Music City Macabre: The Low Lying Lands Saga: Vol. 1

by Bob Williams

  The Low Lying Lands Saga

  Volume 1: Music City Macabre

  Bob Williams

  The Low Lying Lands Saga

  Volume 1: Music City Macabre

  by Bob Williams

  Copyright © 2015

  by Bob Williams

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise without the prior written permission of the publisher and copyright owner.

  This book is a work of fiction. Any references to real people, events, locales or organizations are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events are imaginary, and any resemblance to actual places, events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  First Edition

  For James Lee Austin, and Dr. Susan Reed.

  Both late of Heidelberg University:

  Tiffin, Ohio

  One of you taught me to imagine,

  the other taught me to write it down.

  A HISTORY LESSON

  It’s cold, brutally cold. December in the Windy City has a history of being this way. Has? Had? It is technically still Chicago, but not really. The voices on the radio used to say things like “Batten down the hatches! It’s only going to get worse.” All you might get out of a radio now is static or the outdated safe zone locations. If only the talking heads would’ve known how bad it was going to be they wouldn’t have wasted so much time bitching about the weather. Bitterly cold winters or blazing hot summers are the least of our concerns these days.

  I’d like to say it happened overnight, but that’s not right. In the early stages of The Descent, nobody knew what the hell was happening. As a society, pop culture overwhelmed us with horror movies, comic books, and video games about zombies and the Apocalypse. So much so that, when it actually happened, we had no idea what do. Or how to cope.

  A year later, the origin of the sickness remains a mystery. Patient zero? Unidentified. All we know is the world got sick. No shit. You would think there would be more information, that we would know...something, but we don’t. One day, people started getting sick. What started out feeling like a cold led to a terrifying case of temporary blindness before complete infection set in. By the time it was being reported, it was past an epidemic. By the time we truly acknowledged what was happening, we were fucked.

  Cases piled up so quickly the CDC and the National Guard simply weren’t able to contain it, leading to more patients than caretakers. This in turn led to the rapid growth of fear and the first breach in quarantine. After that, the collapse of society as we knew it began.

  Those who left en masse in the beginning were called Dreamers. They couldn’t handle the societal fracture and chose to commit suicide. They were cowards. It is said there were over a million Dreamers.

  The infected are called Freaks. What were they? Zombies? Seriously? Their official title, given to them by Doctor William Carr of the Centers for Disease Control, is BH-2014.

  Biological Hazard-2014 is the epidemic that ruined the world.

  They aren’t zombies. Zombies are mindless brain eaters. At least that’s what the movies said. Freaks are more like half-breeds. They look like us. They dress like us. And for brief periods of time they can act like normal human beings. They aren’t.

  Rule of Survival post-Descent: BE WARY OF STRANGERS. When you cross paths with someone new, keep your distance and be alert for the first ten minutes or so. You better have a weapon handy too. The Freaks are very adept at initially presenting as human, but they eventually give in to the rage. Manage ten minutes and you should be in the clear. This isn’t gospel but it has worked for me.

  When a Freak loses control and submits to the rage it’s called a break. You can interpret that in the literal or the physical sense. The blood vessels in their eyes and saliva glands burst and they essentially cry, drool, and sweat blood. A Freak in the midst of a full break is covered in blood. They are filled with violence and will tear your fucking arm off and eat it in front of you.

  I’ve lived in Chicago all my life. Before The Descent there wasn’t a square foot of this city I didn’t know. As a finder, it was my business to know. But the city has collapsed around us. Ruin and anguish are the colors of choice. Fires blaze as the Freaks dance happily in the destructive glow. It’s like starting all over again, with a cruel and unforgiving twist.

  One more thing, the most important detail, actually. My sister Emily is missing. We’ve had no communication since before The Descent. Some people would like me to believe she was a Dreamer. Not Emily. She had too much heart to commit suicide. Emily lived a life in service to others. She would’ve wanted to help in any way she could.

  For over two years, I’ve searched for her. There hasn’t been a stone unturned, a door not kicked in, or a lead that hasn’t been followed. We’ve tracked her to a building on the South Side of town, an area called Bridgeport. The building is now a crude hangout for society’s leftovers. It’s called The 88.

  NOW

  Sitting in my 1978 Jeep Comanche, I take in the empty streets. You just don’t see people around anymore. The good guys are hiding and the Freaks live in the shadows. I can see the evidence of the frigid temperature creep out of my mouth into the cab. The engine is off because I don’t want the Freaks to see a running car.

  Chicago at night used to be the stuff of legends! Lights were bright all over town. People were out and about in any area you chose...Lincoln Park, Hubbard Street, Wicker Park, or Logan Square. Friends were laughing, lovers were kissing, music was playing. Good music. Whatever your taste or appetite it was there. No other city had the goods on Chi-Town. There was so much life and vitality. Now all that exists is fear, distrust, and survival.

  In many ways this Jeep is my home. There are times when even though the world has turned to shit I can be comforted by the simplest things. Despite the tragedy that led to its acquisition, this Jeep makes me happy. Recounting this memory provides a brief distraction before I attend to the business at hand.

  We were en route to Oak Park after Cooper and I had reunited a mother and her son in Waukegan. The husband had been contaminated and the family had been separated for their own safety. Once the Freak had been put down and no others surfaced, the only chance the remaining family had was to start over within the walls of a safe zone.

  It didn’t take long before we ran into trouble on Interstate 94. I spotted a crowd close to a plume of smoke about a mile up the road. We pulled up at a safe distance, told our passengers to sit tight, and got out. Smoke billowing out of the backseat of a crashed out Jetta prevented us from getting a clear view of the scene. We should have walked away.

  There were six people standing or kneeling in a semicircle around a woman who appeared to be injured and crying out for aid.

  “Everything all right?” I asked the group. My arms were raised to shoulder height and my hands were empty. A Glock resting in the waistband of my pants just off the hip in case of urgent need.

  “Our friend here is hurt and none of us know how to help her,” a man said.

  “We’re not doctors but if all of you would kindly step back we’ll take a look,” said Cooper.

  The group obliged and Cooper rushed in like always, without taking precautions. He felt he could spot a Freak by sight. He believed they had ‘tells’. He looked for shifty eyes, nervous energy, and them rubbing their arms.

  I told him a hundred times that was bullshit. Unless you roll up on a Freak that’s in the middle of a full-on break, it’s damn near impossible to tell. He
never had the patience to wait for five minutes, much less investigate for ten.

  The woman was lying on the road with blood soaked bandages covering an apparent wound to her leg. She was surrounded by stalled cars.

  “Hey Coop,” I said and reached for his arm. “I don’t like this. Let’s check the cars.”

  “You check the cars. This lady needs our help.”

  At this point I had drawn my gun, pointed it toward the ground and reached for the door of an old PT Cruiser. Over my shoulder I heard Cooper say “OK, let’s have a look.”

  Then Cooper shouted, “It’s a fucking bite! Back to the car! Go! Go! Go!”

  The woman screamed, “The Black Hand serves!” and grabbed Cooper with both hands while the other six rushed toward us. Cooper ripped free and shot the Freak in the forehead, scrambling backwards.

  Three more Freaks sprung from the surrounding cars and sprinted toward us. We put four down right away and continued to fall back. Our passengers leapt from the car and started running.

  “No! Back in the car!” I shouted.

  Cooper yelled, “I got ‘em! Get the car!”

  I swung the door of the Lincoln open, jumped in, and started it. A Freak grabbed me by the arm, trying to pull me through the window. I shot him in the face. I floored the accelerator and started to turn the car around just in time to see Cooper put down another Freak before he was overrun by two more. Coop’s gun was wrestled from him and he was shot in the chest. Another got the mother and son.

  “Dammit!” I screamed.

  I was racing toward them when the Freak unloaded the remaining bullets at the car. Steam shot from under the hood. I jumped from the Lincoln just in time to take the Freak out as I ran toward the closest grouping of cars.

  I saw the old Jeep and headed for it. The keys were in it! It fired to life and I sped in the direction of a clear path near the burning Jetta. The remaining Freaks were still screaming in a bloodthirsty rage in the rearview mirror.

  Shaking off the memory, I fish the crumpled piece of paper out of my overcoat and look it over a final time. “The 88,” I mutter. Point confirmed. Strange name for a bar.

  The flickering, neon pink sign says “open” with lifeless whispers. A survey of the general vicinity shows three cars in the parking lot, practically nonexistent exterior lighting, and a general feeling of despair.

  Two blocks over, a fire is in its infancy in a deserted building. I listen for a few seconds but there are, of course, no fire engines responding. That was then; this is now. The smoke creeps up and across the sky but causes me no immediate concern, although it does make me wonder about Freaks in the vicinity.

  When I was 21, I joined the Marine Corps and fought in the Iraq War. I took part in the first Battle of Fallujah. Fighting in Iraq actually prepared me for post-apocalyptic survival. We trained day and night for scenarios just like this. How to tactically approach a building with an unknown element inside That operation feels like a hundred years ago. No doubt a day op would’ve been preferable but time is not on my side. If there’s a chance Emily is here it has to be tonight.

  Pollock led me here and Pollock wouldn’t fuck me. Follow the points. Always follow the points. The points led you to Pollock, Pollock led you here.

  Pollock has been a close friend and confidant since well before The Descent. We met when we were residents of the Forrester Home for Boys. When I first got to “the Forrest” I was 10 years old. My parents had been killed in a head-on collision and there was no one to take me in. I was young, naïve, and scared shitless. One afternoon, Pollock helped me out of a three-on-one skirmish and we became fast friends. I left Forrester, but my friendship with Pollock only strengthened with time.

  When Emily went missing, I searched for her extensively, with no success. It didn’t take long to realize I needed Pollock. Pollock is an information agent. He has always had a talent for forming relationships and that didn’t change when the world broke. He’s the kind of person you want to tell something to. He was the most connected man in Chicago. If you needed information regarding anything, Pollock would have it.

  After The Descent, Pollock’s skill set took a hit. There was no longer big money to be made in information trafficking. Pollock was never a “bad” person, but when it comes to information, money comes more from bad people than good. With a little help from yours truly we fine-tuned his network in a manner that enabled us to help people separated by the collapse find their loved ones. Joining him in this venture hooked me up with Cooper and we had a good thing going for a very short time.

  Before I step out of the Jeep, I flip up the sun visor, open the door, and then I’m in the street. It’s eerily silent but for the wind passing briskly as I button up my overcoat. The fire is adding a backdrop to my night’s activities as the scent of smoke wafts in and the flames continue to climb.

  I pull the Glock from the holster under my left arm. I chamber a round, then reach across and take another Glock off the passenger seat. I repeat the previous action and then slide the gun around my waistband to the small of my back. After flipping up my collar, bracing for the wind, I dig my hands into my pockets.

  Standing in the dark, I take a second to clear my head. This is too important for careless mistakes. Tonight I will make the connection that has eluded me for over two years. Taking measured steps and keeping my head on a swivel, I cross the street. I can’t afford to let random Freaks get in my way tonight.

  The 88 is the current name of this shithole building that has housed countless establishments going back 80 years. For one reason or another the current one never worked out and the next one always swore it would. Not that records still matter, but the building is now owned by a company called Black Hand LLC.

  When Pollock mentioned Black Hand LLC, I took notice. That name meant something to me. Was it something to do with my adoptive father? I have no relationship anymore with the Prescott Family beside my connection to Emily. While I wanted to desperately be accepted by them it didn’t take long to understand a mistake had been made.

  After the death of my natural parents I was angry and depressed. I lashed out. By the time the Prescotts adopted me there wasn’t anything that could be done to rein me in. When I was 18, despite protests from Emily, I left home.

  There were no emotional goodbyes from the elder Prescotts. They had washed their hands of me. I bounced around for three years before joining the Marines. All the while, Emily was there for me. Emily was the lighthouse to my ship at sea. If it weren’t for Emily, I would forget the Prescotts ever existed.

  The more Pollock dug into The 88, the less there was to find. We discussed this at length. I had heard that name before. I was sure of it. The Black Hand was like an annoying gnat that followed me around. I’d swat at it but to no avail. Nobody could ever give us the rundown on it. According to the general public, Black Hand LLC did not exist prior to the purchase of this building. Public records? Cute.

  The most interesting aspect of this search was the reaction to my inquiries. Fear. There was no information to be had, from anyone. But there was fear. It meant that this Black Hand LLC was real. If Emily was tied up in this organization, I had to get to the bottom of it.

  I pull open the solid oak entry door and I’m overwhelmed with the stench of cigarettes, shit, and puke. I also catch the faint metallic smell of blood. The six people lingering on the stools look to be dead, at first glance. There is an overwhelming sense of hopelessness. I wouldn’t have thought humans could be like this if I didn’t see it; if these are Freaks, I’m totally fucked. I stand at the entrance, trying to sell that I’m looking for someone. I obviously don’t belong.

  The jukebox is droning the chorus to “Paint it Black” as I step uneasily across the room toward the bar. Drab local décor consisting of pennants for the Bears, Cubs, White Sox, and Blackhawks hang meaninglessly on the walls. It’s a cold reminder of how things like professional sports used to be important and how they are now trivial. Dim lighting and a few other
outdated signs and banners complete the décor. Off to the right side of the bar, there’s a large metal sliding door that must lead to a back room, but no other entrances or exits.

  I’m dressed in jeans, a button down shirt with a tie, and a knee length overcoat. The six patrons inside have never seen a tie. The bartender notices me immediately and his body language tenses. A couple of years ago his tension would’ve meant he thought I was a cop.

  “You don’t belong here mister. Turn around and fuck off.”

  “I don’t want any trouble. My name is Prescott.”

  I hand him my card. Despite a massive societal collapse a simple thing like a business card still has merit. Addresses? Not so important. Contact information like a cell phone, though, is worth its weight in gold.

  “I give a fuck, why?” He shrugs and throws my card in the trash without looking at it.

  This guy’s an asshole.

  He wears a stained mechanic’s shirt and his jeans were last washed in 1986. Upon his shirt is a formerly white oval and the name “Rick” is stitched in cursive. I’ve never met Rick but over the years I’ve met many like him.

  “I need some information, Rick. I’m looking for someone. A woman, blonde hair, 35 years old,” I said, starting off friendly. The way he looks at me is setting off warnings. He is doing this hand clenching thing that is making me nervous.

  I have to tread carefully. If Rick is a Freak, then the rest of them are too. I’m a good shot, but with this many targets, no one’s that good. I feel a bead of sweat slide from my neck and make its way slowly down my back.

  “I don’t make it my business to know shit about anyone’s business,” snarls Rick.

  I reach into my inside coat pocket and peel off two twenties and put them on the bar. Rick looks at them, and then back up at me.

  “Money! That’s rich man! Get the fuck outta here!”

  I’ve got to keep my anger in check. I shake my head a few times, crush my eyes closed and take a breath. Looking again at the miserable son of a bitch in front of me, I proceed.