Zombie, Illinois (26 page)

After a quick, one-story elevator ride, I find myself in the network of passages and meeting rooms underneath the Cultural Center. The hallways are clean and tidy, but also drab and functional. Not like the shining wood and glass above.

In the hallway before me is a cranky-looking man with a chrome revolver sticking out of his waistband. I smile at him broadly. He grudgingly steps aside, allowing me to pass.

I've been down here a couple of times for different events. (If my memory serves, there's a very large conference room at the end of this hallway.) The side rooms are filled with people, most of whom look like they work for the city. I smile at everyone and try to fit in.

The giant oak doors to the conference room come into view. Standing on either side are two large men wearing handguns. They look like thugs who work for aldermen—somebody else's Shawn Michael Recinto. They are chatting and smiling, but they face away from the door. (Whatever is happening inside, it's clear that somebody thinks it needs to be protected.) When they see me, they fall silent and begin to frown.

I make eye contact with the men—and wonder what the fuck I'm going to say to them—when suddenly the oak doors open slightly, and a young woman edges herself out as silently as she can. In her hands are a pen and a legal pad full of scribbles. She turns around, and I realize I know her.

Jessy Knowlton. She is a reporter for the
Chicago Defender,
Chicago's oldest and most venerable black newspaper. Jessy can't be older than twenty-five. She mostly does human i nterest stories—a high school football team's woe as a coach is lost to gang violence, a famous actor returns to his south side neighborhood to share the wealth, R. Kelly does . . . something—but I've also seen her at church-sponsored events around the community. She seems smart, and I like her. I also wonder what on earth she is doing here.

“Pastor Mack!” she says brightly, juggling her legal pad around so she can shake my hand.

“Jessy Knowlton. How are you.. .you know, considering?”

“I'm wonderful,” she says, conducting me down the hall, away from the glowering guards. She walks me to a very small commissary with vending machines. It's empty except for us.

“This is incredible,” Jessy says, galvanized. “Almost half of the city council is in that conference room.
All
of the south side aldermen and a few from other neighborhoods made it too. Apparently Aldermen Mogk and Szuter put the word out with street teams. Said that everyone should try to meet here because the roads are clogged up and it's impossible to get to the Loop. We had aldermen arriving by
bike,
but they still made it!”

“Crazy.”

“Hang on,” she says, holding up a notepad full of jottings. “The plot thickens! So the mayor got eaten by zombies.You knew that, right?”

I nod.

“Okay, so the power goes to the vice mayor, who is Frankie Munoz. You know Frankie, right? The south side alderman for that little Hispanic pocket? Anyhow, Munoz has gone i nsane. Fled the city and, apparently—Alderman Mogk thinks so, at least—taken a lot of city resources and cash with him. Mogk says she had a conversation with Munoz where he said ‘Fuck you, I'm leaving'—right before the phones went dead—but I can't verify that.yet. What I do know is that the city council and its lawyers are working to pass an emergency measure to give power to Alderman Mogk—make her the interim mayor.”

“Can they do that without everybody present?”

“This zombie situation is pretty unprecedented, but yes, I think they can. Like I said, they've got almost half the city council in there, and more aldermen are showing up by the minute. This is historic. And it's a hell of a scoop!”

“You're.reporting on this?”

“Are you kidding? Of course I am!”

“They're
letting you?”

“They
wanted
me to. Marja's people came and found me. It turns out she wants a record of all of it. And you know the best part?”

I shake my head, not seeing a “best part” anywhere.

“I'm the only reporter here!” Jessy beams. “There's nobody from the
Tribune,
the
Sun-Times, Brain's,
the
Crusader,
the
Hyde Park Herald
.. .nobody! This is the scoop of a generation, and it's all mine! At first I was like, ‘This is a Pulitzer, easy!' But then I was like, ‘No, aim higher, Knowlton. This is a book...or two.' Either way, I'm gonna pay off those J-school loans before I turn thirty. Hot damn!”

“I am, guardedly, happy for you,” I respond as Jessy fumbles to activate a vending machine.

“So, look, I just left to get a cup of coffee. This is gonna be an all-nighter, and I want to be there for all of it. Every moment of what's going on in there is historic!”

A thought occurs to me.

“Jessy, did Alderman Mogk give you access to
everywhere
in the Cultural Center?” I ask, beginning to see an opportunity.

“I guess, yeah. She told all the big guys with guns I was with her. But see, I only
want
to be in that meeting room. That's where the action is.”

“What if I told you there's another side to the story?” I say cautiously. “What if I know something that makes it an even bigger scoop?”

Coffee in hand, Jessy takes a glance down the hallway—back toward the oaken doors and the conference room.

But then she looks into my eyes and says, “I'm listening.”

Believe it or not, the worst part is
not
the being tied to a chair like a damsel in distress from some goddamn B-movie. Neither is the betrayal. (I think of how excited I felt when Shawn Michael returned to the car. How I began to tell him that Ben had fucked off, and then having a gun stuck into my ribs, being disarmed, and being dragged inside. I thought,
A second ago I would have said yes to a quickie in a broom closet, and now you're dragging me around like a prisoner. This is definitely your loss, bub)

No. Instead, the worst part is the utter lack of explanation.

I'm sitting in this little storage room, tied to a chair with rope and with electrical tape over my mouth, and I have no clue what is going on. None! There is only one entrance, and Shawn Michael is standing in front of it, looking back at me. And that's it. That's all the information I have.

I regret not resisting more when he brought me inside the Cultural Center. All those people just accepted it when he pulled me upstairs. Maybe they're on his side—whatever's happening— but maybe they're not. Maybe I could have screamed for help.

I should have at least tried. I should have said
something.

Now there is electrical tape over my mouth, and I can't say anything.

Fuck.

After what seems like forever, there's a knock at the door, and a thuggish-looking man in a blue blazer walks inside. He and Shawn Michael stay by the door—maybe 15 feet away from me—and start to whisper. They think I can't hear them, but I can. “What did she say?”

“He's got one other relative, out in Oak Park. He got to be there.if he ain't dead already.”

“Fucking Oak Park. What do we do?”

“She says send a street team. Cars as far as you can. Then on foot. Or bicycles. Whatever it takes”

“I heard the highway's too clogged even for bicycles.”

“Mmm hmm. She says go anyway. Make it look like a robbery. People might get curious when the CPD comes back. No shell casings they can trace. Use bats and knives if you can”

“Oh, I'm goin'?”

“Yes.”

“And kill everybody?”

“Yes.”

“So what's
she,
then?”

Both men look over at my taped mouth. I pretend not to pay attention.

“Insurance. Munoz won't come out and fight? You let him know we got his daughter.”

“A'ight.”

“She said you did real good with this, Shawn Michael. She said when this all over, maybe it's time for you to get a ward of your own. Be an alderman yourself. Maybe when they redraw the ward maps comin' up, there's one in there for you.”

“A'ight den.”

“A'ight.”

The man in the blue blazer leaves.

Shawn Michael seems to relax a little. He takes out his phone. There is still no service—on cell or land lines—but he starts to play a video game. It is disgusting. In the car, he seemed like an articulate gentleman. I realize, now, that that was all an act. This is the real Shawn Michael.

I try hard not to cry. If he sees my makeup running, he will know that I have heard them. That I now understand why I am tied to a chair and what they plan to do with me.

Not knowing is no longer the hardest part. Now it's trying not to cry.

And trying to figure out how I'm going to kill Shawn Michael Recinto.

I'm doing a pretty good job of winning the war on crying—and imagining having Shawn Michael pinned down on some kind of medieval torture rack (where I can get at him easily, and make it really slow and painful)—when there is another knock at the door.

Shawn Michael looks like he's playing a game he can't pause. He frowns and sighs, annoyed. He opens the door with one hand, still clicking and dragging with the other.

Standing in the doorway is a woman I've never seen before. About my age, black, short hair, and conservative clothes with a yellow legal pad in her hand.

Is this another drone of Marja Mogk's? Will I hear more stories about plans to kill my family? I brace myself for whatever comes next. (I would give my life if it would save my mother and my sister. If I know anything for sure, I know that.)

“Hi there,” the woman says.

“Mmm,” says Shawn Michael, his eyes flitting up and back down to his screen.

“Alderman Mogk said I should talk to you.” She looks past Shawn Michael and sees me tied to the chair.

“Mmm,” Shawn Michael says again.

“Yeah, uh, here's the thing...” she stammers. At that moment the door cracks a fraction wider. And there, standing behind the visitor, is the unmistakable visage of Leopold Mack. I see him, and in the same moment, he sees me. His eyes go wide.

Before the mystery woman can say anything more, Mack kicks the door. It flies open—knocking the hulking Shawn Michel to his knees and making him drop his phone. Mack pounces on Shawn Michael, and the woman shuts the door behind them.

Wham! Wham! Wham!

Pastor Mack delivers three giant punches to Shawn Michael's face before the aldermanic henchman can right himself. The blows have unexpected ferocity. I hear the horrible muffled crunch as Shawn Michael's nose breaks.

The gal rushes over and begins to untie me. Mack hovers over Shawn Michael with a raised fist. He's like Ali in that famous photo, wondering if the prone man deserves a final shot. Shawn Michael is not unconscious but curls in on himself like a broken insect. His hands are trying to shield his nose, which is now a centimeter or two out of place. In the end, Mack decides on a kick to the ribs instead. A hard one. Shawn Michael bucks ferociously and then lies still.

The young woman frees my hands from the ropes. I rip the duct tape from my mouth myself.

“Yeeeaugh,” I scream. “What the fuck is this!?!?” “Quiet” says Mack, pointing at me. “There's a damn army on the other side of that door.”

Mack turns to the woman unbinding my legs. “Jessy, this is the one I told you about. His daughter.” I look at Mack and wrinkle my nose. “You.know about my dad?” Mack nods.

“You never said anything before.”

“It never came up. Let's just say I might have wanted to know about you after you convinced my daughter to leave her family and friends. I might have done a little asking around about
you . . .
“

“Hooooooo,” moans Shawn Michael from his curled ball in the corner.

Mack pivots and gives him another quick kick to the belly.

“Quiet, you,” he barks. Then, to me, “This one killed the caretaker at Crenshaw.”