“Crazy.”
“Hang on,” she says, holding up a notepad full of jottings. “The plot thickens! So the mayor got eaten by zombies.You knew that, right?”
I nod.
“Okay, so the power goes to the vice mayor, who is Frankie Munoz. You know Frankie, right? The south side alderman for that little Hispanic pocket? Anyhow, Munoz has gone i nsane. Fled the city and, apparently—Alderman Mogk thinks so, at least—taken a lot of city resources and cash with him. Mogk says she had a conversation with Munoz where he said ‘Fuck you, I’m leaving’—right before the phones went dead—but I can’t verify that.yet. What I do know is that the city council and its lawyers are working to pass an emergency measure to give power to Alderman Mogk—make her the interim mayor.”
“Can they do that without everybody present?”
“This zombie situation is pretty unprecedented, but yes, I think they can. Like I said, they’ve got almost half the city council in there, and more aldermen are showing up by the minute. This is historic. And it’s a hell of a scoop!”
“You’re.reporting on this?”
“Are you kidding? Of course I am!”
“They’re letting you?”
“They wanted me to. Marja’s people came and found me. It turns out she wants a record of all of it. And you know the best part?”
I shake my head, not seeing a “best part” anywhere.
“I’m the only reporter here!” Jessy beams. “There’s nobody from the Tribune, the Sun-Times, Brain’s, the Crusader, the Hyde Park Herald.. .nobody! This is the scoop of a generation, and it’s all mine! At first I was like, ‘This is a Pulitzer, easy!’ But then I was like, ‘No, aim higher, Knowlton. This is a book...or two.’ Either way, I’m gonna pay off those J-school loans before I turn thirty. Hot damn!”
“I am, guardedly, happy for you,” I respond as Jessy fumbles to activate a vending machine.
“So, look, I just left to get a cup of coffee. This is gonna be an all-nighter, and I want to be there for all of it. Every moment of what’s going on in there is historic!”
A thought occurs to me.
“Jessy, did Alderman Mogk give you access to everywhere in the Cultural Center?” I ask, beginning to see an opportunity.
“I guess, yeah. She told all the big guys with guns I was with her. But see, I only want to be in that meeting room. That’s where the action is.”
“What if I told you there’s another side to the story?” I say cautiously. “What if I know something that makes it an even bigger scoop?”
Coffee in hand, Jessy takes a glance down the hallway—back toward the oaken doors and the conference room.
But then she looks into my eyes and says, “I’m listening.”
Maria Ramirez
Believe it or not, the worst part is not the being tied to a chair like a damsel in distress from some goddamn B-movie. Neither is the betrayal. (I think of how excited I felt when Shawn Michael returned to the car. How I began to tell him that Ben had fucked off, and then having a gun stuck into my ribs, being disarmed, and being dragged inside. I thought, A second ago I would have said yes to a quickie in a broom closet, and now you’re dragging me around like a prisoner. This is definitely your loss, bub)
No. Instead, the worst part is the utter lack of explanation.
I’m sitting in this little storage room, tied to a chair with rope and with electrical tape over my mouth, and I have no clue what is going on. None! There is only one entrance, and Shawn Michael is standing in front of it, looking back at me. And that’s it. That’s all the information I have.
I regret not resisting more when he brought me inside the Cultural Center. All those people just accepted it when he pulled me upstairs. Maybe they’re on his side—whatever’s happening— but maybe they’re not. Maybe I could have screamed for help.
I should have at least tried. I should have said something.
Now there is electrical tape over my mouth, and I can’t say anything.
Fuck.
After what seems like forever, there’s a knock at the door, and a thuggish-looking man in a blue blazer walks inside. He and Shawn Michael stay by the door—maybe 15 feet away from me—and start to whisper. They think I can’t hear them, but I can. “What did she say?”
“He’s got one other relative, out in Oak Park. He got to be there.if he ain’t dead already.”
“Fucking Oak Park. What do we do?”
“She says send a street team. Cars as far as you can. Then on foot. Or bicycles. Whatever it takes”
“I heard the highway’s too clogged even for bicycles.”
“Mmm hmm. She says go anyway. Make it look like a robbery. People might get curious when the CPD comes back. No shell casings they can trace. Use bats and knives if you can”
“Oh, I’m goin’?”
“Yes.”
“And kill everybody?”
“Yes.”
“So what’s she, then?”
Both men look over at my taped mouth. I pretend not to pay attention.
“Insurance. Munoz won’t come out and fight? You let him know we got his daughter.”
“A’ight.”
“She said you did real good with this, Shawn Michael. She said when this all over, maybe it’s time for you to get a ward of your own. Be an alderman yourself. Maybe when they redraw the ward maps comin’ up, there’s one in there for you.”
“A’ight den.”
“A’ight.”
The man in the blue blazer leaves.
Shawn Michael seems to relax a little. He takes out his phone. There is still no service—on cell or land lines—but he starts to play a video game. It is disgusting. In the car, he seemed like an articulate gentleman. I realize, now, that that was all an act. This is the real Shawn Michael.
I try hard not to cry. If he sees my makeup running, he will know that I have heard them. That I now understand why I am tied to a chair and what they plan to do with me.
Not knowing is no longer the hardest part. Now it’s trying not to cry.
And trying to figure out how I’m going to kill Shawn Michael Recinto.
I’m doing a pretty good job of winning the war on crying—and imagining having Shawn Michael pinned down on some kind of medieval torture rack (where I can get at him easily, and make it really slow and painful)—when there is another knock at the door.
Shawn Michael looks like he’s playing a game he can’t pause. He frowns and sighs, annoyed. He opens the door with one hand, still clicking and dragging with the other.
Standing in the doorway is a woman I’ve never seen before. About my age, black, short hair, and conservative clothes with a yellow legal pad in her hand.
Is this another drone of Marja Mogk’s? Will I hear more stories about plans to kill my family? I brace myself for whatever comes next. (I would give my life if it would save my mother and my sister. If I know anything for sure, I know that.)
“Hi there,” the woman says.
“Mmm,” says Shawn Michael, his eyes flitting up and back down to his screen.
“Alderman Mogk said I should talk to you.” She looks past Shawn Michael and sees me tied to the chair.
“Mmm,” Shawn Michael says again.
“Yeah, uh, here’s the thing...” she stammers. At that moment the door cracks a fraction wider. And there, standing behind the visitor, is the unmistakable visage of Leopold Mack. I see him, and in the same moment, he sees me. His eyes go wide.
Before the mystery woman can say anything more, Mack kicks the door. It flies open—knocking the hulking Shawn Michel to his knees and making him drop his phone. Mack pounces on Shawn Michael, and the woman shuts the door behind them.
Wham! Wham! Wham!
Pastor Mack delivers three giant punches to Shawn Michael’s face before the aldermanic henchman can right himself. The blows have unexpected ferocity. I hear the horrible muffled crunch as Shawn Michael’s nose breaks.
The gal rushes over and begins to unti
e me. Mack hovers over Shawn Michael with a raised fist. He’s like Ali in that famous photo, wondering if the prone man deserves a final shot. Shawn Michael is not unconscious but curls in on himself like a broken insect. His hands are trying to shield his nose, which is now a centimeter or two out of place. In the end, Mack decides on a kick to the ribs instead. A hard one. Shawn Michael bucks ferociously and then lies still.
The young woman frees my hands from the ropes. I rip the duct tape from my mouth myself.
“Yeeeaugh,” I scream. “What the fuck is this!?!?” “Quiet” says Mack, pointing at me. “There’s a damn army on the other side of that door.”
Mack turns to the woman unbinding my legs. “Jessy, this is the one I told you about. His daughter.” I look at Mack and wrinkle my nose. “You.know about my dad?” Mack nods.
“You never said anything before.”
“It never came up. Let’s just say I might have wanted to know about you after you convinced my daughter to leave her family and friends. I might have done a little asking around about you . . . “
“Hooooooo,” moans Shawn Michael from his curled ball in the corner.
Mack pivots and gives him another quick kick to the belly.
“Quiet, you,” he barks. Then, to me, “This one killed the caretaker at Crenshaw.”
“Why?” I say, freeing myself from the remaining ropes. “What the fuck are these people up to?”
“I’m not sure, but I think they aim to steal the city.”
“They want to kill my father,” I hiss, rising to my feet. My legs hurt and my mouth feels dry.
“This is Jessy Knowlton” Mack says, indicating the woman with him. “She’s a reporter for the Defender. She might know how they plan to do it.”
“Your father is Frankie Munoz, the legitimate mayor?”Jessy asks.
I nod.
“My God” she says. “What a scoop!”
“We need to get out of here, guys,” Mack says. He reaches down into the curled ball that is Shawn Michael and comes away with a Glock.
The idea sinks in.
“How do we get past all those people in the lobby.and then all the ones outside?” I ask.
Mack checks the safety on the pistol, and then points it at me.
“You’re going out the same way you came in,” Mack says. “With a gun in your back.”
We exit the storage room and stand at the top of the staircase like royalty waiting to be announced. We look down into the mass of humanity below us. It has not changed. If anything, it has swelled. Police, city officials, and armed citizens mill about or talk confidentially. Through the Cultural Center’s windowed walls we can see that there is a massive crowd outside the building— hoping perhaps to be admitted inside, or only to be told that somebody is in control.
“Struggle,” Mack whispers to me. “Look at me like I just kicked your dog.”
With that, the pastor sticks the Glock into my side. Hard.
Fucker.
The scowl that crosses my face is not manufactured.
We head down the staircase toward the crowded first floor. Mack and I take the lead, with Jessy following. All eyes are on us. Mack wears the expression of a teacher who has just caught the most notorious delinquent tagging the walls of the gym for a third time. He keeps the gun in my ribs. Once, when I stumble on the stairs, he pulls me up by my hair.
Most folks seem bemused. They look at Mack’s scowl—and his manhandling of me—and smile to one another. A couple of young men look like they want to intercede on my behalf, argue for gentler treatment of the prisoner. Mack stares them down.
We reach the first floor of the Harold Washington Cultural Center and head toward the front door, where a giant man is standing guard. I’m acutely aware of each tick-tack, tick-tack of our shoes on the floor. Each step is one closer to freedom, yet it still feels like—at any moment—these curious faces might train their weapons on us and fire. Or just rip us apart with their hands. It is like something out of a dream.
We reach the giant man and the exit he guards. For a moment, I wonder if he’s on our side. He says, “Pastor Mack” and opens the door for us. But then there is a commotion from behind us. People are muttering, and I hear one: “Oh my God!” I turn and risk a glance (before Mack rights me forcefully) and see Shawn Michael standing at the top of the staircase with blood running down his shirt. With one hand, he holds his nose. With the other, he is gesturing in our direction.
“Whoa,” says the giant guard, stoically extending a huge, meaty leg to block our exit.
Without missing a beat, Mack takes the gun from out of my back and shoots him in the kneecap.
The weapon’s report is deafening as it bounces around the frosted glass windows of the Cultural Center. It is followed by screams of alarm. The giant man goes down, gripping his leg like an NFL lineman with a hammie. His moan, however, is otherworldly, like a wounded ox. “Run, you idiots!” Mack shouts.
Dropping all pretense of captor and hostage, we sprint through the door and head into the crowd beyond. The reporter follows us. Mack is surprisingly fast. He’s also tall, so the people crowded around see him coming and move aside. Mostly. A couple end up tasting his shoulder. They fall reeling to the landscaping below.
Other people are running too—away from us, or just away from the sound of the gunshot. After a few tense moments, we get through the crowd and into the street.
“This way,” Mack calls, taking us north up MLK along the sidewalk.
We still face a perimeter of watchmen. They patrol the i ntersection around the Cultural Center. At least one of them is dead ahead of us, carrying a rifle and wearing an orange cap. He’s heard the shot but is looking past us, sniffing the air, trying to figure out what is going on.
Suddenly, there is a KA-POW KA-POW KA-POW from behind us.
A man emerges from the crowd, chasing us and firing a handgun.
“There!” he shouts, gesturing to us. “Stop those people!”
Mack veers off into the shadows by a row of parked cars. We follow. The man with the rifle raises his weapon and shoots it twice. There is a terrifying P-PING as one of the bullets ricochets near us.
We duck down behind the cars. Mack motions for us to keep moving. We creep north, using the shadowed row of cars as cover. More shouts of alarm arise from the Cultural Center.
Mack reaches the end of the row and stops. I join him, and we survey the grim landscape before us. We’ve edged past the confused guards, but just barely. And they’re looking for us. We’re by no means safe.
To our right is a row of shuttered three flats, without yards or alleyways between them. They might as well be a castle’s impenetrable facade. To our left is an open boulevard, streetlights, and a few thin trees. No cover at all. That would be the worst place to run. That leaves north, where there are—yes—clusters of trees and a few more cars, but it’s going to be very spotty in some sections in terms of things to hide behind. We’ll have to sprint from shadow to shadow.
Mack, who has also reached this conclusion, whispers, “We’ll head for the cars up ahead. Get behind that Toyota. If they still don’t see us, try to make it behind that heap of recycling dumpsters. You see where I mean?”
Then, behind us, Jessy says, “Ben Bennington?”
Mack and I look at her.
“There!” Jessy says, gesturing. “On past the recycling cans. Look! I know that guy. He’s with Brain’s.” We look again. Jessy is right.
There, coming south along the sidewalk, is Ben Bennington. He is not in a hurry and does not look alarmed. Has he even heard the shots?
“Oh my God,” I say. “They’ll shoot him on sight.”
Before I can say anything else, Mack starts sprinting toward Ben.
We run north. Ben is still ambling south. He sees us almost immediately . . . so do two armed guards from the Cultural Center, and they open fire.
The guns bark and bullets begin to ricochet.
Ben pulls a handgun from his pocket
and begins pointing it in all directions.
“Ben!” I call. “It’s us!”
Ben trains his gun in our direction, and for a moment I’m certain he’s going to shoot me in the face. Then he recognizes us. He registers bewilderment and lowers the weapon. Then he sees the men with rifles farther down the street who are shooting at us. He shoots back.
We round a pile of blue recycling cans and hurdle the hood of a Toyota with a cheap spoiler that doesn’t match the paint. (The words “Trust No Bitch” have been carefully painted across the rear window in Germanic script.) Mack hurdles it like an athlete, sliding over the hood and taking cover on the far side of the car. Jessy and I follow as best we can.
Ben squeezes off a couple more nervous shots and then l owers his gun. Nobody shoots back. It’s unclear whether the guards from the Cultural Center are dead, in flight, or just not shooting anymore. Ben jogs over and joins us behind the Toyota.
“Mack!” Ben says, rubbing his eyes with his gloves. “What’s going on? I thought you were dead”
“I am the resurrection and the life,” Mack says with a little chortle. Then, after a thought, he adds, “Not really.”
“Maria, you’re okay!” Ben says.
“Relatively speaking,” I tell him.
Then Jessy Knowlton says, “Little help...”
We look back and see that Jessy is not taking cover. Jessy is not even on her feet. She’s lying curled on her side, head down against the sidewalk. There is a hole in her chest the size of a golf ball. Blood is pooling beneath her.
“Omigod!” I say, unsure what to do.
“Bennington.” Jessy says, her voice suddenly a croak.
Ben is clearly aghast but creeps closer to Jessy.
“Here,” Jessy says, thrusting a blood-spattered legal pad at Ben. “It’s your Pulitzer now.”
Zombie, Illinois Page 19
