Zombie, Illinois (16 page)

But it happened, didn't it? It happened all over the north side. Folks who were not self-sufficient and who had not formed a community now sorely regretted it.

On the south side, those of us who were working for good— working to improve the community, working to fight the drug dealers, working to create businesses and jobs—all knew one another. House by house, block by block, street by street, we were able to recognize one another. We were still aligned and now playing for stakes that were, unimaginably, even higher.

On the south side, we had already picked teams.

My men and I broke up into squads of three.

People in the church were all anxious to tell us where we needed to go. A queue formed almost immediately when I explained the process. There were shut-in relatives who needed to be checked on. There were homes that residents hadn't secured (and feared might now contain the undead). There were relatives who didn't know where other relatives were—people wandering lost in the darkness. We went and checked on them.

There still weren't phones, so “calls” came in through word of mouth. People kept arriving at the church like waves of refugees, each more wide-eyed and scared than the next. The moment they heard we had organized groups who were armed and ready to act, it seemed like they all had somebody they needed us to go help.

There was also a sizable group of parishioners who didn't want me to join the street teams. They wanted me to stay at the church instead.

“Oh, Pastor,” they'd say. “We need you here with us. You're our spiritual center.”

I'd just point to the cross and say, “You see that man up there? He's your spiritual center. Him.”

When we finally run in to Maria Ramirez, it has to be coming up on midnight.

I've driven to a side street off Cottage Grove Avenue because a member of my flock hasn't heard from her sister. The sister is morbidly obese and might have some difficulty leaving her home to seek shelter. It is now our mission to bring her to safety.

With me are Ben Bennington—my Good Samaritan—and a retired bank security guard named Mr. James, who is one of my deacons. In the hours since my sermon, our team has already found a missing five-year-old, shot three zombies from out our car window, and verified that a parishioner's small business is adequately boarded up against looters.

“Miss Martha!” I call, leaping from the Chrysler and cocking my shotgun. Ben and Mr. James follow me into the cold, windy night. There is still a burning, chemical smell in the air. It is distant but distinct, and it mixes in my nostrils with the odor of Lake Michigan.

The address I've been given is a dark two-flat with lead stained windows and no lights on. The little alleyways to either side of the place are pitch black and could contain looters . . . or worse. Something tells me right away that nobody's home—that despite her enormous girth, the woman inside made a break for it after all. (Can the morbidly obese outrun zombies . . . and would it be any fun to watch? Bad pastor. Bad pastor. Bad pastor.)

I've got this sneaking suspicion we're wasting our time, but I approach the first-floor windows anyway and knock hard through the bars with the butt of my gun.

“Miss Martha! Miss Martha, it's Pastor Mack! Anybody home?”

I fall silent and listen. There is nothing to hear. Then, behind me, Ben says, “Hey, I think I see someone coming.”

I turn and follow his outstretched finger as it indicates a flicker of movement down a side street.

“Someone running,” I pronounce. “Too fast to be one of those things.”

“Looks like a woman,” Mr. James says. “And she don't look in a good way.”

“No she does not” I say. “She looks hurt”

The young woman is sort of loping along like an injured dog that still has a lot of energy. She doesn't appear armed, but nothing about her mien comes off as friendly.

The young woman lopes a little closer.

“What the hell?” Ben says. “I . . . I think I know her.”

“Funny,” I say. “I think I do, too.”

Ben opens his mouth, but before he can reply, I wave to the young woman and call out: “Over here!”

She notices us—standing right there by the alley, practically next to her—and starts like we've spooked her good. Then her neck cranes back and forth like she can not quite believe what she's seeing. After a few seconds, she smiles, shakes her head like she's shaking off a bad dream, and jogs on over.

“Well.. .I'll be
fucked”
she says brightly, breathing hard.

She's got some recent-looking scrapes on her face and some puffiness that may be the beginnings of a full-on black eye, but no serious injuries. The front of her clothes bear traces of spattered blood.

“Maria, wasn't it?” I ask.

She nods, panting.

“And you're Pastor Leo Mack,” Maria responds with some contempt in her voice. “How could I forget?”

Then she notices Ben and says, “And
you're
. . . the reporter from the show tonight!”

“Yeah.. .hi,” he says, shouldering his AK awkwardly. I can tell he likes her. Even in a zombie apocalypse, kids will make eyes.

“What do you think about those internet videos
now?”
Maria asks him, still catching her breath.

She smiles at him. Her knees buckle, and I fear she may swoon.

“Are you okay?” Ben asks, rushing in to steady her.

She brushes him away and appears to recover just as quickly.

“Am I
okay?”
she asks angrily, without opening her eyes.

“It's all relative, young lady,” I tell her. “None of us are okay in the way we were a few hours ago.”

She opens her eyes and shoots me a look like she wants to punch me in the face. Then she turns back to Ben.

“I got jumped.I think,” she says, rubbing her eyes and then stopping when it obviously hurts. “I was looking for my mother and sister. I live with them, but they went to my father's place in Farrell Park, just north of here. I got to the house no problem, but they weren't inside. The door was open and the place was dark and empty. Also, it was all messed up—ransacked and looted, I think. Then somebody came at me out of the darkness, and I got knocked out. I can't remember anything else. They took my keys and money, and they drove off in my car. I came-to about twenty minutes ago and just started running. You guys are the first people I've seen.”

“You didn't want to stay in your father's house . . . for safety?” Ben asks. “Lock all the doors?”

Maria shakes her head. “No. It didn't feel like a safe place. There could have been more looters inside . . . or zombies, for that matter. Plus, I still need to find my mother and my sister. Hey, can I have a gun? You guys all have guns.”

Ben looks to me.

“She should probably have a gun,” Ben says. “For safety.” “I've got a handgun and this shotgun,” I tell her. “Which do you want?”

Maria wrinkles her nose, as if these are both unsatisfactory choices.

“Ben
has an AK,” she says flatly.

“Yeah, do we have any more AKs?” Ben asks.

“Mr. James, what are you packing, all-in-all?” I ask, calling back to the retired security guard behind us.

There is no response.

I look back at Miss Martha's shuttered house. Mr. James was standing in front of it a moment ago. Now he is nowhere to be seen.

“He was just there,” Ben whispers.

“Dammit” I whisper back, lowering my shotgun.

“Mr. James?” Ben calls tentatively. “Mr. James, where are you?”

There is no response.

I take out my handgun and give it to Maria, grip-first. She accepts it silently, and checks to make sure there is one in the chamber. Then she holds it like a pro.

“Mr. James!” I call, no longer trying to be subtle about it. “Mr. James, are you there?”

My voice feels deadened—by the snow, yes, but also by the strange burning smell in the air.

After a few moments, we detect a low shuffling sound coming from an alley by the side of the house. It is followed by what can only be the sound of gas escaping; an enormous, prolonged fart—unnaturally huge.

“That can't be good,” Ben whispers.

To my surprise, he takes the lead and stalks into the darkened alleyway.

“Careful now,” I tell him, following after. “I got this,” he says.

I realize that he's trying to impress Maria. It's almost cute. (It
will
be cute...if he doesn't get himself killed.)

I trail Ben into the darkness. The streetlights don't cast their glow down this shaft of brick and concrete, and there are no lights in the windows. The shadows could conceal almost anything.

“Mister James?” I try again.

The only answer is another shuffling sound. We stare cautiously into the darkness ahead.

“Hang on,” I say, pulling out my Maglite and turning on the beam. I hold it up and train it down the alley.

We are greeted by a surreal and grisly pastiche, like something out of Bruegel. On the pavement before us—quite close, really— two zombies are having their way with Mr. James. It's like some exotic three-way sex position, but with cannibalism substituted for the sexual act.

The first zombie is a slim white woman in a t-shirt and shorts. She has short black hair—maybe lightly salted with gray, maybe just with snow—and her right arm is a full sleeve of tattoos. From the waist down, she is almost completely skeletonized. Her legs are twists of tendons and visible bone that look like they cannot possibly support her slender frame.yet they do. This zombie is cradling the head of Mr. James—who is obviously dead—and eating into his face through his eye-sockets. Both of Mr. James's eyeballs are completely gone.

At the other end of him is another female zombie. I shudder to realize that it might be Miss Martha. She is a hulking, obese woman, entirely nude except for an adult diaper. She looks like she hasn't been dead for long, and could even pass as a living human—albeit an insane, naked one—were she not tearing the skin from Mr. James's backside and stuffing it into her mouth. She chews chunks of raw, yellow fat from his ass. Her mouth is covered with blood.

“Oh what the fuck?” cries Ben. He tries to shrink back from the sight, and ends up slipping in the snow. He falls ass-backwards to the ground. His AK bounces out of his hands and fires off into the wall.

The obese zombie notices this pratfall. It looks Ben over, and slowly rises to its feet. It belches—seemingly involuntarily—and then extends two chubby arms toward him like an overweight Frankenstein's monster.

“Oh shit,” says Ben, scrambling to either rise to his feet or pick up his gun, but accomplishing neither. His slips and falls twice more on the ice.

“Blearrrrg!” roars the obese zombie. Her heavy calf manages a shambling, wobbly step in Ben's direction. A dollop of Mr. James meat falls from the corner of her slavering mouth and lands on Ben's boot.

“Good Christ” says Ben.

In the next moment, there is a bright flash and report from behind us as Maria discharges her weapon.
BLAM!!!

The obese zombie's head rocks back as Maria's bullet puts a perfect circle through its forehead. The zombie's eyes cross, and its flabby legs buckle. Unfortunately for Ben, the zombie's massive body then pitches forward. In a moment, he is covered by the limp corpse of a housebound and incontinent 600 pound woman.

“Bah!” Ben chuffs, struggling to push away the body. “Omi-god . . . this is awful.”

Then, before I can help him up.

BLAM!!!

Maria fires again. It's another headshot, and it takes out the tattooed zombie on bone-legs. This one goes to its rest more gracefully, simply curling into a motionless wisp like a spent firework.

All that remains is the eyeless—and now largely assless— corpse of Mr. James.

And . . . did I just see its fingers twitch?