From Oblivion's Ashes

by Michael E. A. Nyman

  There came the quiet thump of the bottle being placed on the dresser. The rustling of pants being undone.

  “Please, don’t,” the boy said, though he knew it would be of no use.

  “Bein’ a man ain’t something you just get to be, boy,” the growling continued as the belt came free. “A man takes what he wants! A man eats what he kills! A man is the most dangerous animal that ever lived! And God gave him women as a fucking reward. How do you like that? Women got purpose, and we – the king of all monsters – we bring it to them.”

  The belt slapped down on the blanket next to the boy.

  “Yer momma’s spoiled you, boy,” he said. “Made you into a girl. I like girls. But yer also my son, and it’s my job to make a man out of you. Make you mean! All I gotta do is drive the woman outta you, anyway I can. You ready, boy? Cause by the time I’m done with you, you’re gonna want to be as far from a girl as you can get.”

  Later, after his father had left, the boy would lie awake and in pain in the dark. Often, there would be blood that would make his sheets sticky. The rancid smell of sweat and alcohol would hang in the air like demonic ghosts, reminding him of every horror and every wound he’d suffered.

  And then, like a midnight dawn, he would receive another visitor.

  “Daddy was hard on you, wasn’t he pumpkin?”

  He’d open his eyes, and there’d she be, her face catching the moonlight so that it looked like it was hovering above him, while her body was lost and invisible in the shadows.

  “You were strong, honey,” she’d say, soft and comforting. “Strong like momma.”

  “It hurts, momma,” the boy said to the floating face above him. “I don’t like it.”

  “Shhh. Momma’s here now, and everything is gonna be all right. Momma loves her little man. One day, you’re going to grow up, big and strong, and you’ll take daddy’s place. He’s wrong about you, baby. You are a man. And he’s wrong about women. It’s the love of a woman what makes a man, and it always will be.”

  The invisible body came closer, gently shifting blankets and removing clothes, but the loving eyes kept looking down.

  “Momma’s gonna show you how,” the floating head whispered. “Don’t move, honey. Daddy hurts our little soldier, but this will feel wonderful. Momma’s gonna make you a man.”

  The boy did not understand what was happening to him. A part of him resisted, his mind blanking out everything going on below the neck. He kept his gaze locked on the beautiful, luminous, moonlit face above him, desperate for the healing and love that it gave. Wonderful pleasure spilled over him from somewhere deep inside, and all the pain, all the heartache, all the loneliness and self-doubt evaporated in the molten pleasure and shelter that the smiling face, all while the glittering, beautiful eyes, shone down upon him.

  He was a man now, and above the sordid torments of his father, floating on an effervescent wave of strength and triumph.

  “Momma loves her little man,” the floating head whispered after his last spasm.

  “I love you, too,” the boy whispered back.

  “Where are you taking me?” the face asked him. “Where are we going?”

  The boy hesitated, puzzled by the question.

  “Where are we going?”

  Paul snapped out of his daydream and looked over at T-Bone, tied up in the passenger seat beside him.

  “What?” he asked.

  “I asked you where you’re taking me,” T-Bone said. “And while we’re at it, what in the hell do you think you’re doing? Do you really think you can get away with this?”

  Paul returned his gaze to the monitors and continued to drive Crapmobile.

  “I always have,” he answered.

  “Well, uh… hello! News flash! Things are way different now, or haven’t you been paying attention? The Captain is going to wonder where I am, you know.”

  “He probably doesn’t know you’re gone,” Paul replied. “There’s a lockdown, with no surveillance to see what people are doing. After I tased you, I only had to wait a few minutes before it was safe to carry you out.”

  “How did you get out of my quarters?” T-Bone asked. “The Captain locked us in. He, Krissy, and Marshal are the only ones with master keys.”

  “I went to your room after I set off the alarm,” Paul explained. “Once there, I sabotaged the lock. It’s quick and easy if you know what you’re doing. I was finished long before anyone else arrived. When they discover it, they’ll think you did it, and that you’ve been able to escape for weeks.”

  “Why?”

  Paul shrugged. “It paints a picture. Being free to escape, you snuck out, ambushed me, and took me hostage, gaining access to my taser. Anyone who talks to Henley will learn how upset you were.”

  “But why would I do any of that?” T-Bone demanded, genuinely confused.

  “Because you were afraid,” Paul answered. “You knew you were about to get caught for the murders of Denise Cooper and Patty Jenkins. You captured me because I questioned you on the murders.”

  “Murders? What the hell? Patty and Denise were murdered?”

  Paul turned a blank, dispassionate gaze onto the ex-con, and for a moment, T-Bone thought he could see pure madness looking back at him.

  “You killed them?”

  “No,” Paul corrected, like a teacher educating a child, “I saved them.”

  “Fucking Christ! You’re insane!” He hesitated as a thought occurred to him. “Hold it, hold it... Did you also ‘save’ Bethany? Did you ‘save’ my sister, you son of a bitch?”

  “She’ll be happy to see you,” Paul answered softly.

  T-Bone couldn’t speak.

  “It’s the reason I’m taking you with me,” Paul explained. “Otherwise, I’d just snap your neck and drop you off to be eaten by zombies like I did with Danny. The truth is that I love your sister, T-Bone. I saved her, but more than you can know, she also saved me. I’d do anything for her, and the way she talked about you before we consummated… I just know she’ll be so happy when she sees you in person.”

  “Bullshit. Are you trying to tell me she’s alive? Waitaminute… you killed Danny? What about Amber?”

  “Amber is with me now,” Paul sighed, “and I dare say she’s much happier. Danny was… well, Danny was just in the way. Not much of a man, really. Not like me.”

  Chills were running up and down T-Bone’s spine.

  “Dude,” he said, shaking his head. “I don’t know if you realize this, but you are ten different flavors of fucking crazy. If I get free, I’ll kill you for what you did to my sister. But I honestly can’t tell whether I’d be taking revenge or doing you a favor by putting you out of your misery.”

  “On the contrary,” Paul said, not at all bothered. “You’re doing me a favor now. It’s very seldom I can speak to anyone about any of this, especially another man.”

  He frowned, and then looked over at T-Bone, looking unexpectedly nervous.

  “You are a man, aren’t you?” he asked.

  “Uh… yes,” T-Bone answered. When he wiggled his right foot, he could feel the cutting knife, wrapped in paper, still tucked into his sock. “Yes, I’m a man.”

  “Well, that’s a relief,” Paul said, letting out a deep breath. “There’s no telling how he’d react if I brought you back and you weren’t a true man. He might wonder if I could tell the difference, and then where’d we be?”

  “Yeah,” T-Bone agreed, mystified but concerned nonetheless. “Where’d we be?”

  The ropes were tight and well tied, but only looped several times. Cut one, and the others would all come loose. T-Bone fell silent and gave himself over to thinking on how he was going to get the knife into his hand.

  The creature lurched down the street.

  Uncertainty. Stimulus had been received. Sensory vibration indicated prey proximity. Vestigial, spectrographic constructs were inconclusive. Slight chemical trace of prey was inconclusive. Millions of prey had once walked here. Slight chemical trac
es were everywhere.

  Search for source of stimulus. Multiples? Inconclusive.

  Empty portals everywhere. Flow points established into high altitude structure. Motion! Debris pile. Sensory confirmation. Non-prey activity.

  Movement stimulus! Vestigial spectrum detectors indicate partial prey confirmation! Increase in chemical trace consistent with presence of prey! Vibratory stimulus resonating in understructure indicating bipedal motion consistent with presence of prey!

  Engulfing structural precedents. Faint vibratory stimulus and significant increase in concentrations on chemical tracing of prey items. Shift into predator mode and investigate.

  Entering structure.

  It was an hour after the complete shutdown that, through the combined efforts of Marshal, Scratchard, and Kumar, the system came back on line.

  “You found the trojan?” Marshal asked Kumar.

  “It wasn’t a trojan,” the programmer replied. “It was a back door, written directly into the primary code and hidden under a generic file name. Whoever wrote it had as much access to the overall system as I did, regardless of how many times I changed my passwords. I did, however, manage to track the bastard down and incinerate its ass.”

  “Good,” Marshal said. “Let’s hope we have that nonsense behind us.”

  “It should be,” Kumar said. “I’ll let you confirm that the building is secure, while I check and make sure everyone made it home safe.”

  “Thanks, Kumar,” Marshal said.

  “What a remarkable young man he is,” Scratchard said. “Supremely talented and surprisingly stable, once you get past his eccentricities. We are incredibly fortunate to have him among us. And you say you found him smoking marijuana in an illicit grow operation?”

  “Yes. Along with our top cop and a living legend in the science of hydroponics,” Marshal replied. “Albeit, the legend was confined to a circle of extremely knowledgeable, clandestine drug growers. Still, all very useful.”

  “Very true. And you yourself, Marshal, are a remarkably competent young man. You’re an engineer?”

  “Electrical engineer,” Marshal said. “If I’d stayed in university, I might have been building robots, but working for my family paid better. I spent a lot of time designing listening posts and developing defense nets against federal investigations. Funny how things work out, isn’t it?”

  “Funny is not the word I’d choose,” Vandermeer broke in dryly. “You were wasted doing such work. We sure could have used your talent in Afghanistan.”

  “Maybe,” Marshal said, flicking between surveillance feeds, “but family is-”

  His face went pale, and he sat up straight.

  “Crap,” he said. “We have an unexpected guest.”

  He punched a button.

  “Kumar!”

  “Yeah boss?”

  “We have a zombie incursion in the ground floor lobby. I’m going to lure it away. Send a general directive that everyone is to sit tight until I give the all clear. Shouldn’t take long.”

  “Roger that.”

  Marshal grabbed for a microphone. Captain Vandermeer and Scratchard leaned in beside him to watch as, on the screen, a zombie stumbled into the main floor lobby of First Canadian Place.

  Randy hid behind the counter of First Canadian Place’s ruined security station, trembling with fear and despair.

  How clever he’d felt, while watching the police officer, Paul, load up the Camoucart with the body of that ex-con and those sacks of supplies. He’d almost leapt out of his hiding place in triumph, but the sensation of secrecy and cleverness had felt too good.

  Okay. One, single, human policeman wasn’t the same as the undead, so he really hadn’t had the chance to try out his costume yet. But it was still, in Randy’s mind, clear evidence that he shouldn’t be wasted as an electrician. He should instead be out at Angie’s side, fighting the good fight and scavenging the wasteland.

  For a full fifteen minutes after the policeman had driven away, Randy had savored this victory, all while trying to work up the courage to venture out into the streets. It wasn’t as easy as he thought it would be. Visions of the horrible monsters that haunted the world kept infiltrating his imagination.

  Finally, however, with images of Angie’s beautiful face - and, if he was being honest about it, her thirteen-year old legs - providing the gravity to pull him forward, he’d stepped out into the open and made his way to where the windows touched the sidewalks.

  And then, a second Camoucart rumbled into view, departing after the first. Again, he’d hunkered down. It was impossible to tell who was inside, but Randy felt certain that, whoever it was, they probably wouldn’t approve of his being out here.

  Again, the Camoucart had driven on by, traveling in hot pursuit of the other.

  Triumph! No one can catch me! I’m too good! I’m…

  Fear had found Randy like a punch to the stomach, when the lurching figure stumbled around the corner of the building no more than thirty away from where Randy crouched in hiding.

  It had been too much. Before he could stop himself, he’d jumped up and scurried back inside the building, looking, hunting desperately for any sort of hiding place he could find. He’d settled on the security station.

  Crunching footsteps and the sound of a remnant piece of glass being dislodged and falling to the ground told him that his flight had not gone unnoticed.

  It knew he was here and was trying to find him.

  “We’re here,” Paul said, looking at the screens with longing in his eyes. “Just a quick scout of the area to make sure we’re clear, and then I’ll introduce you to everyone.”

  “And my sister, right?” T-Bone asked, but Paul didn’t answer.

  Still unable to move, and not daring to risk revealing his hidden knife by attempting to reach it, T-Bone watched the monitors curiously. Paul was sending the onboard drone on a scouting mission through what looked like a typical, if upscale, family home in one of Toronto’s downtown neighborhoods. Like everything else, the house showed the battering that had characterized the zombie apocalypse, but it was otherwise quite normal.

  “This where you lived?” T-Bone asked.

  No answer.

  Satisfied that the coast was clear for the moment, Paul maneuvered the drone back to the Camoucart and got up from his chair. Without another word, he strode into the back area, picked up one of the two sacks lying on the floor, and opened up the back hatch. Leaving T-Bone where he was, the New Toronto policeman disembarked with his cargo. A few minutes later, he was back for the other sack.

  Another five minutes passed, and then it was T-Bone’s turn, and he was unceremoniously grabbed at the shoulder and waist and hoisted up onto Paul’s shoulder.

  “You know,” T-Bone said, impressed at the man’s unexpected strength, “if you just untie my feet, I could walk under my own power. It’s not like I’d have anywhere to go.”

  But this was a different Paul than he had ever known, and again he was ignored. This Paul seemed nervous somehow, more focused, and on edge. As if T-Bone weighed no more than a sack of feathers, Paul hauled him up onto one shoulder and carried him into his home, stopping to close up the back hatch of the vehicle.

  The journey took them downstairs into the basement where, bouncing up and down above Paul’s hip, T-Bone saw nothing more impressive than a normal basement. There were toys on the floor, appropriate to a boy of about eight, a television that had been knocked off its table, and several pieces of old furniture. The far side of the room looked to have been converted to a man’s, home workshop, with counter and sink, shelves with jars and cans, and several tools kept in immaculate order on carefully spaced wall hooks. The two sacks that Paul had carried in first were lying on the floor in front of the workbench.

  Paul approached a wall that was lined with shelves, then reached out and moved a jar filled with screws to one side. Behind the jar, wedged into one corner, was a partly bent screw.

  Paul applied a big thumb to the screw
head, and T-Bone heard a soft click.

  With one big hand, he reached out and seized the shelf in a firm grip and pulled. Soundlessly, the entire wall swung open to reveal a broad tunnel behind it.

  “Very sneaky,” T-Bone said. “But it’s a bit ‘haunted mansion’, don’t you think? Tacky. And predictable. I mean, what master criminal doesn’t have a secret door hidden somewhere in their home?”

  “Twice, the police searched my home,” Paul said, sounding bothered, “and twice, they left convinced I had nothing to hide. The switch needs to be pushed exactly the right way, or the wall won’t open. Inside, it’s soundproof, with its own ventilation and power supply, though I suppose the generator has gotten pretty low by now. Never could make the switch to solar panels. Zombies might think nothing of it, but police… they might wonder what their purpose was.”

  He let out a long, hissing sigh.

  “You sure are talkative,” he added, stepping into the hidden hallway. “Are you sure you’re not a woman? It’s mostly women who talk. I’m only asking because he’s going to want to know, and if you keep talking like you do… well, he might get the wrong idea. That could be bad for both of us.”

  “Shutting up, now,” T-Bone assured him.

  “Good. I’m going to have a hard enough time explaining this.”

  Explain to who? T-Bone wondered, as he was dumped onto the floor. He struggled to sit up and found himself facing an eight-foot long cutting table. It was situated underneath a high-tech bank of video-screens that was the room’s only source of light. Daylight. The illumination came from the daylight footage emitted by one of the exterior camera views. The most noticeable appeared to be pointing downwards at the front step, presumably so that Paul could know when he had any visitors. Among the other screens, one appeared to be looking in on a dimly-lit, padded room, while others were too obscure to identify. Many had gone dark.