Zombie, Illinois (27 page)

“Why?” I say, freeing myself from the remaining ropes. “What the fuck are these people up to?”

“I'm not sure, but I think they aim to steal the city.”

“They want to kill my father,” I hiss, rising to my feet. My legs hurt and my mouth feels dry.

“This is Jessy Knowlton” Mack says, indicating the woman with him. “She's a reporter for the
Defender.
She might know how they plan to do it.”

“Your father is Frankie Munoz, the legitimate mayor?”Jessy asks.

I nod.

“My God” she says. “What a scoop!”

“We need to get out of here, guys,” Mack says. He reaches down into the curled ball that is Shawn Michael and comes away with a Glock.

The idea sinks in.

“How do we get past all those people in the lobby.and then all the ones outside?” I ask.

Mack checks the safety on the pistol, and then points it at me.

“You're going out the same way you came in,” Mack says. “With a gun in your back.”

We exit the storage room and stand at the top of the staircase like royalty waiting to be announced. We look down into the mass of humanity below us. It has not changed. If anything, it has swelled. Police, city officials, and armed citizens mill about or talk confidentially. Through the Cultural Center's windowed walls we can see that there is a massive crowd outside the building— hoping perhaps to be admitted inside, or only to be told that somebody is in control.

“Struggle,” Mack whispers to me. “Look at me like I just kicked your dog.”

With that, the pastor sticks the Glock into my side. Hard.

Fucker.

The scowl that crosses my face is not manufactured.

We head down the staircase toward the crowded first floor. Mack and I take the lead, with Jessy following. All eyes are on us. Mack wears the expression of a teacher who has just caught the most notorious delinquent tagging the walls of the gym for a third time. He keeps the gun in my ribs. Once, when I stumble on the stairs, he pulls me up by my hair.

Most folks seem bemused. They look at Mack's scowl—and his manhandling of me—and smile to one another. A couple of young men look like they want to intercede on my behalf, argue for gentler treatment of the prisoner. Mack stares them down.

We reach the first floor of the Harold Washington Cultural Center and head toward the front door, where a giant man is standing guard. I'm acutely aware of each
tick-tack, tick-tack
of our shoes on the floor. Each step is one closer to freedom, yet it still feels like—at any moment—these curious faces might train their weapons on us and fire. Or just rip us apart with their hands. It is like something out of a dream.

We reach the giant man and the exit he guards. For a moment, I wonder if he's on our side. He says, “Pastor Mack” and opens the door for us. But then there is a commotion from behind us. People are muttering, and I hear one: “Oh my God!” I turn and risk a glance (before Mack rights me forcefully) and see Shawn Michael standing at the top of the staircase with blood running down his shirt. With one hand, he holds his nose. With the other, he is gesturing in our direction.

“Whoa,” says the giant guard, stoically extending a huge, meaty leg to block our exit.

Without missing a beat, Mack takes the gun from out of my back and shoots him in the kneecap.

The weapon's report is deafening as it bounces around the frosted glass windows of the Cultural Center. It is followed by screams of alarm. The giant man goes down, gripping his leg like an NFL lineman with a hammie. His moan, however, is otherworldly, like a wounded ox. “Run, you idiots!” Mack shouts.

Dropping all pretense of captor and hostage, we sprint through the door and head into the crowd beyond. The reporter follows us. Mack is surprisingly fast. He's also tall, so the people crowded around see him coming and move aside. Mostly. A couple end up tasting his shoulder. They fall reeling to the landscaping below.

Other people are running too—away from us, or just away from the sound of the gunshot. After a few tense moments, we get through the crowd and into the street.

“This way,” Mack calls, taking us north up MLK along the sidewalk.

We still face a perimeter of watchmen. They patrol the i ntersection around the Cultural Center. At least one of them is dead ahead of us, carrying a rifle and wearing an orange cap. He's heard the shot but is looking past us, sniffing the air, trying to figure out what is going on.

Suddenly, there is a
KA-POW KA-POW KA-POW
from behind us.

A man emerges from the crowd, chasing us and firing a handgun.

“There!” he shouts, gesturing to us. “Stop those people!”

Mack veers off into the shadows by a row of parked cars. We follow. The man with the rifle raises his weapon and shoots it twice. There is a terrifying
P-PING
as one of the bullets ricochets near us.

We duck down behind the cars. Mack motions for us to keep moving. We creep north, using the shadowed row of cars as cover. More shouts of alarm arise from the Cultural Center.

Mack reaches the end of the row and stops. I join him, and we survey the grim landscape before us. We've edged past the confused guards, but just barely. And they're looking for us. We're by no means safe.

To our right is a row of shuttered three flats, without yards or alleyways between them. They might as well be a castle's impenetrable facade. To our left is an open boulevard, streetlights, and a few thin trees. No cover at all. That would be the worst place to run. That leaves north, where there are—yes—clusters of trees and a few more cars, but it's going to be very spotty in some sections in terms of things to hide behind. We'll have to sprint from shadow to shadow.

Mack, who has also reached this conclusion, whispers, “We'll head for the cars up ahead. Get behind that Toyota. If they still don't see us, try to make it behind that heap of recycling dumpsters. You see where I mean?”

Then, behind us, Jessy says, “Ben Bennington?”

Mack and I look at her.

“There!” Jessy says, gesturing. “On past the recycling cans. Look! I know that guy. He's with
Brain's.”
We look again. Jessy is right.

There, coming south along the sidewalk, is Ben Bennington. He is not in a hurry and does not look alarmed. Has he even heard the shots?

“Oh my God,” I say. “They'll shoot him on sight.”

Before I can say anything else, Mack starts sprinting toward Ben.

We run north. Ben is still ambling south. He sees us almost immediately . . . so do two armed guards from the Cultural Center, and they open fire.

The guns bark and bullets begin to ricochet.

Ben pulls a handgun from his pocket and begins pointing it in all directions.

“Ben!” I call. “It's us!”

Ben trains his gun in our direction, and for a moment I'm certain he's going to shoot me in the face. Then he recognizes us. He registers bewilderment and lowers the weapon. Then he sees the men with rifles farther down the street who are shooting at us. He shoots back.

We round a pile of blue recycling cans and hurdle the hood of a Toyota with a cheap spoiler that doesn't match the paint. (The words “Trust No Bitch” have been carefully painted across the rear window in Germanic script.) Mack hurdles it like an athlete, sliding over the hood and taking cover on the far side of the car. Jessy and I follow as best we can.

Ben squeezes off a couple more nervous shots and then l owers his gun. Nobody shoots back. It's unclear whether the guards from the Cultural Center are dead, in flight, or just not shooting anymore. Ben jogs over and joins us behind the Toyota.

“Mack!” Ben says, rubbing his eyes with his gloves. “What's going on? I thought you were dead”

“I am the resurrection and the life,” Mack says with a little chortle. Then, after a thought, he adds, “Not really.”

“Maria, you're okay!” Ben says.

“Relatively speaking,” I tell him.

Then Jessy Knowlton says, “Little help...”

We look back and see that Jessy is not taking cover. Jessy is not even on her feet. She's lying curled on her side, head down against the sidewalk. There is a hole in her chest the size of a golf ball. Blood is pooling beneath her.

“Omigod!” I say, unsure what to do.

“Bennington.” Jessy says, her voice suddenly a croak.

Ben is clearly aghast but creeps closer to Jessy.

“Here,” Jessy says, thrusting a blood-spattered legal pad at Ben. “It's
your
Pulitzer now.”

Ben smiles at this idea. Then frowns at the tragedy before him.

Three bloody, croaking breaths later, Jessy Knowlton is dead.

“Oh no!” Ben says. “Who shot Jessy? Who were those people? What is going on here?”

We give him the quick and dirty version. The city government trying to get a quorum at the Harold Washington Cultural Center; Marja Mogk trying to install herself as mayor; sending some guys out to kill my dad so there are no other people in line for the throne; Shawn Michael taking me inside the Cultural Center and tying me up.

“See!” Ben says, a little too loud. “I
told
you that guy was up to no good.”

I look at Ben and sigh, as if to say that this post-game analysis is not useful.

“We need to keep moving,” Mack says. “How's north?”

“It's fine, I guess,” Ben answers. “A few people. Nobody shooting at least.”

“Let's move before they realize which way we went,” Mack says.

We leave Jessy Knowlton's body in the gutter and s cuttle north like crabs, staying low behind cars and fences. I hazard a few looks back as we move up the block. There are figures in the distance that look like they might be with the group from the Cultural Center, but they're not following. It looks like we just might escape.

We reach a corner and turn down a side street. I risk one final look back. I see Jessy standing erect and resting an arm on the Toyota next to her. I stop and point this out to Ben and Mack. Mack just shakes his head no. We continue down the darkened street.

Maybe, if you're reading this, you might not think Chicago is worth fighting over. Not worth the constant political j ockeying, the gerrymandering, the literal and figurative backstabbing.

Well, it is.

The City of Chicago has an annual gross metropolitan product of over half a trillion dollars. That's trillion with a T. That's more than the entire GDP of countries like Sweden and Poland and Saudi Arabia. And Chicago is only 228 square miles, which makes it significantly smaller than Sweden and Poland and Saudi Arabia. It's a tight little funnel through which all of that wealth has to pass. And the people behind that half a trillion dollars all want favors, want to be taxed less, and want to be connected to whoever's in charge so those things can happen. If you can get your hands on that funnel—or even just a teensy little part of it—then everybody wants to be your friend and make you rich. (I haven't experienced it personally, but I have to guess this feels really, really good.)

Most people who aspire to be leeches on the money-funnel get in line at an early age. They help a local politician get elected or re-elected. In return, they expect to receive an appointment or a job with the city. Something small at first, but larger as time goes on. Something where they can manage people, get supervisory experience. Then, when the party bosses bless it, they can run for office themselves. Above all, aspirants to the money funnel must prove themselves good soldiers who will do anything asked of them. This includes mercilessly attacking anyone who dares to stand against the party.

You've heard of the way Scientologists go after anybody who criticizes them like it's suddenly a fucking war—labels them “suppressive persons” and attacks their children and families and so on? I think L. Ron Hubbard got that idea from Chicago politics. You take a run at a sitting politician in this town, and they come at you with all the resources of the city. Suddenly, the city inspectors find your house out of code, and you're hit with hundreds in fines and thousands of dollars worth of fixes to make. At the same time, the tax assessor may determine that he grossly undervalued your property last time around. Expect a new bill for the difference. Is the city sticker on your car in the wrong place? Have you parked more than six inches from the curb, or
touching
the curb? Are your windows tinted just a little too dark? Expect to find new traffic citations waiting underneath your windshield wiper every damn day.

When you go to war against someone entrenched in this system, they will use every resource and connection they have to harass you. And it's all nice and legal. Indeed, it is
through
laws that they will assail you. Everybody who got their phony-baloney city job because of the incumbent will come after you in any way they can. Why? What elicits such loyalty? The promise of a slightly larger space on the money funnel.