“Did you find the Art Institute as depressing as I did?” he asked.
I stood up and walked into the middle of the street, slowly turning and observing the bleak surroundings.
“Why do you suppose,” I asked Merlin, “people avoid this area? We haven’t seen anyone or any signs of recent activity down here. Kind of spooky, if you ask me.”
“Begins to work on your nerves, doesn’t it?” he replied. “But I think the reason is far more practical than it is supernatural. Simply put, there’s is nothing of value to people here. Office suites and department stores don’t make for good homes. A bit drafty and not very well furnished. And the offices of lawyers and business people hold little of value for scavengers. Not much you can get for a bunch of files and sales training manuals on the open market. Only use I can see is fuel for fires.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
We resumed our journey, wandering the streets for another hour with Merlin as our tour guide, seeing no one, no signs of recent passage by other explorers. It was if we had the city all to ourselves. Human adventurers entering an alien urban landscape.
The silent surroundings brought to mind a story that Asimov or Bradbury had written in the 50’s about a similar scenario. In the story the city was alive. It had been waiting patiently for eons for the humans to return to punish them for their past transgressions.
It didn’t quite fit our situation.
We had already been punished.
• • • •
After we returned to State Street, Merlin took us into a building that occupied the whole block, a former department store. I guessed we would be going up, but Merlin took us to the lower levels via a stairway and then across the level below the street, which appeared to have been a section that sold kitchen utensils and dishes. He found a door on the far side and went down again, where no sunlight filtered through. He shut the door behind us, and in the dark I heard the scrape of a kitchen match.
The flame circled around a bit, then became two as it met a candle. Then another candle was lit and the match extinguished. “I always carry at least eight candles and plenty of matches. Make the matches myself,” said Merlin, his voice dulled by the small enclosure in which we stood.
“How come you don’t use your Walkman batteries in a flashlight?” I asked.
“Only got two nickel cads left, man, and a solar recharger. But these babies don’t last forever. Music’s real important to me. Can’t be wastin’ my batteries when I can use candles. You ever heard Darkside, man?”
I told him I had.
“Roger Waters,” he said, his voice taking on a tone of reverence. “That is one serious dude. I read where they made a movie out of THE WALL. I’d give a testicle to see that, man, someone ever comes up with juice again.
“Left or right?” I asked.
We had two versions of it on Blu Ray III—the movie with Bob Geldof and the animated stuff and the live concert at the Berlin Wall. Merlin didn’t know yet that we had electricity. Nor did he know that I had lithium ion batteries and solar chargers.
We came to a landing which led down to yet another level. He reached down and rubbed Duke’s shoulders.
“Ol’ Duke doesn’t seem spooked. But this place sure can get on my nerves,” Merlin said. “I’m always thinking there’s something moving just beyond my light. Never found anything though. Just a few rats. That’s why I never come down here high. Can you imagine what it would be like to get paranoid in a place like this? Talk about your major freak out.”
I said, “Shit. I’m paranoid right now and I’ve got an attack dog, three guns, two knives and a canister of pepper spray.”
“I’ve come to expect nothing less of you, Mac.” His voice floated from behind the candle. “That’s one reason why you’re my favorite traveling companion.”
He handed me two candles and lit them from his.
“There’s a whole system of tunnels that snake under the city. Some even have old train tracks in them. I read they were used over a hundred years ago to move goods and freight from store to store, entering through the basements or sub basements. I need better light to explore them, so I’m not sure how extensive they are any more. I also read there’s flood run-off tunnels too. Watch your step, now. We’re going down.”
And down we went, descending two short flights of steps and entering a passage through a steel door rusted in place and leaning on its hinges, open just enough for us to squeeze through. The only sounds were dripping water, our steps, and our breathing. Our light extended a few feet, enough for me to see a damp concrete ceiling less than a foot above my head, crumbling concrete walls and a floor littered with small stones and dirt.
“This is one of the newer tunnels,” said Merlin, unaccountably speaking in a whisper. “The older ones have brick walls and make me feel like they’re gonna collapse any minute.”
“What are you whispering for?” I asked in a normal tone of voice.
“Didn’t know I was. Never had anyone down here with me to talk to. I guess its kind of spooky, so I just whisper. Feels kind of weird talking in a normal tone of voice.”
We were walking slowly. I had no idea in what direction. Merlin continued to whisper.
“Some of the city dwellers say there’s giant alligators down here, twenty or thirty feet long. Left over from The Collapse. Some were pets that got away or were flushed down toilets; others escaped from the zoos during the collapse. Never seen any sign of them though.”
“I hate to ruin a good myth,” I said. “But animals need food to survive. What do you suppose these giant alligators eat?”
“Well, I’ve thought about that,” said Merlin. “There’s also supposed to be giant rats down here. Maybe they eat the rats.”
“What do the rats eat?” I asked.
“Shit, Mac. How the hell should I know. What do I look like? Some kind of fucking zoologist? I’m just telling you a few ghost stories. I have seen some pretty weird shit here in the city. But I don’t care to talk about that kind of thing down here in the bowels of hell.”
We came to a cross tunnel and Merlin steered us right and we continued through two other such intersections of passages before he brought us to an up stairway.
“We’re going back up to daylight. Let me have the candles back.”
I blew mine out and returned them. Squeezing through another door, we exited the tunnel and moved up three flights of stairs and entered into the lobby of an office high rise.
I was astonished to see that we were back on Michigan Avenue, very near where we had started a couple of hours ago.
“Why didn’t we use the front door?” I asked, indicating the spaces where windows once surrounded the building at ground level.
“I’ll answer you in a minute,” he said. “First we gotta move.”
He hustled Duke and me across a floor tiled to give the appearance of marble, between two huge banks of elevators, at least ten on each side, and through another steel door with a stairway leading both up and down. This time we moved up. It was dimly lit by sunlight that filtered in on each level through open doors. On the third level he stopped and sat against the wall.
“Take a load off. We’ll rest a couple of minutes and then head up. I’m going to share one of my favorite places with you two.”
I unwrapped three of Weasel’s special batch of oatmeal and raisin cookies, distributing them among the three of us.
“The deal is,” he said between bites, “it never hurts to be cautious. That’s why we aren’t loitering in the lobby. I know this part of the city better than anyone. But even though I’d like for there to be peace and harmony, man, I’m not an idiot. Couldn’t have lived this long by trusting people. It’s a damn shame, but I work with it the best I can.”
He finished his cookie and put the paper it was wrapped in back into his bag, cautioning me to do the same when I was finished.
“If anyone comes this way, I don’t want there to be any evidence that a person has been here
recently. Then they don’t have any reason to wait for someone, namely moi, to return. People with time on their hands and very little intellect have been known to wait for long periods just to see what might pop up. You ever had a cat, Mac?”
“Never have liked them that much,” I said, savoring the last scrap of cookie.
“I had one once and kept him locked up when I went out exploring, cuz I was afraid it would get hurt or lost if I let it out. Felt I should protect him. They don’t follow you around like a dog, you know. Well anyway, every time I’d come home, that cat would slip right out the door the second I opened it. Figured he sensed my walking vibrations as I was approaching and then waited. Then I stayed home for a couple of days, reading and sorting through my stuff because I was about to change cribs. I saw that cat sit by that door for hour after hour, too stupid to figure out that the only way it opened was me. So fucking stupid he would just sit there and wait for divine intervention. Too ignorant to do anything with its brain but just sit and look at the door.”
He paused to pick at a raisin stuck between two teeth with a fingernail.
“I gotta tell you something, man,” he said, stroking Duke behind the ear, “I have never in my life seen a dog act like old Duke does. I mean, you treat him like he’s one of your family. That’s beautiful, man. Can you imagine what the dog thinks about you? I’ll bet he’s got like some kind of family feeling for you. Like you’re not his master, but more like his big brother. Wow, man, maybe he thinks you’re God!”
These were pretty scary thoughts, considering they were coming from the brain of a guy who was not yet stoned.
“Merlin,” I said, “I’ve been with you several hours now and I’ve yet to see you fire up a bowl. What’s the deal? Run dry?”
“I’ve been cutting back, man. Particularly in the city. Too many hiding places for the bad guys. I’m down to three or four a day now. Usually only two when I’m in this area. Let’s move out. You are gonna appreciate this.”
We packed and headed up the stairway.
“About that cat,” he said as we ascended. “There’s people out there like that. Got nothing better to do but sit around waiting for something to come up so they can cause some pain. Not enough brains to create an independent thought. You can’t ever be too careful out there, Mac. Never leave any sign that you passed this way.”
We scaled twenty-one flights, stopping occasionally to listen for indications of other visitors. Merlin said he had never run across others in these office towers. But we checked anyway. We entered the hallway upon reaching our target floor and continued down to a corner of several office suites. We entered a vestibule, obviously a greeting and screening area. Beyond the entryway were two doors on each side and one at the end.
“Stop there,” he said before we entered the office area. He bent down, inviting me to inspect something, although I couldn’t see anything on the carpeted hallway.
“Lookee here,” he smiled at me. “But be careful.”
His fingers were sliding very gently along a strand of thin, almost invisible fishing line. It was about a foot above the floor and ran across the hall into a side office. It was anchored to the hall wall by a screw in the plaster. The set up was practically invisible. On the other end of the line was the trigger of 10 gage shotgun.
“I’m very peaceful,” Merlin laughed. “Just not very trusting. Tell Duke we’re safe and let’s go see my digs.” As we entered the corner office, he said, “I’m moving outta here anyway. That’s why I gave such a graphic demonstration. Into every life a little drama must come. I think it’s time to party now, Dude.”
I set Duke to guard the front end of the hall; then dug a pipe out of my pack, loaded it, and passed it to Merlin while I took in the amazing canvas stretching before my eyes. We were in a huge corner office, probably about forty by thirty. There was a beautiful desk in the middle, mahogany I thought, with a leather top. It was big enough to be a skateboard park. Lovely nautical prints adorned two of the walls. A leather executive chair was behind the desk. Along one wall was a credenza with drink glasses, an ice bucket and a coffee service. The top of the desk was littered with books and magazines, which I assumed were Merlin’s. J.R. Tolkien, Jack Kerouac, David Brin, Greg Bear, Timothy Leary, Ursula Le Guin, Susan Brownmiller and Justin Cronin, Marcus Sakey were among the authors of the books that peeked out of the litter of Omni, Analog, Dungeons and Dragons, Nat Geo, Rolling Stone, Smithsonian and other assorted magazines and comic books.
In one corner, adjacent to a hole in the wall large enough for a man to crawl through, were a neatly rolled sleeping bag, a sledge hammer and another shotgun, this one a 12 gage pump combat shotgun. He saw where I was glancing.
“Never be without a back door,” he said.
“A truism from the Weasel survival book,” I replied.
Merlin took a couple of hits and passed it back.
“Hang on a minute,” he said and hastily left, returning seconds later with a chair identical to the one behind the desk. He wheeled them both to the 30 foot outward-facing window and we both sat, taking in an extraordinary sight and sharing the bowl. The the floor to ceiling window was amazingly clean both in and out.
Years ago, when I first visited the city, I was surprised to find most of the upper level windows clean inside and out and very few signs of insects in the high rises. Nature has a process by which she cleans away the filth, utilizing decomposition, carrion eaters and precipitation. In the case of the human race, she added a few more tricks—like plague, ozone holes, nukes, drought and flood. But regardless of the method she chose, she was determined to return the balance, reestablish synergy.
The windows were clean, I figured out, because we weren’t around to dirty them up with air borne pollutants that adhered to surfaces and hitched rides on rain drops. It was not uncommon for a muddy rain to fall, having picked up dust in the atmosphere, but dirt is easily washed away by the next storm. The key was that there were no longer acid and oil-based contaminants in the atmosphere. As for the absence of insects, the answer was simply that the sterile skyscrapers provided no food supply.
Two of the smaller office buildings below us were burnt shells of twisted steel. I was unsure of how steel and concrete burned. But fire damaged skyscrapers were rare. Pre-collapse fires were caused by humans or infrastructure breakdowns, like gas leaks or electrical shorts. South of us, some of the neighborhoods were destroyed by fire. There were patches of dead neighborhoods, like bald spots in a meadow, but the fires eventually ran out of fuel or were rained out.
Lake Michigan lay below us, gentle and calm, about a half mile away, her blue green waters stretching east, north and south, then blending with the deeper pure blue of the sky at the horizon. The smoke was good and as it took effect, I felt that I could see the exact horizontal line where the water ended and the sky began.
A few fishing boats were coming in. I noticed a beautiful black and blue sail furling in the lake wind, a sky blue six-point star in the middle of a black background. James’ clan, the Black G. D.’s, claimed the fishing and docking rights for about a mile on each side of us. Smart leadership. They even managed to extend their turf over water.
There were other boats, all sail powered, large enough to carry several hands and the nets they used to harvest the lake. Untainted by oil leaks, sewage and pesticides for over thirty-five years, Lake Michigan was now a fertile breeding ground for fish. Coho salmon were the big catch for all the shore line clans. Sarah and I had watched the fishing boats last spring bring in several tons of fish, their nets nearly bursting with the catch. Lake trout, bass, bluegills, walleye, perch and crappie were also plentiful. None of us would ever starve as long as the lake stayed clean.
North of our location, on my left, the water met the land at a man-made harbor which once must have contained hundreds of boats. Half a mile from the shore, a crumbling breakwater was succumbing to the wear of its decades long battle with the forces of wind, ice, and water. The harbor now was hom
e to dozens of sunken yachts and sailboats, some of their triangular prows peeking out from their watery grave. The shore line was littered with masts and rigging.
As I looked down from our 21st floor perch, all the detritus of 20th cen urban life—rusted cars, sunken ships, broken windows, cracked concrete—could not diminish the natural splendor of the landscape. Between the lake and our location, riding on thermals from the canyons, Red Tail Hawks and Peregrine Falcons sought prey from the thousands of pigeons and sparrows and countless other breeds who had established nests in the fissures of the buildings and the resurgence of tree growth. A few hundred feet above the smaller birds of prey two Golden Eagles and one Bald Eagle floated above the lake, searching for fish near the surface. Ring Bill Gulls drifted beneath them, seeking scraps from the fishing boats.
In the woods that had once been Grant Park, I saw a herd of fifteen or so deer, led by a huge buck, skittishly flee from a fountain that served as one of their drinking holes. I couldn’t see what frightened them. It didn’t take much. They were the Indies of the animal world, weaponless in a savage land.
I turned to Merlin and said, “Thanks, man. I never took the time to look at the city like this. I’ve always taken the small view. It’s dirty from close up. Cracked and broken. But from here I can see the bigger picture. It’s not such a bad place.”
“You know, Mac,” Merlin replied, his eyes beginning to squint, “I look at this part of the city as indestructible. It’s a monument. Glass and concrete and steel. What’s gonna harm it? Lightning fire? Maybe if one catches, the insides of a building could be gutted, but all in all, there isn’t much to burn, especially with no electricity and no people to start fires. This is gonna stand a long, long time.”
He passed the bowl, almost cashed now, and I finished it.
“But you know, man, there’s another view I can show you some other time that isn’t so pretty. If you look down into the old neighborhoods, away from the lake, from way up, Old Sears Tower or Hancock, you can see where the collapse took its toll. Block after block gutted and leveled. North, south and west. Frame houses, apartment buildings, warehouses, stores. Anything that supported population and was made out of wood is pretty much gone from the city. From up high many areas look like woods. But when you walk through them you can tell the trees and shrubs are growing out of what used to be houses and sidewalks and roads and ma and pop grocery stores.
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