From Oblivion's Ashes
Page 90
Captain Marlowe’s face grew hard, and there was a dangerous glint in his eye when he turned his full attention back onto Marshal.
“Are you jerking me around, son?” he asked.
“That depends,” Marshal asked, feeling annoyed. “Do you want our assistance or not? I’m here in good faith to offer it to you, but you don’t seem especially interested. Am I wrong? Are we going to discuss terms? Or should we simply take our ball and go home?”
The Captain’s face split into a wide, friendly grin.
“Marshal,” he said, adjusting his rifle, “you wouldn’t make it two steps. Now, just you listen up. We’ve been on the road for a long time. We’re tired and we’re angry. The fact is, I don’t have patience for every trumped up dictator clinging to the underside of a cardboard box who wants to hold us up. So let me jump to the punch line and make things vividly clear for you, okay? You stopped being the leader of New Toronto the second we rolled in with Apaches and machine guns. Comprendez?”
Before Marshal could answer, the soldiers that Captain Marlowe had been joking with assumed a more aggressive posture. Faces became as blank as stone and rifles swung around, not so as to be pointed directly at Marshal, but enough so as to suggest that they might as well be.
The Captain took a deep drag from his cigarette, scowling for a few more seconds. Then, feeling that he’d made his point, he raised a hand in a placating gesture.
“Now, there ain’t no need to go getting all excited,” he said. “We’re not here to kill you. Truth is, we are looking for help. But don’t think for a second that you can dictate terms. We don’t have the luxury of time, is all, and considering your situation, you’re not in a position to bargain.”
Marshal smiled, not taking his gaze off the Captain. “Peter? Please put the wine on the tarmac. I think it’s time we had a drink.”
“Of course, Marshal,” Peter said, putting the wine bottle down and stepping away from it. “Should I go and fetch some glasses?”
“No. I don’t think that will be necessary.” He shrugged. “It seems that we’re caught. As you say, Captain, our situation would appear to be rather precarious at the moment, and since you have no intention to honor the spirit of our invitation-”
“Hey!” Marlowe said, jabbing his cigarette in Marshal’s direction. “Don’t go making us out to be the bad guys here. It’s just that we have a tight schedule and no time for bullshit. Cooperate with us, and we promise to keep you safe. Get in our way…”
He gestured to the battlefield behind him, still smoking in the distance.
“…and you get to join the barbecue. I know it’s harsh, but that’s how it is.”
Peter leaned over to whisper something to Marshal, who nodded back impatiently. Scratchard looked bored.
“You make an excellent point,” Marshal said. “On the other hand, I have a population to be concerned with, and so I guess I’m left without options.”
He spread his hands. “You’re going to have to kill us.”
Marlowe offered another big grin through a cloud of smoke. “You don’t mean that, son.”
“Actually, I do,” Marshal said.
Then, he laughed.
“Seriously, Captain, do you actually think you’re intimidating us at the moment? After everything we’ve had to endure just to survive, do you honestly believe that we’d just give up because some outdated authority figure waves a gun in our face? Because if you’re that stupid, then it seems I made a mistake in believing that we absolutely had to save you morons. So go ahead! Kill us! Because after all we’ve been through, we’ll burn our resources to the ground before we’ll just let you walk in and take them from us.”
“You think you can stop us?” the Captain asked, shifting his posture. “Seems to me that you haven’t done the math.”
“I don’t think we’d have to a god damn thing in order to stop you, Captain,” Marshal said. “I think that you’re the ones who are operating on borrowed time. You wouldn’t need our assistance if things were just peachy, would you? Despite your victory here today, you’re fighting a losing sum game, and we both know it. You’re scavenging gasoline and diesel for your choppers - gosh! What are you going to do when that runs out? You’ve got wounded, you’re short on supplies, and you’re fighting every day! How the hell did you get up here all the way from Texas anyway? How did you misplace ninety percent of your division strength? How many of those did you lose yesterday? Last week? Last month? The truth is, Captain, that you’re the one who hasn’t done the math. You and your force are dancing at death’s door already.”
Marshal’s gaze swept across the field of soldiers.
“Ask yourself this, Captain,” he said. “How many soldiers will you lose trying to force us to give you what we were offering to you for free anyway? How many would we take with us? We could surprise you, especially when I can do magic like this.”
He pointed an index finger at the bottle Peter had placed on the tarmac.
The bottle exploded in a geyser of shattered glass and fizzy wine.
“Abracadabra,” Marshal said.
Looking unimpressed, the Captain took another puff and scanned the distance.
“Sniper fire,” he said. He snapped his fingers over one shoulder, and one of the soldiers pulled out a set of binoculars and began searching.
“I prefer calling it magic,” Marshal said. “Makes me feel like I’m a wizard.”
“It’s an impressive shot,” the Captain admitted, “though it’s a bit obvious where it’s coming from, given that we’re standing in the middle of a runway. Still, that terminal is at least fifteen hundred yards away with a slight wind, so yes, I’d say that you have a legitimate talent in your stable.”
He flicked a thumb in the direction of the terminal.
“You know,” he added, “I could flood that terminal from top to bottom with napalm in the same time it would take me to finish this cigarette.”
“You could try,” Marshal said, “But what if I told you that I have six more snipers spread out in the surrounding area? What if I told you that the rest of my people could simply vanish back into our hidden bases and pick you off one by one?”
The Captain could not find an answer.
“Look at us, Captain!” Marshal said. “Do we look like we’ve been clinging to the underside of a cardboard box all winter? We’re well nourished, well dressed. We’re clean, which is more than I can say for you. And, as you’re starting to figure out, we did it all without having to get into pitched battle with the undead. I’ll bet you’re just itching to figure out how we did that! The truth is that we wouldn’t even have to pick you off. No, Captain, if we wanted you dead, all we’d have to do is disappear again, and just let you die.”
“All right,” said a deep, gravelly voice over the Captain’s radio. “I think I’ve heard enough, Captain. I’ll take over from here.”
“Yes, sir!” Captain Marlowe said, all business now. He flicked his cigarette away and took a step backwards.
An old man stood up in one of the Blackhawks and, assisted by one of the soldiers, he swung down to the tarmac. With a look of grim reservation, he strode through the group, marching right up to confront Marshal.
“General August Williams, I presume,” Marshal said. “It’s an honor to meet someone of your reputation, sir. First Cavalry Division is fortunate to have a strategist of your caliber – an instructor from West Point no less - to take over command.”
“Do you want me to be impressed, son?” the old man asked, crossing his arms over his chest and looking up at Marshal. He was a short man, no more than five foot seven, though he somehow managed to stand so that he seemed gigantic. He had hard, blue eyes, skin like wrinkled leather, and a couple of days of untended, salt and pepper gristle covering his chin, cheeks, and upper lip.
“Fine, then. I’m impressed. You’re obviously more than a simple cluster of dying refugees, especially if you’re able to research my history in less than a day.”
“Vandermeer?” Captain Marlowe looked up with a hint of surprise. “You have Eric Vandermeer with you? Is he your sniper?”
Marshal didn’t answer, but the General looked at Marlowe for an explanation.
“I knew the man, sir,” the Captain explained, all signs of condescension having disappeared. “A few years ago, we were working the mountain passes and villages down near Kandahar. The Canadian army may not have been very big, but that meant the people they did field were the best, and the JTF2 were the best of the best. Master Corporal Vandermeer was one hell of a soldier, a top-notch sniper, smart and tough. We spent many nights patrolling with the Canadians, sir.”
“He is one of our snipers,” Marshal confessed.
“Come now, son,” General Williams said. “You’ve impressed me. Don’t go spoiling it by telling obvious lies. You don’t have six snipers out there any more than I have six testicles in my sack, though I suppose I can’t blame you for trying to bluff.”
He fixed Marshal with a steely glare.
“What exactly are your terms, Marshal?” he asked.
“You are all welcome to come into New Toronto,” Marshal said, “but while you are among us, you are subject to our laws, and will abide by our commands. This is not negotiable, at least, not in the beginning. We have our own system of security protocols and expectations, and you must abide by them.
“We have plenty of food, beds, medical supplies, hot water for showers, electricity, and a secure safe zone from the undead, enough for all of you. It’s yours for as long as you choose to stay with us, and you’re welcome to it. However, if you plan to stay for any length of time, each individual must contribute in some fashion to our community with some form of labor. We don’t require soldiers. The soldiers we have are more like deployable workers.
“In light of this, you will not be permitted into New Toronto unless you have divested yourself of all weapons. Under no circumstances am I going to allow an armed force entrance into the community I am charged to protect. This is non-negotiable. I’ll have your word that you won’t try to interfere, undermine, or circumvent our government. For simplicity’s sake, at the moment, that’s me. I am the state and, for the moment, while we are not a democracy, I enjoy the support of the people
“If you’re with us, you are guaranteed the freedom of your own bodies and personal possessions. Other than your obligation to abide by my laws and contribute in some way, you’re free… no, encouraged to do as you please. Our ultimate, overriding goal is the survival of the human race, and that makes you one of us, whether or not you choose to join us as citizens. If you’re only staying long enough to recuperate, learn our techniques, before striking out on your own to rebuild your own society, we’ll help in any way that we can. If, on the other hand, you choose to stay with us as citizens, you will be guaranteed a luxury home, equipped with power, food, running water, computers, entertainment, access to security...”
He paused when he saw the general waving this away.
“Pardon me, son, but what’s the catch? If you don’t mind me saying so, all of this sounds a little too good to be true. There has to be a catch somewhere. And more importantly, how are you supposed to defend us?”
“The catch?” Marshal frowned. “There’s no catch. You surrender your weapons, accept my authority, abide by our rules…”
“…And we receive free food, water, shelter, electricity, medical care, and self-determination. We can leave whenever we want, and most of all, we get to lay down our weapons and stop fighting? And you don’t want anything in return?”
“We get you, General,” Marshal said. “For all we know, we’re the last, best chance for humanity. We increase our chances of survival simply by adding you to our mix. What else could you possibly offer us that could equal almost seven hundred American souls? Join us, General. We’re building something that’s actually worth fighting for, and the best part of it all is that you won’t have to fight.”
There was a stir among the watching soldiers. Though it was clear that they were trying to hide their emotions, it was equally clear that his words were affecting them deeply. Several seemed to be holding their breath, while others clutched their rifles with tired, filthy fingers. Captain Marlowe’s face remained inscrutable, but his eyes flickered from some distant place to the ground.
“Ah, Marshal,” the General said, looking sad. “If only-”
They were interrupted by the terrible sound of a low, booming, chilling howl, echoing like a malevolent foghorn. It was a sound to be heard over great distances, a challenging, bellow of rage and threat that echoed from the invisible horizon. It shook the New Torontonians to their core, snapping their heads around with a latent, primordial terror that human memory had not heard since the prehistoric age.
“If only things were that easy,” the General finished bitterly.
“Mother of Christ,” Scratchard muttered, licking his lips.
“Marshal!”
Kumar’s desperate shout into Marshal’s headset shook him out of his paralysis. He tried to meet the gaze of the General standing before him, but found his dark eyes staring at the ground like it was a million miles away. Behind him, Captain Marlowe clenched his eyes shut, like a man trying to fight off a waking nightmare from which there was no escape.
“What have you done?” Marshal asked.
The General looked back over his shoulder in the direction where the terrible noise, still miles away, had originated. Then, with a long, agonized exhalation of breath, he removed his hat and went down on one knee.
“I am offering you,” he said, visibly trembling, “our unconditional surrender. There is no time for anything else, and I cannot save my people without you. They now take almost no time to recover. They’re too close. They’re too…”
He stopped, rubbing a hand across a forehead slick with sweat and fear.
Another howl boomed from far away. The General and all his men seemed to crumble at the sound.
“What is this?” Marshal demanded. “What have you brought to our city?”
“Marshal! Why the fuck aren’t you answering?”
Marshal tapped his communicator button.
“I’m here, Kumar. We’re just-”
“Run! You have to get out of there now! Jesus Christ, Marshal, just run!”
“We saw your drones,” General Williams said, climbing to his feet, “so we know that you can see. They should be coming up into range right now. It will be faster if you just go and look.”
Scratchard had pulled out his laptop. He was staring at the screen even now, his face white as snow. Peter, already shaking, moved around so that he could see, let out a small gasp of horror, and then averted his eyes.
“Go look,” the General insisted. “It will save time, and time is precious.”
Marshal turned back to the table, looked, and his mind and body went cold.
There were three of them, the titans, the three biggest that towered several stories above the others. The rest, around fifty in number, drifted through the dust of the big three like escort ships accompanying dreadnaughts.
The first stood forty feet high at the shoulder and resembled a hairless, eight-legged tiger. Skulking like a puma up the Canadian expressway, it’s vaguely, human-shaped head swayed from side to side, searching for prey with shadowy, empty eye sockets the size of bath tubs. Four, hundred-foot-long tentacles whipped from the shoulder blades like wings, caressing the ground with feeler-like sensitivity as it moved. Lumpen, mottled, fleshy complexion spoke of its composition, melded together from the tissue and bone of tens of thousands of human corpses. In some places across the cliff-like expanse of its body, human faces could still be seen leering out of the mass with o
pen mouths and twitching features.
The second looked more like a bull, with a powerful battering ram for a head, a cave-like mouth in its neck, and misshapen, tree-sized arms and hands where the horns would have been. Fifty feet at the shoulder, the monstrosity propelled itself forward in explosive leaps with four, coiled ‘jumper’ legs that kicked out at the ground behind it. Time and time again, it charged, barreling into buildings and shattering them to rubble. Structure after structure fell, only to be wolfed up in the neck mouth, sifted for human flesh, and spat out again. Any part of the structure left standing would provoke the hands to join in, ripping apart the leftovers like cake, until nothing remained but dusty mounds of rubble.
But it was the final creature that most looked like a thing stepped straight out of the deepest depths of hell. Owing no allegiance at all to anything earth bound, it was half again as big as either of the other two. Towering over one hundred feet tall, the massive, gurgling, rippling mound of living flesh flowed over the landscape like an escaped wave. The central body of the thing would swirl and pulse as it traveled, moving horribly fast in spite of its size and shape. Occasionally, the central mass would fire out car-sized, blob-like pieces of itself as projectiles. These would crash into houses or buildings, envelop them with a splatter, and then begin to squeeze them, crush them, reduce them to rubble so that they could sift through the bits. Once finished, the blob would then undulate its way back across the open space and rejoin the gigantic wave.
The smaller mutations, the satellite constructs, came in every imaginable shape, size, and consistency. One looked like nothing more outlandish than a twenty-five foot tall woman, striding up the road with blank expression and rippling fleshy curves, while another wormed its way along the ground like a twenty-foot long centipede borne on human arms and legs. Another looked like a freestanding wheel, rolling its way through the mass with smooth efficiency of motion, while another flopped its way along like an exploding slinky. There were walkers and runners and leapers and crawlers and nightmare things that shifted back and forth between.