Dozens of drones had been recovered, some of them by Angie, but most by follow-up missions that, with zombie-clearing drone-sweeps, had allowed Marshal and the others to shop in person. Not just drones, but badly needed food, medicine, and technology had been recovered to accommodate the undernourished population.
In the underpass hideout, the numbers swelled as James Snake continued to lead more and more refugees in from the cold. Insulated by the city, the Don Valley had drawn less undead attention than the urbanized zones that surrounded it. While the scent of human occupation could draw zombies from several kilometers away out in the country, wilderness was a shadow void in comparison to the cityscape that engulfed it. Even so, the war of attrition had been harsh. Starvation and illness had weakened most of them, leaving many close to death, but somehow they managed to make the passage safely. With James as a guide and a continually growing resource of drone support, people who had huddled for weeks in darkness walked openly in the fresh air under the sunshine at last.
Marshal was kept continuously busy. There was always something for him to do, whether it was the wiring on Shitbox, the smooth operation of the solar power supply, reestablishing the onboard networking, or adapting drones to carry on-board speakers. Luca, for his part, focused on making Shitbox functional, while Cesar and Jerome trained the locals on proper drone operation protocols.
By the dawn of the third day, however, and despite being utterly exhausted, Shitbox was ready to continue its journey.
“How long do you expect to be?” James Snake asked, eyeing the garbage monstrosity with a doubtful expression.
“It’s hard to say,” Marshal said. “We’re operating under completely different procedures than we’re used to. On the one hand, we need to clear out every area we enter while we move. That’s never been done before, and it’s hard to say what our level of success will be. We’re also accustomed to going at a slow speed, so as not to draw too much attention to our transportation. That’s not an issue anymore. Either we’re moving, in which case we’ve cleared away all the undead and have nothing to worry about, or we’re stopped, and we’re just another garbage pile.”
James Snake nodded.
“I see,” he said, frowning.
“If we’re lucky,” Marshal said, “and everything goes as I hope it will, then we might make it back after two or three days. Maybe four. With all the people we’re bringing, I don’t intend to leave a single Tesla engine behind.”
Again James nodded, examining the dimensions of Shitbox.
“I think you’re going to need a bigger junk heap,” he said.
“We’ll see,” Marshal smiled. “But I think we’re going to be fine. Good luck to you here, and hopefully, you’ll see us soon.”
“Good luck, Marshal,” James said.
They shook hands.
And with that, Marshal turned to board Shitbox, just as fleet of eight drones launched themselves into the sky.
Chapter Twenty-Nine: Day 58: The Revolt of the Paper Tigers
The conference room on the top floor of First Canadian Place had seen better days. Expensive carpets, polished hardwood fixtures, and imported furnishings had been ill treated by their weeks of exposure to the elements. Framed art and precious mouldings had lost much of their lustre. The twenty foot long boardroom table had held up well, but the ceiling panels looked overcome by mildew. Sleek and luxuriant, sharp and imposing, the room had once conveyed a mixed sense of elite, corporate opulence and dominating, sterile professionalism. Now, it was a forgotten relic, dusted off and propped up in its emptiness, a shadow of its former self.
Peter Hanson sighed. It would have to do.
He comforted himself with the notion that they were taking the first few steps to its resuscitation. Soon, he told himself, it would all be restored to its former glory.
People sat around the table. His people. His management team had grown since the rescue. New faces now gazed back at him attentively. Martin, Alicia, and Margaret still formed the core, of course. These three were the foundation stones upon which the newly formed Hanson Incorporated was constructed, and they had been rewarded accordingly. Each had been given one of the three floors directly beneath his own for their own personal use as a down payment against future earnings. Refugees had needed to be evicted to the lower floors, of course, but such was the price of progress.
But now there was also David Mathews.
A former car salesman and survivor of the ghastly slaughterhouse, he was a big man with a big voice, thick eyebrows, and a chubby face that needed a shave. David had become something of a leader among the slaughterhouse survivors, a group that was proving to be an excellent resource for Peter Hanson’s plans. The initial gratitude they had felt at being rescued had been tempered by suspicion, resentment, and a growing unhappiness over limited food supplies, poor living conditions, and rationed water. Add into it an intense, residual anger directed at the Winter Bastards, whose induction into Vandermeer’s military looked more like a reprieve than a punishment, and you had a fertile recruiting ground.
Dave Mathews had delivered.
The sixtieth floor looked like one of those underground refugee bunkers in a war movie, the kind where beds had been laid out in rows for the wounded, where clusters of people bunched together to mutter over shared experiences, while nurses ran from bedside to bedside with the quiet velocity of frightened mice.
That’s what it looked like to Dave Mathews at least, as he leaned against a wall and waited for his chance to make a difference. The atmosphere even had the looming pall of imminent attack hanging over it, except that the menace wasn’t a Nazi bombing run, but the threat of an assault by indestructible, super-zombies. If even one of them stumbled its way past the security perimeter, ignored all the speakers, drones, and other contingencies designed to lure undead away from these upper floors, the refuge would quickly become a graveyard, only without any bodies.
Of course, there were no injured or dying. Dr. Burke and his staff had prescribed and distributed antibiotics to the sick, and only the healthiest had been shuttled off to the First Canadian Place shelters. People slept because sleeping was one of the few things it was possible to do at First Canadian. Constant work stoppages, brought about by the ongoing impasse between Hanson Incorporated and the Administration in which both sides blamed the other, had only exacerbated the state of inactivity. Imprisoned in sterile rooms under the glare of office lighting, the state of discontent could hardly have been worse. Here was a static environment, a shelf where people were stored until further notice.
Attempts to improve the situation had met with mixed results. Wide screen televisions had been carted in and hooked up to an impressive database of movies and television shows. Desktops, recovered from throughout the building, had been set up for people to write with, play games on, or simply watch the streets through the security net. Unfortunately, recent malfunctions and shutdowns in the local communication systems were playing havoc with the wi-fi network, such that technology often failed to work. Computer freeze and network shutdown had become a common occurrence, and only served to stoke the fires of anger, impatience, and frustration.
Mathews kept a close watch on his fellow refugees. People were looking for someplace to place the blame, and it was his job to help influence where it would fall. Something was mucking up the computers? Hanson Incorporated was accusing Kumar, departmental mandarin of the New Internet, and people seemed willing to run with it. After all, everyone was now aware of Kumar’s personal dislike for Peter - along with all those other elites at the apartment. And even if it wasn’t Kumar’s fault directly, neither had he fixed the problem, which smacked of either incompetence or negligence.
A shout came from one of the computer rooms, and Dave sensed opportunity. Through a doorway, a stout man with thick glasses and a receding hairline stood over his malfunctioning computer, shaking with rage. Mathews recognized him as Bob Watson, a slaughterhouse survivor and former appliance store manager.
>
“Fuck!” Bob shouted, looking like he wanted to smash the offending technology.
Mathews recognized a cue when he saw one, and drifted closer.
“What?” shouted another, younger man, who was staring intently at the screen of another nearby desktop. “The hell, man... I’m trying to play a game here!”
“I lost my connection to the hospital,” the first man snapped. “My wife is still there, recovering from what those bastards at the slaughterhouse did to her. They said yesterday that she might be getting better, and I’ve been on hold for almost an hour trying to get more news.”
“Almost an hour, eh?” said the second man, still playing his game. “That’s pretty good. Most connections seem to kak out in half that time.”
“They said they were fixing that.”
“They said they were going to give each of us one of those Crapmobile thingies,” the second man countered. “Hope you didn’t have your heart set on that either.” Then, he stiffened. “Damn. Now my computer’s frozen. Lost my game.”
“You know why this is happening, right?” Mathews broke in, edging in close to the discussion with the same casual grace he had once used to point out the latest car model on the market.
The second man looked up, mildly annoyed. “Yeah, Dave. We all know what you think. Old man Hanson’s got you in his pocket.”
“Do you mean that he gave me a job?” Dave demanded, his voice rising. “Yeah, Reg, he did that for me. He’d give all of you jobs if you wanted them. He told me so himself. Maybe you should consider it. Better working to build yourself a future than to get stuck rotting in here.”
“A job,” Reg repeated, his voice dripping with sarcasm, “with Hanson Incorporated? Are you serious?”
“I don’t see anyone else hiring, do you?”
“Yeah, right,” the first man sneered. “You said you knew why the computers are fucking up. What do you know?”
Dave Mathews shrugged. “Well Bob, there’s a whole bunch of reasons why the computers aren’t working. The biggest one is that it keeps us dependent. It augments their control on all our day-to-day lives, increases our need for their security, and it prevents us from monitoring them for a change. Like, for example, looking in and seeing that the Administration is living it up like kings in Marshal’s apartment, while this place is slowly being turned into a ghetto. It’s also a slap in the face to Peter Hanson, who’s the only one of us trying to do anything about the situation around here.”
“He’s making a lot of sense, you know,” added a chunky woman with short red hair and unusually thick eyebrows, who had been listening in nearby. “It’s about time people started saying what we’re all thinking. And not only that, they let the raping, criminal assholes who assaulted and imprisoned us off the hook. They’re still out there, probably living better than we are.”
“Now, hold on, Camille,” Reg said, shutting down his frozen game and turning to address the room. “Have you guys forgotten that there’s a zombie apocalypse going on? Anyone? Just use your head for a moment. There’s no conspiracy to keep us locked up, not when they risked their lives to rescue us from the damn slaughterhouse in the first place. And as for the ex-convicts, I saw them the other day. The soldier guy had them running up and down the stairs until they were ready to puke, and zapping them with a cattle-prod if they stopped. No, they aren’t getting off the hook as easily as you think.”
“They should be dead!” Camille snapped.
“Not necessarily,” Mathews said, knowing that Hanson had plans for the Winter Bastards, “but you’re right that they shouldn’t be trusted. Peter feels that the Administration has been far too trusting.”
“And…” said another woman, a tall, bony woman wearing khaki’s and a clever expression, “it wasn’t this administration that risked their lives taking down the convicts, was it? It was this guy Marshal that put a bullet in Stanislav’s head. And it was his sidekick Luca who took on Chugger and lived.”
“Okay, you got me there, Mona” Reg said, scratching an ear. “The way I heard it, Marshal is supposed to be some kind of gunslinger. The whole crew of convicts had them surrounded, but he was dangerous enough to keep them at bay while Luca fought Chugger. Can you believe it? Never thought anyone could be strong enough to fight Chugger hand-to-hand and live, but Luca beat him to death with his bare hands.”
There was a halting silence accompanied by a sudden change in atmosphere. The crowd, which Mathews saw had already doubled in size since he’d helped instigate the conversation, seemed caught up in memories of Chugger. He felt the power of it along with them. Chugger was the star in more than half of Mathews’ own nightmares, and that was during a zombie apocalypse.
“God, I wish I’d been there to see that fat son of a bitch go down,” said a man with tears in his eyes. Mathews recognized him as Tom Barone and was instantly cautious. Barone had been one of more psychologically damaged victims from the slaughterhouse. He’d shown all the signs of post-traumatic stress, with an explosive temper, difficulty sleeping, and long moments of moody uncertainty.
“Me too,” Reg admitted, nodding to Tom. “We’ll all sleep better knowing that motherfucker is dead. But that’s just another reason why we should give this administration the benefit of the doubt.”
“But that’s my point,” Mona, insisted. “It was Marshal and Luca that risked their lives. The Administration moved in after they cleared the deck, and that includes Captain Vandermeer. Without those two-”
“And now,” Mathews interrupted, sensing opportunity, “they’ve vanished, leaving the Administration in charge. Does anyone else find that interesting?”
A dead silence greeted this observation.
“What?” Reg shook his head like he was confused. “What are you suggesting?”
“Yeah,” Bob said, his eyes flickering over at Barone nervously. “Tell us what you mean, Matt.”
“Are you saying that you think the Administration is responsible for Marshal and Luca’s disappearance?” Camille demanded, her voice rising.
Yes, Mathews cheered privately. It’s bullshit, but it’s out there now.
“Of course not,” he said. “There’s absolutely no proof of any wrongdoing. I’m just pointing out that it was the exact moment that those two disappeared, when everything started going to shit. Look. I’m a car salesman. If there’s one thing I’m good at, it’s smelling a bad deal, and right now this whole situation stinks like a third world fish market.”
He looked around at the faces around him.
“You want a change? Come work for Hanson Incorporated. We’re in the process of innovating the scavenging business, and we need fresh blood. You want better food? You want an Ipod or your own tablet that isn’t slated for the security net? Come work for us and get it yourself.”
He could see that he’d reached most of them, even Reg. Barone, on the other hand, looked ready to blow.
“HEY! Deputy!” he bellowed.
All eyes turned to look at the police deputy who was standing over in a corner talking to a young twenty-something former hairdresser named Denise. Mathews frowned, trying to recall the man’s name. Paul?
“I’m not actually a deputy,” Paul answered. “I’m an officer of the New Toronto police depart-”
“What in the hell happened to Marshal and Luca?” Barone demanded. “Do you guys know anything yet?”
Paul met his gaze calmly.
“They went north,” he answered, “trying to scavenge some more electric engines from the Tesla dealership. They disappeared a few days ago. For all we know, they could still be alive, but…”
He shrugged, raising both hands in a classic ‘your guess is as good as mine’ gesture.
“Really?” Barone said, looking like he didn’t believe him.
Mathews felt a tug at his elbow.
“Hey, Dave,” Bob muttered, and Mathews saw that there were others standing behind him. “Listen. Would… would you put in a good word with Hanson for me? I’m thinki
ng I might need a job soon, and…”
Like all employees of Hanson Incorporated, Mathews had been given a favourable, low-interest loan on the purchase of a choice location five floors down. As a salaried employee of HI, he stood to repay that loan in little more than five years, which made him practically an executive already. Peter felt sure that he would prove worth it. As an HI recruiter and HR representative, his influence with the slaughterhouse survivors was already proving to be invaluable.
And then there was Doug Mitchell and Cathy Carson. With Kumar absolutely refusing to have anything to do with Hanson Incorporated, Peter had been forced to come up with Doug and Cathy as alternatives.
A lot depended on them.
Doug had been an IT guy working at a small office downtown and was also a slaughterhouse survivor. He was timid, bookish, and built like a skeleton with thick glasses. He lacked anything close to Kumar’s skill or versatility, but he was easily manipulated and reasonably competent.
Cathy, on the other hand, had been an electrician employed by a studio whose chief business was in setting up concerts, movie sets, and promotional events. She was a stocky woman in her late twenties with a surly disposition, orange hair tied back into a ponytail, and a reddish complexion that suggested bad blood pressure.
Together, they constituted a very poor version of Kumar and Marshal, but they were better than nothing.
“I don’t know, Cathy,” Doug said, looking around to see if there were any witnesses. “We’re already in it up to our eyeballs. But this is the kind of thing that could get us into real trouble.”
The stocky woman let out a scathing hiss of contempt.
“Come on, Doug. Mr. Hanson isn’t interested in excuses. He hired us to get results. Ask yourself one question: are you any closer to cracking open Kumar’s firewalls, or gaining equal access to his mainframe, like Peter wants?”
From Oblivion's Ashes Page 64