Chicago Undead (Book 1): On The Eleventh Floor

by Shawn Weaver

  CHICAGO

  UNDEAD

  : On the eleventh floor

  By

  Shawn Weaver

  Copyright 2014 Shawn Weaver

  Edited by Magnolia Belle

  All rights reserved. No part of this novel may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are the products of the author’s imagination or are used factiously.

  Novels by Shawn Weaver

  Fantasy

  Tides of War Series

  Sense of Honor

  Dragon’s Chest

  The Dark Caravan

  Rose Marie

  Horror

  Little Valley

  Wolves in Springfield

  Welcome to Plainfield

  Mississippi DEAD (short story)

  Chicago Undead: On the eleventh floor

  With Donnie Light

  Ripper’s Row

  Ripper’s Revenge

  Ripper’s Wrath

  The Ripper Trilogy

  For Marla

  CHAPTER ONE

  Feeling hung over, even though I haven’t had a drink in over a week, I stumble off of the couch, which has acted as my bed for the last sixty hours. The sheet tangles with my feet. I kick it under the coffee table, and drag myself across apartment to the kitchenette that shares the same open space with my living room.

  Grabbing the coffee pot, I look down to see a thick swirl of black dredge that remained from Friday morning’s breakfast. Disgusted, I pour the stale coffee into the sink, and rinse the pot. With my elbow, I turn off the tap and look through the coffee-stained glass. I figure that it has a semblance of being clean.

  I slip the pot back on the burner, check the water level in the reservoir, then pull out the filter cup. The brown filter is filled with a hard block of dark grounds that remind me of a hockey puck. Tossing the solidified mess into the small trash bin underneath the sink, I rummage with my free hand through the cupboard left of the fridge. I find my can of Folgers and set it on the counter. Knowing that the package of filters always sat next to the can, I reach for it, only to end up grasping an empty cellophane package.

  Exasperated, I pick up the can of coffee and toss it back into the cupboard. Before the little container can roll out, I slam the door shut. A sharp pain slices through my head, reminding me that I’m still not well.

  I grab my best friend for the weekend, a bottle of aspirin, off of the counter where I had left it the night before on one of my many excursions from the safety of the couch to the toilet. Popping the top I down two of the white pills. Dry swallowing, I think about taking a few more, though the way my stomach feels, I don't think it's such a good idea.

  The last sixty hours of life-draining flu virus that had hit me as soon as I had returned from delivering Mr. White’s corpse to the North Western Baptist Ministries in Guttenberg, Iowa, had been the longest of my life. I couldn’t sleep, couldn’t stay awake, and couldn’t concentrate on anything other than the nausea churning in my stomach.

  The longer I stand at the counter, the more my legs feel like leaden logs that do not want to cooperate. I can get up steadily now, even though my knees are weak, unlike Saturday when I had to almost crawl to get to the bathroom. Thank god my apartment isn't too large, or I would have never made it in time for the numerous gut wrenching bouts with the toilet.

  Walking to the master bedroom behind the kitchenette, I grab a wrinkled pair of jeans and a white T-shirt from the laundry basket sitting on the bed. The soft comfort of my mattress calls to me to settle in for a few more hours. But I had lain on the couch for far too long, and know that I need to move about and get something to eat.

  Popping on my sandals, I walk back to the living room and grab my wallet, keys and cell phone from the coffee table. Feeling warm light on my back from the wall of windows that looks out over a balcony to the Navy Pier and Lake Michigan, I head out the door.

  Eleven stories up, I walk the clean hallway, decorated with photos of the Chicago skyline on the walls. On my floor, four other apartments exist in this wing of the X shaped twelve-story building. Each floor of the X has access to its own elevator, giving semblance of privacy. All of the apartments are occupied by a myriad of people who can afford such luxury.

  I myself am not one of those people. I can barely afford to put gas in my car. But my grandfather, Timothy Briggs, had invested heavily in construction along Lake Shore Drive in the booming days of Chicago’s growth. And with that, he acquired ownership in numerous buildings, including the one I live in now.

  At first, my apartment was to be a place for anyone in the family visiting the city to stay overnight. But after my grandfather passed away his assets had been sliced up between the children and grandchildren. I ended up with three thousand feet of prime real-estate, and a small stipend doled out every month. Not a whole lot, but enough to keep food in the pantry and gas in my car.

  On top of that, I work with my dad at a job I don't necessarily want, but it pays the remainder of my bills. I help my dad at the Briggs and Sons Funeral Home, with four convenient locations in the Chicago land area, serving all of your dearly departed's needs.

  My parents raised me with ethics, and the mantra that I have to earn my keep. So after graduating high school, I went to the Lincoln School of Mortuary Sciences and got my bachelor’s degree.

  So here I am, twenty-three, just off a gut wrenching bout of the flu, and a hankering for coffee. I know that I should eat, but the thought of food makes my stomach churn. Maybe I could hold down some chicken soup if the café on the first floor has any today. They rotate their selection of soups daily, and I'm not in the mood for split pea.

  Hitting the down button on the elevator key pad, I wait a minute for the car to arrive. The doors open with a ding that can be heard down the entire length of the hall. Stepping in, I hit the first floor button. As the steel doors touch, the lights dim for a moment. I get a momentary fear of being trapped, and that the elevator will plummet the eleven stories, down. Leaving me a pile of goo crushed in a steel box of steel.

  Reaching the first floor, the elevator comes to a gentle stop with a light bump. Just before the doors open, the bell dings again signaling our arrival. I step out of the car onto clean white marble tiles with streaks of black running through them, and find the lobby deserted.

  I walk across the long lobby, past well-maintained three-foot ferns and leafy plants placed at strategic places to give a comforting feeling.

  Four businesses occupy the first floor. Bella’s, a small eight table coffee shop, offering sandwiches, gourmet coffee and pastries at prices that would make the normal Chicagoan choke. The food is good, and they seem to make a living from it, especially in the tourist season when the Navy Pier is at full swing. Tourists always need a spot to rest their weary feet, and Bella’s has an inviting atmosphere that draws them in.

  Next door is Chang’s Dry Cleaners and Alterations, open seven days a week, six till six, no questions asked and prompt service. Oddly, no one named Chang works in, or owns, the business.

  Across the lobby, two offices house the practices of a gynecologist and a dentist. Beneath all of this is a parking garage that rents stalls by the month at five hundred dollars a pop.

  Pulling the glass door open to Bella’s, I’m not greeted with the usual, “Hi, Robin. Your usual today?” from Debbie Foil, the ca
fes owner, always at her place beside the register. She’s not there, nor are any customers. The place is as deserted as the lobby. No music plays in the background; no sizzle of something cooking from the kitchen. Worse, no smell of fresh brewed coffee is in the air.

  Thinking that I might be too early, I pull out my phone and see a blank screen. I forgot to turn it on when I got up. I turned it off late Friday night when I crawled onto the couch, not wanting to be disturbed.

  “Hello?” I call out. Nothing comes back in return.

  I let the door close behind me and glance out the long window dominating the far wall. Two cars sit at the intersection, waiting at a red light, but no foot traffic passes by on the sidewalk.

  Scratching my head, I find it strange that I had woken up before any foot traffic started. I never get up early enough to beat the crowds.

  Walking to the counter, I lean forward and look toward the open doorway leading to the kitchen.

  “Debbie, you here?” I ask; again no response.

  Behind me I hear the sharp ring of the bell signaling that the street side door has opened. At first I don’t turn around. If customers are coming in, then I’m not too early. Whoever just entered stumbles against a table, knocking a chair over. I can hear that their steps are unbalanced as they kick the chair. That brings my attention around.

  Turning, I see a woman leaning over the fallen chair, wearing a light brown leather bombers jacket, and jeans with holes in the knees. The long brown hair covering her face almost touches the floor.

  “Are you alright?” I ask, taking a step towards her.

  A growl rumbles across the room, making me stop in my tracks, and forget that I wanted coffee.

  What happened next seems in slow motion. The woman lifts her head to reveal a pale face, covered with perspiration. Through the strands of hair, I can see deep scratches running in furrows down her cheeks, one reaching through her right eye, splitting it into two dripping gelatinous globs. Blood trails from each gouge, and drips in bloody ribbons from her nose, mouth and chin. Seeing no other wounds, I figure that this woman has just been violently mugged.

  Through broken teeth, some hanging loosely, some missing completely, the woman screams at me.

  “Lady, you need me to call the police?” I stammer, unsure of what exactly to do.

  I move back to the counter where I had left my phone. Pressing the button on the side of the phone, it springs to life. The woman stares at me, weaving back and forth, as if she might fall.

  “Sit down,” I say as I press the phone icon.

  As I tap in 911, the woman screams again. In pain, she twists her head, her gaze never leaving me. Then in a lurch, she charges towards me. Frozen in place, I watch as she takes two stiff-legged steps and then bounces her hip hard off of a table. She stumbles on the accompanying chair, and falls, sprawling on the floor.

  Her scream is cut short as she smacks, face down, on Debbie’s tiled floor. I hear the wet crunch as her nose shatters.

  Putting the phone to my ear, I listen to the ring on the other end. I take a tentative step towards the woman. Part of me wants to help, but the other part says to stay away. She is distraught by the attack and ready to strike out at anyone near.

  The line connects and a recorded female voice comes on stating, ‘All lines are currently busy. Please wait for the next available operator.’

  As I hit the disconnect icon, the injured woman’s hand shoots out, and grabs hold of my ankle. Caught off guard, I drop my phone where it clatters to the ground.

  Raising her head, the woman pulls herself forward. Mouth open, she tries to take a bite out of me. Broken teeth smash down on the leg of my jeans as I pull my ankle from her grip, losing my sandal in the process.

  “What the fu…,” I yell, grabbing the nearest chair for balance.

  The woman reaches for me again, bloody spittle flying from her injured mouth as she growls.

  In any other situation I would think that she is reaching for help. But her snapping jaws, the puddle of blood, and broken teeth flowing from her mouth, tell me to run. I pull a chair between us, and hold it in place as she smacks at it with her hands.

  I try to reassure her. “You need to calm down, lady. Stay there and I’ll call the police.”

  By the dazed look in her remaining good eye, I can tell that she does not understand. I look for my phone, and don’t see it anywhere.

  “Stay!” I demand, and move as quickly as I can for the counter.

  Moving around the counter, I grab the landline phone next to the register. Hitting the talk button on the handset, I put it to my ear. All I get is dead air. I hit the on-button a few more times—nothing.

  “Debbie,” I yell over my shoulder, hoping she's in the kitchen.

  I look at the woman, and see her struggling to get up.

  “Stay there. I’ll get help,” I say, sure she doesn’t hear me over the grunts of pain that flow from her.

  I dash into the kitchen to see no one. Halfway down the room, a stainless steel sink sits full of sudsy water, so I know Debbie, or one of her girls, must be here.

  “Debbie!” I call, moving along the steel prep table that stretches through the center of the room.

  A smeared streak of red on the floor wraps around the farthest table leg. Cautiously I step forward. A cold chill races up my spine. Could Debbie have been mugged by the same person as the lady in the dining room? Or was it a burglary gone wrong and I just happened to walk in on it?

  “Debbie?”

  Stepping around the end of the table, I see that the red streak reaches towards the large squat stainless-steel refrigerator against the far wall. A bloody hand print stands out on the lower half of the door. Other than that, there is nothing, as if whoever had been injured got up, and walked off.

  From behind, I hear utensils spill from a plastic tray, striking the floor in a loud crash. Spinning around, I see the injured woman standing in the doorway. Breathing heavily, a mixture of blood, and drool, drips from her open mouth. Her tongue seems to taste the air between the few ragged teeth she has left.

  As she takes a step forward, her shoes slip on the scattered silverware. Her only good eye stares at me hungrily.

  “Miss, you need to sit down. You're hurt.” I lift a hand, palm out, trying to calm her.

  Her head cocks sideways at a sharp angle, reminding me of a cocker spaniel not understanding what she was being told to do.

  My brain screams to grab something for protection. If Debbie had been mugged, the bad guys could still be near. And this lady, as well as being injured, is really pissed and willing to take it out on anyone nearby—which just happens to be me.

  On my left, near the fridge, lay a long stainless steel counter with pots, pans, baking sheets and a meat tenderizer. Grabbing the heavy mallet, I shake it at the woman.

  “Miss, you need to sit down,” I say with a stern voice. But as a portion of the woman’s injured eye slides down her cheek, I know that I'm in trouble.

  Lunging forward, the woman strikes the table and her knees buckle. Pounding the steel surface with her hands, she claws it to stay upright. Her nails break, leaving streaks of blood along its surface.

  I step to the left, and she responds by moving in the same direction, blocking my escape route to the dining room.

  I glance at the service window connecting the two rooms, and know that I have to take my chance with it. I lunge to the right going around the table. The woman follows my movement, just a second behind.

  Grabbing the counter, I jump up on it and move for the window. The woman comes on. Screaming, she grabs for me and tries to take another bite out of whatever flesh she can grab.

  Swinging back with the mallet, I strike her along the temple. The heavy metal head of the tenderizer connects with a wet thud as her mandible cracks. Her skin splits open like ripe fruit. She falls, bouncing her head off the counter, and collapses on the floor.

  I pause for a moment, thinking that I had killed her. But as soon as s
he hits the floor, blood gushing from the ragged tear across her jaw, she starts for me again. My mind screams for me to run, and run I do. Pushing my way through the window, I send a stack of plates crashing to the floor.

  Striking the soda fountain with my knee, I knock a spigot free and carbonated water and syrup spurt everywhere.

  Not waiting, I jump the front counter by the register and dash for the door. As I move through the door into the lobby, I can hear the woman screaming in the kitchen. Her voice cut off as the door closes behind me, shutting me in silence.

  Turning, I see her stumble into the dining room, striking at everything within reach. Not wanting to be the continuing focus of her wrath. I step to the side of the door, hiding behind a large fern. I know that she needs an ambulance, but I have no way of calling them. My phone is under a table, fifteen feet away.

  I race across the marble tiled lobby, and grab the dentist's office door—locked. I look through the glass for anyone inside, but I see no movement. The only light on inside is just above the reception desk.

  A chair strikes the café door. I turn to see the woman holding a chair by its leg. Repeatedly she swings the chair at the door, sending fractures radiating up the glass. I know she can just pull the door open, but her anger shows her determination to hurt something.

  Desperate for a plan, I run back across the lobby to the dry cleaners. Throwing the door open, I’m hit with the sound of Japanese music, and steam coming from the presses in the backroom. I look towards the counter and see a woman leaning out of the drive-thru window.

  “Miss,” I say, trying to catch my breath. “Call 911. A woman’s injured over at Bella’s.”

  The woman does not respond. She is leaning too far to hear me. She must be talking to someone who has not pulled their car close enough to the window.

  “Miss,” I say louder.

  Not waiting for her response, I reach over the counter and look for a phone. There is no landline, or cell phone, anywhere in the jumble of customer orders and receipts.