Chicago Undead: On the eleventh floor

by Weaver, Shawn

  “As you can see...” the reported stumbled, not exactly sure what to say.

  From behind them, the fire door to the stairwell slams open. Spinning around, the cameraman shows four men dressed in black SWAT gear. Rifles raised, they fan out onto the roof.

  Over the barrel of his rifle, the police officer in the lead yells, “Halt. Police,” through a black mask that covers the lower part of his face.

  On the edge of the screen I see the reporter step towards the officer. A smile crosses her face, glad that rescuers have come. Shots ring out. Bullets rip into the reporter, shaking her like a ragdoll until she falls to the ground.

  I know now that these men are not here for a rescue. The lead officer turns his rifle towards the cameraman and fires. I hear the garbled scream of the cameraman. The camera clatters to the ground, followed a second later by the cameraman, his quivering hand falling into the path of filming.

  I see the black boots of the SWAT team as they cautiously step forward. One man reaches out a toe, and nudges the reporter to see if she is still alive. I hear the cameraman moan in pain. Then, just as quickly, another shot rings out, ending the cameraman’s life. A second later, the screen goes black when a boot comes down on the camera, cutting the feed.

  In stunned silence, I watch the screen. It stays black for a minute or longer, though it could have been only mere seconds. The screen flickers to a test pattern, then to the shocked face of the MSMN weatherman. His hair sticks out as if he had just run his hands through it, and the make-up girl did not have enough time to do her job between takes.

  The weatherman looks at his sheaf of papers, taps them on the desk, and nervously looks off camera. He does not know what to say, and does not have anything on his papers or teleprompter to read.

  Behind the camera, I hear someone say, “Keep rolling. Run with it.” The frazzled weatherman is out of his league. He reports temperature fluctuation, and rain clouds, not national emergencies and murder.

  Looking at his papers, Wally stutters, glances at the camera for a second, and then back to the papers. Crumpling the edges of the papers, he starts to reread the warning provided by the National Security Agency.

  I tap the up button on the remote. The television clicks through a dozen of either black, fuzzy, or test pattern channels. Then a live remote image pops on. It is night wherever this is being filmed, possibly Tokyo, or another city with large buildings and a teaming population who at this moment, are running from where the person holding the camera stood.

  A mass of cars block the road. Their brake lights shine in the night, showing people climbing over and around them. No sound comes from the TV, but I hear their screams of panic in my head.

  The camera topples over, revealing one of its tripod legs. Blocking the view for a moment, a shambling mound, in wrinkled bloodstained olive green pants, steps over the camera. On stiff legs it follows the mass of fleeing people. As it moves farther away from the camera, I can see under the grime and blood a man wearing a ripped white shirt. One sleeve is missing, and that arm looks like it has been put through a shredder.

  The television and lights in my apartment flicker then hold steady as the power cuts off, then surges back again. Part of me says Run, though the smarter half says Stay. If I did run, where would I go? Up here I’m safe, for a while anyway, but for how long? The fires on the other side of the building could do a lot of damage if the firemen can't get it under control. Then again, if I am seeing what is really happening, the firemen are only an appetizer for what is to come.

  I think it’s strange that I am taking everything so calmly. Maybe all of the horror movies growing up were just a primer for the real thing, stories of what creeps in the dark, and the fact that everyone said one day this would happen.

  Something slams into my door. I hear the knob rattling. I turn off the TV and sit perfectly still, as if that would make whoever is in the hallway leave.

  The painting next to the door crashes to the floor, glass crunching when someone steps on it. The knob rattles again, and then everything goes quiet, except for the wind coming in through the balcony.

  Setting the remote on the coffee table, I slowly get up. Staring at the door, I realize that in my mad rush to leave Mr. Burkowitz's apartment, I didn’t close his door. Whoever is out there could be ransacking the old man’s apartment, or worse, doing things to his dead body.

  I grab the large bowled mug I had been drinking chicken soup from over the weekend. Noodles are still sticking to the sides. The ceramic bowl may not be much of a weapon, but I figure it's better than nothing.

  Making each step as quiet as possible, I walk to the door. Leaning forward, I place my ear against the door, listening.

  Hearing no movement, I look through the peep hole to only see an empty hall in a fish eyed view. I can see into Mr. Burkowitz's apartment. The row of windows that crosses the far wall of his apartment casts a heavy glare back at me.

  Do I take the chance and make sure no one is feasting on his dead corpse? Or could it be that I heard Mr. Burkowitz rising from the dead? I have no idea, and really don't want to find out. But doing the right thing prevails. I curse my parents for bringing me up to follow my conscience.

  I turn the lock and hesitate. Leaning my head against the closed door, I say to the empty room, “What the hell am I doing?”

  I know that I could just stay in my apartment, arguing with myself all day. But in the end, doing the right thing will eventually win out.

  Turning the handle, I crack the door just a little, and wait, listening for any noise in the hall. Part of me wants to hear something so that I can close the door and lock myself away.

  No sounds cross the hall. So, taking a deep breath, I open the door and stick my head out, my glance darting from left to right. All I see is the closed elevator door, the broken picture frame, and the two still closed doors to the apartments down the hall.

  Stepping out, I close the door behind me. Leaving it unlocked, I dash across the hall into Mr. Burkowitz's apartment. In one movement, I close his door and throw the lock. Leaning against the door, my heart pounds in my chest as I realize what I just did, leaving the safety of my apartment and locking myself in another apartment with God knows what.

  The smoke is thicker outside the glass doors of the balcony. The wind pushes most of it away from my building, and the sound of sirens below is barely a bleep at this height.

  Pushing myself away from the door, I step into the middle of the living room and scan the area. No movement, though anyone could still be hiding here, behind the couch, or the kitchenette counter.

  Holding the mug like a club, I tiptoe towards Mr. Burkowitz's bedroom. The door is partially closed, and I feel a hitch in my chest as I realize that I had not closed the door when I was here earlier.

  I ease the door open. There he lay as still as before. My mind races, Did you have to get bit to turn? Or, Did you just come back after a while? The movies had it both ways. But for now Mr. Burkowitz is unmoving. And that's fine by me.

  Dropping my arm, I toss the mug onto the bed. As the last of the noodles plop across the bedspread, I breathe a sigh of relief.

  I hear a bang from the floor above me. It is muffled going through the carpet and flooring, but is clearly from a gun.

  Wanting the safety of my apartment, I spin on my heels, and come face to face with what has to be the ugliest kid I have ever seen. No more than three feet tall, dirty, with mud soaked clothes; he looks like he has been playing in Lake Michigan all morning. The indentation in his head looks as if someone had tried to plow a brick through his skull. Blood matted his blond hair, making it stick up in hard spikes around the wound. Skin puckered from the ragged hole. I notice one of his ears missing.

  I stumble backwards and hit the bed. My knees buckle, and I bounce off the mattress and onto the floor.

  The boy looks confused and takes a step forward. Without thinking, I grab the edge of the door and swing it shut as hard as I can. With a sickening crunch,
the door bashes into the kid's face, crushing his nose as well as loosening a few teeth.

  The door bounces back as the boy falls to the floor. I kick out and connect with the door, making it close.

  Grabbing the bedspread, I pull myself up. As I do, Mr. Burkowitz moves. His arms reflexively follow the movement of the bedspread. From the corner of my eye, I catch this and jump, thinking the old man had risen to help the boy. But the old man doesn’t get out of bed and try to suck my brains out. Instead he just lies there, dead.

  I realize the door is my only way out of the room. I need a weapon. One would think that I could handle a three-foot tall kid, but this is a different situation.

  I grab the door handle and twist the lock before the kid can open the door. Feeling safe for a moment, I go to the closet and slide the door open to see suits lined up according to the shades of black that Mr. Burkowitz favored. I grab one suit to get the hanger. When I pull, it doesn’t move as the jacket falls off. The hanger is connected to the rod.

  Leaving the closet door open, I scan the rest of the room. The old man had to have something, golf clubs, a phone, anything. But all I see is a brass lamp sitting on a nightstand by the bed. I pull off the shade and rip the cord from the wall.

  Wrapping the gold-colored cord around my hand. I heft the lamp and swing it like a baseball bat, testing its weight. Not too heavy, it will do for someone his size.

  At the door, I put my ear against the wood and listen. I hear a rhythmic breathing, and think that it is the kid standing just on the other side. Then I realize that it is only me.

  Wiping sweat from the palms of my hands onto my pants, I grab the door handle. Raising the lamp in one motion, I turn the knob and swing the door open, only to find that the kid has moved on.

  I step to the kitchenette and see nothing but empty space between the stove and the counter that separated the kitchen from the living room. One of the doors underneath the sink is partially open. I don't remember seeing it open earlier. Then again, I wasn’t really looking.

  Entering the living room, I stop in front of the open balcony door. The wind has turned stronger and is making the curtains snap. Above the sound of the flames, I hear what could only be cannon fire. Could that be a car exploding, or the army? Hell if I know. But it is loud and close by.

  I step out onto the balcony and see in the distance a fighter jet turning in a wide arc around the John Hancock Center. A plume of black smoke pours from one of its windows on what I assume to be the seventy-eighth floor. From this distance the pillar of smoke looks small.

  Tapping the lamp on the railing, I turn to go back to my apartment. As I do, I see the little boy climbing over the back of Mr. Burkowitz's couch. Leaving a trail of blood across the leather upholstery, he tumbles off the cushions and hits the glass coffee table. His legs strike it hard, causing a crack to travels across the width of the table.

  Not stopping, the boy pushes a bowl of mixed nuts and the last three issues of Architectural Digest to the floor, and makes a beeline for me across the table.

  The boy falls off the other side of the table and staggers to his feet. Raising his hands, he comes at me with a sputtering growl through a mouthful of blood and broken teeth.

  When he rushes onto the balcony, I swing with the lamp. The top half makes contact. The light bulb shatters across the side of his face, imbedding shards of white glass in his right cheek and eliminating his eye.

  Following the momentum of my swing, the boy falls against the door jamb. Feeling no pain, he bounces off of the glass and comes at me.

  As hard as I can, I swing again. The lamp makes contact as I step to the right. My momentum, along with the boy's own movement, lifts him off of his feet. In a gurgling scream, he hits the balcony. Following the arc, he flips over the railing and disappears.

  Stumbling, I fall into the living room. I get to my feet, rush back to the balcony, and look over just in time to see the boy end his eleven floor decent. Like a water balloon bursting, the boy lands on his head in a wet blood-spraying crunch. The rest of his body compresses. Bones shatter to

  pulpy goo, spraying across the road.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  My stomach churns. If there was anything in it, I would have been sending a dose down onto the dead boy.

  Unwinding the cord from my hand, I drop the blood smeared lamp to the floor. Bloody shards of glass crunch under my feet, and I jump away to avoid imbedding any of them into my bare skin.

  Without thinking, I make a beeline for the kitchenette. I kick the cabinet door shut as I reach for the faucet. Turning on the tap, I lean down and drink directly from the cold flow. After a few good gulps, the cold water sits heavily in my empty stomach.

  Turning off the tap, I think to myself. What the hell am I gonna do? Even up here I’m not safe.

  I could block the elevator door open so it wouldn’t descend if anyone pushed the call button, and the fire door would not open from the stairwell. So even if one of the dead did make it up the eleven flights, all they could do was pound on the steel, and it wouldn’t budge.

  Stepping back into the living room, I look for something I could use to keep the elevator doors open. The couch is too big to move alone. So is the matching over-stuffed recliner. The glass coffee table is the only thing I think I can lift. The glass top was cracked by the kid, but its framework was made from black iron rods, so it should hold up.

  Bending down, I grab the edge of the table. The weekend flu, and not eating, start to show as I lift. Immediately I have to put the table down. The only way I can get it to the hall is to rock it from edge to edge.

  Gritting my teeth, I lift the table again. With a grunt, I get it up on its end and go about the slow process of walking it, corner to corner. Just in the hall, I have to pause and get my breath as the world swims for a moment.

  The effort is getting to me, and I know that I need to eat soon or pass out.

  The space from Mr. Burkowitz's apartment to the elevator looks to be a hundred yards, though I know it is no more than fifty feet.

  Thumping loudly on the floor, I walk the table down the hall. Every step seems to boom in my ears, calling unwanted attention to where I am. Within a minute, I make it to the elevator. Leaning the table against the wall, I reach for the call button, but stop just an inch from the glowing up arrow.

  What if someone is down there, I think.

  Rubbing my fingers in the palm of my hand, my mind bounces back and forth. Should I push the button, or not? I know sooner or later the elevator will be activated by me, or someone else. Dead or alive, it didn’t matter. Either way, it’s a chance I don’t want to take.

  I press the button and wait. As the seconds tick by, I realize that I’ve got nothing to protect myself with. Survival instincts take over, and I turn to run back to my apartment. Before I get five steps away, the bell rings, signaling the elevator's arrival. I stop as I hear the doors slide open.

  Swallowing hard, I turn to look, expecting to see a horde of flesh devouring zombies, caked in blood and gore. But all I see is the empty elevator with its hidden speakers playing a crappy Muzak version of Barry Manilow’s "Mandy."

  The tension in my body drops, and I dash back as the doors start to close. Sticking my hand out, I catch the edge of the door and push it back. Automatically sensing my weight, the doors reopen.

  Stepping into the doorway, I grab the coffee table and pull it towards me. Paint scrapes off of the wall, leaving a deep white gash in the plaster. Struggling with its weight, I drop the table as the door reactivates and bounces off of my back.

  As the table strikes the floor, the glass top cracks again, but doesn’t break, missing my bare feet by mere inches.

  I push at the table to make sure that at least a fourth of it is in the elevator so that it does not get pushed back out as the door recloses. Avoiding the closing doors again, I jump over the table and into the hallway.

  The door closes and crunches, metal on glass, then reopens. I know the sound of Muz
ak is going to be annoying, along with the ding of the door repeatedly signaling whenever it attempts to close. But it will remind me that the hallway is safe in that direction.

  Now all I have to attend to are the other two apartments on this floor. If I am lucky, everyone has gone to work, or school. I have no idea what they would be doing, for I never bothered to get to know any of them. I wouldn’t even know Mr. Burkowitz if it weren't for my father’s insistence that I keep tabs on him. I have no idea why. Maybe it was because he would do Mr. Burkowitz’s funeral when he passed. Or, it could be he wanted the space to rent out for more money than Mr. Burkowitz was paying. Then again, it could just be friendship, and the Good Samaritan deeds that he always insisted everyone do to live a better life.

  Walking down the hall, I stop just past my door. I am unarmed and really have no weapons to use. I could get a frying pan that would bust some heads, but the thought of bloodying something I cooked with is revolting.

  Both closed doors look ominous. Should I go left or right? I know that whichever door I choose will be the one hiding the demons. Taking the chance, I go left. Stopping at the door, I touch the cold wood and listen. I hear a radio playing in a muffled buzz. Though I can't tell what the words are, I can tell that it's a man’s voice.

  Knocking, I wait. After a few seconds I knock again, then ask myself, What the heck am I doing? If the world is coming to an end, nobody is going to ask, “Who is it?” They're either not going to answer, or blow a hole right through the door if they have a gun. And this being Chicago, I presume it will be the latter.

  Stepping to the side, I press myself against the wall and reach for the door handle. It turns easily in my hand. I’m surprised that someone would leave and not lock their door. Then it makes me realize that if the door is unlocked, somebody is home.

  I push the door open with my fingertips and say, “Hello?”