From Oblivion's Ashes

by Nyman, Michael E. A.

  “Make your decision,” Marshal said, “and then live by it. But before you do, I want to add one more thing.”

  And now, his gaze really did turn angry, and Torstein almost pulled the trigger from the sheer force of it.

  “My father,” Marshal said, “was a good man. He died with my mother and aunt in a car crash when I was only eight years old. I had no other family, except a group of strangers from Europe who gave me up so fast, they made my head spin. The only people in the world who gave a shit that I was alive were the Sabbatini’s. They adopted me, cared for me, protected me, supported me, and loved me like I was one of their own. Were they criminals? Probably. But that doesn’t change for an instant how I feel about them or my gratitude for all the things they did. So you can go fuck yourself, Torstein. If you choose to follow me, then this will be the last time you will get away with shitting on my family.”

  Torstein’s eyes widened in surprise, and then, to Marshal’s amazement, seemed to soften in an expression of sympathy.

  “Jesus Christ,” he half-whispered. “You don’t know, do you? It’s... it’s true, isn’t it? You honestly don’t know.”

  “Know what?”

  Torstein swallowed heavily, lowering the gun.

  “You really believe that your family died in some random car accident?”

  For a few seconds, Marshal felt like the top of his head had flipped open.

  “What?”

  “Here,” Torstein said, returning the gun to Marshal. “You were right. I’m not going to shoot you, Marshal. And I’m actually beginning to believe you are who you say you are. I’m... I’m sorry. I didn’t realize.”

  “Realize what?” Marshal asked, taking the gun back.

  “Nothing, I guess,” Torstein said, looking shaken. “This was a dumb stunt, Marshal. I could have shot you. But you made your point. We do have a shared purpose, and we have to stick together. I believe in that, at least. And now that I... I think I understand you better... now that I know-”

  “Now that you know what?”

  “That my beef was never with you,” Torstein said, “it’s with your family.”

  “Then it is with me,” Marshal said, his eyes flashing, “because-”

  “No, no. That’s fine. Listen, I gotta think this over but…. The bottom line is that, as long as you’re the one in charge, I promise that you won’t have any more problems with me. I’ll even try to get along with Luca, if you can vouch for him.”

  “I do,” Marshal said. “I’m not going to try to justify the person he used to be, except to say that he did what his family expected him to do. He’s a man who will do anything for his family. You need to think on that, because like it or not, that’s what we are now: family. Luca is your brother, and you may yet have a chance to see what that means.”

  “Fine then,” Torstein said. “I hope you’re right.”

  The shade of a smile crept into his expression.

  “Besides,” he said, “I gotta admit that all that stuff you’re planning sounds pretty cool. Kind of caught me off guard, actually. I do want to be a part of that. I was mostly staying mad out of pure stubbornness. Are we done here?”

  “What was that you were saying before?” Marshal asked. “The part about the car accident that killed my family?”

  “Yeah,” Torstein said, looking a bit ashamed. “Sorry about that. I’m done with that, I promise. I thought you knew. There were rumors that it… it wasn’t an accident.”

  “Rumors? Why would anyone believe in a rumor like that?”

  “Ask Luca,” Torstein said. “But when you do, ask yourself something else. Who stood to gain the most by making your father disappear? That was the part I could never figure out about you. Now I know that you must have been too young to know any better. I just hope you understand where I was coming from.”

  “Uh… sure,” Marshal answered, not understanding at all.

  “I’d… better go,” Torstein said, standing up and heading for the back hatch. “Again… I’m sorry.”

  He ducked out the back of Crapmobile without another word.

  All alone now, Marshal considered what he’d learned.

  It had to be a mistake. Didn’t it? Marshal’s life couldn’t be that big of a lie.

  He grunted to himself and reached into his pocket. Torstein had been right about one thing at least. It would have been stupid to have handed him a loaded gun. He removed the bullets from his pocket and reloaded them.

  He didn’t see any need to inform Torstein that the gun had been empty. At least, not yet. Maybe some day, when he had earned Torstein’s friendship, they could laugh over it, but for now, better to let things lie. Things couldn’t have turned out better.

  Of course, had Torstein fired, it would have been just as illuminating, if only to know where he stood. And it wasn’t as if he was in any danger. He did possess a second gun, complete with its own suppressor, tucked into a holster in the small of his back.

  Prepare for all contingencies. That was the new mantra.

  He shifted Crapmobile out of park and pulled it out onto College Street. Rubbing his eyes thoughtfully, he drove in silence, trying to digest what he’d heard and wondering what it meant. Under an October moon, he navigated his pile of trash through the waste and ruin of the post-apocalyptic world.

  Back at the apartment, Luca entered the storage area with a look of pride.

  “For the sick!” he proclaimed, carrying the huge pot with two hands. “Food of the gods! Pasta with two separate sauces: one for the vegetarians, one full of meat. Save room. ‘Cause afterwards, there’s breaded chicken, deep-fried french fries, and chocolate ice cream for dessert! But only...”

  He glowered down at the three children.

  “...for the sick!”

  Freshly showered and wearing clean, crisp clothing recovered from clothing stores down on Queen Street, Randy looked up at Ms. Wyatt with a look of concern.

  “Are we sick, Ms. Wyatt?” he asked. “Please, can we be sick?”

  The woman sighed. Cleaned up and fed herself, she cut a very different look from the one she’d had when Marshal and Luca had found her. Long, wavy brown hair now fell in tumbles past her shoulders, over a figure that, at 32, was strong and athletic, if slightly malnourished over the last three weeks. She had an oval face, with thin, fine-etched lips, green eyes, and a slight, snub nose. Two sets of dimples seemed to reign over her features: those that lit up when she smiled, and those that powered up her anger and frustration. Neither detracted from her overall attractiveness.

  “Relax, Randy,” she said, gently running the fingers of her right hand through his stringy, brown hair. “They’ve fed us since we got here. They won’t stop now.”

  And suddenly, the looming, hulking figure of the big Italian man was standing in front of Randy, glowering down at him like an angry guard.

  “You!” he snarled, pointing a ladle.

  Randy tried to shrink into the gap under Ms. Wyatt’s arm.

  “Y-y-yes?” the ten-year-old boy asked.

  The man turned to the girls. “And you two, as well!”

  Both of the girls looked up at the man in fear.

  “We got rules,” he barked. “Ya pull yer weight around here, or else! So all three of you are being drafted!”

  “D-d-drafted?” Denise asked.

  “That’s right. Y’see, we got this big brick of chocolate ice cream,” Luca explained, putting on his scariest face. “You guys have heard of chocolate ice cream?”

  Confused, they all nodded.

  “Well, it got partly melted,” Luca explained, hiking a thumb over his shoulder in the direction of the kitchen. “Kitchen staff are allowed to eat it, but we’re - that’s Gladys and me. See her over there?”

  The children looked over at the sweet old lady who, noticing their attention, waved at them with a friendly smile.

  “We’re full,” Luca growled. “That means we’re gonna have to throw it out.”

  “We could eat
it,” Denise said, a bit quicker on the uptake than the other two.

  Luca turned his full attention on Denise.

  “That,” he said, “would be a fantastic idea. Only, you’d have to be kitchen staff in order to be allowed.”

  “Oh,” Denise said, looking disappointed.

  “Now, it so happens,” Luca continued, “that in my capacity as Head Chef, I am authorized to draft you three to be members of the kitchen staff. Remember what I said about how everyone pitches in? Well, helpin’ out with the kitchen and eatin’ partly-melted, chocolate ice cream - a whole tub of it - would be a big help! But you’d have to be willing to help Gladys over there bring food to our patients, as well as other duties down the road. Think the three of you are up to that?”

  Three heads nodded hopefully.

  “Then, I hereby anoint the three of you ‘Kitchen Rats’” Luca said, pulling out three, big spoons. “Your weapons. Go forth, and destroy that chocolate ice cream! Then put any you can’t eat back in the fridge. But after you’ve gone and helped Gladys.”

  Excited, the three children jumped up and rushed off.

  “That was nice of you,” Ms. Wyatt said, smiling up at him.

  Luca shrugged dismissively.

  “It’s a pleasure,” he said, squatting down beside her. “Besides. You looked like you might need a break after three weeks. Gladys could use the help and the company. Plus, it helps get the kids involved. We’re going to need every pair of hands we can get, according to Marshal.”

  He scratched his chin.

  “With respect to that bit about you needing a break,” he continued, “I got you Krissy’s bedroom for a few nights. Kumar’s happy on the couch, and he’s willing to help keep an eye on the kids for a few days. Gladys will help out, and I’ll look in from time to time as well. Give you a bit of privacy, and maybe a chance to decompress. It had to be pretty tough, all those weeks, holding it together for the sake of the kids. So we’re gonna give you a bit of a holiday if we can, and figure out the rest when you’ve had a chance to breathe.”

  “Was that Marshal’s idea?” she asked, relishing the promise of some privacy.

  “Nah,” Luca said. “Actually, it was mine, although it was Gladys who pointed out that you might need it. Marshal says we’d be needin’ your input on how to move forward, especially if we find more kids. ‘Anyone who can survive a few weeks with three kids on crackers and junk food in the rafters of a school gym is someone we need to keep involved,’ is what he said. ‘Plus, she’s a teacher, and we can use a brain like that.’”

  “I’m flattered,” Ms. Wyatt said, watching as Gladys directed Sarah to bring a plate of pasta to the recently re-awakened Valerie, who had been a legal secretary or something. “I’m….”

  She closed her eyes to stave off the wetness she felt in them.

  “I’m grateful to all of you,” she said. “And of course, I’ll help however I can.”

  “Ah,” Luca growled. “Don’t even fucking worry about it! Shit! I mean… shoot. Sorry. I’m tryin’ to watch the profanity lately, on account of the rug rats. It’s just that, in my past life, I didn’t spend that much time around to many kids, you know what I mean?”

  “I’m shocked,” Ms. Wyatt said, watching as Randy eagerly took a plate of pasta over to Vandermeer. “You have them eating out of your hand.”

  “Yeah? Well, it helps to think of them as little mobsters. Anyway, what I was trying to say was… well, you let us take care of you for a while, Ms. Wyatt. You’ve fucking earned it.”

  She looked up into his dark eyes. He had an… interesting face, in a way, with lumpy bits of character re-arranged into lumpier bits of even more character. It wouldn’t be right to call it ‘handsome’, any more than seeing a T-rex in the forest could be called ‘natural wildlife’. But it was interesting, like looking into an alternate universe, and seeing things there that seemed familiar.

  “The name is Sophie,” she said. “And you should watch your fucking language.”

  Luca grinned. “Sophie, eh? That’s a nice name. Not as nice as ‘Ms. Blows-your-head-off’, but I like it.”

  He stood up.

  “If you’ll excuse me,” he said, “I gotta go make sure one of the ice cream tubs is ready, or I’ll have a fu… um… a freaking riot on my hands.”

  “Oh, just go ahead and swear,” Sophia said, closing her eyes for a rest. “Who’s around to give a fuck anyway?”

  Chapter Fourteen: Day 30: The Dictator of New Toronto

  Marshal sat on the bar stool beside the wide screen, waiting for people to settle in. It was six in the morning, and the scent of coffee and bacon hung in the air of the apartment.

  Of the people not in attendance for the strategy meeting, Brian, Krissy, Torstein, and Cesar were still at Rothman’s. Dr. Burke continued to spend most of his time unconscious, though he had woken twice to rave incoherently about baseball. Given how close the man had come to death, these small bursts of activity were taken to be a form of progress.

  Meanwhile, Master Corporal Vandermeer had politely but firmly chosen not to attend any meetings. This was a matter of deep concern for the other survivors of the Queen Street Subway. He was usually awake and coherent and spent most of his time propped up on his bed, either reading from a tablet or simply asleep. His legs never stopped hurting, nor had they healed. Antibiotics seemed to have slowed the rate of deterioration, but there wasn’t any sign of improvement. The flesh of the right leg in particular looked blackened and green and smelled of rotten meat, no matter how often the wounds were cleaned, and there was a general belief – held not the least by a morbid Master Corporal Vandermeer himself – that it, or possibly both, would need to be amputated. Since no one knew how to perform such a dramatic procedure, the decision was made to wait and see if Dr. Burke might recover and provide a more professional diagnosis.

  Up and out of bed for the first time since their arrival were the four remaining survivors of the Queen Street Subway collapse.

  Albert Goldstein was a nervous, scrawny-looking, one hundred and ten pound high school student who’d been heading to his job at the Bagel Stop on the day of the outbreak. He was sixteen, Jewish, wore glasses, and looked like a more mature version of Bart Simpson’s best friend Millhouse, albeit with more acne. Marshal had found him to be difficult to talk to, evasive, and uneasy under direct scrutiny. He seemed to be afraid of most people and was absolutely petrified in the presence of Luca. At the moment, he sat awkwardly on a small stool at the furthest edge of the proceedings, exuding the air of a student who was worried about being called upon in class.

  Valerie Hunter occupied Marshal’s huge, black leather chair, sitting with her hands folded across her lap and the watchful gaze of a person accustomed to seeing more than there was to see. Somehow, she projected an air of enormous competence without saying a word, exuding formidable intellectual presence with the subtle flicker of a raised eyebrow or a pursed lip of amusement. She was in her late twenties, a stunning, curvaceous 5’10”, with cover-girl features and flat red hair that surrounded her head like a monastic hood. Somehow, from the piles of clothing that Marshal and Luca had recovered from downtown shopping centers, she’d managed to construct an ensemble of business chic, with make-up to match. For the most part, she’d remained silent since waking up a day ago, and seemed content to watch the conversation and activity around her with intelligent green eyes, venturing nothing that would give away her state of mind.

  Brad Campbell was an overweight, 43 year old salesman with a world-weary face, signs of clinical depression, and the hint of a drinking problem. His only apparent moment of joy had been when, upon rising from his mattress, he first set eyes on Marshal’s liquor supply. Since then and without asking, he had settled down to put as large a dent in the bourbon as he could, culminating finally in a rambling diatribe on how, at the very least, the apocalypse had freed him from alimony payments, sales quotas, and the vicious persistence of divorce lawyers.

  Jacqueline Mercer w
as a 5’11, 22-year-old accountant with short brown hair, trim physique, glasses, tan skin, and full lips. She was only six months out of community college and was intelligent, friendly, and eager to help. Once she’d recovered from the dust sickness of the subway collapse, she’d offered to help in any way she could. She had an easy-going demeanor, seemed perpetually amused, and liked to make jokes, even at her own expense. Marshal had liked her immediately, and as he waited for everyone to find their places, he caught her eye and they exchanged smiles.

  They’d spoken for a half hour at two in the morning the night before. She’d found him parked in front of the television, watching an original Star Trek episode and trying to shake off the gloom he felt after his talk with Torstein. He’d had the episode on low volume so as not to awaken Kumar, who’d fallen asleep on the other couch with a game controller in one hand and a cheeto hanging from his bottom lip. Unable to sleep, Marshal had taken some small solace from the thriving hive his home had become, in direct counterpoint to the haunted emptiness it had once been.

  “Hey, leader man,” she’d said, coming up behind him. “Are you in the process of crumbling under the weight of all our hopes, dreams, and expectations?”

  That had been the way she’d introduced herself.

  “Whoa! Too much?” she’d said when he’d just stared at her in response. “Sorry! I’ll just take my stupid jokes and-”

  “No, no… It’s okay,” Marshal had said, rubbing his eyes. “Sorry, I… I’m just really, really tired.”

  “I can see that.”

  “We haven’t really met,” Marshal had said, extending a hand. “You were pretty out of it when we found you. My name is Marshal. You’re Jacqueline?”

  “Jackie to my friends,” she answered, flashing a smile.

  He called her Jackie after that and had learned, among other things, that she was of Puerto Rican descent, liked Star Trek, played Tetris, basketball, and was a lesbian.

  The last bit she’d offered up as sort of an afterthought, like it was no big deal. In fact, Marshal sensed that the question had been very strategically proffered up to see what his reaction would be.