Chicago Undead: On the eleventh floor

by Weaver, Shawn

  Stepping to the left, I move around the service counter to get the woman’s attention. Hoping she has a phone in her pocket, I reach out and place a hand on her striped, black-and-purple shirt and say, “Miss,” hoping not to scare her.

  She does not jump in surprise at my touch. Instead she slides toward the floor. The upper portion of her shoulders, arms and head are gone, leaving a ragged bloody hole of shredded flesh and bone. She hits the floor with a splat, blood spurting across my feet and jeans as her dead body twists on the floor.

  Jumping back, I bruise my hip on the counter. Unable to take my eyes off of the horrid mess, I stumble towards the backroom where mobile racks of pressed clothes hang in clear plastic bags.

  I push my way through the clothes, and run past large running washers. I know there is a back door leading to the building's stairwell and down to the parking garage.

  I hit the lever to the exit and the alarm goes off. As I step out onto the stairwell, the door slams shut behind me with a solid metal -Thunk- cutting the shrill alarm's sound in half. Stopping, I find myself locked in darkness. Usually florescent tubes placed high on the wall light the stairwell. But now the lights are as dead as the woman behind me.

  “Crap!” My voice echoes up the concrete steps.

  I could make my way up to the eleventh floor and my apartment; probably stumble as I grope for the steps, and possibly fall to my death. Or I could go down one level to the parking garage. That way if I did fall in the darkness, I wouldn’t get hurt too badly. Anyway the hearse is parked in my stall, and there is a mobile phone inside. Or once in the garage, I could take the elevator up to my apartment.

  I decide to go down. Placing my hand on the iron railing, I reach my other hand for the wall. I can barely touch both at the same time. Using my toes, I feel for each step, and make my way down. As I move, each step gets easier and easier, and when I reach the garage level. I effortlessly find the door.

  Grabbing the lever, I push it open and hear the echo of a door open, floors above. Then I hear the sound of a heavy body falling as they miss the first step. Something inside tells me to go and help. But the door closes with a solid sound; the sound bites into my chest, panicking me. Instead of going up, I step into the parking garage.

  CHAPTER TWO

  I feel a little more at ease as the door closes safely behind me, putting one more layer of protection between me and whatever lurked in the darkness of the stairwell.

  Morning light pushes its way down the sloping ramp from street level. Slight smells of rubber and car exhaust hang on the air. But this is Chicago and this smell is better than the trash festering in the Waste Management dumpsters at the back of the garage.

  Feeling for my keys, I pull them out of my pocket and walk halfway down the first ramp towards my stall. I can see the back of the hearse sitting cockeyed in my stall. I was lucky that I didn’t hit any of the other parked cars when I pulled in Friday night in my rush to get upstairs and to my bathroom.

  I was sicker than a dog that night. The flu had hit me on my way back from my delivery. Or it could have been the burger I got from the greasy spoon on the highway. I still ain’t sure which one had made me sick. But I knew that I never wanted to have another gut wrenching bout like that again.

  I hit the unlock button on my key fob. The alarm beeps, all of the lights, front and back, flash twice. Grabbing the door handle, I pull up to open the door. At that same moment I hear the squeal of tires, and the crunch of steel hitting cement. By the echo, I can tell that the accident is just outside.

  Jogging back to the ramp, I look up to see that a yellow cab has swerved into the oncoming lane and smashed into the concrete barrier that separated the road from the dry cleaner's drive-thru. The cab sat on its right side, the barrier dug up under the front axle.

  From my position, I see through the driver's side window that the air bag had deployed. Luckily the driver had been pushed back into his seat instead of out the front window. Not moving, I figure the man is unconscious. The good citizen in me takes over and I run up the ramp way.

  Hitting the sidewalk, I stop. The world outside is silent between the towering buildings. No cars, no people. Looking to the right, I see a sheet of black smoke rolling out of the broken window of a Subway store no more than a block away.

  I turn towards the car and see nothing but clear sky above Lake Michigan. Then I see blood dripping down the windowsill of the cleaners drive-thru. A thick splash of blood puddles on the blacktop, and stretches down the drive-thru, as if the flesh that had been ripped from the girl’s torso has been dragged away by a car.

  I shudder at the thought, and then realize that the yellow cab is the only car on the road. Close by, Lake Shore Drive is a major through fare in Chicago. Thousands of cars passed by my apartment a day; even the side roads were busy, but now, nothing.

  Fear crept up, gripping my stomach. Without a second thought, I run back down the ramp into the garage. I know that I should help the taxi driver, but because of the absence of cars, compounded with all of the blood on the blacktop, I cannot hold a rational thought.

  Bypassing the stairs, I dash for the elevator and hit the up button repeatedly. With the phone in the hearse forgotten now, I want nothing more than to go to my apartment and throw up.

  Seconds tick by, and I impatiently press the up button again. In the distance, I hear sirens, and feel relieved thinking that it must be police responding to the fire at the Subway shop. But by the time the elevator reaches the garage level, and the doors slide open, the sirens have not gotten any closer.

  I step into the steel box and hit the button for the eleventh floor. As the doors slide close, I hear the door to the stairwell open, slamming against the wall. A gut wrenching moan rips through the garage.

  With a bump, the elevator starts to rise. The lights dim and do not return to their normal brightness. I start to worry that the power is going to cut off, leaving me trapped between floors.

  The elevator dings as it reaches each floor, and my stomach churns as I hope that the car does not stop and open to revel another horrid accident.

  I breathe a sigh of relief when the door finally opens to the eleventh floor. I run down the hall and unlock the door to my apartment. Rushing in, I slam the door shut and lean against it, trying to catch my breath. Mind reeling, I try to make sense out of everything. I must still be asleep, having a flu-induced nightmare.

  Flicking on the lock, I slip the silver chain into its latch, then step from the door, my chest still tight with the thought that the door may burst open at any moment. Wiping my brow with the back of my arm, I feel the sweat and that my fever is coming back.

  I go to the long coffee table between the couch and my entertainment center, pick up the sheet from the floor, and toss it back onto the couch where I had spent my last few days.

  Grabbing an almost empty bottle of water from the table, and unscrewing the cap, I drain what is left in the clear container in one long swallow. Taking a deep breath, and exhaling slowly, I look at the large sliding glass doors to my balcony that look out over Lake Shore Drive, and on the other side, over Lake Michigan and the Navy Pier.

  Screwing the cap back on, I toss the bottle on the table where it hits, and then rolls onto the floor. Walking to the balcony, I pull the glass door open, step out, and get hit with a blast of fresh air off of the lake.

  Looking to the right, I can see the roof of the Shed Aquarium. Just in front of me is the entrance to the Navy Pier boardwalk and the large complex that contained restaurants and the Children’s Museum. Halfway down the long boardwalk, a giant Ferris wheel towers over all, providing entertainment for the tourists and citizens of the city.

  At the edge, I lean over and look down. I still don’t see any cars. But I do see dozens of people across the road, each walking aimlessly into, and around, the grounds of the pier. Some seem to know where they are going, while most meander about as if confused.

  Leaving the balcony door open, I step back to the
couch and plop down. Feeling under the jumble of blankets, I search for the TV remote and find it wedged between two cushions. I hit the power button and the TV springs to life. Big Bird from Sesame Street appears, discussing the importance of sharing.

  A black bar runs cross the bottom of the screen. Through it, in capital letters, an ominous sentence makes me sit forward.

  ….ATTENTION: THIS IS A NATIONAL ADVISRY UPDATE. PLEASE TURN TO YOUR LOCAL STATION FOR MORE INFORMATION….

  Strange, I think to myself. PBS is a nationwide channel. So any news of national importance should be broadcast there.

  I hit 03 for WROK, Chicago’s own, and as the channel flicks over, I only see a test pattern.

  Pressing the up button, I flick through a few of the other local channels, and get the same test pattern, until I reach MSMN. There, sitting at his desk, Wally Chambers, national weatherman, stares at the camera with tired eyes, and disheveled hair. His tie is pulled partially down, and the top button of his shirt is open. I can tell that he has been on the air for hours.

  He holds a sheaf of papers. Without looking at the camera, he reads what is printed there in a voice that shows the stress he is under. I cannot understand all of his words, for he seems to be rambling, though I do catch that he is speaking of a national security alert, and that all of the facts are still unclear.

  From the open door to the balcony, I hear a rushing sound of a jet getting louder by the second. I think of 9/11, and that I am on the upper floor of a building.

  Jumping up, I knock my shins on the coffee table. Cursing, I make a stumbling run for the balcony just in time to see an F-19 blast by, making the curtains on either side of the glass door blow off of the banister and flutter across the room.

  “What the hell?” I yell and duck back into the living room.

  Two other jets blast by so close that I swear that I can see the pilots. Without thinking, I run for the front door, throw it open and rush across the hall. Pounding on the door of the apartment opposite mine, I yell for Mr. Burkowitz, a retired architect, who has lived in the building longer than I have been alive.

  Getting no answer, I knock harder, then try the doorknob. It turns in my hand.

  “Dean?” I say, opening the door.

  Before me is an apartment similar in layout to mine: a combined living room and kitchenette, with master bedroom behind the kitchenette. To the left, a hallway leads to two bedrooms with an adjoining bathroom. Other than that, there is no other comparison. Mr. Burkowitz decorated his apartment in sharp clean features, while mine is just a bachelor’s mess.

  I call his name again. Mr. Burkowitz doesn’t answer as I step inside. Looking around the living room and kitchenette, I can see that he isn’t here. Light from the windows that cross the far wall filters through white curtains. Beyond the balcony I can see a pillar of smoke rising as it rolls across the sky.

  I hurry across the room and push the curtains aside to see the Chicago skyline. To the north everything looks calm. But to the south, a swath cuts through the buildings in a blazing strip of rubble. Sometime during the night a plane overshot the O’Hare International Airport and took out at least an entire block.

  I slide the balcony door open, and even from this height. I can hear flames raging in the rubble. Unlike the other side of the building where city life is muted, on this side, I am assaulted with noise. Here sound had no place to go but up. The fire, sirens, car alarms and screams are everywhere, echoing from all directions.

  I look towards the street and see no movement. In the distance the John Hancock Center tower stands as a shining beacon of American pride. Then an F-19 flies into my vision, circling the tower.

  “I must be dreaming,” I say, then slap myself across the cheek. Pain shoots across my jaw and I realize that I am truly awake, not in some flu-induced nightmare. This nightmare is real.

  A wave of sound moves on the wind, as something, car, building, whatever, bursts into a ball of flame, sending a red and yellow mushroom cloud upward. Its black edges threaten me as the sound wave strikes first. Then the smoke blows into the open glass doors of Mr. Burkowitz's apartment.

  I stumble back into the room to avoid any flying debris. I doubt anything could make it past the fifth floor, but it’s always better to be safe than sorry.

  “Mr. Burkowitz,” I cough out.

  Just off of the spartan kitchenette I see the closed door to the master bedroom. I have no idea if Mr. Burkowitz is in there hiding like the rest of the city, so I call his name again and step to the door.

  Knocking, I turn the handle and say, “Dean, it’s me, Robin. You alright? You won’t believe what is happening out…” And the rest gets caught in my throat as I open the door and see Mr. Burkowitz lying in his bed.

  If I didn’t know better, I would have figured the old man to be fast asleep. But the flat color of his skin, and no movement of the blanket across his chest, shows that he is not breathing.

  My feet won't let me step into the room to check his pulse, or administer CPR if needed. I know he is already gone. But my bare feet do let me back pedal into the kitchenette. And I don't stop there. Once my feet get moving, I flee the apartment.

  Crossing the hall, I open my door and slam it shut behind me. As I throw the lock again, I hear the ding of the elevator as its steel doors slide open to my floor.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Breathing hard, I lean against the door. Part of me wants to step back into the hall and warn whoever is out there about what is happening. Then again, another part of me cries NO, and I follow that instinct.

  After locking the door, I step away, fearing the wooden surface might dissolve at any moment. I listen for what I hope is a friendly approach, and for them to pass by to one of the other apartments.

  For the longest time I only hear silence, then I think the elevator just opened. This makes me feel better until the painting of the Chicago skyline hanging next to my door is struck, and swings on its wire. Something half slides, half bounces against my door and continues on down the hall.

  Seconds ticked by as I wait. With a dry throat, I step back into my living room and hear the rush of sound again. The jets I had seen earlier blast by, making the windows rattle.

  Grabbing the side of the couch, I look towards the balcony and see nothing but peaceful clouds floating by—a total contrast to the opposite side of the building, where black pillars of smoke dominate.

  The voice coming from the television sounds different. The weatherman has been replaced by a woman, her voice hurried and tired. I look at the screen and see darkness. For a moment I think that the video feed is having trouble. But then the image shakes at the edges, showing that the view is from a live feed, and whoever is holding the camera is running up a flight of stairs.

  A door opens with a heavy scraping sound, revealing a rooftop covered in pea gravel and tar. A large air conditioner unit stands just to the left of the stairwell the cameraman comes through.

  The woman speaks again, and the camera pans in her direction. The reporter wears a maroon pantsuit. Her mound of blonde hair, usually perfectly coifed, is now a tangled mess. Her face looks tired and marred by a purplish bruise that crosses her right cheek.

  Both of them jerk their heads up to see the jets shoot overhead that had just passed by my apartment.

  “As you can see, the president has activated all branches of the military. Exactly what their plan is at this moment the White House is not disclosing, though, they are insisting that everyone stay indoors. If you are injured do not, I repeat, do not go to the hospitals in your area. Help will soon be on the way.

  “Also the Center for Disease Control has not issued any statements at this time. Wally, if you can still hear me, I have to tell you that this is right out of a horror movie. Some said this would come.”

  A loud explosion rocks the building. Trying to keep on his feet, the cameraman spins towards the direction of the blast. A trail of smoke and fire fills the screen for a moment.

  As th
e cameraman pans back, I see the destruction around them and realize that they are filming the fire I saw out of Mr. Burkowitz's apartment. Only they are on the opposite side of it. Plane parts and rubble from numerous buildings are strewn everywhere.

  With a tight, fear-wrought voice, the reporter continues, “Fires are still burning out of control from the wreckage of flight 921 from Boston. Pilot error caused the plane to divert its path from O’Hare. Presently there is no comment on how, or why, the plane crashed here.

  “Devastation has not been seen in Chicago like this since the great fire of 1871. At least four city blocks, and hundreds of homes and businesses, have been destroyed. The death toll is impossible to tell at this time, though it could be in the thousands.”

  A scream, piercing and terrified, reaches the sixth floor where they stand. The cameraman runs to the building's edge. The swerving view from the camera makes my stomach quiver.

  Looking over the edge, the reporter points in the direction the scream came from. I hear her say, “Down there.”

  The cameraman lifts the camera over the edge and pans down. The image goes out of focus, and then turns to a blazing orange ball until he pulls back into focus to show a woman running down the street. The back of her shirt is engulfed in flames, as is her hair, burning like a matchstick.

  “Oh my god! Paul, you getting this?” the woman says.

  The camera moves slightly as the cameraman says, “Yeah,” in a voice that tells me he wants to be anywhere other than there.

  Mesmerized, I watch the woman run a few more yards before falling to the blacktop. Three bodies move into view. At first I think they were men coming to help. But then the men slam into each other and dive onto the woman.

  They do not try to beat out the flames and their clothing ignites as well. Each man rips at the woman, oblivious to the pain they must be feeling as the flames eat at them. The crackles of the burning buildings overshadow the screams of the woman as her throat is ripped out by one of the now-burning men’s teeth.