Fade to Grey (Book 1): Fade to Grey (47 page)

The rest of the drive back to her house was uneventful. Everybody
rode in silence, lost in their own thoughts. Turning into her driveway just far
enough that the truck was fully off the road, Michelle flashed the headlight
high beams four times, the prearranged signal to Thompson that everything was
OK. Seconds later the drapes in her upstairs bedroom opened and shut twice. The
return “all clear” signal received, she maneuvered the big vehicle around her
Explorer and Andy’s pickup, finally parking it inside the small barn out back. Michelle
looked at her watch. It wasn’t even noon yet.

Thompson had the back door open for them by the time they
made it across the yard. Once inside, he shut and locked the door behind them. A
few moments later and everybody had piled back in her small living room. Andy
crashed into the recliner with a soft creak and sigh. Thompson had two of the
kitchen chairs pulled out and facing each other. He was seated in one and using
the other like a footstool. Sam took one end of the couch and left the other
for Michelle. Nervous energy still brewing inside of her . . . she didn’t want
to sit down yet. Walking out to the kitchen, she filled all of the large pots
again with the low pressure water coming out of the faucet. Once full, she put
the four largest on the stove to warm up before returning to the living room.

“Sam,” she said, “you’ve probably got a lot of questions, and
so do we. But I think the first priority is getting you cleaned up and taken
care of. We’ve got water heating up for a bath, and after that I’ll see what I
can do first-aid wise for you, OK?”

Sam nodded in reply.

By 2:00 PM, they had gotten Sam cleaned up and treated to the
best of their ability. Nothing appeared broken, but the repeated blows had
inflicted serious bruising that would take quite a while to heal. Andy’s
medical kit and Michelle’s medicine cabinet only had OTC pharmaceuticals
available. Two extra strength acetaminophen and one half of a tube of anti-bacterial
ointment later, Sam was sitting comfortably on the couch, carefully wincing
with each slurp of his second large bowl of soup. Coming down off of the
intense, adrenaline-filled morning had Michelle alternating between fits of
hyper agitation and exhaustion. Tiredness seemed to win out, and Thompson offered
to stand guard as the other three slept. Andy kicked back in what was fast
becoming his favorite chair and Michelle gave Sam the entire couch to stretch
out on, preferring the comfort and familiarity of her own bed upstairs. Before
turning in, they each made sure a loaded shotgun, rifle, and handgun were
within easy reach. An alarm was set for 9:00 PM.

Sleep descended upon Michelle with feline quickness once her
head hit the familiar pillow, but sleep, as she had often found out, does not always
coincide with rest. Vague memories of tossing and turning, burning red eyes and
gunshots had filled her dreams. A slit-eyed glance at the luminous battery
powered clock on her nightstand showed 7:30 PM. Her sheets were dampened with
sweat and she kicked off the double layer of heavy flannel comforters she had
retreated under a little over four hours ago. The inrush of cool room air sent
a chill shiver racing through her moist clothes. Tiny goose bumps stood at
attention and refused to go away even when she rubbed them briskly. Feeling
around, she located one of the comforters and draped it over herself, trying to
find the happy medium between too cold and too warm. After five minutes it
became obvious that it was a lost cause. Quietly reaching into the top drawer
of her nightstand, her fingers found the diamond shaped squeeze-light that she
had tossed in there a few months ago. It was a freebie giveaway from the local
gas station for filling up your tank, and the emerald green LED light it gave
off matched the gas station’s sign color. Her drapes were closed, and the green
light wasn’t very intense, but she still avoided shining it directly toward the
window as she scanned her room. It wasn’t cool in her bedroom, it was cold. Probably
almost as cold as it was outside. Psyching herself up, Michelle stood on the
chilly wooden floor—comforter draped around her like a Siberian monk’s robe. Softly
padding over to her dresser she removed new socks and underwear, tossing them
on the bed. The closet was next. A base layer of thermal long Johns, both tops
and bottoms, were soon draped over her arm. Shifting the squeeze-light to
between her teeth, Michelle grabbed a pair of her favorite jeans and a heavy
red and black, long sleeve flannel shirt. A dark grey wool sweater completed
her outfit. Stopping by the window on her way back to the bed, Michelle opened
the drapes just a sliver. It was still overcast, and the lack of power made the
darkness outside almost complete. She could see the indistinct outline of her
Explorer in the driveway below, and the roofline of her front porch. Everything
else was lost in the murk. Four soft strides brought her back to the center of
the room. Turning and sitting on the edge of her bed, she shucked off the
comforter then quickly peeled her damp clothes off. Seated naked in the
darkness, her body shivered involuntarily as the remaining moist heat quickly
lost its battle with the chilly air. Stomach muscles clenched in a battle
against the frosty temperature, Michelle forced herself to relax. Her mind was
a jumble of thoughts and emotions. Fear, anxiety, apprehension—they were all
present and accounted for. Confusion was also well represented. Like a great
shaggy fog that settled over her mind and prevented her from thinking clearly,
it kept precise thoughts and ideas as elusive as the proverbial black cat in a
dark room at night. Shaking her head in an attempt for lucidity, Michelle's
long, strawberry-blond hair whipped back and forth. She stood up and forced herself
to take a deep breath . . . then another, and another. A dozen more followed
and Michelle soon found herself practicing Andy's stress relaxation exercises.

"Breathe. Exhale. Repeat. Now stand up, inhale and
stretch, feel each molecule of air as it passes into your lungs. Clear your
mind. Concentrate only on your breathing. Synchronize the stretching with your
breathing. Make them dance, not fight. Breathe."

Her focus returning, Michelle went through another five
minutes of stretching and breathing. The only thought she briefly entertained
was the comfort of knowing how squeaky the wooden staircase was coming up to
the second floor. Having one, or all three of the guys catching a glimpse of
her doing what, in all intensive purposes was naked yoga wouldn't be the
highlight of her trip. She wasn't self conscious about her body, but only for
the right person. That lingering idea brought her mind back to reality, and
Eric.

Shaking her head again, she partially cleared him from her
thoughts as she dressed. She still felt the cold air pressing around her, but
the stretching and breathing had seemed to somehow transmute it into a feeling
of being alive. She slid a pair of all-terrain trail running sneakers on her
feet before heading downstairs.

“Get any rest?” Thompson asked from the kitchen where he sat
watching the darkness through the front window.

“Some. What about you, do you want to go and get some rest?”

“Ma’am, I’m a soldier, and one of the first things I learned
was how to sleep anytime, anywhere.”

“The bed is empty upstairs.”

In the brief pause that followed, Michelle could sense rather
than see Thompson considering her words.

“He can also have the recliner, I’m done with it . . . for
now,” Andy said quietly from behind them.

The sounds of Andy putting the cushioned chair in an upright
position mixed with the deep nasally snores of Sam on the couch as Thompson
replied, “I think I can handle the recliner for awhile.”

“Don’t get too comfortable, Thompson. I plan on adopting that
particular chair as my personal throne. Hell, I may even disown Eric and leave
everything I got to it, seeing as how it treated my tired body in such a loving
way.” Michelle was tempted to flash the green light at Andy’s face just to see
the grin as he replied.

Thompson choked out a quick laugh before saying, “Amen to
that sir, I’ll treat her right.”

Michelle used the small light to guide Thompson through the
living room before returning to the kitchen and putting water on for tea. Andy
had maneuvered into the kitchen chair Thompson had recently vacated, sitting
there quietly as Michelle tested the theory that a watched pot never boils. Eight
minutes later the theory had been disproven, and Michelle filled three heavy
stoneware mugs with the scalding water. A trio of lemon-spiced herbal tea bags
followed. Grabbing one of the mugs along with two packs of sugar and a swizzle
stick, she headed out to deliver Thompson the hot beverage, but stopped halfway
when she heard his resonating baritone snores.

Returning to the kitchen, Michelle picked up another mug as
she passed the stove, wormed her way to the chair opposite of Andy’s at her
small kitchen table, and sat down.

“Honey,” Andy said softly.

“Yes dear,” she replied in a teasingly smoky accent in
response to his taunt.

“Um . . . no. What I mean is ‘honey’, as in ‘do you have any
honey instead of sugar for the tea’?”

Michelle giggled as she got up and used the squeeze-light to
locate the semi-crystallized jar of honey she kept in the small pantry near the
stove. There wasn’t much left in the pantry. Three boxes of macaroni and
cheese, not even the brand name stuff. Two more family sized cans of soup,
tomato and cream of broccoli—neither of which she particularly cared for. A few
pouches of tuna and a smattering of assorted vegetables in individual serving
sized cans. The only other things in the pantry were three small Tupperware
lidded bins that held a hodgepodge of spices and other cooking ingredients. Most
of the food she had kept on hand was either fresh or frozen. Of course, the
lack of power had transformed that into a noxious pile of waste that even a
possum would have a hard time finding palatable. She returned to the table with
the honey and an improvised butter knife mining tool to remove it from the
plastic bear. Thirty seconds of scraping and twisting later, Andy had
apparently dislodged a sufficient amount of the semi-solid amber treasure.

Several quiet minutes passed as Michelle and Andy enjoyed
their tea. Finally Andy spoke.

“What’cha thinking about?”

The exhalation of his question sent a fragrant mixture of
citrus and honey scooting across the darkness. Though it was almost pitch black
inside, Michelle closed her eyes in an attempt to sharpen her sense of smell. She
remembered reading somewhere that nothing could stimulate distant memories
quite as efficiently as a smell. Andy’s tea mixture, apparently one part tea
and nine parts honey brought her back to the first crisp autumn morning that
she was old enough to bow hunt on her own. She had been twelve years old, and
in North Dakota that was old enough to hunt by yourself as long as you were on
private property. Her dad was away, over in the Middle East with the Marines. Again.
As usual . . .

Michelle opened her eyes and frowned, not willing to go down
that road again right now. Where was she headed with this?  Oh yeah, lemon and
honey.

At eleven years of age Michelle had been a willowy, and truth
be told, awkward, fifth grader. At least a head taller than her other
classmates, even Eric. Her mother had encouraged her to find an outlet for her
growing pains, both the physical and emotional ones. She had found it in
archery, and turned a natural affinity into a practical skill. A year later and
she was a better shot than most of the junior varsity team at the high school,
even the boys. For her twelfth birthday she had received a large flat box from
her grandparents. A brand spanking new compound bow, a dozen high quality
arrows and a $250.00 dollar gift card for a national sports retailer where she
could order any of the other bells and whistles she needed to complete the
outfit. She had been squirrel and deer hunting with her dad and grandfather
since she was old enough to walk beside them in the woods, but this year would
be her first alone. Michelle thought back to the day before the archery opener.
Her grandfather had picked her up and driven them an hour or so away to his little
“almost a farm” as he called it. Seventy-some odd acres of mixed hardwoods that
bordered a state forest, its sole human structure was a sixteen by sixteen
plywood shack with a tar paper roof. Grandpa’s favorite joke judging by the
frequency she heard it had been “Which too?” as he fired up the three legged
cast iron stove. The fourth leg being comprised of a roughly equal stack of
assorted brick chunks. Experience had taught her to play along with the joke,
being as the only answers were either “too hot” or “too cold,” Michelle had
been coming to the ‘almost a farm’ with her parents and grandparents for as
long as she could remember. Part of those memories included the awareness that
she definitely preferred the ‘too cold’ option.

Her and her grandfather had spent the afternoon scouting the
terrain and looking for a good place for Michelle to hide the next day. A
supper of fried bologna sandwiches after dark was followed by several hours of
listening to her grandfather tell many of the same stories she had heard
throughout the years. Stories about deer, fish, bear, and elk, most of which
grew in either weight, length, or antler points, sometimes all three with each
telling. There were no beds in the shack, just a few folding chairs and
assorted pieces of furniture that looked to Michelle like they had been rescued
from the bottom of a rock slide. The farm was a “sleeping bags only” type of
arrangement, and Michelle was out like a light once she crawled in the olive
drab mummy style bag that her dad kept at the farm for the occasional overnight
trip. Visions of huge bucks with wide antlers crashing through the brush dogged
her fitful sleep. She had awakened to the gentle nudge of her grandfather’s
leathery hand on her shoulder and the smell of lemon and honey in the shack. He
had filled an old Stanley thermos with piping hot tea, and had it sitting ready
to go by the door for her.