As he reached the turn in the street, David met another overgrown parking lot—an easy shortcut to save a few minutes. It wasn’t exactly the path Ghost told him to take, but David’s memories of Chicago remained strong enough he knew as long as he continued west, sooner or later he’d hit Lakeshore. And with sky darkening to the west, past the city but close enough to raise concern, he welcomed any opportunity to shorten his journey.
Concrete columns, now covered in vines, lined the front of the imposing building. An expanse of cement steps followed, leading to a grand entrance of four even larger columns framing what appeared to be the main entrance. In front of the doors, David saw what looked to be a yellowish boulder engulfed in greenery. Curious, David climbed up the concrete stairs to investigate. Off to his right, attached to the wall lining the steps, a flash of gold caught David’s eye. He walked over to it and, pushing away the brush that covered it, revealed a plaque with the words ‘The Field Museum’ upon it.
Returning to his trip up the stairs, David’s squinted at the yellowed stone blocking the museum’s front entrance. As he continued nearer, what he had first taken to be a boulder took a firmer shape, until he recognized it as the upper half of the skull of a tyrannosaurus rex. Grass pushed up around the teeth, softening them against the cement and a few lay cracked and shattered on the ground. A small tree grew through the cavity where the creature’s left eye would have been. On the nose, someone had scrawled a message in what looked like black paint, or charcoal.
STAY OUT
David looked past the skull into the darkness of the museum momentarily, then turned around and retreated down the stairs. The sun to the west, now behind the oncoming clouds, cast the afternoon in a golden gloom. Deciding it best to keep on his way, he continued onward, past the museum, and to Lakeshore Drive.
At his first fully-realized view of the city, a wave of shock pulsed through David’s body and dropped him to his knees. The city, as it lay out before him, barely resembled the Chicago that populated his cloudy memories. While the buildings remained, they had transformed from a man-made colossus of concrete and stone, shelter to both people and commerce, to nothing more than the skeletal frame on which a new jungle found its footing. Painted green with moss and wrapped in emerald vines, the grey of the city had long since lost out to nature. Like mountains, the growth thinned the higher up the buildings went, but the tremendous metamorphosis established so far already reached upwards of ten stories.
David followed Ghost’s instructions and headed north until he reached Roosevelt and crossed the river into the city. To his right stood the old Roosevelt CTA transit station, and it too was overcome by foliage. The tracks of the El had long ago given up their lives as clean travel routes of steel lines and now fulfilled a new purpose: a trellis for the vines that crept up to them and snaked their way through the city on the elevated network of rails.
Continuing onward, David kept to the middle of the street and followed what looked like a recently-traveled path through the heart of the city. To his left and right, the skeletal skyscrapers towered above him, their windows cracked and broken. Here, closer to them, the trees actually took root on some of the lower levels of the buildings, reaching out and up through the empty spaces where windows once separated the inside world from nature. Roots dangled below, having worked their way through the floor, running the expanse from floor to ceiling, taking hold in the levels even further below.
The buildings rocked in the wind, sending creaks and cracks as they continued to succumb to the consequence of time. Occasionally, other sounds joined in the song: nesting birds, an agitated burrow of squirrels … and sometimes what sounded like human whispers. In the darkness of the buildings’ interiors, nothing much could be seen. Still, David sensed he was being watched as he made his way through downtown, past the river, past Michigan Avenue.
Keep to the streets and you’ll be fine. Stay in the light. Don’t stop moving.
Through the greenery, David caught glimpses of history—a Target store at the corner of Clark. The twisted remains of abandoned bus stops. A bike rental kiosk, still filled with rusted bikes, forever locked in place once the power for their rental systems went out—their tires long ago eaten away. Seagulls soared overhead, following him as he progressed and squawked anxiously as they hunted for any morsel of food he might leave behind. The only building that hadn’t surrendered to nature was an ancient church across from the old ball field.
More skyscrapers spread across the skyline to the north, now visible as he crossed a bridge spanning the old Interstate. To the west, where he was headed, his path gave way to smaller buildings, each growing more dilapidated the further he traveled. Amongst the crumbling brick, peppered in color from ancient graffiti, previously vacant lots—themselves now overgrown, pressed into the disintegrating buildings, breaking them down through the pressure of growth. David marched on, watching for any sign marking Central Park Avenue. The Medical District lay well behind him and he expected to see his turn soon.
A half mile later, he hit a roadblock. A wreck of burned-out cars, long overgrown, spanned the width of the street. Seeing no way around, David grabbed a car’s roof and pulled himself up, kicked off from the window opening above the driver’s door, and hurtled himself onto its surface. One foot went down on the leaf-covered top, but the other fumbled to find its place as it caught on a lump in the slick vegetation. David regained his balance and knelt, peeling away the leaves where his foot landed. There, buried under the growth he found the remains of a metal box attached to the car’s roof—old police lights. Scanning the other cars, similar bumps showed on their roofs. A barricade like this was usually only used temporarily—when more permanent means couldn’t be procured. David wondered why, even at the end of it, these cars had remained. Were they burnt out during whatever event led to the extinction of the city? Were they blocking the way to downtown? Or were they blocking the way out?
A sudden rustling focused David’s attention to the left of the street, past the sidewalks and into a great, undeveloped area. Green stalks stood before him, rustling lightly as wind sent ripples across their expanse. Like a lawn of high grass, the green spread as far back as David could see, before stopping at another edge of the city street. Deteriorating city buildings encircled it. What once had been a park in the rough side of Chicago was now an enormous corn field.
Again, the rustling. At the edge of the field, about 50 feet in front of him. David squinted and made out a black shape pushing the corn from side to side. Another step forward, and the roof, unable to bear the weight, gave out a dry creak and buckled down, the rusted metal cracking more than bending. The black spot in the corn paused, then exploded into a flurry of feathers and caws. A murder of crows rose up to the sky, cawing and flapping as they flew off to the south.
From his vantage point atop the gutted car, David watched as the agitated corn undulated in the escaping crows’ wake. The stalks stilled, but deep back, past where the crows had been, they trembled again. This movement differed from the disturbance from the crows. No, this came from lower, below the visible top leaves. David watched as it moved, onward in a straight narrow line headed south, across the field, to another part of the city.
David trudged on, looking over his shoulder every now and then back toward the corn field. No one followed. The dark clouds in the distance moved in much sooner than he expected and by the time he reached Central Park Avenue, he had a hard time seeing more than ten feet in front of him. He quickened his pace and shifted his journey to the north.
In the distance, even in the afternoon darkness brought on by the clouds, he made out a brass dome, like an ancient government capital. When he finally reached the domed structure, what he saw reminded him of an old college building—almost a castle. The shimmering surface of a pond or small lake peeked through a wall of trees to his right. The air here, heavy with the dampness of the imminent storm, echoed with the whirring chirps of frogs, eagerly awaiting a good soaking.
----
A long glass building spread out in front of him, the surrounding landscape unlike anything David had seen. Here, like elsewhere on his journey, any space that wasn’t a crumbling building had transformed into a sea of green. The difference was, here the green had clear pattern and purpose.
A freshly mowed lawn surrounded the building, breaking only at the concrete steps that led to the front doors. Like a cement pier leading to a great glass ark, the concrete here looked as good as the day it was poured—weedless, crack-free and devoid of any debris.
A flash of lightning brought his world into full view, and the accompanying shudder of thunder caused the glass of the structure to rattle dangerously. But it wasn’t until the lightning faded and the world returned to its threatening gloom that David realized it.
There ahead, past the glass doors under the sign that read Garfield Park Conservatory, the lights inside were on.
THIRTY-TWO
THROW NO STONES
Locked. Of course, it would be locked. David pounded on the door, his palms threatening to break the glass with every blow—but the glass remained resilient. He cupped his hands around his eyes and pressed up against the entrance, struggling to make out any shape or sign of life inside. The foyer beyond the locked doors showed the same level of care, cleanliness and order as the surrounding landscape. In stark contrast to the disarray nature left in its wake everywhere else in the city, this place, if not currently occupied, had been lived in. Lived in recently.
Another set of whacks at the glass, and David’s palms began to ache as they bruised under the violence. He took a step back, looked to his right, then his left, and almost started to shout for someone to let him in. The reminder of the ruffling in the corn and the omnipresent suspicion that he wasn’t alone stopped him.
The world flashed in another explosion of light and the thunder rattled David’s bones. The glass panels of the conservatory quivered dangerously in their frames. The sky opened, and the downpour began. There, in front of the conservatory, David found little respite from the storm and his clothes immediately soaked through. He searched across the street, to the vacant remains of old buildings, craving an escape from the stinging drops. He readied his body to run, then reconsidered and began to make his way around the perimeter of the glass house in search of another entrance.
“Stop there!” a female voice commanded.
David froze, the rain running down his face.
“Hands in the air. Where I can see them. Good. Now turn around slow.”
There, only a few feet behind him, stood a camouflaged figure, soaking wet, aiming an assault rifle directly at David. She took a few steps closer, keeping the gun trained on him as he stood there, stock-still, in the rain, his hands above his head and vision blurred from the water streaming through his eyes.
“You’re wearing society clothes,” she said, prodding his shoulder with the tip of her rifle. “Who are you and how did you get here?”
“I—my name’s David. I walked.”
“You’re lying. How did you get here?”
“I told you, I walked. Ghost gave me directions.”
She took a step closer, pressing the rifle into the center of his chest and leaned in to David’s face. Squinting, she examined his face, searched his eyes.
“Ghost, huh? Why the hell would Ghost send you here? I still say you’re a liar.”
“No lie. Please, can we maybe go in, out of the rain, and we can talk?”
“Not a chance of that happening, mister. Now tell me for real this time. Who the hell are you and why are you here?”
“I told you, my name is David,” he said, lowering his hands.
“Put your goddamn hands back in the air!” Her breath burned hot on David’s face against the chill of the rain. She pulled back on the gun and threatened to smash him with the stock. David’s arms shot back into the air.
“My name is David. David Sparks. I was on my way here with Bethany and Calvin, but something happened, and I ended up just offshore. Ghost saved me, and he sent me here.”
“Oh, hell,” she whispered, lowering her gun. “Let’s get you inside. You gotta talk to Rosa.”
---
Inside, the air still hung heavy with humidity, but at least he escaped the downpour. The woman led David across the front entryway, through another set of clear doors past a vacant reception desk, and into a cavernous glass room. A jungle spread out before him here, but unlike the growth running rampant in the city, the jungle here consisted of palm trees and other large-leafed tropical plants. Concrete paths edged with stone curbs ran between the greenery, putting everything that was growing here into slightly raised, carefully planned beds. Men, women and children scattered about the space, some tending to plants, others engrossed in conversation—but they all halted to hushed tones as David and his chaperone snaked through the gardens.
Following the curve that marked the outer perimeter of the greenhouse, David stopped in front of a large palm tree. Much bigger than the rest, it stood majestically, its crown nearly brushing the glass ceiling above.
“Come on,” she urged. “She’s in the fern room."
Leaving the ancient palm behind, David followed as commanded. Above him, in rows throughout the room, bright lights mounted in neat rows pointed down, casting the room in an artificial daylight. Past the lamps, behind the glass roof, the sky looked like ink, the illusion of night breaking only with the intermittent flash of lightning. The room roared around him as the pounding drops echoed against the enclosed habitat.
A pair of marble statues marked the transition from one room to the next: one a woman and man kneeling in embrace, the other a man, bent down, resting his chest on the knee of a woman, while she washed his hair and a pair of rabbits frolicked on the ground beneath.
An expanse of stone steps led down into a new sunken room connected to the palm room. Again, like outside, almost every square inch of his view screamed in shades of green, broken only by a large indoor pond in the center of the room, and red brick paths meandering between the gardens. Here though, instead of palms, ferns grew. Ferns of every size, some huddled low to the ground, others reaching tall and wide, dwarfing any man. Bunches of light green moss hung from the rafters above, wrapping the room in a cocoon of nature. At the far end, standing at the edge of the pool, a woman crouched, her hands on her knees, the hem of her tan dress flowing over the edge of the pool and floating gently on the surface of the water.
“Rosa!” his escort shouted. The woman snapped her head up, noticing the two of them for the first time. “Guy says he knows Bethany,” she yelled across the room. “Says his name is David. David Sparks.”
Rosa stood upright and beckoned them toward her. “Thank you, Parm. Send him over here. You go dry off and change.”
Parm gave a quick nod and left. Rosa, still standing at the other side of the pond, waited for David with her hands on her hips. He followed the brick path circling the left side of the pond, the thicket brushing softly against his skin as he passed. A sound of running water, separate from the rain above, reached his ears as he neared the rear of the room. The brick path ended and gave way to a jigsaw puzzle of flat flagstones. Water flowed between the stones, pouring from an artificial waterfall set into a rock structure on the back wall. It ran freely, between the rocks and beneath David’s feet, until it spilled into the pond. There, on a landing where the stream joined the pool, stood Rosa, her back to David as she gazed into the water.
“They don’t serve a purpose, but still we keep feeding them,” she
said, waving her hand lightly toward the water where a school of goldfish hovered. “I suppose we could eat them, if we had to … but we never have.” She turned and sat on a nearby bench, patting the space next to her, inviting David to join. As he sat, she continued, “Aesthetics maybe? Or therapy? A reminder we’re all alive and that no matter what, the world will continue to march on.”
The fish flitted here and there in search of whatever bits of food they could find.
“So, you’re David Sparks,” she said, finally turning to face him. “Please, let’s sit.”
For the first time since waking in the field those few weeks ago, time stopped, and David was reminded of his existence. The face of this woman before him revealed an aura of honesty and peacefulness. His eyes got lost in the wet, gray depths of hers and the air between them crackled with intensity. While not necessarily beautiful by magazine standards (her left cheek bore a scar, running from the edge of her mouth up to her ear, like half an extended smile), simply looking at her brought forth a presence of mind and serenity long forgotten amidst the nonstop rollercoaster of events making up David’s recent life memory.
“I’m Rosa,” she said, a warm smile cracking through her lips. She placed her hand on David’s lap, sending a warmth into his leg that spread through his body. “Where are Calvin and Bethany?” she asked.
“They—” David coughed lightly, clearing his throat. “They’re not here?”
Rosa lowered her head, her auburn hair spilling across her face, falling in waves against her light brown skin. A perceptible sigh heaved through her shoulders. “No, no they’re not,” she whispered. “You all were due here yesterday.”
“The last I saw them, I was climbing into one of those Aeropod things,” David took her hand out of his lap and into his own. “Something must have happened. I came down in the water. Crashed.”
The Unfortunate Expiration of Mr David S Sparks Page 14