Fade to Grey (Book 1): Fade to Grey (32 page)

Michelle finished the rest of her coffee in one large slurp,
for some reason enjoying the acrid taste that reminded her of burnt hair. She
had a brief flash of some scumball wearing a trench coat, standing in a dark
alley with a line of people in front of him. They’d approach him one and time
for a fix. Opening the left flap of his coat and gesturing to the contents like
a game show host he’d say “Heroin?” They’d shake their head no. “Cocaine . . . crack?”
No. “Crystal meth, X, marijuana, hash?” Each one was refused. Finally he’d
reveal what was under the right flap of his coat. It was an old Stanley thermos.
“Bucky’s cowboy coffee?” The line would surge forward, each gaunt-faced addict
holding forth a battered Styrofoam cup.

Shaking her head to clear that visual, she composed her
thoughts and said to Andy, “We go for the radios.” Andy nodded.

Michelle wasn’t done though. “New rules. We don’t stop for
anything unless we’re sure the situation requires it. We don’t waste ammo
unless we have to. I’m thinking we need to stay in the truck and either zigzag
around . . . or run over any infected in our way. Communication between you and
I is going to be imperative. I think we’re off to a great start with how we
handled the feral a few minutes ago . . . but we need to keep it up. If it
looks like we’re getting in over our head, then we bail and cut our losses. Anything
I missed?”

Andy shook his head, “Not that I can think of, except maybe
draw me a little map of how to get to your office from here, just in case
you’re . . . preoccupied.”

“Good idea,” Michelle said while grabbing a notebook and pen
out of her backpack. A few minutes later they were ready to go. She reloaded her
partially used magazine as well as Andy’s shotgun, double checking to make sure
the safety was on before she leaned it back against the seat. Without another
look, Andy threaded the big, dual wheeled pickup around the body and back to
the wreckage before approaching the crest of the hill for a second time. Once
at the top, they found that the walkers were still in the general area they had
left them.

“Out of sight-out of mind?” Michelle asked.

“Maybe.”

Out of sight apparently no longer applied as multiple sets of
dark red eyes swung towards them. Almost in unison they began to surge forward
slowly, gaining momentum with each step.

“Don’t stop,” Michelle said as her fingers whitened against
the shotgun’s grip.

Andy swerved left and right, avoiding as many impacts as he
could. Not all of them though. Michelle’s stomach lurched in time with the
squishy crunch of a chubby student dressed in a bloody band uniform, and the
double “snap” of a large, well dressed young man’s legs made her cringe. As they
approached the wrecked school bus, a large cluster of seven or eight children blocked
the way. Andy didn’t stop. Keeping a steady fifteen miles per hour, he pushed
through them . . . their mass losing out to the big Chevy. Michelle tensed as
the students reached for them, grabbing hungrily and snapping their teeth
before being pushed aside . . . or under. The jarring effect of the human speed
bumps did little to settle Michelle’s stomach. They were through though—the
only casualty was the mirror on Michelle’s side . . . still locked in the grasp
of another cheerleader, this one with dark hair. Once past the walkers, they
continued down the hill. A short time later they entered the smoky ruins of
Fort Hammer.

April 24
^th
, Eric part 3

*click*

It’s, I don’t know, maybe 4:00 AM. My watch is still in the
Gator. I feel naked without it. It’s been there since this morning? . . . this
afternoon? . . . I don’t know when it was. I’m still outside on the deck . . . going
on several hours now. I’m cold. Tired. Angry. Worried. I guess mostly worried. Could
I have done anything different?  Should I have done anything different?  I
don’t know. Still no news from Doc either. No way I’m getting any sleep right
now, maybe never again. Sigh . . .

Maybe talking will help. At least maybe it will help me recall
things . . . things that I might have missed. Worth a try maybe. There’s a lot
of “maybes” there. That’s what my life has boiled down to, nothing is certain
anymore, everything’s a maybe. Did I make the right call?  Maybe. Did I screw
up?  Maybe. Will they die? . . . Maybe.

It had started so well. The storm had blown out overnight,
and today promised blue skies and sunshine. Emily woke me up with an awesome
neck rub—I didn’t realize how tight I was there. I remember just laying inside
the sleeping bag feeling my muscles turn to Jello as her fingers worked their
magic. For such a small girl she had amazing finger strength. When I ask her
about it she laughed and said, “It’s from pushing the buttons on cameras.”

She let that sink in for a minute before giggling again and
saying, “I’m just kidding. I was actually kind of a ‘non-athlete’ when I was
growing up. However, once I hit high school and started getting into
photography, I also took up hiking. Not like the Appalachian Trail or anything,
just a way to get from point A to point B. It’s been my experience that very
few prizewinning photographs were taken out the window of a car. So the best
way to get ‘off the beaten path’ is to get off the beaten path. Turn over.”

I rolled onto my back and she lifted my arm toward her. She
began rubbing the palm of my hand with her thumbs. It felt really good.

“So, once I went to college I started going to the YMCA to
swim. I’d always liked the water, but I really wanted to try something
different. My roommate was into all kinds of cardio stuff—aerobics, kickboxing,
dancersize—everything. Robyn—that was my roommate, finally convinced me to take
some classes with her, and I really enjoyed the cardio kickboxing. Don’t get me
wrong, I couldn’t fight my way out of a wet paper bag before the classes, and I
certainly can’t now either. But it was great conditioning. Does this feel
good?”

I had my eyes closed, but I nodded my head and said,
“Wonderful.”

“We stink,” she said.

I opened my eyes, saw the amusement reflected in hers and
said, “Well in our defense, we did spend half of the night getting sweaty.” I
winked at her.

“Do you have enough of those baby wipes for both of us?” she
asked.

“Plenty.”

She drifted down to lay beside me, giving me a series of
small kisses along the way. “Let’s make them earn their money then,” she whispered
as she pulled me closer . . .

By 8:00 AM we were dressed, cleaned, and packed. And smiling.
I stowed the equipment that I had brought over from the National Geographic
tent after using the propane stove to cook us each some Mountain House lasagna.
Lasagna for breakfast, I’ve had worse. Max was looking at me, waiting for his
food, but I was out.

“Don’t worry buddy, we’ll see if we can find you a squirrel
or rabbit on the way back,” I said, giving him a big hug and ear rub at the
same time. His return look was both appreciative of the petting and doubtful
that I’d score him breakfast. Emily had her mostly dry clothes on, and I gave
her my Under Armour top to wear as a jacket. She still floated in it . . . kinda
looked like one of those wrinkly dogs once we had all the sleeves pushed up so
they wouldn’t drag. But it was keeping her warm. I took a few minutes to refill
my water containers from the lake, and then we divided her camera equipment up
between her backpack and mine. After a final check to make sure we didn’t leave
anything important, we were on the way. I took her back the trail that I had
originally followed from the helicopter clearing to where I had set up my tent.
It was still soupy from all the rain, but we made good time. Once at the
clearing we stopped, adjusted our packs, and took a quick drink. She watched as
I pulled out my compass.

“Going primitive, are we?” she asked.

I explained to her about the GPS accuracy being way off. She
answered, “I was with a photography team on a cruise ship one time. One of the
passengers, um . . . Mr. Inglefield I think his name was, anyhow I remember him
telling me that he used to work with something in the GPS system. He was a nice
old fellow . . . he even shared our table a few nights at dinner. I think that
his wife had recently died. I don’t know that for sure but I remember getting
the impression. He was actually still very handsome for somebody in their seventies
. . . where was I going with this?”

“GPS,” I said as I shouldered my pack again.

“Right, well I remember him saying that up until—I think he
said the 1990s—that GPS signals were purposely skewed so they weren’t as
accurate as they could be unless you had some kind of decoder . . . I’d guess
like military people would use. Then in the 1990s, the signal was descrambled
and civilian models became as accurate as the military ones.”

“It’s true,” I said, “which makes me wonder why they’ve
scrambled the signal again, especially to this degree. Are we at war?” I let
that thought hang there between us, unanswered by either. “Let’s go,” I said,
whistling for Max as we headed east into the thick brush.

April 22
^nd
, Michelle part 3

The overcast sky seemed to hold in the ocean of smoke over
Fort Hammer. Andy followed Michelle’s instructions and stayed off the larger
streets on the way to her office. The area they drove through was mostly
residential—apartment buildings and a few older houses. Several walkers were
moving on the street in front of them, but other than that they saw no
immediate movement.

“Take a left at the next intersection.”

He did—immediately jumping on the gas to push through a
cluster of three infected.

“Just up there . . . Do you see the sign for the Atkins
Laundromat on the right?”

“Yeah.”

“Immediately after that sign, take a right. That’s going to
put you in a small alley that will spill out into the back of the strip mall
where my office is.”

Andy turned where Michelle had indicated, and followed the
short, slightly curving alley until it emptied into the rear access lot of the
strip mall. A long series of small dumpsters stood against the block wall on
the back of the building.

“Each of the offices and stores has a steel door at the back
that gives them access to the dumpsters. The door that leads to my office is
the last one on the left,” Michelle said.

“Figures. Couldn’t have been the first one, huh?”

As Andy drove slowly past the garbage bins, waves of thick,
acrid smoke propelled by the occasional gust of wind intermittently reduced their
vision.

“What’s on fire?” he asked.

“I don’t know . . . maybe some of the stores on the other
side of the highway.”

Andy slowed down as the nose of the truck edged in line with
the back door to Michelle’s office. “Do you want to go in the back, or should
we drive around to the front?” he asked.

“Definitely the back door. It would just tickle me pink if
we’re able to get in and out unnoticed by anyone . . . or anything. Also,
remember this strip mall is right on the main road, we just can’t see it from
here. If we drive around front and any . . . thing . . . is out there, it’ll
see us from a mile away—it’s all open out there.”

A quick, three-point turn later, and Andy had the big pickup
facing back the way they had come from.

Blam-Blam-Blam
. The sound of gunfire reverberated through the air, echoing
and bouncing off the back of the strip mall. Andy and Michelle were both ducking
and rising; peeking up over the dash and looking all around.

“I feel like one of those targets in the ‘whack-a-mole’ game
at the county fairs,” Andy said.

“Could you tell where they came from?”

“No . . . they weren’t right next to us, but they weren’t too
awful far either.”

More shots rang out— they sounded further away than the first
group—but they were answered with a long series of small
crack-crack-crack-cracks
close by. The acoustics of being next to a large block wall was throwing Michelle
and Andy’s triangulation skills off.

“This truck isn’t very bulletproof,” Andy pointed out.

“Don’t forget where we parked,” Michelle said as she grabbed her
shotgun and headed out of the truck towards the steel door. Andy shut off the
engine and followed.

Each metal door along the back wall was elevated a few feet
off the ground; a small flight of concrete stairs led up to them. Michelle
sprinted around the back of the truck and up to the stairs, pressing her back
against the wall and looking both ways. A few seconds later Andy was beside her.

“I’m going to open the door, get ready,” she whispered. With
another quick look to the left and right, Michelle moved up to the top of the
landing and used her keys to unlock the door. She grabbed the metal handle and
gave a slight tug—the door began to open with a loud screech.

“Shit,” Michelle mumbled to herself. She had forgotten that
the back door squeaked when you opened it. It was one of those jobs that were
always on her list of things to get around to . . . eventually. That thought
was going through her mind when from inside of the office a voice shouted,
“Rollins . . . Sanderson . . . that you?”

Michelle let go of the door and backed away down the steps,
exchanging confused looks with Andy while shrugging her shoulders and mouthing
the words, “I don’t know.”

A smoky breeze caught the semi-open door. It gave a harsh
metallic squeal before slamming shut with a hollow
BOOM
.

Michelle heard some muted shouting from somewhere behind the
door, followed quickly by a series of gunshots. Several small holes appeared in
the steel door. They were right where she had been standing a few seconds
earlier.

Andy nudged her shoulder and asked, “Can that door be opened
from the inside without a key?”

“Yes. It has a metal push bar, kind of like an emergency fire
escape door. There’s also a  . . .”

She never got to finish. The door flew open with a loud
clang
and the explosions of gunfire quickly followed. Michelle caught a glimpse of a
camouflaged, gloved arm holding the fore grip of a rifle. Andy and Michelle
smashed themselves against the block wall, flattening as much as they could to
reduce their visibility to the shooter. The gunman was cursing a stream of profanities,
shouting out, “You dead son of a bitches . . . you ain’t gonna get me! . . . No
way I’m letting your pasty gray-ass take me down . . . no way . . . no way!” Another
burst of intense cursing followed by rifle fire blasted out of the gun as the
shooter stepped out onto the little cement landing. Turning to the right, he
found himself staring down the barrel of Michelle’s twelve gauge. His eyes went
wide with shock.

“DON’T MOVE ASSHOLE,” Michelle shouted.

Andy slid out from behind Michelle; his shotgun joining hers on
target.

“I’m sorry . . . I’m sorry ma’am, sir, I thought you were
some of . . . them.” He was a soldier, dressed in full BDU’s—desert phase
digital pattern. His skin was dark black and covered with beads of sweat. On
his face was what appeared to be smears of hastily applied camo.

“Lower your weapon soldier,” Michelle said, her gun never
wavering from his face. She saw him hesitate—a glimpse of doubt crossing onto
his countenance. Andy must’ve seen it as well.

“Don’t be dumb private,” Andy said, “we’re not infected, but
that doesn’t mean we won’t kill you just as dead if you don’t lower your
weapon.”

With a sigh of resignation, the soldier lowered his weapon to
the ground. “Doesn’t matter anyhow, that last burst burned all the rest of my
ammo.”

Michelle skewed her neck over the camo-clad young man. The
name patch sewn into his uniform read “Thompson.”

“Private Thompson, I’m Officer Owens, U.S. Fish &
Wildlife . . . this is . . . Andy. You’re in my office, and you just shot at me.”
He started to stammer another apology but Michelle silenced him with an upraised
hand.

“Stop. With all that’s been happening I can kind of
understand why you fired, what I don’t understand is why you’re in my office,
and more importantly, is there anybody else in there who’s going to take a shot
at me?”

He shook his head no, saying, “It’s just me and CC, and he’s
been out of ammo for while.” He started to say more, but then stopped, looking
at Andy and Michelle with a mixture of fear and worry. “He’s bit . . . happened
about an hour ago.”