From Oblivion's Ashes

by Michael E. A. Nyman

  “Well, there’s a shocker,” God said, looking uncharacteristically annoyed. “An atheist having trouble believing.”

  “I meant,” Scratchard growled, “that I don’t believe in Santa Claus, the Tooth Fairy, or the Easter Bunny. I don’t believe that the moon is made of green cheese or that the world is controlled by a secret tribe of fairies. And I don’t believe that, if I just wish hard enough, Marilyn Monroe will appear before me in a bikini with a forty-year-old bottle of scotch.”

  “Then we’re agreed,” God said. “Agnostic is the way to go.”

  “No!” Scratchard shouted. “You’re not understanding me! You are not God! God is not real. God is nothing more than the fabricated avatar of our intellectual anxiety over the finality of death, a species-wide hallucination. At best, he is the world’s first, insipid, archetypal, comic book superhero. At worst, he is a nightmare, sprung out of humanity’s collective subconscious, and is indirectly responsible for more acts of murder, oppression, genocide, ignorance, and intolerance than all the greatest villains in history.”

  “We all have bad days,” God sighed.

  Scratchard choked, temporarily at a loss for words.

  “Funny thing,” God said, cocking his head to one side. “You remind me of a story I heard once.”

  “I don’t want to hear it,” Scratchard snapped.

  “No, seriously. You’ll get a kick out of it. There were these four ants, working in the vicinity of a footpath. Of course, they were unaware of this fact. They were ants. None of them really cared, therefore, when one of them wandered out onto the path to get a particularly delicious-looking grass seed.”

  Scratchard ignored him, going back to his computer.

  “Anyway. It was Sunday, and a human was on his way to church. He was distracted at the time and completely unaware of the great, theological impact his actions would later inspire. Consumed by thoughts of the lies he would spin in confession, the people he didn’t want to meet, and the attractive blonde parishioner who usually sat two pews up from him, he stepped on the ant, squashing him flat into the dirt, leaving three ants to consider the event.

  “The first ant, who’d seen the titanic boot descend from the sky to take the life of its fellow ant, had a religious epiphany. ‘The Boot is God!’ it proclaimed in awe, its little, ant antenna twitching with pious terror. Recognizing the value in sucking up to such a great and powerful being, it turned to the other ants and declared, “We must all worship the Great Boot! Sacrifice aphids to his name! Spread word of his Glory to the other ant nests with war and conquest!”

  “Kumar!” Scratchard shouted, looking up from his laptop. “I’m not linked in to the security net yet. Am I doing something wrong?”

  “What?” Kumar said, coming over and looking at the screen. “Oh. Yeah, sure. Just give me a few seconds.”

  He bent over the keyboard and hastily tapped at it.

  “Meanwhile,” God continued, “the second ant, which had been looking away when the boot attacked, had seen nothing. It looked up at the scene, saw the flattened corpse and the enormous footprint in the dirt, and shrugged.

  ‘I don’t believe in Boots,’ he said. ‘I can think of hundreds of natural phenomena that could account for what we’re seeing. A bird could have pecked him flat. A rock could have rolled over him. These are both far likelier explanations than the idea that some all-powerful Boot entity could come crashing down from the sky. If a Great Boot truly existed, why would he hide himself from us? What would he have to gain by remaining so secretive? What force keeps it up in the sky, and why would it divert its attention just to kill one ant?’”

  “The third ant looked on as the debate between the first two grew more heated, but said nothing. Other ants had gathered by this point to see what all the fuss was about.

  “‘I saw the Great Boot!’ the first ant insisted, waving its antenna dangerously. “Beware, unbeliever! The Great Boot knows all, sees all. The Great Boot could crush the entire ant hill if it is wroth with thee!”

  “The Great Boot is a figment of your imagination,” the second ant sneered, and he brazenly ran out onto the path next to the squashed body of the first ant. “‘Hey! Great Boot! Suck my thorax! Where are you Great Boot? Nah, nah! You see? Great Boots aren’t real, were never real, and you are a gullible moron!”

  “‘Blasphemy!’” thundered the first ant, and a growing crowd of followers now backed him up. ‘Your arrogance offends our God!’

  “‘It’s all just hard science,’ said the second ant, and now, it also had several ants supporting him. ‘Even the idea of a Great Boot is absurd. There’s no evidence! Ant science has progressed far enough to draw the conclusion that, at the very least, the existence of Boots is impossible.’”

  “Okay, I’ve got access to the camera net,” Scratchard said, peering at his laptop. “Where can I find your list of executables, Kumar?”

  He looked up from his screen. “Kumar!”

  “Hold on,” Kumar said, his attention on God. “I wanna hear the end of the story. What did the third ant do?”

  Scratchard exhaled a hiss of frustration.

  “The third ant,” God said, “watched its two fellow ants argue. It was amazed that they both seemed so convinced that they were right. Like the first ant, it had seen the Boot descending from the sky, but all it had felt was amazement. It knew that it wasn’t a figment of his imagination, like the second ant believed. Something had happened, and it had squashed an ant flat.

  “It was at that point that the first and second ant both turned to the third and demanded to know what it believed.

  “‘You were there,’ the first ant insisted. ‘You saw the Great Boot in all His Glory, His choir of Sandals and Loafers, and His Lightning Sock Chariot! You know the Truth! Answer now, and be not apocryphal in thy revelation!’

  Startled at the first ant’s overzealous use of capitals and exclamation marks, the third ant was about to answer when the second ant spoke.

  “‘You don’t know what you saw,’ the second ant said. ‘A smart ant called Occam tells us that the explanation for any given phenomena is always the simplest one. I mean, really… Great Boots? From the sky? So tell us what you believe, and try not to be superstitious.’

  “‘I believe,’ the third ant said at last, ‘that we should avoid the path. Great Boots –whatever they are – are known to walk there. And I don’t want to be squashed. Do you?’”

  Kumar laughed out loud, even as Scratchard glowered at his screen.

  “The story is rubbish,” Scratchard snapped. “And it’s misleading. The third ant was clearly the atheist of the group. All he was worried about was the facts.”

  “That’s not true,” Kumar objected. “The third ant is all about keeping an open mind, dude. Look, man, my parents were Hindus. You don’t have to tell me about trying to lose your religion. The point is that we’re all just ants. Our perspective on the universe is pretty limited. Maybe we’ve been worshipping Boots all this time, but that doesn’t mean they don’t exist, or that God isn’t still out there somewhere. The universe is huge and complex, right? From the ant’s perspective, disbelief looks just as arrogant and funny as belief, you know?”

  “I was trying for wonderment,” God explained. “Wondering about the universe, existence, and God is far more valuable than knowing about it. Sure, I could yank away the curtain, but then who would pay attention? Still. Full marks, Kumar! I really like the way you think.”

  “Thanks, God,” Kumar said, looking pleased.

  “You’re both idiots,” Scratchard grumped. “Now, can we please get back to the real world? I have serious research to work on.”

  “But,” said God, “you still haven’t answered my question.”

  The aggravation dial on Scratchard turned up another couple of notches.

  “What?”

  “I said that I still had some questions about your findings.”

  “If I answer, will you go away?”

  God smiled broad
ly. “Absolutely.”

  Straightening up and taking another long drag from his cigarette, Scratchard faced the man he’d suddenly started to think of as his nemesis.

  “All right,” he said, exhaling smoke on the old man. “Let’s hear it.”

  “You questioned their souls,” God said. “Zombie souls, to be precise. I was just wondering… Did you find any evidence that human ghosts might still be haunting these creatures? Or do zombie ghosts, upon coalescing into a more complex being… Wait. Where are you going?”

  “I’m leaving,” the professor said, sounding defeated. “I… I just need to go lie down for a while. Just call me when you’re finished, Kumar.”

  “Right.”

  “But,” said God, trailing after Scratchard for a few steps, “I’m still trying to wrap my head around the spiritual life of this space amoeba you’ve discovered. I… Oh. Sorry. Didn’t mean to bump you. Have we met?”

  The woman standing in his way reached out and clasped his hand in both of hers.

  “Eva Brodsky,” she said. “Big fan, by the way. Love your work on the fiords of Norway. And Niagara Falls.”

  “Thank you,” God answered, “but those were mostly due to geological forces.”

  “It’s still a pleasure,” Eva answered, her eyes sparkling. “And listen… I don’t have any money, but I swear on my life, I’ll find a way to pay.”

  “Pay? Pay for what?”

  “For the most entertaining five minutes I’ve had since the outbreak,” she answered. “I know he’s valuable to the community, and that he really is as smart as he thinks he is, but - dear God! - I have waited so long to see that man at a loss for words. I owe you all the money I’ve ever earned, and so help me, I’ll find a way to pay. And I will pay more! Just promise me…”

  She looked off in the direction Scratchard had wandered off in and then brushed a couple of hairs from God’s shoulder.

  “… that you’ll keep following him around. Please!”

  “Now, now, my dear,” God said, patting her arm. “I like Professor Scratchard. I take a certain pride in having created him. Fine fellow. Trust me, I will follow that man around for free.”

  “Wonderful,” Eva said, clapping her hands.

  “I look forward to that too,” Professor Samuels added, strolling over. “Never seen anyone stick in his craw like that. Almost enough to make someone want to convert.”

  “Oh,” said God. “You’re an atheist too?”

  “Ah. No, no, not quite,” Samuels answered apologetically. “Modern Jewish, dear boy. It hardly matters what we believe, so long as we go to temple.”

  “I see,” God said, frowning. “Well, shalom.”

  They were high up, hidden from the ground by branches, but still beneath the canopy. Using the handholds that had been nailed into the trunk, Angie hoisted herself upwards.

  “Almost there, Ang,” Luca whispered up to her. “It’s only tricky this first time. The more you do it, the easier it gets.”

  “We couldn’t make it look too much like a ladder,” explained the man from above her with a chuckle. “The undead check this place all the time, even climb the trees, and just when you think they’re too dumb to figure out this stuff, they surprise you.”

  Angie didn’t answer. Her own near-death encounter with the undead was still too close, and she didn’t know this man. James, she thought he called himself.

  “Here we are,” he said.

  She looked up to see him step away from the trunk onto a horizontal branch as thick as fire hydrant. As she ascended, she could see that small pieces of wood had been nailed like stepping stones along its length.

  “You’re hiding up here?” she asked, stepping out on the branch.

  He grinned back at her. “Sorta. Some of us are, anyway.”

  James had a charming smile, goofy and sincere, and Angie found herself liking him right away. He was dressed in dark, denim jeans, black T-shirt, red plaid overshirt, and brown, leather boots. Good-looking, tall and lean, he had strong cheekbones, a swarthy complexion, and long, straight, black hair tied back into a ponytail that hung down his back. He offered her a long rope that ran parallel three feet above the branch, and which disappeared into the russet-tinted autumn leaves ahead.

  “Here,” he said. “Hold this as you walk the branch.”

  “Okay,” Angie said.

  “To answer your question,” he said, “we’re all kind of spread out. There’s a pretty secluded hobo village down by the river where some of us are holed up. The place stinks of oil, petroleum, and rotten wood. Then, there’s a bigger group of us hiding out in an abandoned subway station you can get to through one of the drainage tunnels. The homeless have known about it for years, though it’s usually blocked off. The zombies haven’t found it yet, so it’s safe, but the place has got thousands of rats living in it that don’t exactly like people.”

  “Yuck,” Angie said, grasping the rope tightly as she crossed the branch.

  “There’s a few other hiding places,” James continued, “but there’s no telling how long they’ll hold out. Three weeks ago, there were three times as many of us, but the zombies managed to find all their hiding places. Those people are all dead now. Or... well, you know.”

  They paused halfway down the branch at the sounds of Luca trying to pull himself up with his injured arm. He looked exhausted from the effort, and seemed to be cradling his injury with special care. Giving him a chance to catch his breath, Angie peered over the edge and estimated that they were about forty feet off the ground. Then, looking up, she guessed that the tree was still another thirty or forty feet taller still.

  James looked up with her, admiring the sunlight as it filtered through the leaves.

  “Beautiful, aren’t they?” he said. “These are some of the oldest trees in the city. Some of them might even be old enough to remember a time before Europeans came and built a city here. Now it’s an apocalypse, and for the tree, nothing’s changed.”

  Again, that friendly grin. “Actually, I guess that’s not true. One thing’s changed. We’re all in the same tribe now.”

  “… hate… fucking… climbing… trees…” Luca gasped as he parked himself on the branch to catch his breath.

  Angie considered James’s words. “Are you an Indian?” she asked.

  “First Nations,” James agreed, not offended. “Huron. My name’s James Snake.”

  “Sorry,” Angie said. “I didn’t mean to call you an Indian.”

  “It’s okay. We kind of own the word now. It’s over this way.”

  He glanced over at Luca with some concern.

  “You gonna be okay, Luca?” he asked “That cut is bleeding pretty bad.”

  Feeling guilty, Angie started back along the branch towards Luca.

  “What?” Luca scoffed, holding up the red arm. “This little scratch? Nah. I done worse to myself shaving. Just need to catch my breath is all. You two go ahead and I’ll catch up to you.”

  Angie hesitated.

  “It’s okay, sweetheart,” Luca assured her. “Trust me, I’m fine. Just follow James here. He’s good people. Saved our lives and a whole bunch of others as well. Go and see Marshal. He’ll be glad to see you.”

  Angie felt a sudden thrill of excitement at the mention of Marshal. She crouched down and gave Luca a quick kiss on the cheek.

  “Get outta here,” the big man rumbled.

  “So you’re Angie,” James said as she hurried to catch up. “I hear you’re pretty good at sneaking around right under the zombies’ noses.”

  “I’m the best at sneaking around under their noses,” she corrected him.

  James laughed.

  Angie reconsidered her answer. “Or, at least,” she amended, “I’m the best so long as I don’t get overconfident, like I did today.”

  “That’s the trick, isn’t it?” James agreed. “Anyway. At least you’re honest about it. You’re going to have to take a big step over onto this other branch to get where we’re going
. Can you do that?”

  “Yes,” Angie said.

  “Good. Before you came, I was the best at sneaking around. I’m not so good at lurking through the buildings or streets, not unless I have to. But out here in the trees, I’m pretty good at not being in the same place as the undead.”

  Angie frowned. “What do you mean?”

  James grinned at her. “If I get seen by a zombie, I got no chance of being invisible like you. Mostly, I just know where they are and stay out of their way.”

  “How do you know where they are? Are you psychic?”

  James laughed at this also. “Thankfully, no. When I was a boy, my grandfather used to take me out hiking. Sometimes we’d hunt. He taught me to listen to the silence, like the animals do.”

  Angie considered this for a few seconds, and decided it was nonsense, but was too polite to say so.

  “Stop here and just listen for a second,” James said, as if reading her thoughts. “Take it all in. Your ears hear all the noise around us, right? The wind blows through the leaves. The branches gently creak. And if you listen very carefully, you can hear a distant rattling of loose metal, and the call of birds.”

  Angie closed her eyes and picked up on all those things.

  “Now try and listen,” James said, “to the silence in between the noise. Silence can be heavy or light, tense or empty, and a hundred other things. Meaningful silence is like a footprint in the snow. It’s there but, at the same time, it’s not there. It’s just an empty hole. But by looking at it, understanding its shape and texture, you can tell a lot about what’s really going on.”

  They held still for a few seconds, and Angie tried to listen.

  “I don’t… know what I’m listening for,” Angie said.

  “Me neither,” James agreed. “But that’s the point. Zombies make a lot of noise that tells you where they are, but the silence they cause is even louder. It surrounds them like a bubble of air under water. I always know where the zombies are, more so in the trees than in the streets.”

  “You’re making that up,” Angie accused.

  “Honest Injun,” James grinned. “That was a joke, by the way. Anyway, it might be wrong to call it silence. That’s what my Grandfather called it, but others might call it tension, or atmosphere, or just the sound of the world reacting to something moving through it without any sound. I’ll teach you, if you like, and then maybe you can tell me your secrets too.”