From Oblivion's Ashes

by Michael E. A. Nyman

  God quietly advanced his Queen.

  “Fourteen hundred years ago, a Prophet emerged, preaching philosophies that would one day be referred to, by its followers, as the religion of peace. Their scorecard? Hundreds of millions during the outward push to convert the heathen, an estimated eighty million slaughtered in the Indian subcontinent alone, jihads and intolerance all over the world, a region of the world that has not known peace in centuries, and the popularization of the suicide bomber.”

  “You’re oversimplifying,” God said.

  But Scratchard was not listening.

  “And that’s just the tip of the iceberg,” he said, shaking his head. “Now, it’s starting all over again. Liberated from the unimaginable waste of lives, resources, and wealth that religion steals from us, people are starting to build the whole thing all over again.”

  He glared at God. “Around you!”

  “Me?” God frowned. “I told you, I’m not in touch with my powers at the moment. And I never really felt comfortable with the whole ‘worship’ thing anyway. I’m an omnipotent being. Why on Earth would I need to be worshipped?”

  “Oh, it won’t have anything to do with you,” Scratchard said. “It’ll all start a hundred years from now, when your followers start making things up to justify their idiocy. They’ll say you magically healed the Captain’s leg, or that you inspired Angie to turn away from suicide. Your immunity will get exaggerated until future theologians will have debates over whether you destroyed zombies with your laser beam eyes or simply commanded them to die, and they obeyed.”

  “You’ve put a lot of thought into this,” God said.

  “Look,” Scratchard sighed, “I meant it when I said that I didn’t think that the organism would be able to infect you…”

  “I believe you,” God said.

  “… but then, for a moment, when you were telling the elephant story,” Scratchard continued, “I just started to think about how many lives would have been saved if someone were able to go back in time with a bomb strapped to his chest.”

  “I believe that too, I’m afraid,” God sighed. “For what it’s worth, I never wanted to be worshipped. I understand it, of course. What child doesn’t worship their parent when they’re young, and truth to tell, it can be rather endearing. But I never meant for people’s time in this world to be used up telling me how wonderful I am. I already know.”

  “You see, it’s when you say things like that,” Scratchard said, “that I start to consider the positive side of sin.”

  “Oh, who doesn’t?” God sniffed. “It’s been your move for a while, now.”

  “I’m thinking, all right?”

  “Take your time. But in the meantime, remember this: try to kill me again, and I will strike you down with all my Almighty wrath and smiting.”

  “I’m quivering with fear,” Scratchard sneered.

  “And I’ll tell Marshal the truth,” God added.

  Silently, Scratchard moved his rook.

  Chapter Thirty-Seven: Day 253: Ride of the Americans

  Feeling a little like an auto mechanic, Eva lay on her back and stared upwards at the complicated circuit board above her. She wiped a droplet of sweat from her eyebrow that was threatening to dribble into her eye, and delicately applied the soldering pen to a broken connection. Adjusting her glasses, she studied the rest of the board for flaws, just in case.

  Of course, this would be so much easier out on a worktable, under better light. On the other hand, that would have required dismantling the entire casing and removing several pieces of apparatus, costing the better part of a half a day of work. If ten minutes of crawling on her back through the guts of the machine could spare them that, it will have been well worth it.

  “I can’t find any flaws coming from the power supply,” came the faint call from Marshal. “I’ll start checking in on the-”

  “It’s okay, it’s okay,” she shouted back, still studying the board. “I think I’ve isolated the problem. It’s enough that we should try another attempt, just in case.”

  “Well, that’s a relief,” Marshal said.

  Satisfied that the board was otherwise functional, Eva wriggled her way out from under the main control panel.

  “Don’t speak too soon,” she said, brushing herself off as she stood up. “This will be… what? Our fifth attempt?”

  “Afraid I’ll jinx it?” Marshal asked. “I think that horse has already left the barn. Besides. If I have to check the connections one more time, I’ll have to stop and deal with all these little blue leprechauns that are just loafing around. You know. Before I go crazy.”

  “I see them too,” Eva said. “Little bastards are laughing at you.”

  “Jokes on them once I start shooting.”

  Eva smiled at the young man. It had proven to be a pleasure working with him. Despite early reservations that she might have had regarding anyone who set themselves up as ‘dictator of New Toronto’, she’d found him to be a sincere, competent, and openly friendly young man. And for a megalomaniac, he had also proven to be unexpectedly humble.

  It had been a bit of a surprise when he’d subordinated himself to her and placed her in charge of the CN Tower project. Not that it wasn’t warranted; Eva had lead teams before in constructing lasers, sensor arrays, and had been one of Canada’s more respected authorities on wave mechanics and frequencies. She knew she could do the job required. What made Marshal’s deference to her all the more satisfying and surprising was, Eva suspected, that he could have done it too.

  Yet he had taken her orders. He had questioned her from time to time, even offered up an alternate opinion, but had always accepted her as having the final word. He never undermined her, nor did he seem concerned by the fact that she was a woman. Moreover, he was at least the equal to even her most gifted of students, and had a practical, hands-on facility that none of them could match. Indeed, had this been university, Eva would have happily taken him on as her graduate student, and sponsored him in any field he wanted. It made her wonder why he hadn’t progressed further in academia.

  “I had more lucrative opportunities available to me in the private sector,” Marshal had answered, when she’d asked him. “I’d hoped to enter the field of robotics, but the funding for that sort of program was extremely competitive. Having my own source of revenue meant that, eventually, I would be able to fund my own projects, or at least, that had been the plan.”

  Ah, yes. Funding. The pixie dust of the academic world. She couldn’t argue with his logic, though she could tell that there was more than he was saying. Marshal had been, after all, a mob-connected, tech guy, and the adopted child to the most powerful mafia family in Toronto. Funding would have been only a part of his motivational flow chart.

  “Are we ready, Professor?” he asked, moving over to sit at one of the computer stations. “I have Kumar on the line, watching our signal-strength.”

  “Monitoring for an outbound signal, Professor,” a pixie-sized, dark-skinned girl called Felicia added, tapping away on her keyboard.

  All around, various former students were chiming in.

  “Hit the switch,” Eva said, “and let’s hope this is the big one.”

  An audible ‘clank’ was heard throughout the control room as power began to flow through the various wires and circuits. Faces stared into their computer monitors intently.

  “We have universal WiFi,” Marshal announced with only a slight raise in his voice to reveal his excitement. “According to Kumar’s readings, we have five bars and high speed all the way to our furthest perimeter.”

  “Outbound signal is at maximum strength,” Felicia reported, “broadcasting and receiving on all bands. According to my readings, they should be able to hear us all the way to the Rocky Mountains and maybe even across the Atlantic.”

  “We are receiving…” A tall, shaggy student hovering over the tower display frowned. “Just static.”

  “That’s all we’re likely to receive for some time, Malcolm
,” Eva said, feeling pleased.

  Marshal turned his chair to face her. “Congratulations, professor.”

  “Congratulations!” Felicia echoed, to be followed by a chorus of commendations from around the room, excluding Malcolm, who was still frowning at his screen.

  “Thank you, everyone,” Eva said. “But this is our success, all of us, so let me offer congratulations to all of you as well. Thanks to your efforts, Radio New Toronto, is on the air.”

  She turned to Marshal. “Marshal? If you will? Felicia, if you could have the recorder running?”

  Marshal looked thoughtful for a second, and then picked up a microphone.

  “Hello, the wasteland,” he said. “This is the independent state of New Toronto, broadcasting to you on all wavelengths, and I am Marshal Einarsson, community leader, and if you are hearing this, we offer you congratulations on surviving this long and urge you not to give up. If you can make it to New Toronto, we will take you in, provide you food, water, community, shelter, personal security, and protected freedoms. We have electricity, medical facilities, and a safe zone that is free from undead. If you can find a way of signaling us, we will find a way of coming to rescue you. Our philosophy is that your survival is our number one priority.

  “In the meantime, important survival tips: First, the undead are indestructible. They hunt through smell, sound, and…”

  The message continued for several minutes as Marshal detailed much of what they’d learned about evasion, swarms, bodies of water, and on and on. He wrapped up with a quick tutorial on the best methods for traveling the wasteland.

  “Keep tuned for future messages, tips, and advice, and we’ll be listening for you. And remember: find a way to contact or signal us, and one way or another, we will find a way to rescue you. For now, this is Marshal Einarsson, wishing you luck.”

  Marshal set down the microphone with a hint of regret.

  “Not a bad start,” Eva said with approval. “There’s more we could say, but as a basic message, it gets the job done.”

  “We’ll put it on a loop,” Marshal said thoughtfully. “I don’t know. Maybe play music in between rotations. It can’t all be me yapping all the time about survival tips.”

  “Why not?” Eva frowned. “I can’t see too many people listening to music as they’re creeping through a zombie-infested wasteland.”

  “Professor,” Malcolm interrupted.

  “No,” Marshal admitted. “Maybe you’re right, but… well, we’re going to have to assign a permanent person up here anyway, not only to baby-sit the machinery but also to respond to anybody who might be trying to call in.”

  “Can’t we just reroute control through to Kumar’s department?” Eva asked. “It’s not as if we actually need someone up here. With communications up and running, we can handle it all remotely.”

  “No,” Marshal said. “This place isn’t just a signal tower anymore. This place is the hub of our whole communication and security network, and it’s our phone line to the outside world. We’re going to want to have someone posted here full-time, just to make sure everything is running smoothly. If it didn’t make better sense to keep his expertise close to the apartment, I might even consider relocating Kumar’s whole department up here.”

  “He wouldn’t like that,” another student called Marcus said. “Jolene says that he’s got a fear of heights. He can handle First Canadian. It’s a building. But putting him up here in the tower would-”

  “What about Cameron?” Felicia broke in suddenly.

  “Cameron?” Eva repeated, and a slight, teasing smile crept out on her face. “Isn’t that the young man I saw you with at the Christmas party? The ex-convict who transferred over from Derrick to Kumar’s department.”

  Felicia blushed slightly. “Yes,” she said. “He and I… we’ve… we’re sort of together now, and… not that it matters.”

  “Oh no! Of course not,” Eva said, glancing over at Marshal with amusement. “Please continue. How does Cameron fit into all of this?”

  “Well… he’s part of Kumar’s team now,” Felicia said. “Just what you need up here. A computer jock. And he used to work nights as a DJ, before he got caught up in a drug charge and indicted. He could be the voice for Radio New Toronto, playing music, reporting news, taking calls, and speaking out our message to the wasteland. He’s really a great guy, and believe me, anyone who listened to him would want to come here.”

  “Any other reasons why he’d make a good choice?”

  “He’d have me up here to help him,” Felicia blurted out, before shrinking back a little in her chair. “I… I mean, I’d be here to fix any broken equipment, or boost signals, or whatever technical help you need. We’ve been… sort of looking for a place together. We’re on Torstein’s waiting list, but-”

  “Cameron sounds like the perfect choice,” Marshal said. “I think ‘the voice of New Toronto’ would be an excellent addition to our community. If you see him tonight, tell him he has a day to think it over before we officially ask him. If he says yes, I give you my personal guarantee that you’ll jump to the top of Torstein’s list. I want this place operational as soon as possible. Moreover, you’ll become your own department, semi-autonomous, so long as you play nice with all the other department heads. Kumar and Deana and possibly James, in particular, will require your full cooperation at any given moment. Think you can pass that along?”

  Felicia positively glowed. “Yes, sir.”

  “Just call me Marshal, Felicia.” Marshal hesitated. “Well. Either that, or ‘My Lord High Supreme Dictator and Ruler of the Universe’. That sounds pretty cool too.”

  “Power corrupts,” Marcus agreed, “but absolute power rocks!”

  “Professor,” Malcolm said, raising his voice louder. “Marshal. You two really should come over here. Now!”

  “What is it?” Eva asked.

  Ten minutes later, all the department heads were summoned to a conference room in First Canadian Place for an emergency meeting.

  The sounds of gunfire and explosions, punctuated by the faint cries of shouted orders, filled the room as the sound file played.

  And then, over the noise, the message came.

  “Roger your last communication, New Toronto. We are the First Cavalry Division out of Fort Hood, under the command of General August Williams. We are currently engaged in combat, still one mile from the Ambassador’s Bridge in Detroit…”

  A particularly loud explosion drowned out the speaker at this point.

  “….are redeploying to your location, and will be requiring assistance upon our arrival. Be advised, we have injured, but are also seeking whatever ordinance and resupply you can spare. Be further advised that our ability to communicate is limited to ten-minute windows on three-hour intervals. Get ready, New Toronto. We’ll be coming in hot.”

  Marshal hit the button, stopping the playback. Then, he sat back in his chair to allow his audience to consider what they’d heard.

  “So,” Captain Vandermeer said, and nothing else.

  “That’s all they sent us?” Krissy asked. “Just that little bit?”

  “I can’t believe they’re still fighting,” Valerie said. “And after the winter we just had?”

  “Hell, yes, they’re still fighting,” Kumar crowed, slapping the table. “This is the United States of America we’re talking about!”

  “You better fucking believe it!” Luca laughed. “You had to figure that the country that gave us shock and awe, rock and roll, and Tony fucking Soprano wouldn’t go down without a fight!”

  “Okay, okay,” Valerie said, shaking her head, “but… how? We’ve seen what bullets do to those things. Explosives. Flamethrowers. Nothing works. We’ve all seen the footage. You blow them up and they just pull themselves back together, regenerate, or some other zombie comes along and eats up the bits.”

  “Which is about the same thing,” Scratchard added. “When one zombie eats another, it’s just the organism re-assimilating misplaced tissue
. The actual damage to the organism itself is almost insignificant.”

  “Well, obviously they discovered some way of killing them,” Kumar argued. “Something we haven’t discovered yet.”

  “Then they have smarter people than me working for them,” Scratchard muttered, in such a way as to suggest that he didn’t think this likely.

  “I believe the important thing for us to focus on,” Peter Hanson said, “is that, however they’ve managed to do it, the Americans are coming. What do we know of this First Cavalry Division? Or it’s commander, this… General Williams?”

  In response to this question, Vandermeer stirred.

  “First Cavalry out of Fort Hood, Texas,” he said. “They utilize combined arms battalions, comprising armor, infantry, and airborne units, heavily decorated and very well respected internationally. JTF2 launched strike operations out of their encampments and Princess Patricia’s fought alongside them during the Afghan theatre. I can personally vouch for them. They’re well-trained, professional, and deadly.”

  He hesitated.

  “As for General Williams,” he continued. “Something must have happened, because I know for a fact that he was not the commander of First Cavalry at the time of the outbreak. The last I heard, he was splitting his time between the Pentagon, war-gaming, and as an instructor to the next generation of elite combat officers. The man is a legend. First in his class at West Point, he’s a four star general reputed to be one of America’s finest tacticians and strategists, an honest-to-god, modern-day Sun Tzu. Somehow, in the chaos of the apocalypse, he must have become attached to First Cavalry and then assumed command.”

  “They’re from Texas?” Marshal said. “What the hell are they doing all the way up here?”

  “And will we be able to accommodate all of them?” Elizabeth added. “How big is a division anyway?”