy rose with
his right leg bending inward at the knee. With a gurgling roar, he came at me, hands out to grab my throat.

  Turning to my left, I barely dodged his grasp. Momentum carried him forward, and he stumbled into the kitchen. I helped him with a kick to the back. He crashed onto the burning stockpot in a spray of flaming sticks.

  I couldn’t tell if his painful moans were from contact with the fire, or that he missed taking a bite out of me.

  Ignoring the flames that ignited his hair and flannel shirt, the boy rolled over and struggled to get up. The hot yellow flames contained inside his parka made him look like a torch. He glared at me through the melting mass of flesh that was his face. Bones grinding together, he tried to walk towards me.

  Frozen to the floor, I watched his skin sizzle like bacon in a frying pan. A foot from me, he snagged his boots on the pile of burning sticks. He fell again, striking the tiled floor face first. Like a melon, his head burst open.

  Even with the fire consuming the kitchen, I stood for a moment listening to his brain boil inside his cracked skull.

  Chapter Nine

  Flames engulfed the kitchen and the boy was burning in the living room; I had no choice but to flee. I sprinted down the stairs and out the front door, stopping only when I reached the middle of the street.

  Smoke seeped out the windows and cracks in the roof. Touching the back of my head, I felt chunks of my hair missing. Luckily, no blood was on my fingers.

  I crossed the street and passed by the shattered remains of the woman.

  Stepping between the tracks, I looked towards Chicago. In the distance, towering skyscrapers stood cold and silent. A million souls were there, frozen in the streets, or hiding in the sewers.

  No way was I going back to the city I had spent weeks running from. Where would I go? Deep down, I knew people with a heart were out there, wanting and needing the same things I did. Where were they in my time of need?

  I put my back to the city. The cold crept deeper into my bones. I had to find shelter by sundown, or I would not survive the night. Would that be such a bad thing? Not waking up in the morning, worrying where my next meal would come from, or if the damned were hiding around the corner?

  Flames reached the apartment’s front windows. Super-heated air blew them out, sending a wave of glass and heat across the street. Shielding my face, I was comforted by the blast of hot air, and lucky that none of the shards reached me.

  I soaked in the heat for a moment, listening to the fire crackle as it ate at the building. Everything I possessed now was gone. I didn’t know how much time had passed before I began walking again. My mind was blank, lost in a daze.

  Behind me, I heard the crash of glass and the wailing moan that could only be the construction worker and his new friend stumbling out of the convenience store into the cold street. The bloody shambling mounds had grown tired of tearing at each other and now wanted fresh meat.

  Looking over my shoulder, I saw through the construction area, past the pickup truck, and the mounds of gravel and broken concrete. The pair stumbled around the corner, sniffing the air.

  In unison, they turned in my direction. I doubted that they could see me at this distance. But their noses, or what was left of them, smelled my blood pulsing in my veins.

  Like the tick of a second hand clock, they started towards me. With each step, they seemed to grow more excited.

  I watched them reach the fence. They kept trying to walk forward, only to be pushed back. Snarling like mad dogs, they wrapped their fingers through the chain-link. Their damaged brains could not process how easy it would be to walk along the fence line. Instead, their hunger urged them to move straight ahead.

  My mind told me not to wait and see if they figured out the answer to their problem. Dashing down the tracks, I didn’t worry if I left a trail or not. A quarter mile away, a hitch lanced through my side. I had to stop.

  Over my shoulder, I looked to see if the dead had followed. Luckily, they had not. I tried to pick up my pace. Within a dozen steps, I realized that my gate was as bad as the dead’s. I loped along, my dead foot hindering my escape.

  My fingers grew numb as well. I would not last much longer out here. My body was succumbing to the cold quicker than I thought it would.

  Soon the tracks ran over a four-lane road crowded with cars. I had no feeling for those left in the wreckage. They were all dead, no longer needing to fear the horror that taunted me night and day.

  Across the bridge, I was out of one suburb and into another. Which one, I had no idea. It was complete change from the cramped yards of the prior homes. Now the houses were spread apart, each with its own wood or chain-link fence.

  I would almost call it a storybook setting, except this story didn’t have good fairies or unicorns. Instead, demons walked the streets in human guise.

  On my right, streets ran parallel to the highway. From that, the adjoining streets stretched out like fingers. In the backyards of many homes, evergreen trees stood covered in snow, looking like the Christmas trees Mom would put up every year. The flocking would get everywhere and we would find patches of it hiding in the most unsuspecting places well into spring.

  Christmas, I thought to myself. Well, there wasn’t going to be any presents under my tree this year. Though I could do with a stocking, hanging from the fireplace or not, I needed something on my foot.

  I walked a block farther. Another street crossed the tracks. Stepping into the middle of the road, I looked both ways, seeing nothing but a peaceful town asleep in this mass of turmoil. Do I head down the street and find an empty house? Or do I continue down the tracks until my body gives out from the cold?

  Reaching into my pocket, I pulled out a quarter that I carried with me. I don’t know why I kept it. There wasn’t anything to buy. Maybe this crossroad was why I had kept it. Taking the coin, I flipped it into the air. Heads, I would go left into the comfort that the homes seemed to offer. Tails, I would keep going down the tracks until I could not move anymore.

  The quarter-rotated end over end, then dropped to the ground. The symbol of this devastated country shined back up at me through the divot it had driven into the snow. Tails, my fate decided.

  Leaving the coin where it had dropped, I shoved my frozen fingers into the front pockets of my jeans and started down the tracks, heading toward an unknown destination and hopefully some heat instead of this deep freeze.

  Author Bio

  Discovering books at an early age, Shawn grew to love the written word. Every genre was a new take on life. The realms of fantasy with its strong heroes and magical dragons called to him, while suspense and horror with its intriguing heroes and villains showed all of twists and turns that life held. Then again, late Saturday nights watching Creature Feature on Channel 18 with his dad, left memories that would help him turn into the writer that he is today.

  In 2010, Shawn published his first novel, Sense of Honor, and its sequel, Dragon’s Chest. Turning what was originally to be a standalone novel into a series, The Tides of War. Also in 2010, Shawn co-authored Ripper’s Row, with Donnie Light.

  2011 brought the third installment in The Tides of War series, The Dark Caravan, and the second novel in the Ripper Trilogy, Ripper’s Revenge which he again co-authored with Donnie Light.

  In 2012 Shawn stepped alone into the world of horror with Little Valley and Wolves in Springfield.

  2013 saw the third installment in the Ripper Trilogy, Ripper’s Wrath, again co-authored with Donnie Light. As well as all three novels in one complete edition, The Ripper Trilogy. Welcome to Plainfield, a paranormal suspense story based off of evidence recovered by Shawn’s paranormal research team, Ghost Hunt America on an investigation on the murderer - Ed Gein, And the fourth installment in the Tides of War series, Rose Marie.

  2014: Shawn was voted in as one of the ‘All Time Greatest Horror Writers’ on www.ranker.com alongside Steven King and Dean Koontz. Releases for the year include Chicago Undead, followed by his first children’s book, Brooklyn
and the Magic Ring, and the fifth novel in the Tides of War series, Honored Son.

  2015 Brings a horror short story, In the Ground, followed by Two Tales of Horror. Mid-year brings his second children’s book, Nathaniel and the Tangled Web, concluding in the fall with Tides of War Volume 1.

  2016 comes in with Chicago Undead 2: Deep Freeze, followed in April with Widows Hill, His third children’s book Domonic and the Great Jungle Rescue during the mid-year, ending the year with Fall of Ishtabar, the sixth novel in the Tides of War series.

  For extended excerpts of all of Shawn’s novels please go to www.shawnweaverauthor.wordpress.com