Zombie, Illinois by Scott Kenemore Page B

internet?” I ask. “See what the news websites say.”
    â€œFucking nothing,” Ben says after a few tries. “It just gives a ‘No Service’ message.”
    â€œI guess the whole grid is down,” I tell him. “Everybody is trying to make phone calls at the same time . . . and trying to use the internet. The system can’t handle it. It’s what happened in New York on 9/11. I was there that day for a fellowship conference in Queens. Our cell phones failed for most of the morning. They’ll probably have it fixed in the next few hours.”
    â€œThe next few hours . . .” Ben says, as if this is devastating news. “Something tells me the next few hours are going to be really fucking important, Pastor.”
    I watch the road and nod. I do not disagree.

Maria Ramirez
    As I gun the engine on my Jeep and pull out of the parking garage underneath the Trump Tower, all I can think about is how if I saw one zombie that means that there are more zombies. It’s like seeing a cockroach. Those things don’t roll solo. You’ve got an infestation, and the only way to deal with it is extreme violence.
    Kicking the ass of thousands of zombies is going to be a big job. There’s only one thing that matters more to me right now...my family. I merge onto Highway 94—in traffic that is surprisingly light—and dig my phone out of my purse.
    I try the house first. It rings and rings with no answer, which is not surprising; my mother is usually in bed by nine and has a habit of silencing the ringer. I try her cell next, which goes straight to voicemail. Crap.
    That leaves my sister, Yuliana, who is an even dodgier prospect. She’s seventeen and has been in the habit of sneaking out at night to see this twitchy kid I don’t like named Santiago. (He’s not in a gang, but some of his friends are. My sister wonders how I can tell this, and it’s like, I’ve been around the block, little sis. I grew up in Logan Square, too!) Also, my sister hardly uses her phone for calls, insisting on doing virtually all of her communication by text. This being the case, I hastily pound one out as I careen through the snow-dusted roads.
    Yulie. Where R U? Where is mom? Need to talk ASAP. Will be home in 10 mins. Stay indoors. No joke.
    I hit send, and wait for a response. Sometimes Yuliana can be lightning-fast with a reply, like she has been waiting for it. This time, there is no response. Nothing at all. Not even a damn emoticon.
    I try again.
    â€œR U there? Bad things r happening.” If that doesn’t intrigue her, nothing will. Aaaaaand.nothing will.
    I wait and wait, but she does not reply. I double-check the volume on my ringer. I look at my ‘Sent Messages’ folder and make sure both of my texts went through. They did.
    Still.no response.
    I take the exit at Fullerton and race toward the little blue house where I live with my mother and sister. Something is wrong in my neighborhood. At first, it’s hard to say exactly what. Despite the cold, there are a lot of people standing around—like how the queues get crazy at bus stops when the El has a breakdown. But these people are just chatting with each other . . . and other funny things. A few of them are drinking beers outside, which you can’t do. In front of Quencher’s Bar, people have carried their glasses out onto the street. Some are even holding homemade weapons—clubs and bats and things.
    So then...I’m not the only one who knows.
    I keep on driving and the not-rightness doesn’t go away. It is everywhere. Even the houses that are dark and quiet manage to be dark and quiet in a bad, ominous way. Something is definitely wrong.
    After a few blocks, the house comes into view. The lights are out. There’s no sign of my mother’s car. Fuck.
    I pull into the drive and just sit there for a moment. I look at the front door through the window of my Jeep. I’ll