Nobody spoke. The silence was as all-embracing as the stillness, and nobody wanted to spoil it. There was no anger or resentment. They were all too tired.
“Exercise,” said a familiar voice from the doorway, “is a very cleansing activity. Not quite as much as combat, but it’s similar, and without the downside. Afterwards, all those whiny little problems and complaints that seemed so important feel like they’re a million miles away, don’t they?”
Nobody answered him, except Vito, who found enough willpower in one arm to lift up his hand give him the finger.
Captain Vandermeer moved to the center of the room and set something down on the floor. The clink of multiple glasses prompted T-Bone to open one curious eye.
With a wrenching of agonized muscles, he sat bolt upright.
It was a two-four of beer.
“Help yourself, soldiers,” the Captain said, stepping away to stand by a wide-open window. There, on the precipice, he gazed out over the cityscape from the seventy-second floor view. “Orderly and polite. Anyone caught pushing will have to do another run up and down the stairs.”
“What is it?” Vito groaned. “I can’t see.”
“It’s beer,” T-Bone answered, already lurching out of his chair and finding, as he fell to his knees, that his legs had partly atrophied. He didn’t care. Crawling forward, he bullied his leg muscles into responding. He reached the case a second before Ramirez, pulled out a tall, cold bottle, and then hesitated. He looked over at the Captain.
“There’s nine of you,” Vandermeer said, guessing at the question. “That’s two apiece, with six left over, so help yourself to two. I’m not drinking. When my leg gets better, I’ll be running your exercises alongside you, but for now I have to make creative use of the elevator. Do me a favor, Private Bonham, and bring two over to Vito.”
“God bless you, Cap,” Vito half-sobbed, looking at the case longingly but still unable to move. “I promise that when I kill you, it’ll be without any extra pain.”
“Whenever you’re ready, Private Vitale,” Vandermeer answered calmly, still standing by the window and looking very vulnerable. “I’ll be ready and waiting for you when you try.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Vito answered, taking the bottles from T-Bone greedily.
T-Bone popped open his first, savoring the smell as it wafted from the bottle, and then took a long, hard pull. He savored the rich, creamy taste, so much better due to his recent workout, and shuddered for sheer pleasure. Oh dear God. It had been so long since his last beer.
“What about the other six?” Brock asked, having drained his first bottle in one gulp and eying the case acquisitively.
“What about the other six… Captain.” Vandermeer corrected.
Brock’s face darkened, and for a minute T-Bone thought he was going to tell the Captain to go fuck himself. But the big biker hesitated, and after a few more seconds, he shrugged.
“Right,” he said. “What about the other six, Captain?”
Eric glanced over at him, and then returned to gazing at the skyline.
“The other six are to be bestowed, Private Peterson,” he answered, “as rewards for excellence in the line of duty. One goes to Private Ramirez, for finishing first. Another two go to Privates Brooks and Bonham for finishing second and third. One will go to Vito, for finishing at all. Private Shepherd, for not complaining or whining like the rest of you. Good job, Joan. And the sixth? Hmm. The sixth will go to you, Private Peterson, as recognition for your wisdom in calling me Captain just now.”
Brock scowled. “Thanks, Captain,” he said, taking a third beer.
“My pleasure, Private Peterson,” Vandermeer answered with brevity. “Prove to me that you can be good soldiers, instead of the oozy liquid clinging to the underside of a steaming pile of dog excrement, and you will see the hero’s reward. Prove otherwise, and I’ll shove this cattle prod so far up your collective ass, you’ll be able to jumpstart a car with your teeth. You parasites may have escaped death, but it’s going to take a lot of effort on your part before your former victims will forgive you. If fact, I doubt they ever will. But if you’re to have any hope at all, maggots, it’ll be in the army.”
“Is that how it’s gonna be, Captain?” Ramirez asked, popping another beer. “You gonna torture us until we’re no longer bad guys?”
“Not too god damn likely,” Tyler belched, opening his second beer.
Vandermeer gave him an irritated look.
“I mean, ‘not too likely, Captain,’” Tyler added hastily.
For a moment, Eric Vandermeer didn’t answer. Still standing by the open window, he seemed to visit a spectrum of emotions in the silence that followed. Then, with the hint of a frown, he turned, scooped up a spare chair that had been lying on its side, and sat down.
“Cards on the table, people,” he said, leaning back in the chair. “Answer me this. Private Brooks. Do you want to be the bad guy?”
T-Bone watched Tyler frown, confused by the question. “I don’t know,” he said.
“How about you, Private Ramirez? Do you like being the bad guy?”
Eddie Ramirez ducked his head suspiciously, looking around for any support. “I don’t know, Captain. What… what do you want to hear?”
“Just the truth, Private.”
“Well… no, I guess. But that’s not gonna-”
“And how about you, Private Peterson? You showed some cunning, calling me Captain, but don’t think I don’t know you’re just waiting for the next opportunity to take a good run at me. Of course, the next time you try, I’ll break your arm, but setting that aside, let’s hear some truth for a moment. Do you, Private Peterson, want to be the bad guy?”
Brock opened his third beer sullenly, and seemed to consider the question.
“Private Vitale?”
“I don’t want to be nobody’s butt-boy,” Vito declared, sitting up. “That includes you, Captain. I don’t want to get fucked. It ain’t never as simple as good guys and bad guys. You know that and I know that. It’s always about who’s got the power, and at the moment, it ain’t us. That’s what makes us the bad guys. So to answer your question, then yeah, I don’t wanna be the bad guy.”
Vandermeer nodded thoughtfully.
“What about Luca?” he asked. “Is he one of the good guys?”
“Who, Luca?” Vito laughed. “Cap, if you knew half the shit about that guy that I know, then you wouldn’t trust him for shit! Fucking Luca Sabbatini is one of the most feared Mafia enforcers in southern Ontario.”
“Was, Private,” Vandermeer corrected him. “Today, he’s one of the most well-liked and well-respected citizens of New Toronto.”
“That just proves Vito’s point, Captain,” T-Bone said, his voice bitter. “We all know what kind of a man Luca really is. But he’s walking free, and we’re upchucking our breakfasts and being tortured by a lunatic military guy. It ain’t about good and bad. It’s all about who has the power.”
Vandermeer shook his head, as if disappointed. “And what about Marshal?”
“That guy, I don’t know about,” Vito admitted loudly, talking at Brock and gesturing with his beer. “I swear to fucking God, if you’d have asked me whether I believed that Dr. Winter had a kid, I’d have answered that I saw Sasquatch reading the newspaper. Or the Lock Ness Monster working at the 7-11. But then I saw him shoot. Now, I’m not so sure.”
“Shot the knife right out of Stan’s hand,” Brock reminded him, shaking his head in disbelief. “Thirty, maybe forty feet between them. Craziest fucking thing I ever saw.”
Vandermeer nodded. “He’s a crack shot all right, and I know what I’m talking about. I did two years training as a sniper, and Marshal is the best I’ve ever seen. It’s not just that he can shoot well, but he does it under pressure. It’s absolutely incredible.”
“That’s what Winter was supposed to be able to do,” Brock added, shaking his head. “Fucking comic book character. And what? The Sabbatini crime family has been hiding him all th
is time?”
“Hiding him,” Vandermeer said, “even from himself. Apparently, Marshal only found out a few days before you did. I don’t know who this ‘Winter’ guy was, but Kristina’s sure heard of him. If you thought you guys were surprised, you should have seen her reaction. The police department wanted Marshal’s father quite badly, but they never knew who he was.”
“I’ll just bet they wanted him,” Vito chuckled, and then took a pull at his beer. “Winter killed more people than Ebola, even a few crooked cops, if you believe the stories.”
There was a general muttering around the room, and Vito looked pleased with himself. But he froze, and slowly lowered his beer as he realized that Vandermeer was staring at him.
“That impresses you, does it? Is that what makes a really bad guy?”
The room fell strangely quiet and a chill swept through the room.
“I killed forty-three men,” Eric said, turning to gaze back out the window, “during my last tour in Afghanistan, or forty-three that I can confirm. If you include the number of people I might have killed, the number climbs to well over two hundred. Twelve of the ones I know about happened in this village. The JTF2 had just swept through, targeting all the open resistance as they went. We were supposed to secure the place so that ‘the Friendly Brigades’ – the guys who come through trying to win the hearts and minds of the traumatized villagers – could do their thing without getting attacked by any holdouts.”
His voice adopted a neutral tone, free of any emotion.
“We reached the center of town,” he said, “and suddenly, the call to prayer starts sounding off from this smoke-stained, bullet-riddled little mosque they had. And like… like zombies, the faithful start coming out of their homes. It was a little frightening, actually, but we managed to hold our fire. We didn’t want to shoot people at prayer. Right? Not a great idea to kill people submitting to God if you’re trying to win hearts and minds. So we were caught kind of flat-footed when, after the prayer finished, about six of the faithful – foreign fighters, who saw us as unworthy of the protections of Allah – popped up from their worship with automatic weapons. Of course, we fired back, and a lot of innocents got caught in the crossfire. I know for a fact that I killed a couple myself, and when I look back - at the fear and the chaos - I’m not even convinced that it was accidental. We got all the Taliban, but looking down the barrel of my gun... at the innocents I killed…? Who knows? When I lie awake at night, counting dead sheep, I know in my heart that I’m a murderer.”
He looked around. “And do you know what my punishment was?”
No one answered, and Vandermeer shook his head.
“They made me a Master-Corporal and gave me another medal,” he said. “Said I’d performed above and beyond. They even offered me another tour in the JTF2, if I wanted. I didn’t. Murderer or not, I’d done my duty to the best of my ability, and I’d probably do it the same, if I had to do it all over again. But I’d finally reached the point that all I wanted was redemption.”
He waved a hand in front of him, as if to dismiss any further talk.
“My point,” he said, looking around at his audience, “is that there’s a peculiar thing about armies that makes heroes out of murderers. Or whatever. Do you know why that is, people? It’s because a soldier risks his or her life, their innocence, their individuality, even their soul, for their people. They sacrifice everything. It’s the ultimate service, and the people know it. For that, they will forgive almost anything, even… when you can’t forgive yourself.”
He looked around at the people in the room, meeting their gazes one by one.
“I’m alive today,” he announced, “because Luca risked his life and comfort to save me. They valued me more than their own lives. Luca and Angie were both saved by Marshal, and together, the three of them have built a nation. They are not ‘the good guys’ because they have the power and you don’t, people. They are the ‘good guys’ because, while your bunch was exploiting and mistreating the people under their control, they demonstrated honor!”
He smiled darkly.
“You were all so afraid of this man, Chugger,” he said. “Luca took him on. Do you know why he did that? Think long and hard, people. Marshal had that second gun that none of you knew about, right? He could have pulled it out and used the surprise to drop Vito and Brock any time he wanted. And Luca knew it. So why risk his life fighting Chugger?”
A dumb silence greeted this question, and Vandermeer sneered.
“He did it to save your lives,” he said. “You all say you know what kind of man Luca is, like somehow it’ll make you feel better about yourselves. We had the prisoners rescued by that point. Albert was no longer in danger of being hanged. Luca could have died. Marshal could have died. They accepted that risk. So think again, real hard. Whose lives did they save?”
He shook his head.
“I guess they thought you were worth saving.”
He stood up, tall and impervious again, and gestured to the window.
“You can choose,” he said. “There’s a reason why our workouts end here, and will end, every day. This is the only open window space on this floor. If you want, you can jump and say good-bye to everything. Death will be instantaneous. Or you can stay and fight to become a part of humanity again, risk your miserable lives and hope that the community lets you back in. But, just so we’re clear...”
His eyes narrowed as he looked around at them.
“If you remain, then you will be soldiers, risking your lives and your freedoms for the betterment of others. I will break you, hound you, torment you, and train you. Hate me if you want, but by the end, you will be the good guys, with all the rewards and accolades that go with it. I swear it. I’m here surrounding myself with killers and rapists and losers because I believe that you can be that difference, and in the world the zombies have left us, that is all I have left.”
He limped across the room, heading towards the exit.
“Think about it,” he said. “Decide what you want, and remember… the window is right over there. It’s a quicker death than the zombies will give you. Otherwise, the army has you now, and our first honest-to-god mission happens in two days. I’ll be back in a half hour to go over the details with you. Be ready! Or I swear to God, I’ll make you wish you’d never been born.”
A long silence followed as, each alone, they measured their thoughts.
“Fuck it,” Vito said to the room. “I’m in as long as there’s beer. I don’t know about risking my life in the army, but I get his point. We should probably be dead by now. They could have killed us.”
“Yeah,” Brock said bitterly, “but to say it’s that or the window? What kind of choice is that?”
“A realistic one,” Joan said. “It’s not like we were doing so great at the slaughterhouse. We all knew we were going to die, and now we aren’t. They didn’t go to all this trouble saving us just to throw our lives away for nothing. We’re being given a chance, and he’s right. After the stuff we’ve done, is there any other way they’ll accept us?”
“Fuck them,” Tyler said. “So what if they hate us?”
No one answered, and the troubled silence grew fat.
Chapter Twenty-Five: Day 1: Cursed Ground
The first problem was that no one could ever have predicted the speed at which it happened. Patient zero, stop zones, containment, these were all terms without meaning. The outbreak spread too quickly for there to be an organized response. For the vast majority, the phenomena overtook them before they were even aware it existed.
There were, surprisingly, quite a few people who recognized the threat before it arrived. Of course, that was the second problem. What good did it do predicting the end of the world if there was nothing you could do about it?
It required an exceptional sort of mind to both foresee the danger and conjure up an idea on how to avoid it.
The Tuesday morning news, during the morning traffic reports of sleepy Bangor, Maine, was the
first to report on it. First sightings filtered through to a puzzled and amused radio audience. The downtown police deployed a squad car to a curio shop called ‘The Eighth Wonder’, which was the kind of shop that purchased and sold hundred million year old shark teeth, dinosaur fossils, industrially polished minerals, thunder eggs, dream catchers, and occult books. Meanwhile, brief but alarming bursts of Internet video footage suggested the advent of an enormous hoax.
It was 8:00am, and bored commuters, stuck in their cars on the way to work, listened as raucous DJs spoke of violent attacks in parts of New England. Unconfirmed reports of murderous, mindless zombie assaults were delivered with lame humor and incredulous skepticism.
“The epicenter of these reports,” DJ Scott Ross declared, “is thought to be the town of Castle Rock. Steven King could not be found for comment.”
Cue canned laughter.
At 8:30am, legal council for KJVX called the station from his car on the way to work, advising against too much irreverence, just in case there turned out to be any casualties. Such was the stuff that lawsuits were made from, he warned them, no matter how funny it all sounded.
Fifth precinct, having lost contact with the squad car, sent two more. Meanwhile, the department attempted to access the ‘Eighth Wonder’s’ security cameras and, upon failing, uplinked the local traffic-cams outside the building. Archived files of a camera that happened to be pointed directly at ‘The Eighth Wonder’ shop window were downloaded but never examined as, by 8:45am, the switchboard went insane.
By 9:05am, the radio stations were off the air. The Police department phone lines were all dead. Bangor, Maine, in the span of an hour, had gone quiet.
For most of those who listened or stumbled on one of the hastily uploaded videos during that crucial first hour, there was still no cause for alarm. Silence is only deafening if someone is listening, and there was always so much else going on. The blurred or shaky footage caught on cell phones, while hair-raising, was still something that was happening ‘somewhere else’. Like war footage coming in from another country, it could be fretted over and then dismissed. Never did it occur that this was anything to worry about, or that there was danger. The general consensus was still betting on it being a hoax.
From Oblivion's Ashes Page 53
