From Oblivion's Ashes

by Michael E. A. Nyman

  It was fortunate that the Sabbatini brothers also had a knack for drawing understanding and sympathetic judges.

  “Oh man,” Marshal said, before he could stop himself.

  Tears flooded Angie’s eyes. “Are… are they going to find us?”

  After a few seconds, Marshal shook his head.

  “N-no,” he said, and then, realizing that his voice lacked conviction, he added, “This isn’t the first Swarm I’ve had to outlast. They’ll putter around for a while, maybe smash a few walls. Remember, the Call to Swarm happened out on Spadina, not here. They’ve got no reason to suspect this location, and trust me, we’re very, very well hidden.”

  Angie didn’t look convinced, and Marshal didn’t blame her.

  There looked like there were hundreds of undead outside, and that was just what he could see. In truth, Marshal had never seen a Swarm anywhere near this big before. The vast majority were collected out in the streets below, like some great, big mosh pit, an ocean that seemed to go on for as far as he could see. But there were also hundreds more, crawling up over the walls, streetlamps, and rooftops. All together, there was enough raw power to flatten the neighborhood for miles.

  That wasn’t what was frightening however.

  Just how smart could they get?

  Angie screeched as a zombie clawed its way across the Terrible Window.

  “It’s okay,” Marshal assured her, trying to pretend that his own heart wasn’t racing. “It’s just passing by. Notice that rebar right there? That’s the supporting frame for the Dollar Den sign, and we’re situated smack in the middle of it. The frame overlaps the window, extending two feet out from the wall. As far as the zombies seem to notice it, the rebar is the wall.”

  Assuming, he added to himself, that they hadn’t brought the brainpower required to make a new, imaginative leap in deduction.

  “Come on,” he said, drawing her away from the Terrible Window. “Shower. Then food, if you’re hungry. I’ve got pasta – oh boy, do I have pasta – and canned vegetables, crackers, and rice. I’ve also got tons of canned food, and quite a stash of frozen goods. This place has a walk-in freezer, so I still have lots of steaks, burgers, pork and lamb chops, ground beef, Italian sausages, and chicken. And afterwards, I think there’s still some ice cream-.”

  Marshal stopped, having been interrupted by Angie’s stomach, which growled like a T-rex. Embarrassed, the little girl looked guilty.

  “Okay, then,” Marshal said, smiling. Wasn’t she adorable? “Something must have sounded good. What was it, the burgers? Steaks? Or how about a big plate of spaghetti and meat sauce?”

  “Spaghetti, please,” Angie whispered. She hesitated. “Marshal.”

  “Coming right up,” he answered, so delighted at having company that he could almost forget there was a Swarm. “Now. Right this way.”

  He led her past the wide screen TV and couches, through the fully stocked bar and modern kitchen. Just beyond, there was a long dining table under a bright lamp, capable of seating twelve. Beyond that, there was yet another hallway.

  “This hallway here,” Marshal explained, “lead to the bedrooms. The first one’s mine. The next one can be yours, after I clear out a few things. Each of the bedrooms has its own television, dresser, computer desk, entertainment system and stereo. You can access most of the music, movies, and TV shows through the wi-fi, or look through the selection of stuff I haven’t uploaded yet.

  “But first, your shower. Bathroom is through the archway at the end of the hall. Shower as long as you like, but I’m afraid the hot tub is off limits. We have an 8000 gallon water tank built into one of the back walls, so there’s plenty at the moment, but until we figure out a way to recapture rain water, that’s all we have, okay?”

  “Okay,” Angie said.

  “I’ve got several bathrobes, one of which I’ll leave out on the bed for you. As for other clothing, you’ll just have to rummage through the stuff I scavenged from the Dollar Den downstairs, since I’m pretty sure I’m going to burn the clothes you’re wearing.”

  He sniffed the front of his black T-shirt where he had held Angie.

  “Actually, I’m probably going to burn this too. Sorry, but there’s no dog poo allowed in Chez Marshal. Oh. And we have plenty of shampoo, courtesy of the Dollar Den, so use it liberally.”

  “Okay,” Angie said again. She looked up. “Why do you have a hot tub?”

  Marshal shook his head. “Long story. I’ll tell you when the rotten egg is gone.”

  It was only two years after Lucenzo was born that Lars’ wife, Astrid, gave birth to her only child. It was the cause for a big celebration at the Sabbatini’s, as Antonio spared no expense throwing a celebration for his best friend and his wife. Table after table of food was prepared. The wine and ale flowed like water, and the two men were seen to be sitting together, drunk, all the way into dawn. The new baby, Marshal, was left to sleep the night away next to Lucenzo’s crib.

  Eight years later, the tragedy occurred. Antonio was out of town on a business meeting at the time. Frank was seventeen, and had just started picking up extra cash working the odd shift at the construction company, while his brothers still worked at the restaurant. The Einarsson’s were out on a drive, helping Ellie and her new husband move into their new house, leaving their boy in the care of Antonio’s wife Maria for the day. They were baking pies together when the accident occurred.

  Four bodies were pulled from the minivan that Lars had been driving that day. Of the four, only Lars made it to the hospital, clinging to life and consciousness for three days before expiring. Antonio flew home immediately to sit at his friend’s bedside during the final hours. Lars shared only a few minutes of hushed conversation with his old friend, before his heart could take no more, and he died, leaving his son an orphan.

  Marshal Einarsson, eight years old, attended the funeral two days later.

  “So,” Marshal said, “I see you found your room. Clothing okay?”

  “I’m found some tights and a T-shirt,” Angie said, wriggling uncomfortably. “They’re a bit big, but they're clean.”

  “Fantastic.” Marshal examined the girl, studying her up close for the first time.

  Cleaned up, she was a pretty girl, though painfully thin. Her most engaging feature was her eyes. They were like large jewels, mahogany brown, with deep, black, glittering pupils like windows into the afterlife. She looked to have an ambiguously Mediterranean background, with dusky skin and wavy, light brown hair that fell just past her shoulders. Her features were fragile-looking and exotic, sharply etched, with arching eyebrows over a hard temporal ridge, high cheekbones and a broad face. She had heavy, worried-looking lips over a square jaw, and could have ranged anywhere from French, to Italian, to North African, to Arabic. She would certainly break a few hearts some day, had she the expectancy of a normal lifespan.

  “How… how long can I stay?” she asked.

  Marshal blinked. “Uh… do you have somewhere else to go? Because, unless you do, you can stay as long as you like. I don’t have anyone else, so… I’d be happy if you'd consider this place your new home. Rules are simple. Don’t provoke the zombies. Don’t waste water or food. And always, always, always, safety first. Think you can handle that?”

  “Yes,” she answered, looking relieved.

  “Great. Then how about I show you around the place just before we eat. I mean, you’ve seen most of it, but there’s one other place you really ought to see.”

  At the funeral, Marshal had stayed mostly quiet. Enshrined in a cold nimbus of detachment, he didn’t cry once the entire time. He just stared at the ground when they lowered his parents’ coffins.

  A casual observer to the event could have been forgiven for wondering if some head of state or wealthy philanthropist had gone into the ground that day. Hundreds of people attended the funeral, not the least of which were the entire Sabbatini family, their friends and associates, employees at the construction company, and people who Marshal had never s
een before, but who’d inexplicably made the trip from other cities. Very few of the Einarsson’s extended family existed on this side of the Atlantic, though Antonio paid for a couple of them to make the trip. Marshal remembered meeting them. None of them spoke English.

  Then there were the police. For reasons that were never explained, about a dozen police cars attended the service, snapping pictures of the guests from a respectful distance. Marshal was surprised when the chief of police and two police captains came over to offer him their sympathy.

  The Sabbatini family engulfed him on that day, surrounding him at all times with worry, like he was a suicidal crown prince. Vincent was the first person to offer his condolences and friendship, while Lucenzo stuck so close to him, you’d have thought he’d acquired his own personal bodyguard. Frank was more circumspect, acting more like a press agent, deciding who would and would not be allowed near Marshal, asking him sometimes if he wanted to see this person or that, turning them away if he didn’t. Two large, burly men – Marshal forgot their names – helped Frank keep order.

  A brief altercation came when some of Marshal’s extended family put up a bit of a fuss. The translator, speaking nervously inside a circle of beefy men in suits, explained that they were already demanding to know about inheritance and custody.

  Antonio had quietly taken them aside. After ten minutes of heated conversation, Lars’ and Astrid’s extended family left the service, looking satisfied. They didn’t even notice Marshal as they swept past him, and never once did they look back. Antonio finished off a quick conference with his lawyers, handing them some paperwork, and the funeral resumed without any further trouble.

  Within a week, Marshal was adopted into the Sabbatini family. He kept his own name, and never saw anything resembling criminal behavior, or at least, nothing anyone would bother trying to force him to testify about.

  Marshal led Angie back to the front hall. Her gaze flickered to the flat screen, and then looked away again when she saw that the undead were still in the downstairs hall.

  “Forget about that,” Marshal told her, reaching out to switch off the screen. “There’s nothing we can do about it, so we may as well try to pretend that it’s not happening. Here. I think you’ll get a kick out of this.”

  He went over to the wall with the end table, and the picture of fat, Italian Elvis.

  “This is my landlord, Frank,” he said, pointing at the picture. “Say hello, Frank.”

  Humina, the painting seemed to say as it grinned under flaring, oil light.

  “Hello, Frank,” Angie said respectfully.

  “Frank was also my adopted brother,” Marshal went on, eyeing the photo, “my friend, and a general, all-around, good guy. He was also a pretty vicious criminal and a powerful mob boss, though I would never offer any proof of that. It was kind of my job in the family to not be involved. Crime families need some members who are squeaky clean, and that’s what I was.

  “Anyway, this apartment was his. He designed it with a lot of purpose in mind, and what I’m about to show you is part of it. Are you ready?”

  “Yes,” Angie said.

  Marshal hit a button on the bottom of the portrait, and the entire wall, armoire and all, slowly folded upwards like a garage door.

  In his final hours, Lars had asked Antonio to care for his son after he died. If other words were exchanged, Antonio wouldn’t share them. But he was as good as his word.

  Marshal wanted for nothing. In privilege and closeness, he became like a forth Sabbatini son, doted on by Mrs. Sabbatini and generally coddled by the other women in the Sabbatini clan. In truth, it wasn’t much different than it had always been. The Sabbatini dinner table had always been a familiar environment for him, the brothers, practically family already. Lucenzo and Marshal, in particular, had always been the best of friends, with Marshal often helping the bigger boy to escape trouble. When Marshal was old enough, he was given work in the restaurant, then hours in the construction company. Holidays always came and went with expensive gifts, big dinners, and plenty of lasting memories. When Marshal finished high school, his tuition and expenses to university were paid, and when he emerged with a Masters degree in electrical engineering, with minors in computer programming and computer sciences, there were job opportunities available to him almost immediately.

  “This is what your father wanted for you, Marshal,” Antonio told him, pulling him aside after the big dinner that was thrown to celebrate his graduation. “Your father and me, we came to this country for a better life, a chance to become something better than just a common worker. I’m not saying that there’s anything wrong with a man who works with his hands. Always remember that it's good, hard, honest work that makes a man. But your father and me, we watched the rich man’s children go to the best schools, get the best opportunities. Now, you are that boy. It is all he ever wanted. By taking that rolled up piece of paper today, you are the culmination of your father’s hopes and dreams. I know he would be as proud of you as I am.”

  It was the most the man had ever said to Marshal. He wouldn’t have that much to say until he lay on his deathbed, three years later. The doctors told everyone it was a kind of poison usually found only in Russia. How it got to Antonio, no one would say.

  “Marshal,” the man had said, his face wrinkled and white from whatever it was that was killing him. “You… were always a good boy… kept Luca from… going to… I wanted to tell you… about your father… should have told you… Marshal, I’m sorry…”

  He slipped into unconsciousness after that, awakening only for a few short moments with his wife Maria, before he died.

  Marshal was one of the pallbearers at his funeral, which was even bigger than the one held for his father, with many of the same faces in attendance. One of the police captains even said hello.

  And through it all, Marshal was kept isolated from the Sabbatini ‘family business'. Once in a while, a police car would pick him up and take him somewhere for questioning, but Marshal had nothing to offer them. Of course, along with all the Sabbatini children, nephews, nieces, an extended relatives, Marshal had been educated in the proper way of behaving at such times. Nor would he have betrayed his adopted family anyway. He’d willingly go to jail before that happened, even if a phalanx of Sabbatini lawyers didn’t always arrive on the scene any time the police so much as sneezed in his direction. But it hardly mattered.

  As far as Marshal knew, Antonio had been an upstanding citizen.

  Just like Frank.

  Oh, there were clues. But for these, there were always ‘reasonable’ explanations.

  For example, there was the small horde of Italian-looking gentlemen that seemed to have nothing better to do than sort of ‘hang out’ all day long in one of the back dining rooms of the Sabbatini flagship restaurant. Their age ranged anywhere from twenty to ancient, and they spent their time eating and drinking, watching soccer, hockey, and other sports, and occasionally shouting into their cell phones. Sometimes, Marshal would meet Luca there, and find him dressed in an expensive suit, menacing anyone who was getting loud enough to disturb Frank’s other customers.

  Italian men’s club, Frank explained once, when Marshal asked. Don’t let them bother you. If any of them give you any lip, tell Lucenzo. Not that any ever tried. Marshal was well known.

  Well. There was that one time. One of them - a tall, wolfish-looking guy named Renato, with an enormous jaw and a uni-brow - did once smack the back of Marshal’s head and order him to get him a menu, right in front of Luca.

  Six weeks later and fresh out of the hospital, Renato apologized. From that point onward, he and Marshal had been great friends.

  Another ‘clue’ came when Frank offered to pay Marshal for some hi-tech, electrical work, first, to sweep his restaurants for listening devices, and second, to plant listening devices in each of the floral settings. It was easy work for someone of Marshal’s qualifications, and he executed it readily enough. And again when asked, Frank had a reasonable explanat
ion.

  Customer service. The listening devices would give him a true sense of what his customers really thought of the food and décor.

  And that was Frank all over… a man of reasonable explanations.

  It was how he remained such a fine, upstanding citizen.

  “Oh wow,” Angie said.

  The dim-lit room measured about fifteen hundred square feet, though oddly-shaped and spread out. Unlike the rest of the floor, no effort had been made to decorate. It could have been an empty loft space in any building in the city. Pipes and electrical lines ran along the underside of the twelve-foot ceilings, and there were industrial lamps hanging down on their wires every twenty feet. The far wall was composed of the same brick that made up the back wall of the entire building. There were several cheap tables, a pump truck for moving skids, and a wire mesh enclosure up against one wall that read “Danger: High Voltage”. The water tank was visibly set across from it, and there were four, partly-covered skids in spaced locations across the floor.

  “Yeah,” Marshal agreed. “Pretty big, isn’t it? Storage space. As you can see, there are even a few skids being stored here already. That one? It’s all spaghetti pasta. Frank had it diverted from one of his restaurants, probably as a means of getting it for free. I can’t really be sure.”