From Oblivion's Ashes

by Nyman, Michael E. A.

  “No one could ever eat that much pasta,” Angie said firmly.

  “Clearly,” Marshal said in a dry voice, “you haven’t sat down to eat with the average Italian family. That skid over there has about forty cases of high quality, extra virgin, olive oil. I guess he got a deal or something. Now, taking a weird jump in logic, that skid over there is loaded with about five hundred cartons of American cigarettes.”

  “Cigarettes!”

  “Yup. If its contraband, and it probably is, then it could get you a couple of years in prison. Not that it’s the worst thing we have in here.”

  “What’s on that skid?” Angie asked, pointing at the forth and final skid. The crates on it had been recently opened, though it was obvious that this had taken some effort. The crates were designed to resist accidental opening or idle curiosity.

  Marshal took a deep breath. “Guns.”

  Angie’s jaw dropped.

  “Assault rifles. A couple of crates of automatics, and several hundred handguns. I couldn’t find any ammo, or at least, not here. It’s just as well. You can’t use guns anymore anyway. All they do is attract the undead.”

  “What was he doing with guns?”

  Marshal shrugged. “Thing is, I’m not even supposed to be back here. I mean, I was allowed, but I definitely wasn’t supposed to be cracking open crates like I did. This room is kind of a legal jack-in-the-box. It’s part of the second floor, but it’s not part of my apartment. On the other hand, you can’t get to this room unless you go through my apartment, which I sub-let back to Frank from time to time. Get it? It means that if anyone – the police, for example – wanted to search the storage area, which was still in Frank’s name, they would first have to obtain legal right to pass through the apartment, which is in my name. It’s the sort of rabbit that lawyers love to pull out of their hats.”

  Marshal hesitated, not sure if he should explain any more, or even if he could. He’d found out about it from one of Frank’s lawyers, who’d been making table-talk at a wedding dinner that they’d both had the honor of attending. It was the sort of annoying technicality, the lawyer had assured him, in between mountainous plates of pasta and fastidiously picking his teeth, that was screwing up the whole justice system.

  “The point is,” he continued, shaking it off, “that now you know how to get back here. It’s a second line of defense should any zombie ever make it into the main apartment. See that rung ladder on the brick wall? That leads up through the ceiling hatch, and then to another hatch on the only part of the original roof that’s still around. From there, you can get to the back alley.”

  “Why haven’t the zombies gotten in that way?” Angie asked.

  “Simple. Doesn’t look like a hatch. More like a plastic garbage bag that got stuck in the roof tar. Anyway, feel free to come back here and be as loud as you like. This area is as soundproofed as the rest of the place.”

  "Okay,” Angie said, giving the room a last look. “What about dinner?”

  Reasonable explanations.

  Marshal’s whole apartment was kind of a reservoir for ‘reasonable explanations’. Its unusualness had evolved over many, many years, and every piece came with a ‘reasonable explanation’.

  Why was the second level so well hidden?

  Frank was a part owner of the apartment buildings on either side. Allowing them to converge over top of the old building, making the second floor all but disappear from an architectural standpoint, was just good business.

  Why did the second floor possess it’s own, independent power supply?

  The same reason it had its own walk-in freezer. A power outage, decades ago, had been responsible for the loss of thousands of dollars in frozen meat. Solar panels and generators just made sense. The license to put the panels on top of the buildings, which had grown over the space, was just clever foresight.

  Why was there a separate 8000 gallon water tank?

  The hair salon that had once occupied the first floor had been owned by one of Frank’s cousins. Their daily water usage was putting a strain on the local water pressure, so the entire building ran off of this tank that Frank had installed.

  Why the one-way, bulletproof glass overlooking the street, hidden to look like just another part of the wall?

  Bulletproof? You say that glass is bulletproof? Hah. Imagine that. The choice of glass was based entirely on its capacity to blend in with the rest of the curtain wall.

  Close circuit cameras monitoring the downstairs hall and back alley?

  The tenant had to be able to see when he had guests, didn’t he?

  Why the fully stocked bar and luxurious, hot tub, and state-of-the-art fixtures?

  The apartment’s original purpose, a space for the Italian Men’s Club to hang out in, required such amenities. The new tenant, Marshal – my adopted brother, by the way. He’s an electrical engineer - continues to sublet it out on occasion, for expressly this purpose. What business of yours is it anyway? If I want to pamper my adopted brother, why shouldn’t I? He’s straight as an arrow. My wife still brings him cookies, and tries to match him up with our distant cousin Ramona.

  And so, Marshal became the final ‘reasonable explanation’.

  A secret, completely soundproofed apartment, on a forgotten, second floor, with a secret warehouse space, separate power and water which put it off the grid, no doors to kick in, a bulletproof, panoramic view of the entire street, camera-surveillance, a hidden escape hatch in the back… and it was all in Marshal’s name. Who was he to complain? He could never have afforded a place like this on his own. And if, on occasion, Frank slipped him a few hundred to ‘rent the place back for a night or two’, no one but their wallets need ever be involved.

  Frank was a clever man. More to the point, he was a fine and upstanding citizen.

  He still was.

  Because on the day of the outbreak, Frank had been visiting the property in his big, black SUV. He’d called ahead, to tell Marshal that he’d had something important that he needed to talk to him about. On his way up, he’d stopped to argue with Mr. Suleiman, the man who owned and operated the Dollar Den downstairs, when, across the street, a strangely undulating, wide-eyed man broke from the cover of the alley.

  Frank had brought his daughter with him that day.

  She was eight years old, still clinging to a Barbie doll. Marshal could remember seeing her, waiting for her Daddy in the front seat of the black Navigator, wearing the ballerina outfit on her way to dance class. Cassandra. Whenever she saw ‘Zio Marshal’, she would light up like a Christmas tree, run up to him and throw her little arms around him like he was the most wonderful guy in the world.

  Through soundproof glass, Marshal didn’t even notice the lurching, wide-eyed stranger rushing into the Dollar Den, nor hear the screams. But he could see the rest of the street, and the horror that was unfolding.

  He remembered the confusion and seeing Cassandra hiding from the worst of it, huddled down in the dark shadows of the SUV. Her frightened little face was twisted with tears… until she saw her Daddy, Frank, lurching out of the Dollar Den, all coated with ichor, his clothing torn, his hands and face covered in blood.

  Marshal remembered how she had called for her Daddy, trying to get his attention for the very last time. The fear had been written on her face as clearly as her tears.

  Frank responded, veering towards the SUV with hunger.

  And now, in the empty streets today, Frank is the last remaining, upstanding citizen. All the other creatures come and go, but Frank remains a persistent resident. He haunts the sidewalks and fixtures, the back alleys and apartment floors, hunting for something he seems convinced is here. He seems smarter than the average zombie, more dangerous. Otherwise, he shows no sign or reason for why he would remain bound to the place where he ate his eight-year-old daughter alive.

  Fatigue had caught up with both of them. Angie’s voracious appetite finally eased, and her eyelids grew heavy. Soon, she was having trouble staying awake, and
Marshal put his foot down and sent her off to bed.

  Feeling tired, but triumphant, Marshal helped himself to a bedtime scotch. He sat at the bar staring out the Terrible Window, considering the lights that still twinkled over the dark city. In some places they still did. Green power, leftover generators, or solar powered storage lights. There were far, far less of them than there had been, but they were there.

  He was no longer alone. The revelation was like an epiphany, a decanter of water to a man lost in a desert, a glimpse of sunlight to a man who’d spent many, many months underground. Warmth spread through him, more than just the alcohol, and for the first time in two weeks, he felt… What did he feel? He felt like a man coming back to life again.

  Blearily, he looked away from the Terrible Window, and his eyes came to rest on Angie’s backpack. It sat open, lying with its contents visible on the bar counter. For a moment, he felt the knee-jerk compulsion to close it up again, to give the girl the privacy one should be able to expect for their personal belongings. What if there was, you know… ‘female stuff’ in there? She’d want to keep that private, wouldn’t she?

  And then his eyes came to rest on something he did not expect.

  No. It couldn’t be.

  Ignoring the niceties of privacy, he lunged into her pack, through the chocolate bars and pieces of candy, and pulled out the offending item, a black case marked with a very, very familiar label. His mother, when she’d been alive, had owned kits that had that label. Marshal knew what it meant.

  He opened the kit, and looked down at the contents with disbelief and despair.

  Only three doses left.

  He hadn’t saved her. Angie was already dead. Or she would die – less horribly than being eaten alive, but horrible just the same – and there wasn’t anything that could be done to save her. Marshal would be alone again. Crushed by circumstance, he stared down at the vial in his hand, willing with all his power that he be mistaken, all while knowing he was not.

  It was insulin.

  Chapter Four: Day 16: Willow-O the-Wisp

  The next morning, Marshal and Angie ate breakfast in front of the television. There wasn’t much in the way of breakfast fare, since there were no eggs or bread, only powdered milk and canned fruit. There was some bacon, which Marshal fried, then chopped up and mixed in with some canned corn and steamed rice. There were also plenty of juice boxes retrieved from the Dollar Den. Bugs Bunny and Elmer Fudd dominated the television screen as they ate.

  Marshal didn’t mention his discovery from the night before, preferring to simply enjoy the company while he had it. When Angie solemnly collected her backpack and slunk back to her bedroom to give herself an injection in secret, Marshal pretended not to notice.

  Well fed and entertained, the two of them idled the morning away laughing and watching television, before settling into a serious, two hour session of two-player console-gaming.

  Lunch consisted of a light pasta dish, mixed with bits of cooked chicken and spices. Angie wolfed it down hungrily, though not so greedily, Marshal noticed, that she ignored her diabetic limitations.

  Outside, the Swarm showed no signs of abating. From the sharp angle of the apartment’s vantage point, it looked like they were in the process of leveling the rest of the coffee shop building on the corner. Whether they would spread out their efforts, only time would tell.

  A little after lunchtime, Angie started looking sick.

  “Ugh…” she said, dropping the controller, her complexion green. “I… I need to get to my…”

  “Hold on.” Marshal leaned over and caught a quick whiff of fruity fragrance of her breath. “I thought so. I’ll get your kit for you. Just… don’t move.”

  When he got back, he found that she had thrown up the remains of her lunch all over the carpet, and was looking up at him with a tear-streaked face.

  “I’m sorry, Marshal,” she said. “I’m so sorry!”

  “Don’t you worry about it for a minute,” he said, pulling the kit out of her bag and removing a large needle. “You’ve done nothing wrong. What’s your usual dosage?”

  She told him, and he considered the bottle. It looked old.

  “How long ago did this bottle get opened?”

  "About a month ago,” she whispered.

  Add in the fact that she’d been hauling it around unrefrigerated in her backpack for about twelve days, Marshal thought to himself, and it would have lost most of its potency. He’d been optimistic, he realized, when he said she had less than a week.

  Small dose, and we’ll see how it goes. Too much, and it could go the other way.

  “Why didn’t you tell me you were diabetic?” he asked her. “Type one?”

  She nodded. “I thought… if you knew I was…” Her eyes grew watery, and she glared at the floor. “You wouldn’t waste any food on me if you thought I was-”

  “What waste? Food isn’t going to be a problem for years. Eat all you can, and we’ll see who blinks first.” He scowled at her. “And stop worrying that you’re going to do or say something that’ll get you thrown out on the street. You’re safe here, and you can stay as long as you like.”

  “Thank you,” Angie said.

  “And…” he added, wanting to show sympathy somehow, “… as for the diabetes, we’ll figure something out, look at your options and… and whatever you want to do, we’ll do. But for now, let’s get you that injection.”

  He passed her a cloth.

  She took it from him, wiped her face and blew her nose into it noisily.

  “Why don’t you tell me how you managed to survive on your own so long,” he said, preparing the needle. “For two weeks, I saw no sign of human life outside my window, then, Presto! There you are! That’s an amazing story, and I want to hear all about it.”

  “What do you want to know?” Angie sounded pleased.

  “Start from the beginning,” he told her.

  Her name was Angie Camilleri, and she was twelve years old, though her sheer thinness had made her look younger. She’d been an only child of two working parents, both professionals. She didn’t think that there was very much about her that was at all interesting.

  “Where were you when it all started,” Marshal asked, as he checked the dose on the needle, “when the outbreak was just starting?”

  “In the park,” she said, holding out her arm. “It was just after the end of school. I got a head start on the other kids and I was playing a game in the trees, down in Simcoe Park.”

  “By yourself?”

  She nodded, as if embarrassed. “None of the other girls in my school liked me very much. Naomi, who used to be my friend, said all kinds of lies about me, and… I mostly played by myself. None of the boys liked me either. I'm not cool enough.”

  “You?” Marshal said, pausing in mid-stab with genuine surprise. “But… you’re beautiful! I don’t believe it.”

  For a second, Angie brightened, and straightened in her seat. Marshal held the needle up, then bent over the girl’s outstretched arm and smoothly injected her.

  “I learned to do this for my mother when I was seven,” he told her. “She had diabetes, too. My father worked a lot, and when my mother was feeling sick, she’d ask for my help. Told me it was good practice in case she ever had a reaction and I was the only one around who could help her. I think that it was partly that, but mostly, she just wanted me to grow up to be a doctor.”

  “Did you?” Angie asked.

  “Electrical engineer,” Marshal grinned, putting the needle away. “Shows what parents know. Anyway, how’s that feel?”

  “A little better,” she said, starting to get up. “I’ll go get some water to clean up my mess.”

  “Not so fast,” Marshal said, pushing her back down on the couch. “The sick are not welcome to work at Chez Marshal. You’re going to earn your keep by continuing to lie there pathetically. This provides me with amusement.”

  Looking a bit rebellious, Angie did as she was told.

  Marshal
left and came back a few moments later with a bucket of water, a washcloth, and some cleaner.

  “So what kind of game were you playing in the park all by yourself?” he asked, sloshing water over the carpet.

  Again, there was a hint of embarrassment as she answered.

  “Fairy princess,” she murmured. “In the trees, down by the ravine, I could pretend that there were fairy creatures hidden under tree roots and mushrooms and puddles.” Her eyes looked up into his hopefully. “Have you ever read Mellowyn’s Fairy Almanac?”

  Marshal shook his head as he worked.

  Her eyes looked away again, as if she was used to this response.

  “It’s a Book of Fairies,” she said, “ that tells stories about the fairy people, like the Queen of Shadows or the Smiling Magician or the Lurching Ogre. I’d imagine they were real, and we’d hold court together in the forestland, plan the future of the Kingdom, and organize the Grand Dances.”

  “Fairies, eh?” Marshal said, scrubbing and sloshing. Imaginative, he thought privately, though it was also the most likely reason the rest of the tablet generation thought she was weird. “All right. So you were in the park playing fairy princess. Then what happened?”

  She looked faintly nauseous again. “I looked up from behind a tree and saw a woman… a… a zombie. She was standing by a baby carriage eating…”

  Her voice dropped to a whisper. “…eating her baby.”

  Marshal stopped scrubbing, looking at the girl.

  “Then,” she went on, “there was screaming everywhere else, so nobody could help. All the adults were being eaten, or had turned into one of those things. So I just hid from the woman, crouched back down in the ravine and… and there’s a creature in Fairyland called a Bridge Troll, and it can smell you if you get too close. But there’s another creature, called a Mugwump, who sneaks past a Bridge troll by rubbing itself with the most disgusting things it can find.”

  “So you pretended to be a Mugwump?”