Fade to Grey (Book 1): Fade to Grey (29 page)

Andy stepped out of the truck, gun ready but not pointed yet.
“Ma’am, I don’t mean to be forward, but before I get any closer you need to
have your kids come out where we can see ‘em.”

She looked up, something between hope and desperation
crossing onto her face. Michelle guessed that she was in her late twenties;
auburn hair framed an attractive face with high cheekbones. Manicured
fingernails painted dark cinnamon were visible as she chased a descending tear
off her cheek. Desperation won out and she said, “It’s OK kids, come out here
for a minute.” Stepping around the minivan was a young boy, probably no more
than eight years old. He was dressed in a green windbreaker covered with
pictures of robots, and his right arm was protectively around the shoulders of
a toddler. Michelle guessed the child was maybe three years old, but was
bundled up so heavily in a brown parka she couldn’t determine if it was a boy
or a girl. In the boy’s left hand was a steak knife. Their eyes looked OK.

Andy said, “Is there anybody else in the van, anybody . . . alive
or otherwise?”

“No, there’s no one else,” she said.

“Stay right there while I check, OK ma’am . . . I don’t want
to scare you or your kids, but I need to know we’re safe,” Andy said as he
sidestepped around them and readied the shotgun. She stood on the road quietly
sobbing as Andy checked the minivan, giving an “all clear” a minute later.

He got back in his truck and pulled alongside, leaving it
running as he got out and unlocked the pump handle. Her eyes were wide with
shock and gratitude as he filled her tank.

“We have company Andy,” Michelle said, indicating further
down the road where one of those jacked up pickup trucks was heading their way.
Andy finished fueling up the minivan, replaced the hose and relocked it just as
the truck pulled alongside. It was a banana yellow F-250 with dark tinted
windows, a matching camper top over the bed and giant, knobby tires easily three
and a half feet tall. It sat there idling for a few seconds before the
passenger side window powered downward.

“Afternoon.” Camouflage hat, sunglasses, white t-shirt,
cigarette held between the fingers. “Are you folks OK? . . . nobody sick or
nothing?” he asked.

“We’re fine,” Andy said, “just helping out a stranded lady.”

“That’s mighty nice of you, especially considering all the
shit that’s been happening everywhere. Is there anything we can do to help you?”
He tapped the ashes off his cigarette as he asked.

“Nope, we’re good to go, but thanks for the offer,” Andy
said.

“All right, you take care now.” The window hummed upwards,
pausing with just enough space for a final flick of the cigarette before
closing entirely as the truck pulled away, heading east.

Andy and Michelle exchanged glances, both of them trying to
listen their gut—both of them interrupted by the lady trying to thank them over
and over again. She tried to give Andy money—several hundred dollars—but he wouldn’t
hear of it. Andy dug into the coolers and pulled out sandwiches and drinks for
her and the kids, packing several more into a plastic grocery bag and handing
it to the boy, who put both it and his tiny sibling in the minivan before
coming over and hugging Michelle. Michelle’s heart melted as the little boy
wrapped his arms around her neck in a tight squeeze. The lady gave Andy a
business card that matched the printing on the van. It said, “Catering by
Melissa” and had small decals of glittery cupcakes and chef hats on it.

“I promise I’ll pay you back when all this blows over . . . I
promise.”

Andy exchanged glances with Michelle as a dark cloud fought
for a place in their minds. Neither of them wanted to ruin her day further—maybe
somewhere inside they both hoped she was right. It took a jumpstart to get the
minivan started and on the way. The little boy’s gloved hand thrust out the
window and waved to Michelle as they left. A few minutes later, Michelle and
Andy were heading west again. By the time they reached the turnoff heading
toward Crossbow Lakes, it was dark enough to use headlights.

Leonard helped his wife Glenda unload the last of the
firewood from the wheelbarrow, jamming his thumb between the final two pieces
and causing a small blood blister to immediately form. Figures. Memories of his
father saying time and time again “Nothing is ever easy” sprang to mind. Tagging
along with that thought was his father’s gruff voice saying “Get back to work
Lenny.”

“Hey honey,” Glenda said, “I’ve been thinking about how we
might be able to help out a little more around the campground, and I think I’ve
come up with a good idea.”

“Warr iss it?” Leonard replied, his speech slurred by the insertion
of his pinched finger in his mouth.

Glenda chuckled at her husband’s predicament and said, “Awww,
do you want me to go see if the Doc will make a house call . . . maybe bring
you a band aid for your boo boo?”

Her glittering eyes and rosy dimples brought a smile to his
face. They always had. “Nah, I reckon I’ll survive, although I might have to
put in a claim for workers comp. This here blister could end my career as a
concert pianist.”

Glenda giggled and said, “Why maestro, I didn’t know you
played the piano.”

It was Leonard’s turned to laugh at his wife’s mirth. She was
a real joy to have, and he made sure to tell her that every day. “What were you
saying about an idea?” Leonard asked.

“Well, I know that we need to save as much food as we can,
but you and I are both rather blessed with ample ‘energy reserves’ that we
carry around underneath our belt.” Glenda beamed another smile as she patted
her liberal tummy.

Leonard walked over and gave his wife a big hug, grinning as
he said, “So you’re saying we’re fat?”

“Well no, I’m not saying we’re fat, but between the two of us
we have more chins than a Chinese phone book.” Glenda’s musical voice sang out.

Thirty more seconds of hugging and shared laughter followed
before Leonard asked again, “So what was that idea?”

“I’m pretty sure that I have enough ingredients in the pantry
of our RV to make several dozen cookies, mostly chocolate chip and oatmeal
raisin. I think they’d go a long way toward boosting morale for the people who
are serving on the protection teams, the medical teams . . . I guess on every
team. Plus there’s a lot of little kids who look like they could use a cookie,”
Glenda said.

Leonard gave his wife another quick hug, letting his hands
slide down to grasp hers as he backed away to get a better look at this loving,
generous woman he had been fortunate enough to marry seventeen years ago. “Promise
me one thing . . . that you’ll save at least one cookie for me.”

She didn’t answer.

“What . . . am I asking for too much?  A single cookie?” 
Leonard teased.

Glenda still didn’t answer, her eyes were looking past
Leonard, a slight frown on her face as she squinted.

“Honey . . . what’s wrong?” Leonard said.

“Is that . . . Travis?”  Glenda said, still squinting towards
the edge of the campground her and Leonard had been hauling wood from all
morning.

Leonard turned to look. He knew that Glenda had left her
glasses on the dashboard of the RV that morning, and without them she was
pretty nearsighted. Leonard’s eyes were perfect however, and what they saw made
a chill, hollow lump rise in his gut. “Take my hand,” he said. She did,
recognizing his tone and the urgency it conveyed.

Seventy yards away, five putty gray figures emerged from the
tree line. One of them was missing an arm, several others were covered with
blood. Their movement no longer hampered by the thick brush, they began to pick
up speed. Behind them more came.

Flitting along the game trail one hundred yards to the north,
two brown-haired girls with sickly yellow eyes darted and weaved with a speed
and dexterity that defied explanation. Worn down by countless generations of
deer, fox, and other animals through the years, the trail would zigzag for
another 200 feet before emptying into a large field. Usually vacant of anything
larger than butterflies, today the field contained twenty-seven tents. By
tonight it would be empty.

Ravenwood campground

“Crowbar” Mike searched the ground at his feet, looking for
the perfect combination of weight, curvature and size. Most of the rocks were
too round—round as in three dimensional, like a golf ball. He wanted something
round but flat, like a small Frisbee. They made the best skipping rocks after
all. Brenda and Scott had already gone, and he was the final contestant in the
annual Ghost Echo Lake rock skipping extravaganza. Seventeen was the number to
beat, done twice in a row by Scott, no doubt heavily influenced by his baseball
skills. Looking out at the water, Mike shook his head as if giving the negative
sign to an imaginary catcher. Twice more he declined the suggested pitch from
the fantasy catcher before acquiescing with a nod. A quick glance to his left
showed him the ghostly runner on first was holding in place. Mike coiled up,
lifting his leg and snapping it forward as his chosen projectile hurled out
over the undulating water. One large splash later it was out of sight and on
the bottom of the lake.

“That would be a . . . ONE!  Also known as a ‘ker-plunk,’” said
Brenda in a voice that didn’t really match her body.

Scott chimed in by speaking through his hand in the shape of
a tube, attempting a big league announcer voice. “And it looks like it’s going
to be a trip back to the minors for the big man.” Switching his voice to a
lower octave in an effort to simulate a different commentator he continued,
“Yes, I’d have to agree with you Bob, this is the third time the big guy has
waffled, and I’m not sure how much longer the coaches can continue paying his
high salary with this level of performance, or should I say a lack of
performance.”

Brenda smiled while Mike frowned and Scott continued the
color. “You are so right Dan, I’m personally amazed that he’s been on the
roster this long. You know there were rumors about steroid use last season, and
the latest information to come out of the bullpen says that the big man may be
fighting an addiction to certain, ahem, ‘male enhancement’ drugs. Apparently
his performance issues aren’t only in the ballpark.”

Brenda burst out laughing as Mike picked up his crowbar and
gave a fake charge toward Scott, who scooted away while yelling out, “Remember,
an erection lasting longer than four hours can be a medical emergency . . .”

The last comment finally broke through and Mike joined in the
laughter. It had only been, what, eight hours ago or so that they started their
first real shift as “team day” and he already felt like he had known them for
years. In order to simplify things, Amy had asked if they wanted to continue on
in the groups they had cleared the campground with. That made sense, so he,
Brenda, Scott, and preacher Dave stayed together. Replacing Eric was Jason
Lambert. Jason and Dave were up at the campground entrance, and that put the
rest of their team on patrol duty. Mike’s trio had finished gate duty around
10:00 AM, and they’d switch out again about 3:00 PM.

Somebody, he didn’t know who exactly, had taken a photocopy
of the camp map and drawn a path in pink highlighter. Several pink directional
arrows had indicated their patrol direction. It was overly simplified, and in
Mike’s opinion, unnecessary. They could have just said, “Walk around both loops
of the campground, then make a third loop that goes past the volleyball court and
playground area. Lather, rinse, repeat.”

The bottom of both Blue Heron and Golden Eagle loops fronted
the lake. Each journey to the water saw a friendly repeat of the rock skipping
contest. Blue Heron loop, where they were now only had nineteen tents currently
occupied. From their position at the bottom of the loop they could look out
over the field that was designated as their impromptu group camp area. There
were at least twenty-five tents set up there, but only about half were occupied.
Mike could see a few guys fishing where the field met the water. He never could
understand the attraction of standing out in the hot sun or freezing rain
waiting for a fish to bite. The seafood counter at the local grocery store was
much more his style.

“’Bout ready to head up?” Brenda asked.

Mike nodded, taking a final look over the area before
shouldering his crowbar. “Yeah, let’s go.”

The walk back to the top of Blue Heron loop only took a few
minutes, and probably wouldn’t have taken that long if they hadn’t chatted
briefly with a few of the campers. Truth be told, it took them much longer the
first few laps because everybody wanted to talk. After the fourth or fifth
circle however, most folks just nodded their heads as his team passed. You
could only say “Any news?” so often.

They swung to the right and headed toward the dirt road which
would loop down and around the southern end of the campground, passing by the
athletic fields and playgrounds along the way. A few young kids riding their
bikes swerved around them and sped off, heading in the same direction. One of
the bikes—a small, neon pink model with tassels sticking out the ends of the
hand grips—was piloted by a giggling dark-haired girl. She was perhaps the
oldest of the bikers, maybe ten or eleven years old Mike guessed.

Several laughs and shouts of “Wait for me” echoed from the
group as they pedaled furiously to catch the dark-haired girl.

“What I wouldn’t give to be young again,” Brenda said shaking
her head.

In the distance, maybe 150 yards down the road in front of
them, Mike could see the chubby couple walking hand in hand this way. No
wheelbarrow though. That was odd, Mike thought, every other time he’d seen them
one of them would be pushing the firewood laden cart, either towards the top of
Blue Heron loop where the supply was being gathered or back down to pick up
another load.

Brenda followed where his gaze was, picking up on the same
fact Mike had noticed and asked, “Do they run the same shift schedule as the
guard teams?”

“I don’t know,” Mike answered, squinting his eyes against the
afternoon glare. It looked almost like the two members of the comfort team were
swatting at flies with their free hands as they moved this way.

“Let’s go,” Mike said, increasing the pace of his group
slightly.

“Do you think something’s wrong?”  Scott asked.

Mike was considering his answer, when from off to the right a
faint scream resonated through the quiet air. It was quickly followed by
several small caliber gun shots.

All three of them spun toward the sound of the disturbance,
unspoken anxiety plain upon their faces as they listened, trying to triangulate
the exact vector the noise had come from.

More screams followed by several more gunshots rang out. Scott
looked over at Mike and said, “That’s coming from the group camp field, I’m
sure of it.”

“This is why we’re here people,” Mike said to Brenda and
Scott, “are you ready?”

“Hell yeah,” Scott said.

Brenda just nodded.

Mike hefted his namesake and took two steps in the direction
of the group camp field, but Brenda grabbed his coat sleeve and said, “Wait a
minute, Mike.”

“Huh?” Mike said, stopping in his tracks and turning back to
look at Brenda.

Brenda was indicating toward the rotund pair that was forty
yards away and still gesturing with their hands, half dragging, half leaning
over as they approached.

Making a snap decision, Mike trotted over to the approaching
pair, Brenda and Scott at his heels.

Heavy gasping and wheezing was coming from the stout man; the
equally plump lady seemed to be out of breath as well.

“What’s wro . . .” Mike started to say, but was cut off by a
sharp statement from the lady.

“Behind us . . . at least thr . . . ee . . . or four . . . those
things . . . kids . . . couldn’t stop them . . .”

“Slow down and catch your breath, OK, just take some deep
breaths and try to calm down . . .” Brenda said.

“No,” the huffing lady gestured with her left arm while
supporting her wheezing and coughing husband with the other. “Kids . . . on
bikes . . . went around us, couldn’t stop . . . them . . . sick people coming .
. . out of woods . . . right now.”

Mike looked up toward the direction the large couple had
approached from. He could still see several bicycles riding in circles and
figure eights near the edge of the dirt road about 400 feet away. Several more
gunshots sounded from the group camp field, shifting Mike’s attention briefly
that way.

The puffing lady must have noticed his distraction and
grabbed Mike’s coat. “No. Help the kids . . . gray people are coming . . . that
way,” she managed to point in the direction of the bikes.

“Hey man,” Scott said, “I think she’s right.” He was looking
through a small pair of camouflage binoculars that he kept hanging from a
lanyard around his neck. “I can see . . . three, maybe four, um . . . I don’t know,
there might be more than that. Oh man, they are definitely all pasty and gray. Holy
shit, one of those dudes is missing an arm!” he exclaimed.

Several more small caliber explosions rippled through the
air.

“Which way?” Brenda asked.

It was a no brainer. Mike turned to Scott. “You’re the
fastest. Bust your ass up to the gate and get your dad and Jason down here. We’re
going after the kids first.”

Michelle

The gravel road zigzagged through the low forested hills for
a little less than a mile before coming to a “T.” Michelle knew that right
would take them partially around the edge of two small lakes, and then end up
at the muddy clearing by the boat ramp. Left would slither around several coves
before dead ending at the small turnaround. The far end of the turnaround was
where the cable blocked access to the cut-through. She indicated left and Andy
turned. The gravel road slowly turned to a mixture of gravel and dirt, and then
disintegrated into plain dirt the further they went. They were almost to the
turnaround when Andy saw a campfire up ahead. He slowed down and looked at
Michelle.

“What do you want to do?”

“I’m pretty sure that whoever’s at the campfire has already
seen our headlights, so keep going . . . just be careful,” Michelle said.

Andy pulled into the clearing—his headlights illuminated an
older model Ford Bronco parked beside a canvas wall tent. Both of which were
blocking the way to the cut-through. There was a man sitting close to the fire
in one of those old-fashioned aluminum folding chairs—the kind with the woven
plastic mesh for seats. He had one foot propped up on another identical chair,
and tilted his hat down to shield his eyes from the glare of Andy’s high beams.
Andy killed the headlights, leaving the running lights on and the truck still
idling. He looked over at Michelle and said, “What say we get out and have a
chat . . . either that or I kick it into four low and we just drive straight
through their tent and Bronco.”

Michelle couldn’t decide if he was serious until he broke out
in a grin and said, “Maybe we should try and talk first . . . just be ready.”

She nodded, grabbed her Maglite, and stepped out. Andy did
the same.

Michelle could tell that the person in the chair was pretty
tall judging from the size of the cowboy boot that was crossed over his one
knee. He had on jeans and what looked like a denim-covered sheepskin lined
jacket. A wide brimmed boonie hat that had seen many miles of hard trails
adorned his head. His right arm was crossed over top of his left, shielding it
from her view.

“Evening,” Andy said.

The man nodded his hat and replied, “A fine one at that . . .
can I help you?” His voice was gruff, gravelly. It reminded Michelle of that
actor who does all the truck commercial voices, the guy who played the old
bouncer in “Roadhouse” . . . damn, what was his name?  She couldn’t remember.

Andy said, “I’m Andy, this here is Michelle. We don’t want
any problems, and I’m sure you and your friend don’t either.” Andy slowly
lowered the shotgun and leaned it up against the truck. The man’s hands didn’t
move, but the brim of his hat tilted slightly upward and he said, “What
friend?”

“The one that’s pointing a gun at us right now,” Andy
replied.

“How’d you know?” Gruff voice asked.

“I’m old, and I’ve seen a lot of things in my life, but I’ve
yet to see a man whose ass is so big he needs two chairs for it.” Andy nodded
toward the chair currently being used as a footstool.

The man by the fire nodded slowly and called out, “C’mon out
Fred.”

From behind Michelle some brush cracked, and she turned to
see a figure emerge from the edge of the clearing—rifle at the ready. It was a
lady.

They spent the next half hour or so getting acquainted with
Bucky and Fred—short for Frederica. They were both in their sixties and had
been traveling across country when the trouble started. Originally from Dallas,
their journey so far had taken them through the Southeast United States, up
along the eastern seaboard as far north as Maryland, and then west as far as,
well, here. Their plan had been to spend a few more weeks around Montana, Idaho,
and Washington before heading north toward Alaska. Those plans got sidetracked
a few days ago. Bucky was a retired truck driver and Frederica—“Fred”—a retired
schoolteacher.