Chicago Undead (Book 1): On The Eleventh Floor

by Shawn Weaver

  Opening the cupboard, I see a pot, sauce pan and a baking sheet, each one looking as new as the day I bought them. None of them are overtly sturdy, but the baking sheet gives me a little more reach than the rest. Maybe I can bash one of Alex’s grandparents into submission. But both? I'm not sure.

  As hard as I can, I smack the baking sheet on the edge of the counter. The loud metal on Formica contact makes Georgie jump. My ears ring, and sharp vibrations race up my arms, ending in my elbows.

  The baking sheet won't take many strikes to crumple it. But it does have folded edges, and that gives me confidence. If I'm quick enough, I can cause some fast damage, possibly taking out one of the grandparents before the other is aware of me.

  Moving out into the hall, I step around the glass from the shattered picture frame. I think about going back and grabbing my tennis shoes. But, if I go back, I might lose my nerve. And at the moment, my nerves are only hanging on by a thread anyway. The safety of Lalea keeps me going.

  Georgie follows me out and I tell him to go back. In response, he only sits down and looks at me with a cocked head and large eyes that ask, What’s next?

  I hold out my hand, pressing my palm down, and say, “Stay.”

  He doesn’t move.

  Gripping the sides of the baking sheet, I hear the doors of the elevator close and open on the remains of the table, and a leg falls off.

  Though it is shaking on its hinges, the door at the end of the hall is holding up. I can hear Alex’s grandpa clawing at the wood and moaning pitifully to get through.

  “Alex,” I say loudly, so he can hear me in his hiding place. “No matter what you hear, stay where you are. Alright?”

  He is too frightened to respond, but Grandpa does. As if he can sense me standing on the other side, he pounds and scratches at the door with more fervor now.

  I reach for the door handle, turn the knob and kick the door as hard as I can. A solid thunk sounds when the door connects with Grandpa’s head. As he falls backwards, I grip the baking sheet and step to the side. Pressing myself up against the wall, I can feel my heart trying to beat its way free of my chest.

  The door stands open a good foot. Grandpa has stopped moaning, but I hear movement inside. The door shifts. Bloodied fingers with ripped nails grip the doorframe. Then the door slowly opens as if Grandpa is having a hard time trying to figure out how to do it, and not get in the way as he does.

  Letting go of the door, Grandpa supports himself with both hands against the doorframe. I hear ragged breathing as he comes into view. Blood drips in gooey gobs from the lower portion of his face. He lifts his head sharply upward, sniffing the air, following the scent. And I know it's me he smells.

  Then, head snapping in my direction, his eyes are yellowed and clouded, every blood vessel broken and leaking. The few grey hairs left on his balding head stick out in every direction.

  Mouth opening, he roars and lunges. His arthritic body moves slowly, full of stiff joints. I use that to my advantage. Swinging hard, I smash the baking sheet against his face, nose crunching. The impact travels all the way up to my shoulders as the center of the sheet indents.

  Head snapping back from the blow, Grandpa strikes the doorjamb, splitting the back of his head on the edge. Blood spurts across the wood. I swing again and he moves into the blow. This time he is taken off of his feet, and falls to the floor, landing hard on his side.

  Without stopping, Grandpa reaches for my leg. I kick his hand away. Teeth gnashing, he lunges as best he can for my foot. Swinging the sheet, it connects, knocking Grandpa onto his back.

  Hands reaching for me, he gurgles a scream. I lift the baking sheet over my head, then slam it down, edge first, into Grandpa’s open mouth. Pushing with all of my weight, I feel his dentures break.

  I lift the sheet a little and slam it back down, dislocating his jaw with a sickening crunch. I do it again, and again, farther separating his jaw from his skull. Feeling no pain through the heavy damage, Grandpa sinks his fingers into my ankle. I can feel his blood on my foot as it trickles on my skin.

  With a snap of the pan, Grandpa’s dentures shoot from his mouth, scattering across the floor. Jaw hanging open, tongue lolling loosely to the side, Grandpa slaps at the sheet as I press down with all of my weight, trying to sever his head from the rest of his body.

  Dented, the sheet gives in the center and folds under my weight. Unbalanced, I fall with it. The top half of the sheet crunches into Grandpa’s face.

  Rolling off, I scramble to my feet. Grandpa paws at the sheet, trying to knock it away. But it is folded sharply, the bottom edge wedged against his upper plate and what remains of his lower jaw.

  I stomp down on the top half of the sheet. Ignoring the pain that crosses the ball of my foot to the heel, I do it again and again. Feeling the metal denting into the old man’s face, I don’t stop until I hear Grandpa’s skull crunch and his hands drop heavily to the floor.

  Panting hard, I look towards the Yews' apartment, hoping that Alex hasn’t seen what I have done. Luckily, the entryway was empty.

  CHAPTER SIX

  The door to Grandpa’s apartment hangs partially open. Darkness coats the wall beyond. Stepping over Grandpa, I push the door open farther, all the while expecting Grandma to come charging out, but I don’t see her.

  My foot lands in a puddle of what I hope is only Grandpa’s blood. Its wet stickiness sends a wave of revulsion through me. I turn left into the entryway, and pass by a large coat closet. The bi-fold doors are open and everything inside, from winter coats to blankets from the top shelf, are scattered across the floor.

  I hear Grandma still slapping the balcony door, her teeth clacking against the glass as she tries to eat her way through. All of her attention is locked on Lalea so she has no idea that I stand only twenty feet away.

  Stepping into the living room, I see the vertical blinds, now hanging askew on the old lady’s shoulders; block my view of the lower half of the balcony. I hear Lalea crying. That's a good sign. Now I had to get Grandma away. But how?

  To my right stands the kitchenette with the master bedroom behind. To my left, a small hallway leads to two bedrooms and an adjoining bathroom. I don't want to lead her out into my only escape route, so I slip along the living room wall into the hallway.

  The first bedroom isn't overtly large, decorated modestly with a full closet and an entrance to the bathroom. If this apartment has the same layout as mine, the bathroom connects to the adjoining bedroom, as well as the hall.

  I step to the next door and enter the bathroom with double sinks, standing shower and a white tiled floor cleaner than mine by a long shot. With a sigh of relief, I see that both bedrooms are connected.

  If Grandma moves as stiffly as Grandpa did, I can lead her into the last bedroom and close the doors, shutting her in. Problem solved, for a while anyway. But first I have to get her away from the window.

  Shutting the bathroom door behind me, I walk to the first bedroom. From the bed I grab a pillow, ripping the light blue case off. I wrap it around my right arm. If I have to, I can defend myself like the police dog trainers I’ve seen on TV do. She could bite down on my arm, and the pillowcase will hopefully cushion the bite, so I won't be harmed.

  Closing the bedroom door behind me, I know that I have to be fast. Once I close her in the bathroom. I only have seconds to run around and shut the other bedroom door, locking her in.

  Though the hallway is only fifteen feet long, it seems to stretch on forever. Reaching the end, I stand and study the old lady. In the time I've been exploring the bedrooms, she had ripped the blinds all the way off of the wall.

  “Hey,” I yell, ready to run. She doesn’t respond. Her focus is on Lalea, who I can now see.

  Blonde hair reaches down to her tiny shoulders and frames a round face streaked with tears. She's wearing a red pair of footy pajamas, with overstuffed rabbit slippers on her feet. Besides having a pink nose and whiskers, each rabbit's long ears reach halfway up her knees.

>   I step to the couch, where an end table stands, holding a large lamp with its light bulb still glowing. Next to that is a well-read Zane Grey paperback. And finally, a glass ashtray filled with jelly beans, showing that a reformed smoker lives here. A pale white lampshade lays partially crushed on the floor.

  Picking up the ashtray, I dump its contents on the couch and yell, “Hey,” again.

  Chucking the ashtray at her head, I see that my aim is off. The ashtray slams into Grandma’s shoulder, bounces off, and smacks into the glass door.

  Grabbing the paperback, I pull my arm back, ready to throw it at her, spine first, but the ruffling pages catch Grandma’s attention. She snaps her head around, growling at me. Blood runs from her eyes in thin ribbons, and white foamy spittle rises at the corners of her mouth.

  Ignoring the slats of the blind hanging off her shoulders, Grandma stands, knees popping loudly, her old prey forgotten, fresh meat at hand. Stepping on the edge of one of the slats, Grandma stumbles. In her fall, she strikes her head on the floor with a wet crunch, but that doesn’t stop her.

  Getting on her hands and knees, Grandma rips the slats free. Some break, while other pieces saw into her flesh with every jerk. A fold of skin peels away from her neck as a slat breaks.

  I drop the paperback and take a step back. Free of the blind, Grandma struggles to her feet. Fingers clawing the air, she moves forward again. I turn and run down the hall. Stopping in the doorway to the first bedroom, I wait. In her hunger I do not have to wait long for Grandma to follow.

  She is quicker than I figured she would be. By the time I rush through the bedroom to the bathroom, I feel her nails on my shoulder. Swinging back with my pillow case-wrapped arm, I strike her in the chest. A fetid burst of air rushes out of her lungs. I gag as she stumbles backward. That does not faze her for long. I barely have time to get across the bathroom and pull the door shut behind me.

  As she hits the wood, I run for the door on the other side of the bedroom. Grabbing the handle, I rip the door open; expecting to find an empty hall so I can run back to the first bedroom and close that door, successfully locking Grandma in.

  Instead, I'm stopped by Grandma sticking her head out of the other bedroom’s door, sniffing the air like a hound tracking my scent. Our eyes lock, mine wide and frightened, hers bloodshot and hungry.

  With a growl she charges. My reaction is a second too slow. I try to slam the door shut. She hits it, sending me off my feet. The door continues its path and bounces off the wall.

  Pushing the door out of the way, she comes down on me, teeth gnashing. I thrust my arm up and make contact with her jaw, snapping it shut. The tip of her tongue is severed and falls onto my chest. Saliva, mixed with blood, splatters across my face. Grandma is feeling no pain, and the missing part of her tongue doesn’t diminish her hunger at all.

  Keeping my arm up when she bites down on the pillowcase, I can feel the pressure from her teeth. Surprised by her strength, I have to struggle to keep her up.

  With my right hand, I grab her hip and push her off. My arm is still locked in her jaws, and I can do nothing but follow her momentum. But this time, I’m the one on top.

  Clawing, her nails catch my face, leaving long scratches down the left side. I feel blood rise as one of her fake nails breaks.

  With a closed fist, I pound on her head, then drive a knee into her chest, jumping slightly so I can use all of my weight. A normal person would have had the air knocked from them. She isn't normal, and isn’t breathing out of necessity, but out of habit.

  Her jaw loosens on my arm when her head smacks the floor. Pulling my arm free, I leap to my feet. Grandma sits up and I lash out with my foot, kicking her in the face.

  A picture hanging on the wall to my left calls out to me. I rip it from its hanger and swing. Shattering, shards of glass cut into her skin, having no effect in her pursuit of me. Stepping back, I grab the door and slam it shut, then sprint to the next bedroom and close the door.

  On the other side of the door, Grandma roars, angry that her dinner has gotten away.

  Running down the hall, I move around the couch, trying not to stumble on the lamp shade and blinds scattered across the floor. Reaching the balcony door, I grab the handle and throw the latch that Alex had locked to ensure his sister's safety.

  As I slide the door open, Lalea lets out a high pitched wail that eats into my head. Never having seen me before, she’s terrified. I know that I look a mess. Putting on my best smile, I get down on my knees. Not entering the balcony, I hold out a hand.

  “Lalea,” I say calmly. “Hi. I’m Robin.”

  Avoiding eye contact, she presses her face against the wall, her hair blowing in the wind.

  Somewhere between the buildings behind us, a loud boom echoes as something explodes.

  “Lalea,” I say again. “Alex sent me to get you.” I smile, hoping to ease her fright. “Come on, we've got to go and see your brother.”

  She doesn’t move. I can’t wait long. Grandma is pounding on the bedroom door. Standing, I step out onto the balcony. Lalea squeals again. I ignore it, trying to keep a smile on my face.

  Stepping across the balcony, I grab her. She kicks and pounds at me with her tiny fists. Holding her to my chest, I lock her arms down with mine, and try to keep a tight grip on her legs.

  Talking calmly, I go back into the living room. Circling the couch, I make my way to the entryway. In the small hall, I see the pool of blood that has grown from Grandpa’s body. One of his feet sticks into the hall and I stop. That’s when I notice Grandma’s pounding has stopped.

  Slowly I turn, cradling Lalea’s head in my hand. There, standing in the now open doorway, is Grandma. Blood streaks the doorjamb and down the wall where she had stumbled after somehow getting the latch to pop open.

  I turn and run through the entryway, trying to sidestep the puddle of blood, but the sticky mess is everywhere. My foot lands in it, and off my feet I go. So as not to land on Lalea, I twist to my side, ending up partially in both hall and the entryway.

  My ribs crack on Grandpa’s shoe. Blood splashes up, soaking my T-shirt. When I let go of Lalea, she rolls off of her grandpa and ends up in the hall.

  Wiping a spray of blood from my eyes, I watch Lalea sit up, a look of stunned confusion on her face.

  Georgie barks sharply from the doorway of the Yews' apartment. Alex stands there with Georgie hiding behind his feet.

  “Take her and run,” I yell, waving my hand towards the now closed elevator. The loose screws of the table have finally worked themselves free, and the framework has shifted out of the elevator by the double doors repetitious closing.

  Alex does not move. His frozen stare locks on his grandpa’s dead body.

  “Alex, now!” I yell. Grandma comes down the hall, growling like a wild animal.

  Unbalanced, she stumbles into the wall, knocking over everything in her path. The jumble of coats and blankets catch her feet and she goes down, smacking her face into the puddle of her husband’s blood. She hits so hard a normal person would have been dazed, but not her. Hunger keeps her moving.

  Seeing his grandma frightens Alex into motion. He dashes into the hall and scoops up Lalea. Crying, she wraps her arms around her brother’s neck and squeezes. Alex struggles to hold her. Doing his best, he starts towards the elevator.

  Grandma reaches out and grabs my foot, her grip stronger now than when she was alive. She starts to crawl forward, making the pool of blood flow away from her like a tide.

  I snap my free foot forward, catching her between the eyes with my heel. Head snapping back, Grandma loses her grip. As quickly as I can, I scramble back and get to my feet.

  I start to run behind Alex, urging him on. Soaked in her husband’s blood, Grandma doesn’t stop her pursuit either. She stands and lunges out of the apartment, stepping down on her husband’s corpse as if he isn’t even there.

  “Run,” I yell, hearing her behind us. I dare not look, afraid of how close she actually could be.
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br />   A few yards from the elevator, I hear it ding as the floor arrival light comes on. The door starts to slide open.

  Afraid of what may have triggered the elevator; I raise my hand and yell at Alex to go towards the stairwell. As the doors divide, I see that no horrendous monsters are going to lurch out, trapping us in both directions. Instead a man, disheveled and dressed in the blue of a police officer, stands in the center of the elevator, his rifle raised and at the ready.

  I feel a flood of relief as I approach. I see him tracking along the gun sight and figure that he is aiming at the flesh eater behind us. But as he pulls the trigger, I feel hot lead enter my chest, just above my heart. It punctures my lung, shatters my collar bone and exits my back as fast as it went in.

  The force of the bullet sends me backwards off of my feet. Striking my head on the floor, the world spins. My vision blurs for a moment as my mind fills with pain.

  I see Grandma’s form loom over me in a dark blurred mass. Another shot rings out. A bullet enters Grandma’s head, turning it to mush. Like rain, her brains splatter over me as her body collapses, finally dead.

  I try to suck in a breath, but it feels like I am underwater. I can’t get enough, and my pulse pounds in my ears, and a wave of heat crawls up my skin.

  From the direction of the elevator, I hear the man ask Alex if he is alright. I don’t hear the boy's reply over Lalea’s crying. I try to turn my head and ask for help, but all I can get out is a gurgle, and taste iron in my mouth as blood foams on my lips.

  I hear the man step out of the elevator. Through teary eyes, I look up and try to focus on him. His body is a blur, but the barrel of the rifle looms large in my face. I can smell gun oil, and burnt gun powder.

  Lifting my hand, I reach up and try to ask for help again. Nothing other than a moan escapes. That’s when I hear the final shot and a bullet enters my brain. After that, I feel nothing. No pain and no extended agony of changing into one of the undead that I had been running from all day. At least I’m safe. Here on the eleventh floor.