From Oblivion's Ashes

by Michael E. A. Nyman

  “We?” Angie looked at the ground. “Do we both need to go, Marshal?”

  Marshal’s enthusiasm felt like it smacked into a wall, and he looked apologetic. “I’m sorry, Angie, but yes... you’ll have to come along. You’re going to start feeling sick by nightfall, which means that even if I were to return at dawn, you could be dead or in a coma by the time I got here. We’ll need to inject you the moment we arrive at Rothman’s, and even then, we’re cutting it close.”

  Angie looked uneasy, opening her mouth as if to object, but Marshal plowed on.

  “If we’re insanely lucky,” he continued, “if the rain holds out, if we don’t encounter any other zombies, then there’s an outside chance we can make it there and back again by dawn. But what if we don’t? Then I’d have to find someplace to hide until I can sneak back into the apartment. If that happens and you’re not with me, you’ll die, and it would all be for nothing. I’m sorry, but we’re in this together.”

  To his surprise, she threw her arms around him and hugged him. He patted her shoulders, a little taken aback by this unexpected show of support. It wouldn’t be until much later that it would occur to him that he might have misunderstood her objection.

  The rain started at 7:30pm. Cracks of thunder and sheet lightning accompanied a torrential blast of water that hammered down on the pavement for about ten minutes, before settling into a steady downpour.

  Marshal and Angie watched on the security monitor as the zombies in the downstairs hall lurched outside to stand in the rain. They wore their black blankets, with duct tape collars around the neck that made them into hoods and kept the eyeholes from moving.

  Under his blanket, Marshal also wore the small backpack that he had used in university. Two more of the singing teddy bears were inside. As dangerous as they were to use, they had proven to be effective. He brought Angie's insulin kit, as well as food and water, enough for a couple of days in case they got delayed. And there were chocolate bars, in case Angie went into hypoglycemia, which could happen if her blood sugar got too low from all the exercise. It was the other side of the diabetic teeter-totter of death.

  After a great deal of thought, Marshal brought one more thing, a dangerous thing, tucking it deep into the bottom of the pack where Angie wouldn’t find it. At first, he couldn’t imagine any scenario where he might need it. Nevertheless, he finally decided on bringing it anyway, on the stone cold logic that he’d rather have it and not need it, than need it, and not have it.

  “All right,” Marshal said. “Stick close to me. Here we go.”

  The stairwell dropped, and they slipped down into the dark ruins of the building below. The sound of falling water echoed through the empty hallway as they snuck towards the back alley without any trouble. The monitor had shown only seven zombies, all of them facing away from the building. While there could still be dozens more, this seemed like the best place to start.

  To his amazement and delight, all the undead ignored them, their attention focused upwards into the stormy night sky. He put one foot outside, hesitated, but none of the zombies reacted. They only swayed, treelike in the dark, beneath the heavy rain, as it splashed off of them and washed their faces.

  In the end, it proved absurdly easy for the two of them to edge their way past the group and down the alley. Marshal had envisioned them inching their way, step by step, freezing if they drew attention, moving only when ignored, and had banked an hour of time just to get to the bottom of the alley where it emptied out onto Dornack Street. Instead, it was a five-minute effort, no more difficult than tiptoeing past a particularly engrossed funeral procession.

  Down the street they went, staying close to the wall, except when they needed to avoid rubble and deadfall. Zombie after zombie paid them no attention as they slipped past like ghosts through the pounding rain.

  Not once did they allow themselves to approach within ten feet of the undead, though this was trickier than it might seem. Under the cloudy sky, with no Moon, the streets were pitch black, and even after their eyes adjusted, they found it difficult to spot the dangers. Marshal had packed two flashlights, but they didn’t dare use them. Their black blankets made them invisible in the dark, while the rain made them all but soundless and odorless.

  They had traveled four blocks, following College Ave. eastwards, and Marshal turned to gaze down Selmach Street.

  Two lone lights were still on at Luca’s Auto Parts Yard. The Yard was small for its kind, maybe seven or eight thousand square feet, enclosed on all sides by thirty foot tall corrugated metal walls. It consisted of a central building for stripping and assembly of vehicles, a magnetic claw-crane and car crusher, and car wrecks stacked four cars high all over the rest of the yard. The working lights were attached to twenty-foot tall poles on either side of the gate. They’d been a gift from Marshal, despite the fact that Luca had told him that he wasn’t ‘inta nonna that green power shit.’ Luca had put them up the next day, and then proudly said how happy he was to have a permanently lit gate, despite the fact that the streetlights never went out.

  Marshal felt a slight pain in his chest. Luca had been a thug, a bully, a criminal, and possibly even a killer. But he was also Marshal’s best friend and the closest thing he’d ever had to a brother. Whenever Marshal had needed help, Luca had always been the first to arrive. And now he was gone. Luca had been in Montreal with Vincent on the day of the outbreak, adding his considerable diplomatic weight to a negotiation over unpaid gambling debts. On his return, he and Marshal had planned to hook up, eat some dinner, and maybe go out drinking.

  He felt a tug on his blanket.

  Angie was looking sick again. Her skin had turned a pale white and she appeared to be having trouble breathing. For a moment, Marshal worried that she was going to ask for a break. Through sheer good luck, they’d already traveled almost half the distance in only thirty minutes. Stopping now wouldn’t make her feel better, and they needed to take advantage of their fortune while it lasted.

  Instead, he saw her point behind them.

  “I think,” she whispered, sounding exhausted, “something’s following us.”

  His blood froze, and he turned to peer back the way they’d come.

  Nothing. The heavy rain was an impermeable curtain, barely visible in the distant illumination from Luca’s gate. The mind could play tricks on you in that sort of environment. Then again, that could work both ways.

  Splash. Splish, splash.

  Wait.

  Were those footsteps?

  “Let’s get going,” he said with a growing sense of unease. “If there is something back there, it’ll have trouble following us in this kind of weather, so let’s try to get way ahead of it.”

  They doubled their pace, taking more liberties with their safety than could be considered wise, but making excellent time. Six blocks, seven blocks… They encountered four more zombies as they traveled, but each time they were able to make out their presence just seconds before blundering into them. Eight blocks, nine blocks… Rothman’s was visible now, a faintly glowing aperture in the darkness up ahead. Parts of the sign were still lit, though it was difficult to make out from here.

  Angie cried out behind him. He turned just in time to see her topple over into a puddle with light splash.

  “Angie?” He bent down to lift her out of the puddle. Through the holes in the blanket, Marshal saw that her eyes were wide and frightened. Underneath the sodden, black cloth, he could hear her shortened breath, like an asthmatic having an attack, and her whole body was shaking.

  “Mmmssooorrreee, Mmmarshal,” she sobbed, as he tore away the duct tape, and freed her from the blanket.

  “Shh, it’s okay,” he assured her, holding her close, even as her body seemed to spasm in his arms. “It’s not your fault, Angie. You’ve done an amazing job. Just relax if you can, and try to stay awake, and let me take it from here. We’re almost there. All you have to do is hang on another few minutes and we’ll be at Rothman’s.”

  She w
as cold, and paler than she ought to be. Her eyes seemed to be having trouble focusing, but she managed a nod.

  “Good girl,” he said. Who ever heard of this kind of courage from a twelve-year-old? He scooped her up in his arms, cradling her against his chest, and staggered off in the direction of Rothman’s.

  She was surprisingly light. Most of the weight was coming from the blankets that had been saving their lives. Drenched straight through, the thick cloth was now three times heavier than when they’d set out. No wonder she was exhausted.

  Still. Added to the two blankets and his full backpack, Marshal estimated that he was now carrying around a hundred and fifty pounds. The strain and the cold, heavy rain that seemed to soak him through to the bone, was excruciating. His breath came in raking gasps, all while he murmured encouragement to the little girl, trembling against his chest.

  “Just make sure you stay awake, okay? We’re almost there, and the lights are on. You know what that means? It means we weren’t wrong. They still have power.”

  Had it not been for the rain, they would have been spotted, trance or no trance. It was high-stakes gambling. As he started down the last block, with the front of Rothman’s visible only a couple of hundred feet away, he barely managed to sidestep a near-invisible creature, slipping away at the last second without being discovered. After that, he watched the surroundings with paranoia, until at last he stood out front of Rothman’s Pharmacy.

  The store was, for the most part, still intact, though like everywhere, the windows and the doors had been smashed in. The ‘H’ and the ‘S’ in the sign had burnt out, but several ceiling lamps from the interior still glowed, spilling their pale, yellow-white illumination out across the filthy pavement and concrete out front of the store. A glance showed many of the shelves were still full of goods, from potato chips and chocolates, nylons and make-up, to the much more precious antibiotics, cold medications, and other over the counter drugs. As he entered the store, Marshal made a mental note to fill up on as much of those as he could carry before they left.

  Without hesitation, he marched straight down one aisle to the back of the store where he knew they kept the refrigerated perishables. The danger of undead was slim to none, given that they would all be out in the rain. The safe thing, in addition to the urgency of locating some insulin, was to be out of view of the street. While he hadn’t seen any obvious signs of undead, there was still more than enough darkness outside to cloak their presence. If he had missed one, their salvation lay in not being spotted.

  As soon as he reached the back, he lay Angie down on the dirty floor.

  “We made it, Angie,” he told her. “We’re here. Just give me-”

  “Who the fuck are you?” came a low, angry voice from behind him.

  He jumped in surprise, whirling around to come face to face with the open barrel of a shotgun, six inches from his face.

  In a flash of emotion, Marshal’s surge of fear and panic changed into utter confusion. Instead of being dead, someone was pointing a gun at him? He stared at the weapon in disbelief, knowing that he should be responding to it, but still stunned by the sheer unexpectedness of it.

  His gaze trickled over the smooth, black barrel, and took in the young man holding it. He looked to be about seventeen or eighteen, chunky, though it was obvious that he used to be much fatter. He stood about six feet tall, maybe, with sallow, sweaty skin, soft, white, hairy arms, and frizzy, ginger hair that spread out from his round head like cotton candy. There was something skittish in his eyes, which were heavy with black circles beneath them. He still wore a ‘Rothman’s’ staff uniform, with a name sewn into the shirt that said ‘Ted’.

  “You’d better start talking, stranger,” the same deep, gravelly voice said, sounding even more dangerous, if that was possible, “before you find yourself without a head.”

  The speaker wasn’t ‘Ted’. It came from Marshal’s left, and he turned to look over at him.

  The second man looked as menacing as he sounded. Marshal had spent a good portion of his life in the presence of criminals, and recognized the type immediately. Much taller and more muscular than ‘Ted’, this second man leaned against a doorframe, like he didn’t have a care in the world. His face was pockmarked and lumpy, with a scar over his right eye and a ponytail that went halfway down his back. Prison tattoos decorated his bare, muscular arms, which he had folded across his chest, and there was a huge, shiny knife strapped to his belt. His big hands had knuckles the size of small apples, and he was dressed in blue jeans, black T, and heavy construction boots. Everything about him screamed ‘ex-convict’ to Marshal’s experienced sensibilities.

  He knew he and Angie were in danger, but pure contempt overrode his caution.

  “Really?” he said, letting the disgust reach his voice. “A shotgun? That’s so stupid that it would serve you right if I let you fire it at me, and brought every monster in creation down on top of us.”

  He knocked the gun barrel away, then rolled his eyes when ‘Ted’ took a step out of reach, and aimed it at him again.

  The second man barked out a laugh.

  “Put the fuckin’ gun away, Ted,” he growled, eyeing Angie with interest. “It’s not like you’re gonna fuckin’ use it anyway.” He straightened up and unfolded his arms. “You got us, stranger. Thing ain’t even loaded. May as well welcome you to our place. My name's Duster McCarthy, and this here’s Ted.”

  “My name is Marshal,” Marshal answered, still eyeing the gun barrel, which slowly sank downwards. “How long have you guys been here?”

  Duster smiled. “Well, Ted here’s been around since before everything went to shit. There’s a trapdoor to the basement that the zombies haven’t figured out yet. I came here lookin’ for drugs and moved in with him. A bunch of solar panels on the roof keeps the power going, for all the good it does us. Still, thanks to the bar next door, which we were able to sneak into, we’ve got cold beer in the cooler. Can we offer you a bottle? Ted. Go and get the man a beer.”

  “We’re… we’re a team,” Ted said, his eyes flickering towards Duster for approval. He put down the shotgun, and started off to the back room. “We share everything,” he added, with a hint of misery. “We’re gonna rebuild humanity.”

  “That’s enough, Ted,” Duster said with firm authority. “Just get the beer.”

  “Thanks,” Marshal said, removing his backpack. “But I don’t really want a beer at the moment. What I really need are medical supplies. This is Angie. She’s diabetic, and she’s sick. We came here hoping to find out if there was still any leftover insulin in the coolers. Do you know if you have any? It will save her life.”

  Duster seemed to consider this information, and then scratched his neck.

  “Yeah,” he said, looking towards the back of the store. “They’ve got this whole row of big, industrial refrigerators back there. We’ve been using one of them to keep the beer cold, but most of the others are still full. You’re welcome to look through them, if you think it’ll help. Diabetic, eh? Ain’t that a shame. First woman we’ve seen since the outbreak, and she’s got a death mark on her.”

  “Right,” Marshal said, picking up Angie. “Lead and I’ll follow. For the record,” he added, his voice a little sharper, “she’s not a ‘woman’. She’s still only a girl. And if we get some insulin into her, then she doesn’t have to die.”

  “Sure,” Duster agreed, stepping through to the back room, where ten stainless steel refrigeration units were lined up, side-by-side. “Don’t mean nothing by it. Just saying that we humans are an endangered species, that’s all, and every person we can save could make the difference between survival and extinction, especially if they’re, y’know… female. Ted! Get your ass back here and help us find where the insulin got stored. You worked here; you should know where it is.”

  “You got it, Duster,” Ted said, hurrying past Marshal in an attempt to catch up. “W-we usually kept them in the one on the end, near the back door. It’s one of the ones that we
had to-”

  “Nobody cares, Ted,” Duster said, heading for the last stainless steel door and flinging it open. “Here. Is this what you’re looking for?”

  Wary though he was, Marshal felt a wave of relief overwhelm him. There had to be several years worth on that shelf, more than they would ever need. Of course, even sealed and refrigerated, the longest it would stay usable was about two or three years, but to someone who was sure to die tomorrow, it seemed like eternity.

  He placed Angie down on a counter, and looked into her eyes.

  “I’ll be right back, Angie,” he told her. “We’re almost done.”

  “Thanks Marshal,” she whispered.

  “You know how to do the injection?” Duster asked.

  “Yes,” Marshal said. “Her kit is in my backpack.”

  “Ted! Go get his backpack!”

  “That’s okay,” Marshal objected. “I can get it.”

  But Ted ran past him like the dogs of hell were chasing him.

  “That’s all right,” Duster said, smiling. “You just stay close to this little girl. It’s obvious she wants you close by. She your sister?”

  Marshal blinked. “Yes. All the family I have left in the world.”

  Duster nodded, looking thoughtful. “Hope she pulls through.”

  Marshal said nothing.

  Ted came running back, holding Marshal’s backpack and clearly intending to give it to Duster, but Marshal stepped in and yanked it out of Ted’s hands before he could.