Zombie, Illinois (44 page)

I didn't think much of our mayor when I first met him, but I remember him dragging me to safety after I got shot. There was a moment at the end when he got his courage up to charge out of that house and help. Maybe he can keep that momentum going, if you know what I mean. I hope to God he does right for this city. I hope there is some more good in him. Maybe it's hidden

deep inside. Maybe it just needs to be nurtured, and it will grow.

As for me, I need to get well enough to get back home. Back

to The Church of Heaven's God in Christ Lord Jesus. That's my

only concern. The people in South Shore need me. But I think,

even more than that, I need them.

Right before the military showed up—when I was dying in that bedroom watching the mayor watch me—I didn't know if my life had been well spent. (Honestly, I thought maybe it had been wasted trying to improve neighborhoods that can never improve.)

Then I got here, and I started to hear the stories. You know the ones, I'm sure. That the south side of Chicago did the best during the outbreak. That it had things like block clubs and community groups and church groups and neighbors who actually
knew
one another. That it had been depending on itself for so long, that doing so in a zombie outbreak came naturally.

What we were able to accomplish at my church was
the rule,
not the exception. When the rest of the city relied on electronics that didn't work and policemen who weren't there, we relied on each other. We looked out for one another. And it worked.

That's something good. Something damn good. And I think if I helped to make
that
happen, then maybe I haven't wasted my life after all.

Now, when communities around the country—or, my Lord, around the
world
—are trying to figure out what they need to s urvive—are looking for a model to follow—they look to the south side of Chicago. They ask, “What is South Shore doing right?” and “How can we be like them?”

It all feels like a dream, doesn't it? But it's real.

I swear to God, it's all real.

All anyone talks about now is what'll be the next thing to return. Like, when will the newspapers start printing again? When will they have TV shows that aren't just news broadcasts? When will they clear the last of the zombies from the subway tunnels and get the El up and running?

But nobody is talking about punk rock.

What the fuck, right?

We need to get this town's punk scene back on track, ASAP. That's
my
project. You guys and my dad sound like you have all the boring logistical bullshit covered. Now we gotta get about to rocking.

That's why I'm organizing an outdoor punk show in Millennium Park as my first order of business. Are there still zombies in Millennium Park, hiding in the landscaping and submerged in the fountains? Probably. Will that make going to a punk show there even more dangerous and exciting? I damn sure hope so.

Seriously, just think . . . the first punk rock show in New Chicago. A mosh pit that might have a zombie or two mixed in. A bunch of survivors who have all this pent-up zombie killing energy and need to cut loose. Talk about excitement. And Strawberry Brite Vagina Dentata to headline, with all members present and accounted for? Hell to the fucking yeah! That's the best part of all.

I mean, I don't know what else I can tell you at this point, really. You know pretty much everything. At least, everything I was there for.

I don't know what Ben and Mack said, but I'm not particularly worried about Marja Mogk. You guys are going to take care of her. That will be that, and then we can forget about her forever.

At the end of the day, if you look at what she did—what she
actually
did—it was boring. Uninspired. It takes
nothing
to decide to murder your way up the food chain, you know? To kill people and take power when the lights go out? Any idiot could do that.

Do I want her to go to jail? Sure. She deserves to. So do Igor Szuter and Shawn Michael and everybody else who was involved. But I don't, you know, want to think about Marja ever again. She's just a murderer, and there's nothing to that.

All the worst things are boring. Murder is the worst of the worst things, so it is also the most boring.

Oh, okay.. .and speaking of things coming back . . . did I mention that beer is back? Finally!

It's back in a few places, at least. Ben says he knows a guy with a hookup. He asked if he could take me sometime. (I'm still going, but that part was creeper-y. Not the asking, but the
way
he did it. “Take me.” Like, “May I take you, Madame?” What's up with that? Whatever.)

Ben is nice. A little serious, but nice.

He's no Stewart Copeland, but we'll see what happens.

I have tried to portray the geography of Illinois with something approaching accuracy. However, amateur spelunkers should note that Chicago's coal tunnels terminate just west of the Loop and do not—to my certain knowledge—extend as far as Oak Park.