“That’s why Marshal made us promise not to try to rescue him if something went wrong,” Kumar said. “He predicted that something like this could happen, Ang. That’s why he told us not to come looking for him. He’s the one that pointed out the risk we’d be taking by exposing Crapmobile to the same danger he was taking Shitbox into. And you know how important the community was to him. I hate it too, but we can’t afford to risk our future on a hail Mary pass. Especially when-”
“Don’t say it!” Angie snapped.
Kumar’s head sank.
“I was only going to say,” he continued, “especially when he ordered us not to. I have to believe that they’re not dead. All four of them are survivors.”
“Oh dear God, I hope so,” Valerie said, her face crumpling for a second as fresh tears came to her eyes. Then she sniffed, straightening up with a hard expression. “But I’ve made my decision, and it’s the one that Marshal insisted I make, and as hard as it is, it’s the only one that makes sense.”
“But,” Angie protested, “what if you had proof that you could bring them back without putting us all at risk?”
“I’d break the sound barrier rushing to pick him up,” Valerie said. “Orders or no orders.”
Inwardly, Angie nodded to herself.
She turned away. “I’m going to be eating in my room,” she said. “If it’s okay, I’d like to be left alone for a while.”
“Sure, honey,” Valerie said. “Whatever you need.”
“Hey, I’ll… I’ll link up with you later,” Kumar called. “Maybe we can do a bit of Minecraft. Or Skyrim? Or whatever.”
His voice trailed off.
“I’m going to be busy,” Angie said, disappearing down the hall.
Six hours later, the apartment was asleep, and Angie slipped out of her room. Kumar was passed out in his customary spot on the leather couch with a played-out session of Halo still lighting up the television screen.
Her backpack was loaded with an emergency kit of electrical tools and parts that Marshal usually needed when he was out on the road. Also, there were medical supplies, maps, tablets, portable solar panels, can opener, fork, spoon, and of course, her insulin kit with a couple of weeks supply. There was also one of Marshal’s hand-built signal-boosters, which he had taught her how to operate. Food and water, she could scavenge on the road. Strapped to a belt on her waist was the evil-looking knife she’d taken from Amber, now with it’s own sheath, and there was a second, smaller one strapped to her calf, hidden just inside her sock. Anyone alive who tried jumping her would have an unpleasant surprise waiting for them.
Angie had found her inner Monster.
She checked her garbage dress, adjusted her helmet-cam, and pulled out the spare remote control to the apartment’s drop-down entrance.
It was time to go find Marshal and Uncle Luca.
Chapter Twenty-Four: Day 49: Corporate Refugees
“What do you see, Mr. Phillips?”
Martin Phillips peeked over the lip of the smashed office window, squinting down at the streets forty floors below. His white button-up shirt was open at the collar, the tie long since lost. Several weeks growth of beard, inexpertly tended by office scissors and a mirror, coated his twenty-eight year old face.
“There’s movement, sir,” he answered, “but I don’t think it’s the army. The are still zombies down there, but I can’t…”
He shifted uncomfortably, trying to get a better angle while avoiding being cut by the jagged remains of the thick, office-tower window glass.
“… quite make out what that thing is,” he admitted. “It’s too big to be one of them… and it’s definitely not any kind of animal I’ve ever heard of. Whatever it is, it’s able to navigate the streets without attracting attention from any of the creatures.”
“Hmm,” said Peter Hanson from his thick, leather office chair, his hands folded in front of his mouth. “A vehicle of some kind then?”
“I… don’t think so, sir,” Martin answered. “It doesn’t resemble any kind of vehicle I’ve ever seen, and we know how those things react to cars and trucks. On the other hand, it does seem to move with purpose. Without binoculars, I can’t be sure.”
“Maybe it’s some sort of high-tech government transport,” suggested a woman who sat nearby, hugging herself in her chair as the autumn breeze whistled through the scattered furniture of the abandoned office floor. Her gray, form-fitting suit dress and expensive boots were a poor defense against the chill air, even without the wear and tear from weeks of hiding. Without make-up, she was still an attractive woman in her mid to late forties, with a hard-earned physique from many visits to her private health club. Seven weeks of stress, fear, and hunger, however, had left her a pale shadow of her former self as Peter Hansen’s CFO.
“What sort of high-tech do you suspect, Ms. Stinson?” Peter Hanson asked.
The woman shrugged irritably. “I have no idea, Mr. Hanson. But these… these undead things don’t appear to be all that intelligent. Unstoppable? Yes. But they seem easy to fool, given certain limitations. If the government is capable of doing anything, outsmarting them seems within the realm of possibility.”
“They’re ignoring it, whatever it is,” Martin reminded them.
“It could mean rescue,” Alicia Givens, the forth and youngest member of their group suggested. She hugged the heavy overcoat tighter around her shoulders, and nestled into her nook to find more comfort. Loose, shoulder-length, straight blonde hair was messy and unkempt. Tired hazel eyes, swollen-looking lips, and dirt-smeared, high cheeks contrived to give her otherwise pretty face a bitter, unhappy expression that wasn’t too far off the mark. The only survivor of the legal department, she’d had the reputation of being one of its best and youngest stars.
In response to her suggestion, Peter Hanson said nothing.
The distant noises that had first drawn their attention continued, and the four of them waited. Indeed, ever since Mr. Hanson had summoned them into his office and led them all solemnly into his walk-in wall safe, listening for danger had become their chief activity. The ten-by-fifteen foot safe itself was located behind a panel that had been designed to look like the rest of the office wall, and it had kept them safe until the full extent of their situation had become clear to them. Later, when the power failed and Alicia’s tablet stopped working, it was Martin who had taken on the responsibility of scouting the floor and found it crawling with undead.
Then the rain came and gave them hope. On the fifth day, and for unknown reasons, rain had drawn all loitering zombies outside, and in a fifty-story office tower, that meant either the roof or a long pilgrimage to the ground. Like office drones at quitting time, the creatures had left the building, albeit some departing out the windows and down the walls like wall-crawling spiders, but evacuating just the same. After that, the building had become ghost-like in its emptiness, a haunted remnant of the hive of industry it once had been, with scattered desks, ruined furnishings, and forgotten family photos. Hundreds of thousands of dollars in computers, flat-screens, and telecommunications now formed a kind of technological graveyard, windswept from the breezes that invaded the open window frames.
Food and water had been easy enough to obtain after that, much of it scavenged from various fridges and workstations. The true bonanza had been the small café restaurant that occupied the lower level of the top floor. Peter had ordered its construction several months ago when he got tired of waiting for immediate staff to return from their lunch breaks. Ever since the outbreak, The Corporate Carrot, its supply of non-perishable goods, and stacks of bottled water had sustained them, though visiting it had been like tiptoeing through the abandoned killing fields in Hell.
Gradually, over the following days, the undead had wandered back and reasserted the need to hide. Sallying forth was possible, as the floors were not nearly as infested as they had been, but still very, very dangerous.
Then, about three weeks ago, and for no discernible reason, the undead f
led the building. Both Martin and Alicia thought they heard loudspeakers in the distance, which had filled them all with a tremendous sense of optimism that rescue was finally on its way. When none arrived, they cautiously extended the range of their salvage trips, picking up coats, couches, cushions, and waited some more. But despite the fact that the undead never returned, no rescue came. No military squads searched the building. No helicopters filled the air, and a look over the edge down onto the city below confirmed that the undead were still infesting the streets. Oddly, they could be seen running from place to place at times, sometimes in herds, sometimes alone, reasons unknown.
In response to the latest news, Peter A. Hanson sat unmoving in his sixteen thousand dollar office chair, which was itself an unlikely survivor of the recent apocalypse. He’d refused to let it show, but having it was of immense psychological importance to him, and he’d had Phillips push it into the wall safe on the first opportunity. Just sitting in it made him feel a little like his old self.
As CEO and founding member of Hanson, Davis, and McClelland Financial Group, he was accustomed to a seat of authority. Forbes magazine had recently estimated his personal net worth as exceeding two point one billion dollars, with interests and investments that spanned the globe. He held a seat on the Toronto Board of Trade, socialized with politicians of every political stripe, most of whom he called by their first name, and had a list of foundations and honorary degrees to make a proud man blush.
And yet, he had a secret: Peter Hanson was out of his depth. He knew no more of what to do during an apocalypse than he did on building a space shuttle. Not that it mattered. He remained very much in charge, because in Peter’s world, allowing any such weakness to show was always cardinal sin number one, and in this, Peter Hanson was a saint.
Seated with his back against a pillar, mere feet from a fall that would send him plummeting to his death, Martin stirred in agitation. Peter bestowed him a look of feigned inquiry, knowing that the young man was taking his silence as dissatisfaction.
Martin Phillips had been every bit the up-and-coming, sharp-minded, ultra-capable, cutthroat, super-competitive spermatozoa the business depended upon. He was just as capable of ignoring equality, fairness, and common decency in his drive to succeed, as he was capable of eloquently extolling the importance of those same virtues before a camera on the six-o’clock news. Manipulating legions of ‘Martin’s’ (or ‘Alicia’s’, as the case might be. These things were hardly gender-specific anymore) was the chief reason for Peter Hanson’s own success, and was, in his mind, the harbinger of a proper-functioning universe. That this particular ‘Martin’ was the one Peter had chosen to share his hidden office safe was a testament not only to the man’s pre-eminent talent, but his sycophantic loyalty as well. This particular ‘Martin’ had learned not to bite the hand of the billionaire that fed him, and had pinned his meteoric rise to Peter Hanson’s well being.
“I could… try sneaking down the stairs, sir,” Martin suggested, trying to hide his lack of enthusiasm at the idea. Eager to please, his interpretation of Peter’s silence as displeasure had led him to offer up this tribute, though his fear was palpable.
Peter made show of considering his offer.
“I don’t believe that will be necessary, Mr. Phillips,” he said at last. “Although the gesture is noted. I respect your courage. If there are people down below capable of effecting our rescue, we have other, less risky options available to us. There is ample paper. If we were to write a short message on, say, a hundred sheets, bundle them loosely and drop them over the edge, right on top of the people in question, the resulting explosion of paper would blow word of our existence all through the square. I doubt the zombies, or whatever they are, are capable of reading, and this would abrogate the risk to any of us.”
Martin let out the breath he was holding, and nodded. “I’ll get right on it, sir.”
“I’ll get the paper,” Alicia said. She climbed to her feet, anxious to be seen as to be at least as useful and eager as Martin. “The supply room is still mostly untouched.”
“I’ll help too,” said Margaret, with an air of restlessness. “The faster we can put the package together, the better the chance we can drop it on them before they leave the vicinity.”
“Excellent thinking, Ms. Stinson,” Peter said. “If one of you would be so good as to find us writing implements, I too will contribute to the task at hand.”
“Right away, sir,” Martin said, before Alicia could answer.
Peter gave a small smile. Martin and Alicia had been good choices, the sort of employees who worshipped ‘Big Money’ and could be counted on to go that extra mile in order to obtain it. There had been others, perhaps, that he might have invited to share the sanctuary of his hidden wall safe when the world started going all to hell, but he rather doubted that any other choice could have been so inspired. Smart, ruthless, and loyal, these were the two who would prove the most valuable. Subtly encouraging them to compete for his approval was equally wise. It didn’t matter who won. The important part was that it reasserted the established hierarchy, with Peter himself as the undisputed authority.
But if Martin and Alicia had been inspired, the inclusion of Margaret had been calculated genius. Someday, should the world survive, those computers, electronic accounts, and deeds of ownership would resume functioning, and Peter would be a billionaire once more. Margaret was the cornerstone of that revival, the one person who could reassemble the dismembered pieces of Hanson, Davis, and McClelland. When the sheltering canopy of law and order returned, here was a woman who could prove legitimate ownership of company-wide assets, or even, considering the vacuum left behind by other ownerships, claim ownership over trillions more.
Played properly, survival, should such a thing still be possible, could lead to wealth on a scale unimagined in the history of mankind. And it would require a great deal of wealth, if humanity were to rebuild from the ashes of whatever had brought on this apocalypse.
This would be his legacy, the reconstruction of the human race. Yes, it would take money, lots of money, and yes, he was the man who could accrue it. It was what he was best at, after all. He might not live to see the end of it, but his children would.
Which was, he reflected, another possible advantage to the inclusion of Margaret in his plans. Her husband was dead, and Peter knew she hadn’t had any of her own children, and she was still quite attractive and healthy for a woman in her forties. Peter’s own family was probably gone – it seemed too much to hope that any of them had survived – so the possibility was there. A legacy required offspring, and while Peter was no spring chicken at fifty-eight, nor was he incapable.
Of course, he wouldn’t hold his breath. She was still his employee, recently bereaved, and quite possibly disinterested in any such liaisons. If so, then that was fine with Peter. He wouldn’t press, and he wouldn’t pine. There were far too many other matters to be concerned with anyway, and if they worked out, the rest would fall into place on its own.
The four of them collectively finished up about a hundred short, handwritten pleas for help, taking slightly less than ten minutes. The message they’d decided on was short and to the point: Help! 4 need rescue. 53rd floor. Hanson Building. Peter had insisted on the last bit, and the other three had obediently complied. They bundled everything up and bound it together with a thin strip of scotch tape. The idea was that, as the package accelerated, the wind resistance would break the package apart and give their message a nice range of dispersal.
“At your convenience, Mr. Phillips,” Peter said.
“Yes sir,” Martin said, lying down on his stomach so that his shoulders, head, and arms could overhang the edge.
Then, without ceremony, he dropped the package.
“Is it working?” Margaret asked, after a few seconds.
“It’s falling,” Martin reported. “The wind is pushing it a bit off course, but… shit! It broke apart. There’s loose paper falling everywhere.”
&
nbsp; “It doesn’t mean that we’ve failed,” Peter said in a calm voice. “Even so, Ms. Givens. If you wouldn’t mind gathering up some more paper, in the event we need to repeat our efforts.”
“No, it’s not necessary, sir,” Martin said, with his head still obscured from view. “Whatever it was that was moving down there has stopped moving. I… I think we can be certain it’s human piloted, sir. Damn. What I wouldn’t give for a half-decent set of binoculars.”
“Be that as it may,” Peter said. “I would appreciate it if you could continue to observe, Mr. Phillips. Aside from the possibility of human discovery, there is the very real threat that we may have attracted attention from the creatures.”
“Understood, sir.”
Peter Hanson fell into silence, contemplating the future. If indeed there were humans still alive, capable of navigating the city, they would need to be recruited… if they could be recruited. There was a good chance that they would be armed, though firearms, or any other loud, explosive weapon for that matter, carried implicit dangers in the zombie-dominated, post-apocalyptic world. Even this high up, firing a gun would be very dangerous indeed. If there was one thing the zombies would surely have learned by now, it was that gunshots equaled humans.
Knives, bats, and so forth, therefore, were not outside the realm of possibility. Should any human visitors prove hostile, something would have to be prepared. Ms. Stinson was unlikely to contribute much to any sort of confrontation. Alicia was well toned, athletic, and held a black belt in karate, or so her resume had proclaimed. Martin claimed to be a boxer and ran marathons during the summer. Neither of them was especially large or muscular, however, and relying on their dubious combat abilities seemed unwise.
From Oblivion's Ashes Page 51
