From Oblivion's Ashes

by Nyman, Michael E. A.

“All right, people, it’s time. Would everyone we’ve been practicing with please take your positions?”

  A number of onlookers detached themselves from the crowd and started moving away.

  “While they prepare,” Torstein continued, “I’d like to inform the room that we have four more projects like the one you’re about to see that will be finished by the end of this week which are just like the one you’re about to see, and another three that will be finished by Christmas. That means beds for two hundred and eighty-eight people, and since there’s a lot of us sleeping in other locations, there will be plenty of extras.”

  He grinned over at Brian, who was sitting very close to Krissy.

  “Of course,” Torstein added, “that doesn’t take into account people who want to double up, if you know what I mean.”

  “Shut up, man,” Brian growled.

  “Anyway,” Torstein continued, “what we’re going to do today is simulate a zombie alert. The people who are participating are going to spread out and wait for the signal. When they hear it, they’ll all head for their designated bunks and show how...”

  Even as he spoke, the participants in the demonstration were spreading out to the four corners of the room. A few disappeared down departing hallways, while one actually exited into a stairwell, closing the door behind him.

  “... a total of twenty-four people,” Torstein continued, “one for the top compartment, and one below. Each compartment is equipped with...”

  Peter looked up as Marshal shuffled into the spot next to him.

  “I hate public speaking,” Marshal said to him.

  “Really? You do it so well. I must confess, I found your words to be inspirational. My own speech-”

  “I saw it,” Marshal said. “Kumar recorded it and seemed to want to add it to your list of crimes.”

  Peter smiled sadly. “After hearing you speak, I fear it may even be true. My own speech was an act of pure demagoguery, lifted almost concept for concept from the contrived speeches of a host of manipulative politicians whose only skill was to win elections. Your speech, on the other hand… it was…”

  He trailed off thoughtfully, before finishing.

  “Quite intriguing.”

  Marshal glanced at Peter in surprise.

  “I wish to be a part,” Peter whispered, “of this New Toronto. Your New Toronto. I am humbled and grateful of your act of inclusion, by taking me to this event. All other conceits have failed me. I may now be the most hated man in New Toronto. But you, Marshal. You may consider me your friend.”

  “Good,” Marshal said, smiling at him. “Great, even, because I want to offer you a job. This General Store I’ve been talking about... it’s basically a bank. It holds assets for the state, invests in people – not businesses, people – and will probably double as the place where everyone stores and exchanges their currency, when we have some. I need a man or woman of experience, used to authority, who understands commerce, pricing, and business. He’ll have his pick of employees - six, I believe, should be enough in the beginning – and I think you’d be perfect for the position.”

  Peter was thunderstruck.

  “You… you’re giving me a bank?”

  “I know, I know,” Marshal agreed, glancing over as Torstein signaled the alarm, which was consisted of a loud, low buzzing that seemed to penetrate the walls. “It’s a bit like handing a convicted psychopath a machete, or a heroin addict the keys to the drug store. I’ve been over all this with the others.”

  “You can’t possibly be giving me a bank,” Peter stated.

  “Actually,” Marshal said, and there was no humor in his voice, “I’m putting you in charge of my bank, Peter. You work for me, you report to me, and ultimately, you obey me, just like all the other department heads. This will not be a job that will make you rich, though you can expect to be comfortably recompensed for your effort. Your primary function, however, will be to support the endeavors of the people of New Toronto, and enhance the wealth of the state, which is me, with the understanding that one day the state will die, metaphorically or otherwise, but the bank will carry on with its mandate of serving citizens. It will be a business, however, and I cannot think of a person more qualified to run it than you.”

  Peter was silent as twenty-four participants appeared, running towards the blank, paneled walls of the hallway demonstration. At a touch from the first arrivals, the paneled portions of what looked like a battered and weather-beaten, concrete wall popped open one by one, revealing the open sleeper cabs, each atop the other in pairs. Those that had arrived dove onto the soft-looking mattress within, even as others were still running up.

  “So I’m to be a bureaucrat, then?” Peter said, shaking his head in disbelief.

  “I’d prefer to think of it as a businessman for the state,” Marshal said. “It’s still banking, and you’ll be working with Margaret again, who’s already said yes to helping us set up a currency. Alicia reports directly to Elizabeth now, but I’m sure you’ll be seeing her quite often. Lawyers and bankers are like cake and ice cream, only more dangerous. And Martin will be the new property and defacto hotel manager for all of First Canadian Place, since we’ll be holding our get-togethers here-”

  “You realize,” Peter interrupted, “that turning me into a bureaucrat is the closest thing to ‘businessman Hell’ there is. You couldn’t come up with a better punishment if you consulted Satan, ran it through the department of motor vehicles, and then put Forest Gump in charge. It’s going to feel like being eaten alive by a very large, unresponsive, and inefficient sloth.”

  Marshal shrugged, watching intently as the last person dove into their cubby and closed the door behind her. The wall, once again, looked blank and uninteresting. Torstein, who had been holding a stopwatch, announced a time of three and a half minutes.

  “Of course,” Peter added, his mind already alive with ideas, “I will take the job. It actually sounds rather exciting, in a twisted, depraved way of thinking.

  Chapter Thirty-Two: Day 93: Suicide Watch

  Krissy found Marshal in the secret hallway behind the twelfth and final bank of sleeper cabins. Surrounded by wires, power tools, devices, and electrical cords, he was performing the finishing touches on one of the units.

  “Hail dictator, my dictator,” she said, pulling up a stool and sitting down.

  “You know,” Marshal said, sealing up the access plate with the cordless drill, “that wasn’t funny when Torstein said it, and it’s even less funny now.”

  “That’s strange,” Krissy answered. “Everyone else seems to think it’s hilarious. How many do you have left to do?”

  “Me?” He wiped his forehead with a sleeve. “It depends. Cathy, Leonard, and John are finishing off another ten cabs each, so for me… maybe another ten or twenty in total? After that, we should have two hundred and eighty fully powered and completed units, not including the mini-fridges.”

  He shook his head wearily.

  “Of course, with the new arrivals we rescued over the last week, we’ll probably need a whole bunch more if we’re to make it so that no one needs to share over Christmas Eve...”

  He hit the power button, and the cab’s computer monitor flared to life.

  “... which isn’t to say that people can’t share,” he added, typing commands into the keyboard. “I wouldn’t want you and Brian to worry.”

  “What about me and Brian?” Krissy asked. “Why would we worry?”

  “No reason,” Marshal said, squinting at the computer. “You know, I think there’s some porn in the network library, password protected, of course, to prevent the children from gaining access. Maybe you and Brian-”

  “How are things with you and Valerie these days?” Krissy asked sweetly.

  “Ah. Good point. Right! So, what brings you by, Kris?” Marshal asked, accessing the network and starting the process of uploading the new program files.

  “Bad news,” she answered. “We’ve had another suicide.”

 
Marshal stopped what he was doing.

  “Damn it! Who was it?”

  “Patty Jenkins,” Krissy said. “Twenty-three year old accountant. Another one of the women from the slaughterhouse. Paul says that, according to God, she was fighting a bad case of depression, and they were sort of meeting on a regular basis in order to try to work things out.”

  “God? What does he have to do with it?”

  “He’s the man to talk to if you want to know how someone is doing,” Krissy said. “Valerie figured that out long ago. It’s partly how she was able to turn Peter’s own people against him.”

  “Really? God?”

  Kristine shrugged.

  “He may be insane, but once you get past that, he’s basically just a really committed priest who cuts out the middleman. He’s sweet, non-judgmental, surprisingly insightful, and he listens really well for a crazy person. He also talked Vandermeer out of his funk and helped Angie overcome her fears. Everybody seems to love him. Well. Everybody except Scratchard, who’s a pretty devout atheist.”

  “Fine, but… another suicide?” Marshal shook his head in disbelief. “I… I suppose I can understand how someone might come to believe that there isn’t much left in the world to live for, but I’d hoped that-”

  “Apparently,” Krissy continued, “she walked out into the streets and let the zombies take her.”

  “Death by zombie,” Marshal muttered.

  Krissy was silent.

  “What?” Marshal asked. “Is something wrong?”

  “As a matter of fact, there is,” she said. “It doesn’t feel right. There are plenty of people who say that Patty was depressed but, according to some of the people who knew her best, she was starting to move past it. Moreover, no one actually saw her leave on the day she was supposed to have walked out and ended it all. And I just think, you know... there has to be a better way.”

  “What do you mean?” Marshal said.

  “Well, think about it!” Krissy got up and started to pace. “Right off the top of my head, I can think of a half dozen better ways to kill myself. Poison, cutting my wrists, a gunshot to the head… There’s an open window in a room on the top floor that Eric trots the Bastards past every day when he’s trying to make a point. Jump from there, and death would be practically instantaneous. Jesus, you could even try sticking your fingers in a light socket, but getting eaten alive by a zombie? Really? And it’s happened twice now! First Denise, and now Patty.”

  “What exactly are you suggesting?”

  “I don’t know yet,” Krissy admitted. “Paul’s investigation was pretty thorough, and he did find Patty’s sweater in the street out near the perimeter. He’s got video footage on his phone following a single set of footprints through the frost to the bloody rag. But – and get this! – there’s absolutely no surveillance video of her leaving the building.”

  “What? How’s that even possible?”

  “A whole portion of the surveillance network went down for thirty minutes,” she answered. “Both times. By itself, that doesn’t prove anything. Ever since Doug unleashed his viruses on Kumar’s system, we’ve been having problems, and there’ve been a dozen incidents of camera systems shutting down. I talked with Kumar, and he’s still fixing the problem.”

  Marshal swore. “An early warning system is the whole foundation of our defense,” he said. “We’ve wiped the computer three times now. How can we still be having these problems?”

  “Actually,” Krissy said, “I have a theory about that too. We know that someone discovered Kumar’s passwords and gave them to Peter’s people just before his attempt to oust the administration. After that, Doug, knowing that Kumar was a better hacker than he was, used the passwords to gain access and unleash the virus on him, some of which we assume is at the root of all our problems.”

  Her eyes narrowed.

  “But what if our real culprit was the person who gave away the passwords in the first place? Doug says that he eliminated the virus. What if he’s right? I interviewed Martin, and he told me that the person who provided the passwords chose to remain anonymous, claiming to be a member of the Administration who sympathized with Peter’s cause. In other words, we still don’t know who betrayed us. But what if the turncoat had a different motive?”

  “Like what?”

  “Like gaining the ability to shut down the cameras whenever they liked, but have the blame fall on Peter’s crew. The turncoat had the passwords and would have had plenty of time to write a back door into Kumar’s code. And unlike Kumar, that person would have known Doug’s attack was coming.”

  Marshal considered the idea.

  “It’s possible, I guess,” he said, “but it seems kind of farfetched. Still. You’re the detective. If you think it needs more investigating, then you have my full support. Bring Luca in on this. He’s pretty useful at this sort of thing, and he’s got a keen insight into the criminal mind. Plus, I’m sure he’d jump at the chance.”

  “Okay. But only if he remembers who’s in charge.”

  “Don’t worry on that account. When it comes to constructive thuggery, the man’s a professional, and he’ll back whatever play you want to call. He can be surprisingly discreet when the situation calls for it.”

  He hesitated.

  “And while we’re on the subject, please be discreet. Tell people that you’re investigating a rumor that Patty knew someone who stole some drugs from the hospital supply. Or whatever. If it turns out that you’re right about any of this, then there’s a very sick and dangerous predator lurking among us.”

  “I understand,” Krissy said with a brisk nod. “If he’s real, we don’t want him to know we’re hunting him.”

  “Yes, there’s that. But also, if he’s not real, we don’t want people to start believing that he is. Trust is a fragile resource at the moment. Anything could break it, especially in a society as fresh and diverse as ours. If people start suspecting their neighbors…”

  “Got it. Discretion for now. But not drugs. I don’t want to slander Patty after her death. I’ll come up with something else.”

  Marshal shrugged. “Of course. Let me know if you need anything, including an extra gun, if it comes to that.”

  “I will, Marshal,” Krissy said. “I’d better get going, if I want to get over to the gymnasium in time to pick up-”

  “Actually, Luca’s not at the gymnasium,” Marshal said, turning back to his work. “You’ll find him a couple of floors up at the Hotel headquarters.”

  “What’s he doing there?”

  “Well, now,” Marshal smiled. “It turns out our number one thug has a thing for school teachers. He and Sophie are… let’s just say he’s already cooked dinner for her two or three times, while she’s taken a sudden interest in learning how to shoot a weapon.”

  “Really?” Krissy laughed. “I hadn’t heard.”

  “It gets better,” Marshal said. “She asked Luca if he could do her a favor, and it was an offer he could hardly refuse.”

  “Will he still be available to help?”

  “Oh,” Marshal said, “I think he’d be willing to tear himself away.”

  “I look ridiculous!” Luca growled, glaring at himself in the big mirror.

  “Don’t be silly,” Sophie told him, reaching out to touch his shoulder. “You can’t begin to imagine what this will mean to them.”

  “Honestly, Soph,” he begged her. “Kids today. They’re not like when we were kids. Fuck, we weren’t like what we were like when we were kids! They’re… they’re like… little, fucking, blood-crazed piranhas, and look at me! I’m spilling blood all over the place!”

  “Oh Luca,” Sophie chided, adjusting the collar. “It’ll be fine.”

  “I think you look quite picturesque,” Scratchard said, looking up from his chess game with God. “A little blush is needed, perhaps, to bring out your rosy cheeks. And maybe a tighter belt, so that your tummy can jiggle like a bowl full of-”

  “Hey, egghead! How’d you like to
be scrambled?”

  Nearby, Cesar and Jerome, who were helping to set up Christmas decorations, were having trouble keeping straight faces.

  “And what are you two laughing at?” Luca demanded.

  “Us?” Cesar blinked innocently. “We’re not laughing at nothing, man. We think it’s great, you putting yourself out there like this. Right Jerome?”

  “It’s perfect,” Jerome agreed. “Like what you’d expect if Scarface and a pro wrestler had a kid, and that kid grew up to be Santa Claus. You know the Easter Bunny’s gotta be crappin’ his pants right now. Santa’s gone gangster!”

  “I’m glad you both approve,” Sophie said, “because they also found a couple of adult-sized elf costumes with the Santa suit, and we could use the help. We have forty-two children, all under the age of ten-”

  “Oh, that ain’t happening,” Jerome said immediately.

  “Yeah,” Cesar said. “Find a couple of girls to squeeze into those costumes. I can’t be seen dressed up like a-”

  “They’d be happy to help, Sophie,” Luca interrupted. “They may not know it yet, but these two were meant to be my helpful little elves. And y’know? Maybe this Santa suit ain’t so bad. After all, it’s to make kids happy, right? Just make sure you take lots of pictures, okay?”

  “Absolutely,” Sophie said, clapping her hands and turning towards Cesar and Jerome. “And thanks to both of you also. We’ve all had a difficult time lately, but these are children. Most of them are orphans now, living with the knowledge that their parents were… well. You know what had to have happened to them. This won’t bring their parents back, but it is the first step on the road to discovering they have a new family. Not to mention three, fantastic uncles who will do anything to make them happy.”

  “Sure,” Cesar said, looking sour. “Yeah. For the kids.”

  “I love kids,” Jerome added.

  Sophie leaned in close to Luca.

  “Maybe afterwards,” she whispered, twirling a part of his fake beard around one finger, “I can tell you about how I’ve always had… well, kind of a thing for Santa, if you know what I mean. And I mean much later, after all the kids have gone to sleep.”