Chicago Undead (Book 1): On The Eleventh Floor

by Shawn Weaver

  Unable to make myself get up, I'm sure I'm dead. But the doors activate quicker than Jean’s attacker moves. They just as he strikes them with his body, sending a spray of gore and blood shooting out of his mouth through the space between the closing doors. Blood splatters across my chest and face as his scream is cut off. I hear him pounding on the other side of the heavy doors.

  The elevator starts to move before I can get up and press the button for my floor. I grab Georgie and squeeze myself into the same corner he had been cowering in as the car comes to a rest on the first floor. Putting my hand over Georgie’s muzzle, I try to keep him quiet, and helplessly watch the doors open.

  I press the button for the eleventh floor, but, as programmed, the elevator waits its allotted time before closing. I dare to look out and see three people standing in the lobby. They are far enough away not notice that the elevator door is open, but not so far away that I can't smell gasoline in the air.

  Two of the people seem as normal as the dead could be. Little blood marred their bodies, and I do not see their wounds right away. As they stand in front of the door to Bella’s, looking at the woman in the café, still holding the chair by its leg, she swings the chair at the door again, making the crack in the safety glass larger.

  Turning, they bump into one another, heading for the street exit. As they do, I see the missing cheek of one, and a deep slash that runs up the forehead of another. The third person is a mangled mess, with one of her legs bent at an impossible angle. I have no idea how she supports her weight on it. She wears a flannel shirt hanging open to mid-thigh, and a reddish-brown tank top underneath. I'm not sure, but I could swear that her tank top had been white at some point. But the amount of blood covering her face, neck and chest makes that determination impossible.

  The smell of gasoline comes from her for her jeans and sneakers are soaking wet and dripping with it.

  The elevator starts to close. Georgie shakes his head free and barks once. That's all it takes. Three heads snap my way. Neck bones could have broken with the force in which they turn. As the doors touch, I hear their roars when they start my way.

  Holding Georgie tightly to my chest, I lean against the back wall, watching the door as each floor dinged its

  approach.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  When I reach my floor, the door slides open. My chest tightens as my mind imagines a dozen people charging in, each one dead, dripping with rot, covered in blood and bits of flesh left over from their last victim.

  Seeing his home nearby, Georgie begins to wriggle. I set him down and he runs out of the elevator. Watching his little legs fly down the hall, I catch the doors as they begin to close again. Georgie disappears into his apartment, possibly looking for the Yews, more than likely, a place to hide.

  I agree with that. Finding a place to hide my head until this is all over sounds like a great idea. But I figure, like in a horror movie, I won't be able to find a place of true safety. And the end won't be pretty.

  Bending down, I grab what is left of the table. With effort, I pull the framework partially back into the elevator. I feel the screws shaking in the joints. The table is taking a beating, but I figure it will hold for a while longer.

  Straightening, I press my hands to the center of my spine and stretch backwards as far as I can. The flu bug is still hanging on in my muscles, making my joints ache like hell.

  As the doors close on the table and bounce back open, the buttons to floors four and twelve light up. Someone is still alive here. I'm not going to take a chance like I did with Jean. They can take the stairs if they need to go down. If they are smart, they will stay where they are. But I know they will not stay put. It’s not in the human genome to hide away until it's safe. We all have to eventually crawl out from under our rocks and face our enemy.

  Another muffled shot rings out from the twelfth floor. It sounds close, with a metallic echo, as if whoever fired the shot is standing in the elevator shaft.

  I have no idea what is happening on the twelfth floor, and I don’t want to find out. I step out of the elevator and make my way to my apartment. Leaving the door open, I walk across the living room and go onto the balcony.

  Navy Pier is now just a blazing mass of rubble. Every building is shattered and the boats anchored dockside are sinking as they burn. Smoke pours out over the lake in black sheets. I can't see any moving bodies near the fires.

  Leaning over the edge, I grip the railing and try to look up at the balconies on the twelfth floor. Though I can’t see the apartment above me, I can see the next one over. White curtains hang down and everything is black behind them.

  I walk back inside and step to the back of my couch. Reaching down, I grab the remote and the bottle of water shoved between the cushions. I twist off the cap and drain what is left. Flicking the channels, the EPIX movie channel pops on, showing some bad 1970’s race car movie. I have no idea who the actors are, but the cars look slick. I figure that the movie channels must be on computer remote so they'll play through their lists until their power is cut. No human interaction is needed when a computer runs all of the details.

  I hit the off button, and hear a loud yelp come from the hallway. The yelp is clearly from Georgie, frightened or hurt.

  “Georgie,” I call out loudly. I don’t hear the pitter patter of his paws on the tile, so I call his name again. Nothing.

  I know better, but I walk out into the hallway anyway. Still holding the remote, I hear the elevator doors smack on the table, and then reopen. I don’t bother to look at the elevator as I turn my attention to the Yews' open door. Taking a few steps forward, I call, “Georgie.”

  I glance at the door to the last apartment needing to be checked. It stands slightly ajar. I change directions and take a step towards it and reach for the doorknob. I don’t remember the door being open earlier. Nor did I really pay that close attention.

  Just before I touch the handle, I hear a thump and movement from the Yews' apartment. Turning, I expect to see Georgie at the door, but he isn’t there. The sound of plastic bottles being tossed to the floor, and the sound of a cabinet door being shut sends me hurrying into the Yews' apartment. I force myself to stop just inside the entryway.

  Edging to the wall, I peer around the corner. Nothing moves in the living room. I quietly step to the couch and notice that one of the high legged chairs that stood in front of the counter now lies on the floor.

  “Georgie,” I whisper as loud as I dare.

  Muffled movement and three quick scrapes of claws on wood come from the other side of the counter.

  Stepping forward, I place my hands on the sink's cold steel for support and lean across the counter. I see a half gallon bottle of bleach, Windex, and a partially unraveled bundle of white trash bags lying against the stove.

  Has Georgie crawled into the cupboard under the sink to hide?

  I glance up and see the door to the Yews' master bedroom open. Everything inside is crisp, clean and spotless.

  I walk around the counter and stand in the kitchenette to grab the bottle of bleach from the floor. Unscrewing the cap the strong antiseptic smell hits me, burning my nose and making it instantly run.

  Whoever is in the cupboard is in for a world of hurt if I throw the contents of the bottle at them, and it gets into their mouth or eyes. But if it is one of the undead, I'm unsure what it will do. Slow them down, possibly, but stop them? No.

  I kick the roll of trash bags out of the way. Stepping to the cupboard, I know that a full grown man cannot be hiding under there. The sink hangs down into the cupboard.

  There aren’t any kids next door, right? I'm not sure. I never got to know my neighbors. I think they're older, in their fifties at least. But they still could have little kids, or grandkids, at least.

  “Hey,” I say, tapping the door with my foot.

  Holding the bottle so that I can splash the bleach into the cupboard, I reach down with my free hand, and push against the top edge of the door. Swinging it ope
n, I prepare to make the first strike. But as the door opens fully, I see a little body dressed in light blue jeans, and a T-shirt with the Cubs logo across the front. Gripped tightly in his hands, Georgie sees me and jumps up, wagging his stubby tail, barking once. The boy holds him close.

  A head full of spiked blonde hair covers the boy's head. He looks to be the same age as the dead boy I had encountered earlier. And, as he looks at me with his frightened eyes, I know he has to be the dead boy’s sibling.

  “You alright?” I ask, still holding the bottle at the ready, just in case he reacts like his brother. “What you doing in there?” I pause for a moment, and then say, “Come out.”

  The frightened boy is not going to come out of the safety of the small space without prodding. But Georgie wiggles free and tumbles out of the cupboard. Getting to his paws, he proceeds to circle my feet, his large eyes and tail showing that at least he is glad to see me.

  “Where are your parents?” I ask, setting the open bottle on the counter next to the sink.

  “You want a soda or something?” I try to get some sort of response. I have no idea if the Yews have any pop in the apartment. What the hell. I had to try something.

  “You live across the hall?” I lean down a little.

  The boy shakes his head. “Grandma,” he says in a low whisper.

  “Grandma, huh? OK, well, does she know you’re here?”

  The boy’s eyes grow larger at the question.

  “You got a little brother?” I become aware of the tension in the boy’s body. He is frightened, and mentioning his grandma, and then brother, just added to it. “You know where he is?”

  The boy shakes his head.

  Good, I think.

  I hold out my hand for him, but he scoots farther back into the cupboard, smacking his head on the bottom of the sink.

  Georgie jumps up, placing his front paws on my hand, his stubby little tail whipping back and forth, creating a little windstorm. The boy's eyes drift down to Georgie and he smiles when Georgie barks at him, as if to say, He’s cool, come on out.

  “You hungry?” I reach a little farther towards him with my open hand.

  Feeling a little more confident that, if the dog approves of me, I must be alright, he moves just to the edge of the cupboard. Standing up, I go to the fridge. Looking inside, I see a few cans of diet root beer. In the center drawer, I spy a brick of yellow cheese. Grabbing two cans and the cheese, I let the door drift closed on its own, and place the items on the counter.

  Going from drawer to drawer, I finally find a knife on the third try.

  Popping the tab on a can, I’m hit with the refreshing deep aroma of the soda. My stomach rumbles. After taking a long draw from the can, I use the knife and cut a few chunks off of the brick of cheese.

  Setting down the knife, I pick up a wedge of cheese and turn around, leaning back against the counter. On purpose, I look down at the boy, shove the whole piece of cheese into my mouth, and smile. As I chew, my stomach gurgles, making me realize just how hungry I actually am.

  I grab another piece and devour that one as well.

  I offer a small piece of cheese to Georgie and not the boy. All the while, I can feel his eyes on the cheese. Unable to fight hunger, the boy finally decides to come out.

  Reaching back to the counter, I grab the unopened can of root beer, and pop the top with my index finger. As the pressure releases and CO2 spurts out in bubbles, I hand the can over. He takes it and greedily drinks, the can looking huge in his small hands.

  Cutting off a few more chunks of the cheese, I hand a piece to the boy and drop one to the floor for Georgie. The three of us eat in silence. All the while, the boy gauges me. I can see his mind ticking hard, trying to figure out if I am a good guy or not. But by Georgie’s reaction to me, I think his wariness is being cut down drastically.

  “So where do you work?” I ask with a smile, trying to break the ice.

  The boy giggles over the lip of the can.

  “You said your grandma lives over there.” I point in the general direction of her apartment.

  I hand over another piece of cheese and he nods.

  “Who else is there? Grandpa?”

  He nods and adds, “Lalea.”

  “Is that your sister?”

  He nods again.

  “Where are your parents?”

  “Aunt Marsha’s wedding,” he replies as if I should have known that.

  Without thinking, he drops a hand and puts it on Georgie’s head as the dog jumps up on his leg, begging for more to eat.

  Holding out my hand for him to shake, I say, “Robin.”

  He hesitates a moment, lifts his hand off of Georgie’s head, and puts his small hand in mine.

  “Alex,” he replies, and we shake firmly.

  “You want more cheese?”

  He thinks on it for a moment, and then shakes his head no.

  Not sure of how to broach the subject, I just spit it out, “So why you hiding?”

  Diverting his eyes from me, Alex shrugs and takes a sip from the can.

  “Everyone alright?” I ask.

  He shrugs again, and that tells me there is more to why he came here to hide.

  “Anyone got bit?”

  He stops mid sip, and looks over the edge of the can at me like I am crazy.

  “Should we go and check on them? Let them know where you’re at?”

  “NO!” he shouts.

  The sound of a door slamming echoes across the hallway. Snapping his head around, Alex can barely see over the counter as he looks across the living room. His body tenses, ready to dash back under the sink for safety.

  Another loud bang rolls through. With that, Alex drops the can of soda, spilling it across the floor. In two steps, he is back under the sink, slamming the cupboard door shut.

  That must be Grandma, I think.

  I lean down and open the cupboard a crack. Alex is crumpled into the corner as far as he can press himself.

  “Alex, how old are your grandparents?”

  “Old,” he replies, his voice shaking.

  “And your sister?”

  “Two.”

  Crap, I think.

  “Tell me, were any of them injured. Did they try to bite you?”

  “No, Grandpa took Jared to get cookies from the diner yesterday. He came back without them… and without Jared. He didn’t look hurt, but he was limping. Grandma made him lay down. And I…” He paused for a long moment. “They were in the bedroom for the longest time. Lalea got hungry. When I went to get Grandma, she screamed. That was yesterday.”

  “Where’s your sister now?”

  “She’s out on the balcony,” Alex said, so low it was almost a whisper.

  “Balcony?” I said, surprised that he would put her out there. If she is still alive, she has to be frightened out of her mind.

  Another loud wood-rattling thump comes from the hallway. Alex jumps and turns his face to the wall, scrunching his eyes shut. I figure that I won't get much more information from him at the moment.

  Though it really didn’t matter, I know what I have to do. Lalea may very well still be alive. That is, if her grandparents haven't broken through the glass of the balcony door by now.

  I know I can't make the jump between my balcony and theirs. But I can at least go to my apartment and see if I can spot her.

  “Alex, I’m going to go to my place and see if I can see your sister. You want to come?”

  He shakes his head; his knuckles turning white locked around his legs.

  “OK, well, you stay here. I’ll be right back with your sister.” I sound more confident than I feel.

  I close the door and halfway across the living room, I hear one of Alex’s grandparents hit their front door again. A painful moan rolls across the room, making my flesh crawl.

  Georgie appears at my feet and follows me out of the Yews' apartment, accompanying me back to my place. I hear the elevator crunching into the table again. The metal joints of
the table are starting to give.

  Leading the way, Georgie steps into my apartment and heads for the couch as if he knows the layout. I make a beeline for the balcony. He jumps up on the couch and stands on the back, watching my every move.

  Ignoring the carnage of the pier, I look across the empty space between balconies and see nothing.

  Getting on my tiptoes, I lean forward and hear a sharp thwack of flesh on glass. Knocking the vertical blinds down, Alex’s grandma claws at the glass door.

  Grandma looks unharmed, her skin unmarred, and her clothes clean and free of blood. Except for the jumbled mass that is her hair and her bloodshot eyes, I wouldn’t have taken her for dead.

  Pressing her face to the glass, Grandma chewed at it as if she could eat her way through to her granddaughter. A small scream rises from behind the balcony’s concrete wall. Though her voice is full of fear, I’m relieved that Lalea is still alive.

  At that same time, Georgie jumps from the couch, runs out into the balcony, and bashes his head into my heels before he can stop.

  Surprised, I stumble backward. I clip his rear end as I fall, striking my head on the cement floor. Stars flit through my vision as Georgie circles my head, tail wagging and wet tongue licking my cheeks, urging me to get up.

  I brush him away and get to my feet.

  Lalea squeals in fear as her grandmother claws more frantically at the glass. The blinds bend around her shoulders, a few snapping as she becomes more tangled in them.

  I see Lalea’s hand for a moment as she stands in the corner of the balcony closest to me.

  I need a weapon. I know the odds are against me, two to one. Even if they are old, Alex’s grandparents feel no pain. And I have nothing. No tools. I don't play sports, so I don’t have a bat, or golf clubs. Or anything even resembling a weapon in my kitchen. So with Georgie following, I head to my kitchenette and start to search.

  Pulling open the silverware drawer, I see a jumbled mess. Grabbing whatever is inside, I slap it all on the counter. I spy a few knives. None of them are lethal enough. I could kill a piece of toast. That would be about it. I need something stronger, sturdier.