Zombie, Illinois by Scott Kenemore Page A

tell me to skedaddle. He just looked at me—up, down, and all around—to make plain they knew I was there. Then he went back inside.
    The next Sunday I attended services. Sixth months later, I was sitting in my first class at divinity school.
    I’ll always regret that part of my life. I’ll never be fine with the fact that I was a drug-fueled stickup man for most of my young adulthood. That I robbed women, children, and the elderly. It will always be with me.
    You don’t “get better.”
    You don’t “get over it.”
    You maintain.
    You maintain, and—when you can—you try to help people. That’s the only way it ever gets a little less awful.

    Sitting in my car in Humboldt Park—looking at the man next to me who is also scared shitless—I realize where it is that we need to go.
    â€œIf this is happening all over the city, then people are gonna head to church.”
    â€œThe church?” the man asks, as if I have invoked the notion of religion.
    â€œMy church . . . where I’m Pastor. If their relatives are coming back from the dead and it might be the end of the world, then people are going to be heading for the church. It’s where I would go. Where anybody would. They’re going to go talk to Jesus”
    The young man nods thoughtfully.
    â€œYou’re welcome to come with me,” I tell him. “It’s down in South Shore. We can be there in thirty minutes, maybe less”
    â€œYeah, okay. I sure as shit don’t wanna go back to my house.”
    â€œDo you have family you need to check on right now?”
    â€œNo, they’re back in Iowa” he says, not looking at me. “I have an ex-wife, but she went to Florida for the week.”
    â€œI see....Then you should come with me.”
    I put the Chrysler back into drive.
    â€œYou seem really certain,” he says.
    For the first time, he smiles.
    â€œThe Bible shows us that in times of portent and mystery, almost nothing is a coincidence,” I tell him.
    â€œOh” says the young man. “Well okay then. Let’s go.”
    We speed south through Humboldt Park, its verdant lawns and ball fields covered with a thin dusting of snow. I notice one person—or zombie—milling about, waist-deep in the center of a nearly frozen pond. Probably a zombie. It is far too cold for a swim tonight. Sirens continue to rise and fall on the streets around us. (I think any kind of siren anybody owns is going off tonight.)
    Occasionally, I see groups of people who clearly aren’t the risen dead standing around in front of their houses. They’re trying to figure out what’s going on. They talk to one another, like neighbors might do during a power outage or when there’s a fire on their street.
    We drive beneath an overpass with a stalled (or possibly abandoned) train on top of it and enter an African-American neighborhood called Garfield Park. It’s a rough place, like South Shore. More criminals released from prison return to Garfield Park than to any other neighborhood in Chicago. I wonder how the residents are faring? The streets are deserted. The snow on the sidewalks is undisturbed.
    Next to me, the young man—Ben—starts talking into his cell phone.
    â€œCaroline? Hey, how are you guys? How’s Florida? Hey listen, this is going to sound crazy, but I’m not joking, okay? This is not a joke . . . have you seen the internet videos about zombies and stuff this week? Yeah, well it’s real. The zombies are real. I just got fucking attacked by one. Is it happening there in Florida? Is . . . hello? Caroline? Caroline?!”
    Ben looks down at his phone and shakes it like an Etch A Sketch.
    â€œHere, try mine.” I pull my phone out of my coat pocket and hand it to him. Ben accepts it and tries to make a call.
    â€œNothing” he says. “No service. What the fuck is this!?”
    â€œCan you bring up the