The streets around the Art Institute were silent and still, it was dark with a partially cloudy sky allowing almost full moon to shed a watery light onto the dust covered rubble. The electricity had gone out in the entire city, leaving it as black as the rest of the world during the night now. The dust was a thick carpet, approaching six inches deep in some spots, it muffled the occasional piece of falling concrete. There were no zombies in the streets anymore, just corpses of those unlucky enough to be hit in the head by falling debris or from the many pieces of shrapnel let loose from the exploding artillery shells.
Quietly, almost gently, a chunk of stone moved on the ground and then rolled a few feet to settle into a dusty valley. The single movement was followed by another, then yet another still as the pieces of the Art Center shifted and writhed, pushed up from below. Springing from the dirt, like a plant growing frantically fast a pale, bloody hand thrust upward into the moonlight.