From Oblivion's Ashes

by Nyman, Michael E. A.

  Before he could answer, she whirled away and sped from the room.

  “That’s how they do it, guys,” Luca said, shaking his head. “That’s how women rule the world. They turn men into their fucking sock puppets, and they make us like it.”

  “The Christmas dinner just got entertaining,” Scratchard said, moving his knight. “Don’t worry, Luca. I’ll make sure there’s lots of pictures.”

  “That’s all right, gentlemen,” said a voice.

  They all looked up to see Martin standing by the door with Krissy.

  “The hotel has already arranged for a professional photographer and videographer to work the entire Christmas party,” the former Hanson Incorporated executive stated. “It was Marshal’s belief that, should our community survive the next few years, this party will be the first of many. Therefore, it is a historic event and should be recorded for posterity.”

  “How wonderful,” Scratchard said, turning in his chair to smile brightly at the three unhappy looking men. “Did you hear that? You three will be making history!”

  “Yeah,” Cesar said without enthusiasm. “Wonderful.”

  “Rest assured,” Martin continued with a sharp smile. “Future generations will look back at the three of you, dressed in your Christmas garb, and celebrate your sacrifice with all the credit you deserve.”

  “This just gets better and better,” Jerome moaned.

  “Thanks for helping me find him, Martin,” Krissy said, her eyes wide as she took in Luca’s appearance.

  “What’s the matter?” Luca demanded. “Never see a guy in a Santa suit before?”

  “No, no,” Krissy said, managing not to laugh. “I mean… yes. Of course I have. You look… uh…”

  “It’s for the children,” Luca explained with a pained expression. “I’m gonna have a big bag of presents for them, okay? We’re giving each of them their own remote-control something. Maybe it’s a car, or a helicopter, or a… a robot, or something. We’re sectioning off and soundproofing the fortieth floor as a playground. Sophie’s gonna make sure they get plenty of school time there. Y’see, it not only gets them a chance to play with these toys we’re givin’ ‘em, it trains them to use remote-control stuff so that when they get asked to operate a drone one day, they’re all a bunch of pros. We’re also givin’ ‘em chocolates and candies and stuff like that, but the main things are the remotes.”

  “Sounds clever,” Krissy said.

  “Check,” God said, ignored by everyone but Scratchard.

  “Yeah, whatever,” Luca said, deflating a little. “You were looking for me?”

  “Um. Yes. Can… can I borrow your help for the rest of the day? I’ve got a bit of an investigation and I could use your insight.”

  “Sweetheart,” Luca said, pulling off the fake beard and flinging the hat aside. “you had me at ‘rest of the day’. Nothing like red flannel to appreciate the value of Versace. Hey, Martin! How are the preparations coming on?”

  “Very well, thank you, Mr. Sabbatini,” Martin said. “I have a kitchen staff of six, but only half a kitchen. Several floors beneath us, in the corporate headquarters for AG financial group, is the building’s recently constructed butcher shop. I am currently awaiting delivery on about eight hundred pounds of beef cuts, four hundred pounds of assorted pork products, mutton, and chicken, much of which will be prepared in those same, half-completed kitchens and served for dinner at tomorrow’s Christmas Eve feast. As well, I have skids of canned vegetables, powdered milk, instant mashed potatoes, spices, pastas, cranberry sauce, and beverages, both alcoholic and non-alcoholic, awaiting attention in various hallways and secretary pools as we speak. Then, there are the decorations, the sound stage, the garbage bins, the chairs, the tables, the plates, the silverware, the glasses and napkins. Also, we have the many and assorted presents to be wrapped for distribution on the night in question, not the least of which are Marshal and Kumar’s special, secret gifts to each and every member of our nearly three hundred citizens. As I said before, there are people documenting the historic event who want my time, but there are also wait staff, sound technicians, furniture movers, not to mention Cesar’s band, The Four Dead Hombres.”

  “Except for me, it’s a whole new band,” Cesar said, brightening. “Same name. We’ve only been practicing together for a week, but I think we’re pretty talented.”

  “It’s a good idea,” Luca said, removing the last of the Santa suit by kicking off the red pants. “Now I got a place to throw any rotten fruit I find.”

  “One week, and you already got a gig,” Jerome said with approval.

  “It helps being the only working live band in the apocalypse,” Martin said dryly. “You tend to win most of the contracts. Anyway, their performance will probably entertain people one way or another. Finally, there are room assignments. Marshal has insisted that everyone receive a designated sleeper cabin at the end of tomorrow’s festivities. And I have to integrate it all with this list I’ve been given that details the allergies, post-traumatic stressors, medical conditions, and religious preferences of New Toronto’s population.”

  “Yeah?” Luca said, happier now that he was free of the suit. “Well then get back to work, ya lazy bastard. And tell the kitchen that if they screw up the pasta, I will personally come down there and blow all their fucking heads off.”

  “Subtle,” Jerome said.

  “Noted, Mr. Sabbatini,” Martin said. “On that cue, if you’ll all excuse me.”

  The former vice president of HI hurried away.

  “Say this for Peter,” Luca said to Krissy as he brushed off the last few microscopic traces of Santa from his expensive suit, “he did bring some competent people with him. So, boss! Where do we start?”

  “Start by not calling me boss,” Krissy muttered, looking over at the two older men playing chess. “It might give people the idea that we’re mobsters, and we’re not. We’re police, Luca. We work on the side of law and order.”

  Luca shrugged. “Whatever. The cops were always just another gang to me, only better connected and with less imagination. But you’re the boss. So. What’s our first move, copper?”

  “Call me ‘detective’, officer Sabbatini,” Krissy said, “and I think we’ll start out by interrogating God here.”

  “Me?” God said, looking up from his chess game with a startled expression. “I hope you don’t think me guilty of anything.”

  “Psychological and emotional extortion,” Scratchard said, counting off fingers. “Blackmail, tax evasion, massive fraud, racketeering, prostitution, slavery, genocide-”

  “My goodness!” God exclaimed in shock. “You do believe in me!”

  Scratchard flashed disgust, his fingers still raised as the words stuck in his throat. Then, with an unintelligible mutter, he turned his attention back to the game.

  “Actually, God,” Krissy said, “I just wanted to talk to you again about the suicides of Denise Cooper and Patty Jenkins.”

  “Oh,” God said, studying the board. “Yes, of course, I understand completely. Only they weren’t suicides, detective. I suppose that’s what you wanted to talk about.”

  Krissy stared at him. “Excuse me?”

  God reached out to adjust his bishop. “They weren’t suicides, Detective Richardson. Those two women were not suicidal, although I can certainly understand why Officer Smith came to that conclusion. The circumstances of their disappearances do seem to suggest it.”

  He withdrew his hand.

  “That’s touch move,” Scratchard said, pointing at the bishop.

  “Yes, Nicholas, I know,” God sighed.

  “Do you know for certain that they weren’t suicidal?” Krissy pressed, “or are you saying that you have some sort of… I don’t know… divine inspiration?”

  “Oh no,” God said, moving the bishop. “It’s not like that at all. Most of my God powers aren’t working at the moment. No, I know it because Denise admitted to having an interest in a young man named Jason. One of your students
, Nicholas.”

  Nicholas shrugged, gazing at the board. “Could be. All students look like lemmings to me. Is he the one with the overbite?”

  “In any event,” God continued, frowning at his opponent, “she was engaging all her wiles into gaining his attention. She would sit next to him, touch his arm and smile, laugh at his jokes and fling her hair around when she looked at him. Then, she’d flirt with other men if it looked like he was too busy to notice her, but scold him when he did. And it was all working. Jason told me so himself. Poor boy was so besotted that he didn’t know what to do. But then, in the middle of everything, Peter had his revolution. Then, up out of nowhere, Denise supposedly walks off and kills herself? Nonsense, I say.”

  “Paul reported people near to her as saying that she was depressed,” Krissy said.

  God threw up his hands. “Well, of course she was depressed! We’re all depressed! It’s an apocalypse, Detective Richardson. Ninety-nine point nine percent of the world’s population has died horribly in recent months, and that tally includes almost all of her loved ones. But was she behaving like someone under the influence of clinical depression? Not in the slightest. And as for Patty Jenkins, thanks to her background in biology, she had just gotten accepted into your man Brian’s recently revived hydroponics initiative. So far, Brian’s only taken five apprentices, out of a list of twenty-seven applicants, and Patty was one of them. She was so excited at the prospect of growing big fat tomatoes, potatoes, spices, fruit trees, and vegetables. Does that sound like a likely candidate for suicide?”

  “No,” Krissy admitted. “No, it doesn’t.”

  “Check,” Scratchard said.

  “Check. Mate in three,” God replied. “I hope you have good fortune in locating what appears to be the vilest sort of predator, Detective Richardson. And I’m glad to see you’ll have Luca with you. You’re a formidable woman, and armed with a gun and a taser. But vipers don’t meet you on the battleground. They lie in wait for you.”

  “I’d appreciate,” Krissy said, “you keeping your opinion about a predator on the loose quiet for the time being, God. This comes straight from Marshal. He’s afraid you’ll spook people.”

  “My lips are sealed,” God agreed. “If I see or think of anything else, I’ll let you know.”

  “Set them up again,” Scratchard growled.

  “All right,” God said, gathering up his pieces, “but I don’t see what you’ve got to be grumpy about. I’m only ahead, thee games to two, with four draws.”

  “You shouldn’t be winning at all. Look… Just shut up and set them up again.”

  “We need to find Paul,” Krissy muttered to herself as they headed for the hallway. “He was the investigating officer. I want to know more about what he found.”

  “He’s ten floors down in that butcher shop Martin was talking about,” Luca said. “Sixty-second floor. Some guy called Henley runs the butcher shop. I don’t know if that’s his first or last name, but he’s the only actual trained butcher in all of New Toronto. He put out a call for people with meat-cutting experience. Paul and that ex-con T-Bone were the only people who answered.”

  “So they’re…?”

  She drew a line across her neck.

  “Yeah,” Luca said. “They had to murder a cow a couple of weeks ago, to let it age, and they’ve been working on the rest of it ever since. It’s actually more than a butcher shop. Peter turned half the floor into a meat-packing plant. Convinced Marshal to have the Crapmobiles haul in a ton of extra equipment, insulation, air conditioners and solar panels in order to build the place. They got about twenty, ten thousand dollar freezers in there as well, though they’re mostly empty at the moment.”

  “You do know we call them Camoucarts now, right?”

  “Stupid name. I ain’t usin’ it.”

  As they neared the elevator, he turned to look at her.

  “Something I’ve been meaning to ask you. Why was it Paul who investigated the suicides? How come it wasn’t you? Too busy?”

  “No, not really,” Krissy said, pushing the elevator button. “But I was a little preoccupied at the time. When the first ‘suicide’ happened, most of our attention was on Peter and his revolution. Paul was the first man on the scene because I had him planted at First Canadian spying on their operation, trying to find out if they were doing anything illegal. After our access to the camera system was cut off, he’d give me daily reports on the things going on over there, while I used the rest of the surveillance network to watch all the other outposts for signs of sabotage. Then, when Paul reported the suicide, I just took him at his word because, at the time, there were much bigger fish to fry.”

  “And afterwards?”

  “Afterwards,” Krissy shrugged. “It was a suicide. By all accounts, it was cut and dried. We had a fresh influx of nearly a hundred new citizens, a surge of activity to oversee and help out on, a wave of disputes to settle… It never really seemed necessary to question the earlier report. Meanwhile, the situation between me and Brian was… evolving, and that required more of my time…”

  “You need more cops,” Luca said firmly.

  “You volunteering?”

  “Fuck, no,” Luca laughed. “Auxiliary, maybe. Or combat training, I could do that. But I ain’t no beat cop. Kinda the opposite, actually.”

  “Not much room for organized crime anymore,” Krissy pointed out. “And Marshal was right about one thing. You’d make one hell of a sergeant!”

  Luca seemed to consider.

  “Nnnaahh!” he said at last. “Or at least, let’s wait and see. If the community is successful, crime could come back in a big way. Then, I could be your contact in the underworld.”

  “Contact? Wouldn’t you be running it?”

  “Fucking right, I’d be. Me or Marshal. You’d be invited, if you wanted to come along. Leave someone else in charge of the cops and come be a bad girl with us.”

  “Been there, done that,” Krissy laughed.

  “What?” Luca asked. “You mean your time infiltrating the fucking weed-growers guild? Aw, come on! They’re not even… A fucking grow-op is to the criminal underworld as a cow is to the farmer! You hear me? You infiltrated a cow! Okay, okay. I give you credit for fooling everyone, including me. But you ain’t even come close to seeing the inside of the criminal mind.”

  With a cold steel knife as sharp as diamond, T-Bone slashed at the choice cut of prime rib and tried to control his temper.

  “Be careful with that cut,” Henley shouted at him from across the room, waving a meat cleaver for emphasis. “You mishandle that, you’re mishandling the best part of the cow, and I’ll have your guts for garters!”

  Guts for garters, T-Bone thought. Who even said that anymore? He half suspected that there was some sort of butcher’s joke at work somewhere in the equation.

  He met the gaze of his accuser, bit back the hot retort that dangled temptingly on the tip of his tongue, and merely nodded. Henley acknowledged his answer with a disbelieving grunt, but said no more. Turning away, he went back to prepping the freshly killed pig carcass that the cop had just helped him hang from the spreader.

  Relations with Henley had been rocky from the start. The man looked to be about a hundred pounds overweight, with a round, nearly-bald head whose rippling set of chins looked as if the five o’clock shadow had been permanently tattooed on. He was the only survivor who’d actually worked at the slaughterhouse, a fifteen-year veteran of the butcher’s trade, and he remembered T-Bone’s enthusiastic support for the Stan and Chugger regime only too well. Old T-Bone had even kicked Henley a few times, in an effort to endear himself to Stan, and now that their positions were reversed, Henley was not about to let new T-Bone forget it.

  “You’re a worthless piece of shit,” Henley had bellowed into his face that first day, clutching a meat cleaver and almost daring T-Bone to object. “I just want you to know that’s what I think of you. The moment will come that you slip up and show just what kind of piece of shit you are,
and I’ll be waiting to gut you like that cow over there!”

  The threat, made three weeks ago when the cow was first slaughtered and hung, had impressed T-Bone, even if it failed to frighten him. For ten months as a teenager, he’d done some on-the-job training as a meat-cutter at a Sobeys in Halifax. So, when the Captain had announced a triple-time work opportunity for experienced butchers (triple each hour worked against his sentence) with perks, T-Bone had been only too happy to volunteer. ‘Perks’ meant avoiding the occasional morning jog, receiving extra ‘gaming league’ time, and a little extra credit to spend at the store.

  Not that he did. Most of the things they offered, T-Bone already had (like a computer, television, bed, blankets, and different sorts of uniforms) or didn’t need. Instead, he traded every credit he could get his hands on to Scratchard for cigarettes (who sold them cheaper than the store) and Brian for weed (the man had a gift), which wasn’t considered to be illegal at the moment. When the commissary sold stuff like that, then and only then would T-Bone become a frequent shopper.

  Still, nothing in T-Bone’s experience had prepared him for the raw, visceral horror of killing, cutting open, and gutting an actual animal. It made him feel sick. Henley’s threat had, therefore, carried an extra weight, and T-Bone didn’t like it at all.

  His first instinct, the familiar one, had been to answer the threat of violence with violence, but the last few weeks had changed him that much. He didn’t need to imagine the Captain’s reaction if T-Bone got caught up trying to explain how a ten inch knife came to be lodged in Henley’s eye.

  And so, instead he found his newly blossomed inner discipline, bit down on his rage, and simply agreed with everything Henley said. Yes. I am a worthless piece of shit. Yes. I will probably die on your meat cleaver. Yes. I probably… No! Not probably… I do deserve to die on your meat cleaver. He endured it with an iron will for the entirety of his first day, becoming neither rude nor hostile.

  Then, at the end of the day, he reported it to the Captain.