Zombie, Illinois (40 page)

I have no chance of convincing Shawn Michael not to kill us. I never did.

There is a clamor behind me at the stop of the stairs.

“Mack,” Ben calls down. “I can see all of them from up here. There are three out front behind a yellow car. And there's also one to the north with a rifle, hiding on the neighbor's back deck. Four total”

“That's counting Shawn Michael?” “Yeah,” Ben confirms. “Four total.”

At the back of the house, Maria's cousin Franco creeps forward out of the bedroom. He has wiped the blood away from his face, but his cheek looks pretty torn up. He holds a handgun low and at the ready. He gives me a nod, signaling that he is prepared to fight with us.

Looks like it's four against four, and one on each side is already wounded. A fair fight.

Back outside, Shawn Michael is risking a glance out from the side of the car. Can he also tell that it's four against four? (I once read that in medieval battles, the attackers who come to sack a castle should always outnumber the defenders two to one. Maybe Shawn Michael has some sense of this notion and understands he lacks the power to overwhelm us.) I can still see the soullessness in his eyes: a stare more lifeless and hollow than that of the two zombies who approach behind him.

I have an idea.

“Come here,” I whisper to Maria and Franco. “Ben, you too.”

I motion for Ben to come down to the foot of the staircase. He quickly descends.

“Here's what we do. There are two zombies in that far yard, and they've noticed Shawn Michael. Pretty soon, Shawn Michael and his people will have to deal with them. It won't be much, but they'll have to turn around to kill the zombies. Shoot until they hit the brain. The moment his group does that, I want Ben to start shooting from upstairs. Worst case, they'll get pinned for a while. Best case, you pick a couple off.”

“Aim for Shawn Michael,” Maria says stoically. “Once we hear you shooting, the rest of us will go after the lone wolf to the north on the neighbor's deck,” I say. “What, charge him?” Franco asks.

I had actually been anticipating doing that very thing—making a break across the lawn and presenting him with too many targets to shoot. The tone in Franco's voice tells me he believes this would be a bad idea. I realize I may not be thinking clearly. Exhaustion has taken its toll. I try to shake it off.

“I want to use our three-to-one advantage while we have it,” I say, staying general about the specifics of my plan.

“Can we go out the back and try to flank him?” Maria offers.

“No,” Franco answers seriously. “He can see the back door from that deck. I think that's why he's there—to shoot us in case we try to sneak out the rear.”

I look down the hallway into the bedroom, wishing for more help. I see the mayor sitting on the corner of the bed, his head in his hands. He sways back and forth like a top spinning on a table, ready to topple at any moment. Maria's mother and sister look on. Maria's mother tentatively puts a consoling hand on the mayor's shoulder. Somehow, she can bring herself to comfort a man who—from what I can gather—has betrayed her many, many times.

The sight fills me with a red-hot rage. This is the man who agreed to lead our city, and he has dissolved into a whimpering, simpering nothing. What's wrong with us as citizens? How were we ever “okay” with this arrangement? I can't get mad at the mayor for being a coward. Some people are just born cowards. But I'm furious with the people of this city for putting a bunch of cowards in charge. For thinking that was fine.

I look at this blubbering mayor and decide he is an example from God. He is here at this moment to show me what
not
to do. (In Chicago, if you want to do the morally correct thing, think to yourself “What would the mayor do?” Then do the opposite.)

“I'll charge the guy on the deck,” I tell the assemblage at the foot of the stairs.

“What?” Maria protests. “You can't. Your hip is hurt.”

“Yeah, and it's too dangerous,” Franco adds.

“I've got more combat training than anyone here,” I tell them. “I know how to move under cover and how to shoot to kill. When the group out front is pinned by Ben and the zombies, I want you two to start shooting out the northside widow at the guy on the deck. Keep him in cover. Then, I'll go out the front door, around the side of the house, and take out his position. We get him, and suddenly it's four-against-three, and we have the advantage. No objections. Just do what I say. This is the plan. Trust me.”

I take position next to Franco under a first-floor window on the north side of the house. Ben goes back upstairs. Mack crawls next to the front door where he prepares to make a break for it.

“How you doing?” I ask Franco as we huddle underneath the windowsill.

“Ehh, you know...” he says.

“We're gonna have some fucking good stories at the next family reunion.”

Franco smiles weakly.

It's in my nature to be flip, but I'm not really feeling it. Mostly, I'm worried about providing cover for Mack. I can't even see the shooter on the deck. We're just taking Ben's word that he's there. I hazard a couple of glances outside and contemplate the best way to lay down fire.

Sooner than seems possible, Ben's gun thunders down from the second floor of the house.
Ka-pow! Ka-pow! Ka-pow!

Mack draws his Glock. He gives Franco and me a nod and then slips out the front door.

My cousin and I rise from our crouches and look out the north-facing window. At first we see nothing. No target. Then he shoots, and we glimpse the unmissable muzzle flash by the side of the deck. It's not clear if he has a target or is just shooting to shoot, but we duck instinctively. He's probably spraying and praying. We start to return fire, really opening up on him. Splinters fly as our guns begin to eat up the deck and the wooden railing around it.

Upstairs, Ben continues to shoot intermittently. I can hear what might be the gangsters out front firing too, but there are now enough people shooting that it's difficult to tell. (It's all very wordless and weird. Close your eyes, and we could be a bunch of people at a shooting range.)

I squeeze off a few more shots before Mack comes into view. He has edged around the side of the house and is moving fast and low as he closes in on the shooter.

I start to feel sick as adrenaline surges through my body once more. Usually adrenaline takes away the pain, but I've been asking a lot from myself over the last ten hours. This puts me near overload. A feeling of
wrongness
courses through my veins. It's like drinking an espresso when you've already had two pots of coffee or doing whiskey shots on top of a raging hangover. More adrenaline is the
last
thing my body wants. My gun bucks in my hand. Each time it does, I feel a little more sick and stretched thin.

Mack takes cover next to a hedge just inside Franco's property line. The twists of branches and bramble will not stop a rifle bullet, but he is concealed. Next, he begins to crawl
away
from the shooter on his elbows. At first I think he's just orienting himself; it would make more sense to crawl west and get closer. I realize Mack must be aware of this. He's making the counterintuitive move. He's going to go down the hedge a ways
then
pop up. He'll have to pick off the shooter at an angle, but his target will never see it coming.

Suddenly, there is a furtive movement atop the deck. I see the barrel and stock of a rifle bobbing as the shooter changes position.

Uh oh.

Then, before I can act—or think—a white flash comes from the muzzle. Mack crumples to the ground.

Franco and I open up on the shooter, who knows he's been spotted. He stands up and tries to run—the worst thing he could possibly do. One of us hits him square in the back. He slumps over, dead.

“Mack!” I cry.

He isn't dead, but he isn't moving much either. He balls up and turns on his side, like a sleeping dog. My God, I hope he's only been winged. (Though in a world where the hospitals probably aren't operating anymore, the implications of a flesh wound are increasingly dire.)

Then disaster strikes.

I'm preparing to leap out of the window and onto the lawn, when a giant shape looms behind Franco. In my peripheral vision, it only registers as movement. Very large movement. I pivot to take a proper look, and something hits the side of my head and sends me reeling to the floor. Then Franco starts screaming.

I look up and see that the massive corpse of Pastor Rivers has risen. The grenade explosion has filled its front with wooden splinters, but its brain remains intact. The face looks like someone going for the Guinness record for piercings, but this is no body modification. This is a zombie who has been transformed into a spiny porcupine.

Before I can react, the Rivers-thing grips Franco from behind. The pastor's massive muscles flex and lift my screaming cousin skyward. The splinter-covered mouth opens to take a bite.

Franco struggles and bucks, but the Pastor only grips him tighter. Hideously, I realize that Franco's screams are not from terror. The splinters from the pastor's chest—and arms and hands—are entering Franco's body. Rivers has become a walking iron maiden.

I fumble with my gun, losing crucial seconds. I try to aim from my supine position, but Franco is flailing in the way. The Rivers-thing begins biting into the top of his skull. Franco understands what is happening, and a horrible knowing comes over his face. I manage to get to my feet. Franco continues to struggle. I step in close and put my gun against the Rivers-thing's head.

BLAM!

The giant zombie's eyes cross, and it falls to the floor in a heap. Franco screams as the splinters retract from his body. Other splinters—I quickly see—are left behind. Like the zombie, he also falls to the ground. His wounds do not look fatal, but he's bleeding a lot and full of wood. I don't see any way he can continue to fight. His screams ebb to a moan, then to near silence.

“.fuck.” he manages.

“Don't try to move,” I tell him. “I have to get Mack. I'll be right back.”

Franco nods to say he understands. As I bend to pick up his gun, he slowly pulls the first of about fifty splinters from his body.

I stalk to the back of the house where the rest of my family is huddled.

“Papi,”
I say. “I need your help.”

I take position next to Franco under a first-floor window on the north side of the house. Ben goes back upstairs. Mack crawls next to the front door where he prepares to make a break for it.

“How you doing?” I ask Franco as we huddle underneath the windowsill.

“Ehh, you know...” he says.

“We're gonna have some fucking good stories at the next family reunion.”

Franco smiles weakly.

It's in my nature to be flip, but I'm not really feeling it. Mostly, I'm worried about providing cover for Mack. I can't even see the shooter on the deck. We're just taking Ben's word that he's there. I hazard a couple of glances outside and contemplate the best way to lay down fire.

Sooner than seems possible, Ben's gun thunders down from the second floor of the house.
Ka-pow! Ka-pow! Ka-pow!

Mack draws his Glock. He gives Franco and me a nod and then slips out the front door.

My cousin and I rise from our crouches and look out the north-facing window. At first we see nothing. No target. Then he shoots, and we glimpse the unmissable muzzle flash by the side of the deck. It's not clear if he has a target or is just shooting to shoot, but we duck instinctively. He's probably spraying and praying. We start to return fire, really opening up on him. Splinters fly as our guns begin to eat up the deck and the wooden railing around it.

Upstairs, Ben continues to shoot intermittently. I can hear what might be the gangsters out front firing too, but there are now enough people shooting that it's difficult to tell. (It's all very wordless and weird. Close your eyes, and we could be a bunch of people at a shooting range.)

I squeeze off a few more shots before Mack comes into view. He has edged around the side of the house and is moving fast and low as he closes in on the shooter.

I start to feel sick as adrenaline surges through my body once more. Usually adrenaline takes away the pain, but I've been asking a lot from myself over the last ten hours. This puts me near overload. A feeling of
wrongness
courses through my veins. It's like drinking an espresso when you've already had two pots of coffee or doing whiskey shots on top of a raging hangover. More adrenaline is the
last
thing my body wants. My gun bucks in my hand. Each time it does, I feel a little more sick and stretched thin.

Mack takes cover next to a hedge just inside Franco's property line. The twists of branches and bramble will not stop a rifle bullet, but he is concealed. Next, he begins to crawl
away
from the shooter on his elbows. At first I think he's just orienting himself; it would make more sense to crawl west and get closer. I realize Mack must be aware of this. He's making the counterintuitive move. He's going to go down the hedge a ways
then
pop up. He'll have to pick off the shooter at an angle, but his target will never see it coming.

Suddenly, there is a furtive movement atop the deck. I see the barrel and stock of a rifle bobbing as the shooter changes position.

Uh oh.

Then, before I can act—or think—a white flash comes from the muzzle. Mack crumples to the ground.

Franco and I open up on the shooter, who knows he's been spotted. He stands up and tries to run—the worst thing he could possibly do. One of us hits him square in the back. He slumps over, dead.

“Mack!” I cry.

He isn't dead, but he isn't moving much either. He balls up and turns on his side, like a sleeping dog. My God, I hope he's only been winged. (Though in a world where the hospitals probably aren't operating anymore, the implications of a flesh wound are increasingly dire.)