The Drumhead

by Richard Correll

“Sir?” Brett paused. For a minute Pinder thought he was stalling for time to come up with a bullshit answer. It then dawned on him Symons had missed his meaning.

  “I have never seen a style like hers.” Pinder spelled it out. “This is a very different way of doing things.”

  “Yes sir,” Brett nodded, relieved that he had been spared any disciplinary procedure. “This is much less a unit and………” He paused to find the right description. “It’s more like a family.”

  “Are you saying Maggie is like your mom?” Pinder almost laughed off the thought as he was heading toward the door to get on the next item on his command ”to do” list. Instead, he kept listening.

  ” It pretty much feels that way sometimes, sir.” Brett followed for lack of anything else to do. His lungs were clearing and with a pang of regret he remembered Brenda and added; “Private Voorhees said she was always there for us.”

  “Yes, she did.” Pinder nodded and then paused as he was opening the door to exit. “How does Maggie maintain discipline?”

  “Sir?”

  “There are some big guys in this unit taking orders from someone who is about 5’7.” Pinder turned back to face Symons. He needed to know this. “How does that work?”

  “Nobody can beat your ass like your mom, sir.” Symons struggled to keep a straight face. The emotions inside were becoming knotted, confused.

  Pinder paused and tried to discern what he had just heard. Finally, he nodded slowly. “Yes, I guess so.” He was done with this conversation. Time was ticking.

  “If I may ask a question of the Captain.” An urgency in Brett’s voice made Pinder turn as he entered the hallway. He nodded his approval for Symons to continue.

  “Maggie…..” Brett paused and collected his thoughts for a second. He tried not to focus on her. She was out there somewhere. “The Lieutenant said you have all the intel to nail this guy.”

  “This guy?”

  “Murphy, sir.” Brett had stepped closer and his voice but low but the intensity of his tone was ballistic. “Can you really get this guy?”

  “You better believe it.” Pinder made hard eye contact with Symons. He could tell the man wanted to believe. He needed to believe that at the end of the day there would be payback. “When we get back, its’ going be like a drumhead trial.”

  “Drumhead, sir?” They were walking along the corridor now. Cubicles passed by that had the scatterings of humanity in them. Pictures, cute coffee cups and paper sized posters. For some reason it all suddenly seemed out of place.

  “In the 1800’s, after a battle was fought. “ Pinder explained as Symons followed along with his eyes to the carpet. Pinder at a backwards glance could see how hard Symons was concentrating on the conversation. It was like his life depended on it. “A drum was placed on the ground and the Commander of the army sat behind it as judge and jury of soldiers who had failed to obey orders or were accused of cowardice.”

  “It was like a trial.” Symons offered up to secure his understanding.

  “Yes,” Pinder paused in the hallway before they joined the others.

  “This Drumhead.” Symons seemed to stare off into space before turning to face to face Pinder. Brett’s eyes had an anger that seemed to be struggling to escape and wreak havoc on the world. “What was the justice like in these trials?”

  “Swift, cruel and brutal.” Pinder said tersely.

  “Sounds good.” Brett nodded. His eyes were flecks of fire.

  *

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Carefully, The recon pressed through darkened floors and carousels of brightly colored clothes that seemed to assume macabre shapes when caught in the shadows of artificial light invading the darkness. At first the searches seemed without purpose. A simple familiarization of the landscape, searching for potential trouble spots. A breathless and slow forward advance toward the things that go bump in the night. The mannequins quietly watched the procession and offered no comment but their stoic silence.

  “Fuckin’ things.” Esterhaus whispered breathlessly. Strange, how tired, irritable he felt.

  “Sir?” Bradley dared not tear his eyes away from darkness at the edge of their flashlight beams. His imagination had already brought forth a thousand nightmares.

  “Those things that have clothes on ‘em.” Esterhaus gestured his rifle toward a figure in a polo shirt and shorts. “They look like those things in the dark.”

  “Mannequins, sir.” Bradley offered in his higher than normal voice.

  “Yeah, those fuckin’ things.”

  “Cover me, sir?” Bradley spoke after a claustrophobic silence. “I wanna check what’s behind those counters.”

  “Yeah,”

  Bradley carefully searched the floor behind the counter. The perfect flooring was a graphic contrast to the bloodied sidewalks outside. It seemed like a motionless moment in a nightmare. Bradley felt his skin slowly inch toward a sensation. It was like….. he searched for the answer as his flashlight arched above the counter, like I was being watched or something.

  The first thing he saw was her hands.

  They stretched out from the wall toward him. The shadow peeled back in the light to reveal the full figure overhead. Bradley’s jaw dropped and air compressed from his lungs in a loud gasp. She had blond hair and perfect features. The eyes expressionless, locked forever on some distant thought or object. She was wearing a swim suit and her form was diving into some invisible pool below.

  “Fucking mannequins.” He finally whispered, as he rummaged through the drawers he swore her eyes were mocking him. His hand touched something metallic. “Got another flashlight, sir.”

  “Good,” Esterhaus nodded nervously. “Let’s stay together.”

  “Yes sir.” Bradley didn’t need to hear the order twice.

  The 1930’s décor harkened back to a time when there was something to look forward to. A future that would in some way be brighter. There was an apocryphal sense of it all now that time seemed to be going out of style. What was the point of clocks anymore if there was no one left to tell time? The huge, classical timepieces in Macy’s continued their appointed tasks. They were like soldiers standing guard for kings and queens long since faded away.

  In the walnut room, the cyclopean beams of the flashlights found food, more flashlights and an axe in the small fire station on every floor. In the freezer, survivors were found hiding in the cold. Like children they had found the small, safe crawlspace to ride out the night. There were more huddled in bathrooms, change rooms and anywhere else that a panicked eye could find to hide. The faces were gaunt, the eyes like television sets turned off, a blank stare back into a new reality. We’re all going to die now, Esterhaus could see it in their faces. We’re all going to die. The message seemed to play over and over like one of those video loops Bestoni was talking about.

  Symons found the Trib reporter underneath one of Macy’s spectacular tiffany ceilings. His rotund figure would occasionally pause and lift his phone toward the ceiling. He was carefully motionless before an audible confirmation came that the picture had been taken. He would then carefully lower the device held in his chubby fingers and regard the screen carefully.

  “Mr. Bestoni,” Symons slowly walked toward the man. Brett just charged his phone and was using the flashlight app. “You okay?”

  “Yeah, I’m good.” Bestoni’s mind seemed to be preoccupied as he answered. “Just thought I’d take some pictures.”

  “It sure is beautiful.” Brett looked into the perfect glass symmetry.

  “We….we might not be back here soon.” Nick looked up sadly. “I thought it would be nice if we could remember stuff like this.”

  Brett could only watch the ceiling as it played to an audience of two. Artwork, treasures, civilization and more. Architecture that went from a part of life to markings of our passage. Eventually they moved on to leave the Tiffany ceiling in its presentation. The clocks silently kept time.

  Brett quickly discovered there was no hardware
store at Macy’s. It was a temple to lifestyle, the lavish, carefree life and the ever needed accessories. There was an irony here. But Brett wasn’t in the mood to explore it. He rotated his phone around the floor, insuring the brilliant white light had invaded every shadow before moving on.

  Upstairs in the cubicle catacombs of Macy’s office space, Myers was practicing his bed side manner. He had found a real, live four walled office to conduct quick examinations. The guys are going to wait outside, he said kindly as Moshood and his assistant took their cues and the door whispered shut. Myers had not played through what he would say if he found a suspicious bite or scratch. A part of him felt any thought on the subject would become a self-fulfilling prophecy.

  Myers hoped he could camouflage what he was looking for by looking down throats and checking into eyes and ears. You’ve been working out, he commented to one pre-teen who rewarded him with a shy smile.

  *

  A fog grey cement dust still danced in the air along the streets of Chicago. It was mute evidence that Daley Center had been cut in half. It made the air hard to breathe, it clung to faces, skin and hair. It was camouflage.

  The wandering specters and scarecrows in the streets now slowly paced like wolves in unfamiliar territory. Everything seemed incomplete and out of place. Time had no meaning to them. But, there was once that movement, that taste in the wind that guided them to feed. It had been replaced by choking darkness. It had to always be the same. See/hear/smell was the way they found their prey. Now, their senses were clogged with a gritty thick dust that blocked out all that was around. The eyes became clogged with finite bits of sand. Some shook their heads to clear away the haze and soot. It only became airborne again and settled on to another of their kind. A few stretched out their hands and began to move about like a man in a pitch black room. If anyone had been watching from above it would appear like some slow, careful dance was being presented to a rhythm only the performers could hear.

  The dust would take days to settle. But it was subsiding. Hands touched faces and found sight again as fingers peeled away a layer of grit to allow eyelids to open. The smell of anything was still overpowered by finite bits of cement that had been inhaled. But the eyes were clearing, the things returned to their familiarity. Some of them had gone still, awaiting a rain to wash their senses clear again. A cocoon like figure wrapped in grey, a statue waiting on the magic moment of awakening. A few surveyed the street and found silence in the dust.

  Some heads craned upwards and saw the feeble change in their surroundings. As the dust settled or was carried away it became more visible. It was a beacon that provided clarity to their senses. It took time to process its meaning without confirmation but they were adaptable. A chalklike figure slowly arched his neck as the information transformed into action.

  How long had it been there? What was it doing there? They had no time for such thoughts.

  At first one started a slow shuffle toward it. Then a second, a third and many more. Some of the statues enveloped in grey came to life and began following their instinct. They had careful, staggering steps that produced clouds in the dust that had settled on the street as they headed toward Macy’s. The beacon of the office light Pinder had turned on two hours ago guiding their path.

  A sharp rap on the door interrupted Myers’ conversation with a family of three. The sudden noise produced looks of terror from the parents and the little girl pressed close to her father. If only the nightmares could just go away. The door opened and Symons poked his head in.

  “Hey, we gotta move.” He nodded to Myers.

  “I’m almost done here.” Myers nodded back.

  “Sorry, “ Symons was firm. “We gotta move now.”

  Myers was starting to pick up that there was trouble. Brett was keeping it calm so not to spread panic. He was like that. Myers watched Brett’s eyes stray toward the ceiling.

  “Damnit,” He whispered. “Who turned on the light?” It wasn’t an accusation. He kept his voice clear of any stress.

  “I did it when we came in.” The voice in the hall was Pinder. He exhaled quickly and swore in a whisper. “I wasn’t thinking.”

  “It’s a different kind of war, sir.” Moshood remembered aloud what Maggie had said. An understood observation took on a new level of clarity. “It’ll be fine, don’t worry, sir.”

  “But we have to go,” Brett was looking back into the hallway. Was he out of line? Myers seemed frozen for a second as the people he examined seemed to search for what few belongings they had.

  “Agreed.” The voice was Pinder. He was back from an angry moment of self loathing. Myers began putting the small accoutrements of his profession back into his pack with the red cross on it. There was a nagging moment of helplessness within him. I mean, unless someone here falls down the stairs or something there’s little I can do. He chanced a look around the room for a forgotten person or possession. Nothing, the door to the now darkened room closed with a touch of finality.

  Quickened footsteps walked a short length of a hallway and then began descending stairs bracketed by whitewashed, brick walls. More than one person had pulled out their phone to try and illuminate their hurried way. The phone lights were shaking hands and moving bodies.

  It made the way down the stairs appear like they were lit up by search lights controlled by a man having a seizure. Symons was standing by a fire door when Pinder approached him.

  “I’m just going to get Esterhaus and Bradley, sir.” Symon’s voice had taken on a lower octave as he spoke through his teeth. “They’re doing one final sweep of the place.”

  “Good,” Pinder nodded. “Where’s the way to the tunnel?”

  “I can take you there.” Bestoni offered from a few feet away. “It’s near the furnace room.”

  “Okay,” Pinder nodded and turned his head back to Brett. “Catch up with us.”

  “Yes sir.”

  “Don’t take too long.” Pinder ordered as he turned away toward the stairs.

  “Don’t worry, sir.” Brett opened the door to Macy’s main floor and stepped into the darkness.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  His phone light traversed the landscape. It was made up of multiple shades of sable and shadow for just a few feet in every direction. Had it become that late? The fingers on the mannequins caused him the most anxiety. They seemed to jump out of the shadows and hunt you. One of these things doesn’t belong here. A song from his childhood teased him in the dark. Yeah, he teased back. It’s me. I don’t fucking belong here.

  “Esterhaus!” He finally called out. “Where you guys at?”

  “Almost there!” A reply from the dark gave him a sigh of relief. He had been waiting for something to jump out of the blackness since they had arrived. The staff must have locked things up at the first sign of trouble. Nice to know someone was on the ball, he thought as Bradley came into view clutching to shopping bags of flashlights, fire axes and other tools.

  “Been shopping, ladies?”

  “Yes sir,” Esterhaus gave him an annoyed glance. “I picked up a pair of panty hose just in your size.”

  Bradley looked up from his burdens to see Symons expression. Brett had turned to his right and his jaw was slowly dropping open. For a second he paused and then craned his neck higher. Bradley followed his gaze and then he too tried to get a few inches taller to take in the nightmare.

  “Jesus Christ……”

  Hands, the shadows of hands, figures and more pressed against the storefront glass. A streetlight that still burned on bravely silhouetted them against the surface. The shoulders and heads seemed to merge into one massive human wall as they pushed forward. A reflected light bobbed up and down on the smooth surface of the window, the glass was moving. It was bending. Hands played across the smoothness, leaving smeared streaks in their wake. They crowded impossibly close to the doors and windows. Brett had an insane thought for a second that they would just pass easily through the glass like phantoms. His incredulity was doubled because
he had been here just five minutes before and there was just a dozen or two. He had then gone upstairs to pack up Myers and his civilians. Now, the number was off the scale. The glass warped again in reply.

  Brett took a few steps forward and got a clear view of two large panes of store front glass. The first seemed to have a rhythm of its own and it bent inward and then back with the crush of the bodies and hands that probed the surface. In frustration they would slap their hands against the window.

  THUNG!

  Others joined in and the surface of the window seemed to be transformed into a vibrating tuning fork as hands and figures put more pressure on the so far unyielding obstacle. They never quit, Brett watched them coldly. They never surrender, give up or lose interest. They would be here to eternity if that’s what it took to break through. We cannot reason with them, surrender to them or plead for mercy. We can out run them. But, the minute we get tired they are right behind us.