Zombie, Illinois

by Scott Kenemore

  I point the Glock and squeeze off a round. The man flinches and jumps back behind the car. Below me, I hear the sound of Maria and the mayor heading out the front door.

  How many of these did Maria say I had? Fifteen? Got to make them last. I point the gun at the car and pull the trigger again. This time, I actually hit something; my bullet makes a round silver hole in the hood. Fuck yeah.

  I wait. Nothing happens. Shawn Michael and his cohorts don’t shoot back. They don’t even move. Even so, I send another bullet in their direction every few seconds. I try to keep track of how many I have left.

  When I am down to five, I hear the sound of movement again on the doorstep below me. There is the shuffling of feet, but also a baritone moan that can only be from Mack. He is with them and—for the moment at least—apparently still alive.

  I decide to squeeze off another shot before heading downstairs. I take a deep breath like I’ve seen snipers do in movies. Hold it Ben, hold it. I try to get Shawn Michael in my sights. (I’m a terrible shot and I know it, but maybe this time . . . just rnaybe...) My body tenses as I prepare to pull the trigger.

  Then I hear one of the men behind the car scream “Aww, hell yeah!” really loud.

  Another adds “That’s I’m talkin’ ‘bout. Ow! My motherfuckers!”

  It is unnerving. I hesitate. I don’t pull the trigger. Something in the vibration of the air has changed, and I can feel it. I lower the Glock. I then look out past the yellow car and see what it is.

  Coming up the block is a group of men and women in heavy winter coats. Fifty people at least. They are armed to the teeth— in some cases literally—but they don’t behave aggressively toward Shawn Michael’s group. Rifles are slung over shoulders. Handguns are displayed openly in waistbands. One gentleman holds a glistening knife in his mouth, despite the cold.

  Most unnerving of all, they don’t look like gangsters—they look like the local politicians and community leaders I see in meetings across the city every day. Which—terrifyingly—is what they are.

  This part of the mob could be a priest and some parishioners from the Polish Catholic League, heading to a city forum to express displeasure with a new pornographic billboard. Next to them might be a collection of youth mentors from the Roberto Clemente outreach gang violence program in Humboldt Park. And next to these could be a smiling, convivial detachment from the Ping Tom Improvement Association in Chinatown.

  My heart jumps to my throat. Can these people be with Marja Mogk? All of them? Has the corruption spread that far?

  Erasing all doubt, Shawn Michael Recinto gives the group a hearty wave from behind the car. He then indicates my position with his index finger. A moment later, someone from the advancing horde takes a potshot at me. A bullet SPATS into the side of the wall, only a few feet from my face.

  This is the worst part of a zombie outbreak. People you know—people who were your friends and associates just the day before—are now roaming the streets and trying to kill you. But they’re not the zombies. They’re the horrible people who want to run the city.

  I retreat back inside the bedroom and head frantically for the stairs.

  “Holy shit!” I shout to whoever is left alive below. “There’s fifty more coming down the street! Fifty more!”

  I race to the bottom of the staircase and shut the front door of the house. Everyone’s at the back. Maria, Mack, the mayor, and even Franco—who is apparently filled with wooden splinters— have retreated to the back bedroom with Maria’s mother and sister. They all look up as I race down the hallway toward them. I skitter like a cat on the linoleum and blood, then come flailing into the bedroom like a wild man. I slam the door behind me.

  “Fifty more?” says Maria. “What’re you—”

  “Shawn Michael’s group wasn’t sent here to kill us,” I cry breathing hard. “They were the scouting party. They were sent ahead to trap the mayor until the real killers could get mustered. And I think they just did.”

  “My God,” says the mayor. “They must really want me dead.”

  “Each one of those people has been promised a reward if they help Marja kill you,” I say dourly. “Each one of them has decided to sell a little bit of his or her soul to get ahead. That’s the Chicago way.”

  “I think the mayor knows that already,” Mack says from his position on the floor.

  For a moment, it’s hard to tell who is speaking. All strength and sonorousness has disappeared from his voice. It’s like hearing a mighty brasswind reduced to a buzzing mouthpiece.

  I look him over and see that the bullet has travelled through Mack’s left shoulder. There is a sizable wound. With his right hand, Mack reaches across his chest and tries to hold it closed. There is, however, an exit wound in his back which he cannot reach. Blood is escaping from it and pooling underneath him. It turns the tan carpet red. Without the intercession of a doctor, Mack does not have long to live.

  “I have to give myself up,” the mayor says. “There’s no point to more fighting.”

  “That won’t save any of us,” I explain. “They need us dead. There can’t be witnesses.”

  “Well then,” says the mayor, “what is there left to do but die?”

  I lean against the wall, trying to think of an answer.

  Leopold Mack

  I’ve sat with the dying many, many times.

  Most of these visits have been with the elderly who were preparing to pass away from natural causes. Yet, I’ve seen more than my fair share—anyone’s fair share—of young people dying from gun violence. I’ve held their hands and listened to their breath wheeze out of them through bullet holes and punctured lungs.

  And here I am, a grizzled old geezer who’s been shot like a youngster. What a thing! Pastor Mack, what were you trying to prove?

  The good book contains no shortage of passages about death. My favorite has always been in the Book of Ecclesiastes, where it says: “A good name is better than a precious perfume, and the day of one’s death is better than the day of one’s birth”

  However, I find that lying here with a hole in my shoulder has somewhat altered my perspective. Sorry, Mr. Ecclesiastes, but birthdays are pretty fun.and I’ve smelled some damn fine perfume in my time.

  In those final moments—when all I can feel is the blood leaving my body and the cold shudders of death coming on—I try to think about what is going to be left after I’ve departed. I wonder what my life has meant. I know I’m an old guy, but it felt reasonable to think that I had another fifteen years or so. Suddenly, though, I don’t. Suddenly, whatever I’ve done.well, that’s all that I was gonna do.

  All my life has been about helping South Shore. Helping the neighborhood improve. Making life a little better for black folk on the south side. But now the dead come back to life and people are running amok like anarchists and . . . and . . .

  And I don’t know.

  Does it wipe away everything I did down in my neighborhood? All that work? Have I spent my life trying to repair a sand castle that just got washed away by a tidal wave?

  No.

  I can’t think about it. It hurts too much. My shoulder, yes, but that idea too.

  I don’t know. I will never know. Only God does. Only He ever really gets to see the big picture.

  I commend my soul to God and close my eyes. I thank him for giving me so many years on this earth and for the chance at redemption. I pray that he will watch over and protect my daughter, though I already know she’ll take care of herself. And I pray that he will watch over my flock in South Shore and guide them through this time of trial. Then I stop praying and prepare to die.

  The room has grown cold. It begins to spin slowly, like when I used to pass out drunk. It’s hard to feel my fingers.

  When I finally hear the cavitations outside—those flapping sounds coming from up above—I’m not ashamed to admit I wonder if they might be angels.

  Maria Ramirez

  So we’re sitting there, trying to figure out if something ca
n be done. Mack is nearly dead. The blood beneath him is spreading so much that it looks like he’s lying on a red beach towel. His leather jacket is drenched.

  There is a weird sound outside the house. It’s not the mob, more like something mechanical on the edge of hearing. A distant engine or motor, muffled by the walls that enclose us. A repeating noise. What exactly can it be?

  Immediately following the mechanical noise is a sound from the crowd of killers. It starts as a few shouts but in seconds turns into a full-on uproar. People outside start screaming. Cries of alarm and cries of fear. Several guns are discharged.

  “The fuck?” says Ben, wrinkling his eyebrows.

  I give him a look that says, “If we’re dead anyway, then let’s go take a look.”

  Ben smiles at the idea. I open the door to the bedroom and we walk out together.

  We pass through the bloody hallway and peer out of a blasted window in the kitchen. Beyond is a great commotion. The street outside is in chaos. People are running every direction. A group that couldn’t be more different—men and women from all over the city are trying to find cover. (From what, I wonder.) They’re armed, but many are now dropping their weapons and sprinting away. The mechanical sound gets louder. Soon it feels omnipresent. Thunder from the heavens. Vibrations from under the earth.

  A couple from the fleeing mob head straight toward the house. Ben and I raise our weapons and point them menacingly. The mob members’ eyes go wide. They turn around and try somewhere else.

  The mechanical noise gets louder...and recognizable. I slowly realize what is happening, and I start to smile.

  “Is that.?” Ben asks, tilting his head.

  “A helicopter,” I say, nodding slowly. “And look, down the street!”

  Ben swivels his head.

  At the far end of the street, three armored personnel carriers are slowly making their way toward us. They sometimes struggle to negotiate the abandoned cars and debris that litter the way, but they make consistent progress. A few mob members who had fled in the direction of these vehicles quickly change their courses.

  “Who can it be?” Ben asks.

  “There are a few options,” I tell him. “I sent text messages to, like, everybody.”

  “What?” Ben says.

  “You know,” I tell him. “The Army. The Coast Guard. The National Guard. I texted them all.” “When did you.?” Ben begins.

  “I found a list of emergency contacts when we were in the police station. I sent texts saying what was happening and where they could find the mayor of Chicago. Remember, you came up and bothered me when I was doing it? Anyhow, I didn’t think the messages went through—my phone’s been acting weird like everybody else’s—but damn, I guess they did.”

  “The military got your text messages?!” Ben says like he still can’t believe it.

  “I don’t have a better explanation,” I tell him. “Do you? Maybe the military just came here randomly . . . roll with it, okay? You worry too much.”

  Ben cracks a smile and relaxes a little. We continue to watch the chaos outside through the front window.

  The armored troop transports pull up directly in front of the house. One of them lowers a hatch like a giant mouth opening at the back of the vehicle. Armed soldiers begin to stream out.

  “It’s National Guard,” Ben says quietly. “You can tell by the uniforms.”

  “We should probably put down our guns,” I say.

  “Yeah,” Ben answers. “Good thinking.”

  We throw our weapons to the floor. Ben also kicks his away for some reason, like we’re on a cop show. I carefully open the shrapnel-riddled front door of Franco’s house.

  The soldiers are on the front lawn now. They see us, and one of them raises a weapon. It is a young woman about my own age. She’s pretty.or would be in other circumstances. Her face carries a strange combination of fear and determination. Her eyes meet mine.

  “He’s in here!” I call brightly. “He’s still alive!”

  That’s all I need to say.

  Minutes later, we are riding in the back of armored personnel carriers, heading north out of the city. They put my dad in the first carrier by himself. My mother and sister go in the second, and Ben and I end up in the third. Everyone is present and accounted for, except for Mack and Franco, who have been placed aboard a helicopter and airlifted to a military hospital.

  It’s cramped inside the carrier. I am squished against the pretty young soldier. She has more stripes on her shoulder than the others. I ask her name, and she says Emily Jean.

  “We’re lucky you showed up when you did, Emily Jean” I tell her.

  Emily Jean looks around the crammed carrier.

  “I think every part of this was lucky,” she says. “We almost didn’t come. Plenty of people thought your text messages were fake, or even a trap. A lot of people thought we should just ignore them.”

  “Then the fact that you did come...probably means you didn’t have a better lead on the mayor.”

  “That’s accurate,” Emily Jean says stoically.

  “How did you get Maria’s texts?” Ben asks from across the bumpy, loud carrier. “Isn’t everything still down?”

  “Civilian communications are, yes. Our stuff is up and running. It may have looked like you didn’t get through, but you did.”

  “Fucking apparently” Ben says, gazing around at all the soldiers.

  “What’s going to happen to Marja Mogk and all those people who wanted to kill my dad?” I ask. The soldier shakes her head.

  “Our priorities are to secure the chain of command. That includes the mayor of Chicago. That’s why we’re here. As far as what law enforcement is going to do—or what form it’s going to take—that’s not my place to guess”

  “But the mayor of Chicago—Maria’s dad—will be supported by the full faith of the United States military, right?” Ben asks. He sounds formal, like a lawyer. I wonder if he is still planning on writing an article about this.

  “That.yes, that’s my understanding,” Emily Jean manages.

  “You see?” Ben says.

  “See what?” I tell him. “I don’t want Marja or Igor or Shawn Michael to get away with this.”

  “They can’t” Ben says. “At least they can’t be mayor. The military has the person they think is the legitimate leader of Chicago. So it’s done. Over. No amount of secret meetings between aldermen is going to change that. There’re no favors left for Marja and Igor to buy.”

  “Hmmm,” I say, feeling unsure. “So my dad is, like, definitely mayor?”

  Ben nods and smiles, more to himself than to me. That’s how I know it’s for real.

  “Well.good, I guess,” I say, relaxing. “I wish there was some way the military could have done this years ago. Just come into the city and cleaned house.”

  “Speaking as a person who grew up inside of Cook County, I don’t disagree with you,” allows Emily Jean.

  Across the carrier, Ben chuckles. So do a few of the other soldiers.

  “Do you know what happens next?” I ask Emily Jean.

  She smiles wryly. “I can tell you what happens next, but not next next, if you follow me. Your dad is probably getting the same debriefing right now. Headquarters, for the moment, is up north on the base in Lake County. That’s where the orders from Washington come from. This zombie stuff started in Illinois last night, but now it’s spread around the world, to just about every country, every city.”

  “Jesus,” I say, trying to imagine the entire Earth crawling with these things.

  “Apart from making sure this outbreak doesn’t somehow start a nuclear war, I think what the government cares about is keeping a coherent chain of command,” Emily Jean continues. “That’s all anybody is using to define failure or success at this point. ‘Did we maintain the chain of command?’ That’s why we were willing to risk a goose chase to Oak Park if it meant we might find Chicago’s mayor.”

  “Wow,” I tell her. “I’m glad you did. W
e would have been killed by that mob in, like, seconds. Our friend Mack would have died for sure.”

  “Yeah...” Emily Jean says absently. “But in terms of where we go from here—to answer your question in the bigger sense—your guess is as good as mine.”

  Emily Jean looks away from me and back to her squad. She takes a deep breath. I realize that while this is the end of our story, it is probably just the beginning of theirs. Some have sad, wan faces, like this is the last place they want to be. Others look plain exhausted. Others still look alert and excited, like they have been waiting for a zombie outbreak their entire lives.

  The armored personnel carrier continues north toward Lake County. I lean back against the jostling metal side. Almost before I realize what is happening, I have drifted off to sleep.

  Epilogue

  If charnel-houses and our graves must send

  Those that we bury back, our monuments

  Shall be the maws of kites.

  -Macbeth (III, iv)

  Ben Bennington

  Nelson Algren once said that loving Chicago is like loving a woman with a broken nose. But he said that back in the 20th century.back before the outbreak. These days, loving Chicago is more like loving a woman whose nose has been bitten off by a zombie.

  There’s a gaping hole that’s impossible to miss right in the middle of her face; a couple of tunnels where you can see up into her sinuses (eww!); and a terrifying, cadaverous aspect to her profile now. It just doesn’t look right, no matter what angle you see her from. But maybe she covers the nose-hole with a designer scarf. Maybe she wears a fancy, bejeweled Tycho Brahe fake nose. Maybe she just lets it all hang out and doesn’t give a shit.

  And you look at her, and, I mean, the noselessness is glaring. Glaring. You can’t miss it. The fact that it’s not the first thing both of you talk about when you first get introduced is utterly absurd.

  But still.

  Despite it all, she looks damn good. You look her over—head to toe and lack of nose—and you’re still onboard. You love her just the same.