Zombie, Illinois (42 page)

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.

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.

So we're sitting there, trying to figure out if something can 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.