Zombie, Illinois (28 page)

It's
that
good.

A couple of blocks shy of 35th Street, Maria mentions that her feet hurt. We stop for a moment, and she sits on a building's front steps and removes her shoes. I take the opportunity to review Jessy Knowlton's bloody notes in the glow of a lonely streetlight. Like most reporters, her handwriting is atrocious. Even so, I am able to make out the gist of what she has recorded.

Marja Mogk and a team ofher fellow aldermen are attempting to convene the city council and appoint a new mayor. When they have a quorum—over 50 percent of Chicago's aldermen present—they will be able to operate legally and appoint the new mayor. Which, from what I can tell, will almost certainly be her. (I i magine every alderman who comes through the door is privately taken aside and informed of what is happening. Mayor dead. Vice mayor presumed to be. We've decided Mogk will be the one to take over. You can either support her and be rewarded—”How would your sister like to be the new head of Streets and Sanitation in post-zombie Chicago?”—or you can fight it, and lose, and gain nothing.)

The preliminary proceedings which Jessy Knowlton has recorded may lack official power, but they are clearly intended to have the force of the law behind them. In noting the absence of the vice mayor—Maria's dad—Mogk and Szuter use phrases that have almost certainly been prepared by a lawyer. Jessy has recorded some of them in whole or part. “Best efforts have been made to locate the vice mayor” and “It is reasonable for the council to presume him dead or missing” are my favorites.

That's why she was there, of course. Marja Mogk could give a fuck about the freedom of the press. Jessy was there to make it all look nice and legal. To write down the bullshit kangaroo court proceedings, while the real deals were being cut privately in the next room each time a new alderman arrived.

“Do her notes say anything about Crenshaw Cemetery?” Mack asks, sauntering up to my streetlight.

I quickly flip through the remaining pages.

“No. What they're doing inside the Cultural Center is creepy enough, though. Unless Maria's dad pops up, Mogk's going to be in charge by morning. This shit is like medieval times. House against house.”

“Chicago wasn't ever
not
like medieval times,” Maria says, rubbing her foot.

Mack stares thoughtfully at the ground.

“It's all connected” Mack says. “It
has
to be.”

“What do you mean?” I say, looking up from the notes.

“Before I left Crenshaw, I spoke with the caretaker,” Mack tells me. “Shawn Michael Recinto had shot her.”

“That's no surprise,” Maria interjects.

“The caretaker said that people had been paying her to hide bodies there,” Mack continues. “When I asked who, she said it was ‘All of them.' I'm still trying to figure out what that means”

“Maybe all the cops?” I say. “That was Burge Wheeler's beat.”

“What if it means all the aldermen?” Maria says, replacing her shoes and joining us under the streetlight. “Or everybody who works for the city?”

“Would that include your dad?” I ask.

Maria is apparently unfazed by this possibility and answers, “It damn well could.”

“We need to find him,” Mack says. “My father?” Maria says. Mack nods.

“From what you told me, it sounds like Mogk and her people believe he could be out west,” Mack says.

“I have a cousin in Oak Park,” Maria tells us, invoking the suburb contiguous with the west side of the city. It's probably best known as the home of Frank Lloyd Wright and young Ernest Hemingway.

“But the note we found...” I object. “It said your father was headed to your aunt's house.”

“Yeah, that's right,” Maria allows.

We explain to Mack about the note we found on the shooter at Crenshaw. Mack rubs his chin and thinks some more.

“What if it happened like this.” Mack begins carefully. “Your sister and mother arrive at your dad's. He writes you the note, and then all three head over to your aunt's house. But when they arrive, they can tell something's wrong. They see Shawn Michael Recinto guarding the door. Your dad realizes he's been second-guessed. So what does he do next? Where would he take his family?”

Maria looks down and shakes her head.

“Would they go to your cousin's?” Mack presses.

“I guess they might,” Maria says. “I can't think of anyplace else. We have no other family here.”

“At the very least, there are bad people headed there who will kill your cousin,” Mack says.

“Franco,” Maria interjects. “His name is Franco.”

Scott Kenemore

“At the very least, they will kill Franco if he's home,” Mack says. “If the rest of your family is there too, they will also be

killed.”

Maria walks away from us and flaps her arms in frustration.

Then she walks back.

“What do we do?” she asks.

“It's simple,” says Mack. “We get there first.”

We stand atop the highway—where there is barely room to stand at all—and look west, out of the city in the direction of Oak Park. From our elevated vantage point, we can see for miles. The sight is enough to take your breath away.

The highways leading west out of the city are blocked. Either clogged completely with traffic or barricaded i ntentionally. And it's not just the highways and byways. The city streets also appear terminally blocked. Red taillights extend endlessly, like the blood seeping out of a corpse. The city's living have left it—or tried to—and this is the final sign of their mass egress.

“Now do you believe me?” I say to them.

They both nod absently. Mack's jaw has dropped.

“Why would people barricade the roads like that?” Maria asks. She gestures to a swath of street right below us where several tanker trucks have been parked side to side, blocking off a three-way intersection.

“To protect themselves, I'd say if I'm being charitable,” I tell her. “To create a funnel in which they could trap and rob people, if I'm not. Maybe they just did it because they could. Think about how many people who live along the main thoroughfares spend their time wishing they didn't have to put up with rush hour traffic. With no cops around to stop them, they just went out and put up barriers.”

“I say it was fear,” Mack opines. “When there's a crisis, a whole lot of folks want to keep strangers out at all costs”

I nod silently in agreement and look out again over the glowing stopped arteries of the city.

Most people have abandoned their cars, but a few, against all reason, still have occupants. These people must have iron resolves and iron bladders. Are they hoping that somehow, someway the traffic will eventually start to move? Are they unable to bring themselves to leave their cars behind? Do they simply have no other idea about what to do—no place to go?

“I think this gives us a chance to reach your cousin first,” I say to Maria. “Even if Mogk's people begin the trip in cars, once they get near
this
they're going to be on foot just like us”

“What if they have motorcycles or bicycles,” Maria objects.

“I don't think it will help much,” I say.

“I agree,” says Mack. “This is an obstacle course to end all obstacle courses. Even the sidewalks look impassible in most places. If I had a motorbike, I wouldn't feel comfortable going at much more than a crawl. This is such a sight! I still can't believe it happened so
fast”

“I dunno,” I say. “Traffic reporters can tell you how one accident—or one dog running around in the road—can create a rush hour jam that goes for miles. Add to that a bunch of shit that people throw on the roads intentionally? I'm not surprised that by—what is it now? 2:00 AM?—We've got complete blockage. Chicago already had some of the worst traffic in the nation. And that was before zombies.”

We take another moment to gaze thoughtfully down at the tangled glowing highways leading off into the cloak-black night.

“That's where we're headed,” Mack says, pointing northwest across the glowing lines.

“So let's go already,” Maria says.

We do.

A dark idea starts to broil and burble in the back of my mind. It's so dark that I don't want to acknowledge it at first. I certainly don't want to say it out loud.

Why don't I want to say it? That one is easy.

Fear.

I'm afraid.
Very
afraid.

In a city filled with zombies and looters, I know a place that's even scarier. I know a place that might have even worse things lurking in its depths. And I'm about to propose that we go there... if I can only summon the courage.

Which, right now, I feel like I can't.

Bad pastor. Bad pastor. Bad pastor.

Jesus . . . please help me. Good Lord, please give me the strength.

We're a couple of blocks west of the elevated expressway ramp by the time I get the guts. It's like going to the doctor when you know you're due for an unpleasant test. You just have to turn your brain off, everything except the part that can remember to tell the receptionist, “Leopold Mack. I'm here for my procedure.” And apparently, I am.

“Hold on guys,” I say, raising my hand. “I want to bring something up before we go any further this way.”

Ben is leading us directly west into neighborhoods where the last vestiges of the south side abruptly intersect with the beginnings of Chinatown. We're a long way—hours yet—from Oak Park. Twice already, we've had to adjust our trajectory because we encountered streets sealed off by local residents. (One group had upended a school bus and used it to completely block the road.) We're also near a police station that I know well, as I've had to identify bodies there. It has a huge parking lot that's usually full of squad cars and cops' personal cars. Tonight though, it's empty— although the lights are still on inside the station building. Ben and Maria look at me.

“What is it, Mack?” Maria asks. “Why do you look so scared?”

“Uh...” I begin, my voice almost failing me. (This is unusual for a man who more or less speaks for a living.) “Do you guys know about the coal tunnels?”

There is a moment of silence.

Maria wrinkles her nose and shrugs. I'm guessing that's a no.

Ben has gone perfectly still. Frozen, in fact. I can see it in his eyes. The fear. The
understanding.
He
does
know. And he's guessed what I'm about to propose.

“Whoa.I don't think we—”

I cut him off.

“The coal tunnels are a system of underground passages built in the late 1800s that stretch from the downtown Loop all the way out to the suburbs. They predate the El train. They were dug back when buildings were heated with coal. Every morning, train cars would bring in coal to heat the buildings in the Loop, and every evening they would come back to carry away the coal ash.”

“Uh huh.” Maria says, not seeing the point.