From Oblivion's Ashes

by Nyman, Michael E. A.

  “I didn’t lay a finger on her!” shouted T-Bone. “And she was a student like I’m a Marine. She tried to charge me for-”

  “… which you served!” Elizabeth continued, raising her voice to drown him out. “Upon release, you apparently came to Toronto looking for your sister, who was reported missing by that time. Then, after some problems with the police - which did not result in any arrests - you worked six months for a painting company, before landing another eight years for manslaughter. Hmm. You beat a man into unconsciousness in a back alley outside a bar and left him next to a dumpster. He later bled to death.”

  “That was self-defense,” T-Bone snarled, pointing at the folder. “He attacked me in that alley, and I was just-”

  “I don’t care,” Elizabeth said, closing the folder and clasping her hands on the table in front of her. “You’re a repeat offender. You’ve committed crimes your entire life, and you’re likely to commit more. Your prison report shows an increasing pattern of violence while inside, including two fights and two sexual assault allegations in the last year alone. In my opinion, the state of New Toronto doesn’t have the time to waste on a social parasite like you, and we’d be better off feeding you to the damn zombies.”

  “Fuck you!” T-Bone shouted at her. “When we surrendered, Marshal granted us amnesty for any shit we done before the outbreak! Where the fuck did you get all that information anyway?”

  Elizabeth met his anger with a level gaze.

  It was Krissy who answered him.

  “It was a simple thing, actually,” she said. “We recorded Stan bragging about how the prison bus was loaded down with all the appeals candidates at the Toronto Courthouse that day. All we had to do was take a quick trip down there, snap up the hard drive for the day’s docket, and reference the records of everybody being tried. Even with Marshal giving you amnesty for prior crimes, it seemed like a smart idea to find out who we were dealing with before we passed judgment. And that’s what we’re doing here today. So let me do the introductions.”

  Krissy placed a hand on her chest.

  “My name is Kristine Richardson,” she said, “formerly an undercover detective in the Toronto Police, with six years on the force. Now, I’m the new Chief of Police for New Toronto, population seventy. This…”

  She gestured to a still-scowling Elizabeth.

  “… is Elizabeth Stewart, formerly a senior partner in a respected law firm, but now, Marshal’s new handpicked Chief Justice. She’s the one who currently holds your fate in her hands.”

  T-Bone swallowed a mouthful of saliva. “Marshal. Is that the Son of Winter? The guy who shot Stan through the head? Where do he and Luca fit into all of this?”

  Elizabeth and Krissy exchanged a glance.

  “Marshal is…” Krissy seemed to search for words. “He’s our leader. Think of him like a king or a dictator, but... well…”

  “Marshal is the State,” Elizabeth answered firmly. “I’ve given this a lot of thought, and that’s the best interpretation of it. And as the State, he is, therefore, technically above the law. He can declare war, expropriate, levy tax, imprison, define laws, exonerate, and kill. And as much as I hate to admit it - at least for the time being - we need him to have this authority.”

  Krissy looked surprised. “That’s a big step for you.”

  “Yes, for now.” Elizabeth looked embarrassed. “He really does seem to be more interested in the common good than his own. I have to keep reminding myself that there is no more Law and Order, except what we make, and that calls into question if there really is any more Right or Wrong. Marshal seems to have picked up on that before everyone else. The slaughterhouse is an example of what can happen in a broken state.”

  “Not to mention,” Krissy added, “that if it weren’t for Marshal, we’d all be dead.”

  “There is that,” Elizabeth said, “though that can’t be the only reason we follow him. He said as much himself. He’s strong because we support him, and we’re strong because he’s using our support to rebuild civilization. We argued about that, and he pointed out that when he’s done, it should render his role obsolete.”

  “Am I late?” said a voice from the door. “I thought I was coming to a tribunal, and found myself in a political science class.”

  Master Corporal Eric Vandermeer limped over to his chair.

  “Hey, Eric,” Krissy said. “No, you’re not late. We just got started.”

  “Thank you for coming, Eric,” Elizabeth said. “How’s the leg?”

  “Still healing,” Eric said, “but getting better. Have you already passed judgment on this man?”

  “We were about to,” Elizabeth said. “Mr. Bonham, let me be clear. The difficulties and dangers in keeping someone like you alive in a situation such as ours should be obvious, even to you. From what we’ve been able to learn so far, you’ve committed several assaults, including at least one rape, since the outbreak. Indeed, you were given these privileges as a token reward for your loyalty to the disgusting villain known as Radek Stanislav. That you were merely participating in a corrupt regime for the purpose of your own survival is no excuse and of small comfort to the victims of your criminal behavior. It was possible to ‘play along’ without committing rape, as demonstrated by Jerome and his followers. Your sentence, in my opinion, should be death.”

  Krissy snapped a glance over at her. “Elizabeth…”

  “However,” Elizabeth continued, ignoring the Chief of Police, “as our illustrious leader has forbidden me the death sentence, I will commute your sentence to thirty thousand hours of community service, with a chance of parole after only twelve thousand hours, with a review to be set up subsequently each two thousand hours after that. For parole to happen, however, you must achieve the good report of not only your supervising officer, but also of your surviving victims. When you have both, you will be permitted to re-enter society as a fully accredited citizen with all the rights and privileges associated therein.”

  T-Bone’s eyes goggled. “Thirty… thousand… hours of community service?”

  “Effectively, it’s slavery, Mr. Bonham.” Corporal Vandermeer broke in, looking grim. “And if you ask me, you got off light. Instead of a firing squad or banishment to the wastelands, where you could get yourself eaten, you get food, shelter, and basic necessities. You get to live! And you also get to contribute to the reconstruction of society – a society that you can join, if you behave. Now, twenty thousand hours. That’s a lot. That’s a forty-hour workweek, multiplied by fifty weeks annually – we decided you get a two-week vacation every year. Call us liberals, if you want – and you get two thousand hours per annum, faster if you’re willing to work weekends. Multiply that by fifteen years, and you’re a free man. Of course, if you make parole, you could get out in six years. But that’s a whole lot of sucking up to your victims, don’t you think?”

  “You’re turning me into a… a slave?”

  The three faces in front of him gazed back at him implacably.

  “Would you rather we chained you up in an animal pen to die like the pig you are?” Elizabeth asked sweetly. “Marshal signed off on this, so it’s agreed, but I can go back to him, if you want.”

  T-Bone was speechless.

  “You’re to be remanded into my custody, by the way,” Vandermeer said. “I’m going to be treating you and your fellow convicts like any regular group of mentally retarded trainees.”

  He pulled out a paper clip and twiddled it in his fingers.

  “Welcome to the army, T-Bone! New Toronto’s first! You’ll get a haircut, a new uniform, a bunk, and some basic sundries to keep organized and spotless. You’ll wake up at six A.M. sharp every day, receive combat training, get heaps of healthy exercise, and learn how to drill. I am going to turn you and your fellow reprobates into a lean, clean, organized machine! Then, and only then, will you be deployed in the field, building houses, gathering salvage, doing dishes, and generally providing the free labor that will make our world great again.
If you show the right kind of ambition, then you will receive training in one of the many new occupations that are opening up as and have a career waiting for you when you get out. All this will be yours, Private T-Bone, whether you want it or not.”

  He held up the paper clip.

  “It’s like this paper clip,” he explained. “When I first joined the army, I was a disorganized, walking lump of cheap metal. But then the army – the glorious army – took me, molded me, and forged me into the useful, killing machine I am today. It made me a hero, son. And after years of training raw recruits into fighting men and women, I look forward to making heroes out of all of you.”

  “This?” T-Bone shook his head and threw himself back in his seat. “This is insane. We’re fucking criminals, dude! Not raw recruits. What makes you think we’re going to do a thing you say?”

  “Ah!” Corporal Vandermeer pointed at him with the paper clip. “An excellent question, Private T-Bone! To answer, I would once again bring your attention to this paper clip.”

  Eric stared at it thoughtfully.

  “I can think of a… a dozen ways I could kill you with this paper clip. And at least another two dozen ways to make you wish you were dead. Do you see my point?”

  A long, meaningful silence followed, before he continued.

  “Not that I would, of course. My commanding officer has told me that I can’t kill you, and orders are orders, son. But I don’t have any orders against hurting you with this paper clip. I’m not even sure how many ways I could do that. If I got really creative... well... lots, I suppose.”

  He looked at T-Bone, and his eyes glittered.

  “Care to find out?”

  Shitbox rumbled its way north on Yonge Street, further than anyone had ever traveled, passing St. Clair and making better time than expected. Inside, Marshal watched the screens while Luca drove. Behind them, Cesar and Jerome idly played a chess game that had reached the middle stages. It had been three hours since they’d departed the downtown area, and this was already their second game.

  “Aw, would you look at that!” Luca grumped.

  “What?” Jerome asked, waiting for Cesar to make his move.

  “Car wrecks,” Marshal sighed, punching buttons on his keyboard.

  “So what?” Jerome leaned forward to look at the monitors. “There’s car wrecks everywhere… aw, shit.”

  “Yup,” Luca said, glaring at the pile-up resentfully. “Usually, we get enough room to at least steer around them, but there’s no fucking way we’re doing that here.”

  “Can’t you just… you know…” Jerome made a brushing gesture, “... push them out of the way? We’re in a pretty big truck, right?”

  “Not if we can avoid it,” Luca said. “Fucks up our camouflage sheath. And we’re not pushing our way through that mess. Must have been a fucking traffic glut here, and the zombies didn’t have the fucking courtesy to clear a path.”

  “Your move,” Cesar said.

  Jerome glanced back at the board and made a move.

  “So what are we gonna do?”

  “There’s Moore Street,” Marshal said, studying one of the monitors which now showed a city map. “If we take it, it offers us a couple of options on getting over to Mount Pleasant. It’s back about a couple of hundred feet.”

  “Let’s hope it’s clear,” Luca grumbled, backing up the truck and starting the complicated process of turning around. “The longer we’re away on this mission, the bigger our problems get back home. We couldn’t have picked a worse time.”

  “There is no other time, Luca,” Marshal said. “We have a month, maybe two months, before winter hits, and who knows what happens? We either get those Tesla engines now, or we go the entire winter without.”

  “I’m just saying…” Luca said stubbornly.

  “Turn here,” Marshal said, pointing at the forward monitor.

  Luca turned.

  “All I’m saying is that Shitbox is needed now more than ever,” the mobster said. “It’s not just Torstein anymore. Doctor Burke thinks he can save everyone we rescued, but he needs medical equipment, machines, and supplies from the hospitals. We need water tanks, solar panels, batteries, wiring, mattresses, not to mention food and water to feed another fifty people. And now that we’ve got, like, thirty cattle… what was it? Fifty something pigs?… Chickens. Sheep. We’re probably gonna need stuff for them too.”

  “Grain,” Jerome said. “Birdseed would do, from the pet stores. And new digs. Derrick said that they won’t survive much longer in the slaughterhouse.”

  “I’ve been thinking about that,” Marshal said, “and I think I have a short-term solution: the Skydome. It’s a natural enclosure, not too far away, and it wouldn’t take much effort to lay down a grass surface. The basements and change rooms make half decent animal pens for the winter, and there’s that big wind turbine nearby. I could rewire it to power the stadium and everything in it, heat, water pumps, lights… everything. Plus, you’ve a bunch of places nearby that are likely to have the kind of supplies we need: the Royal Agricultural Winter Fair, the Horse Palace. Even Medieval Times.

  “Not a bad idea,” Luca said.

  “We need those animals,” Marshal said. “Aside from food and fertilizer, they’re a source of insulin. Who knows where or when we’re going to find any new ones, but if we do, we’ll need to expand our herds. Eventually, I’d like to create a network of grazing fields and animal pens, especially for the milk cows and egg laying chickens.”

  “It’s official, man,” Cesar said, without looking up from the game. “You spend way too much time thinking.”

  “Say that again,” Luca chuckled.

  “Yeah,” Marshal said, feeling a bit deflated. “Well, anyway, remind me to thank Cameron and Derrick when we get back, would you Jerome? It can’t be fun having to stay in the slaughterhouse.”

  “Oh you don’t need to thank them,” Jerome said. “Derrick actually likes looking after the animals. He grew up on a farm. As for Cameron, he doesn’t mind doing it for now, even though he’s more of a tech guy.”

  “Well, we sure need more of those,” Marshal said.

  “Anyway,” Jerome continued, “they’re just happy they ain’t being kept prisoner like the others. It’s us who should be grateful, Marsh. We know how pissed off your people are, and we figure it’s smart to just keep our heads down for a while. You know? In case people start lumping us in with the other psychos.”

  “They won’t,” Marshal said. “We informed everyone how you three rescued Angie and Jackie. That bought you a lot of goodwill. Your background as a professional mechanic doesn’t hurt either, which is the reason I wanted you along on this trip.”

  “Yeah,” Jerome said, sounding pained. “How… how is the kid, anyway?”

  Cesar looked up so he could hear the answer.

  “She’s…” Marshal hesitated. “She’s… coping.”

  “Marone!” Luca said. “If I ever get my hands on the bitch that hurt her… Angie won’t even leave the apartment no more! This, from the girl who survived an apocalypse by sneaking around in nothin’ but rags, the same girl you had to bargain with ‘cause she wouldn’t stay in the apartment. Now, she’s too scared to leave her room. The night before we left, I could hear her through the walls, having nightmares!”

  “Yeah,” Marshal said, looking sad.

  “Aw man, that’s too bad,” Jerome said, looking unhappy. “She’s gottta be the bravest kid I’ve ever seen. You should have seen her standing up to Danny, holding only a knife.”

  “She’ll get over it,” Cesar said, returning the game. “She just got a big scare, is all.”

  Marshal nodded without enthusiasm.

  “Anyway,” he said, “getting back to winter, Crapmobile and Shitbox aren’t going to be enough. We need a whole fleet of Crapmobiles. We won’t get them, of course. At best, we might be able to get another six or seven on the road before first snowfall. After that... well, who knows? Maybe we get a sleigh and invent Icemob
ile.”

  Luca rolled his eyes. “Couldn’t call it Snowmobile, could you? Had to be fancy.”

  “Whatever you call them,” Jerome said, shaking his head. “How’d you figure all this shit out? Moving piles of garbage? No way you just followed a hunch.”

  In between scanning the screens and navigating their course, Marshal explained the process, and how they’d ‘educated’ a Swarm into believing that moving piles of garbage were free of humans.

  “Check,” Cesar announced.

  Jerome glanced down, moved his king out of danger, and looked up again.

  “So…” he said with a frown, “you teach this shit to a Swarm, and they all get the word? What about zombies that weren’t in that Swarm?”

  Marshal and Luca exchanged a glance.

  “For obvious reasons,” Marshal said, “we’re a little gray on how they communicate. We know they demonstrate collective intelligence that increases with the size of the group. That suggests some kind of extra-sensory interaction, but whether that’s pheromones, like ants, or telepathic ability, or... or something else entirely, we can only speculate. Personally, I suspect it has something to do with the way they’re always bumping up against one another...”

  There was a long pause where everyone started looking thoughtful.

  “Check,” Jerome said distractedly, changing the momentum of the game in one spectacular move.

  Cesar, staring off into space, seemed hardly to notice.

  “You know,” Marshal said at last, sounding uneasy. “Now that you bring it up, it... it does seem like there’s something important that we might be overlooking here. We know that Swarm knowledge spreads, but… how fast they spread…”

  “No way, man.” Jerome said, suddenly looking terrified. “We’re all good. You… you guys been doing this for weeks, right? There ain’t been any trouble-”

  CRASH!!

  Shitbox lurched violently, and the men inside were shaken about like popcorn. Two of the monitors were smashed, while a third showed a brief flash of three of the undead, before it went black.