Fade to Grey (Book 1): Fade to Grey (36 page)

“How did you know what room I’m in?” Michelle asked with a
big smile.

“Lucky guess,” he whispered. She didn’t buy it for a second.

“You need to go and change into dry clothes so nobody
suspects that you escaped the prison dance,” Eric said in a low voice while
shifting his eyes left and right in an exaggerated “watching for danger”
pattern.

“I can’t . . . my roommate has the card key.”

Eric’s left hand was still holding on to hers, but his right
hand darted into his jeans pocket and pulled out a white plastic card. He slid
it through the reader on the door and the tiny indicator light pulsed green. She
watched as he pushed the latch down and opened the door, inclining his head
toward the space beyond.

“ . . . How . . . where did you get a key to my room?” Michelle
almost couldn’t get that out because her heart was thumping so hard in her
chest. Hoping . . . almost praying that he would pull her across the threshold
and shut the door behind them. Even wondering if she should pull him across. She
never got the chance to finish that thought, because Eric had given her hand a
slight squeeze and then dropped it. With another quick scan down the hallway,
he scooted across to the door opposite hers and slid his card through the lock—it
opened as well. Somehow he had come up with a master card key.

“Go change before they catch you standing there. I’ll meet
you back out in the lobby in a few minutes.” With a mischievous smile and
another wink he disappeared down the hall. Michelle let the memories of that
dance fuel her dreams for quite some time. Especially when she realized that
the girl he was dating at the time—Ann Farland—was in the lobby. But he hadn’t
asked her, he had asked Michelle.

The howl of gusting winds brought Michelle part way out of
her thoughts of Eric. She cracked her eyes open and looked around the room. Thompson
was lying on the floor underneath the window—already asleep, and Andy was
sitting in the recliner, reading a back issue of one of her outdoor magazines. She
quietly kicked off her boots and stuffed a small pillow underneath her neck,
drawing a glance from Andy as she did.

“Get some rest,” he said in a low voice.

Michelle nodded, and then closed her eyes. Immediately,
thoughts of Eric jumped back into the forefront of her weary mind. Maybe the
stretching and breathing had released something from the depths of her
subconscious. She had known Eric since they were both in grade school, and
she’d had a crush on him from day one. And then, in the true irony of life,
they had become friends. It was almost like their friendship was the invisible
barrier that kept her romantic aspirations in check. True, he always seemed to
be dating someone else, and that caused Michelle no end of jealousy. She had kept
it well hidden though. But Eric was always there for her. There was this one
time when they were juniors . . . Michelle had a date with a guy named Brody—turns
out he was a real asshole. Rich kid—his dad was a lawyer and his mom was the
vice president of a local bank. Brody had taken her out to dinner in his brand
new Porsche . . . one that his parents had customized for him at some specialty
shop in Texas, and delivered to the school parking lot on his eighteenth
birthday. There was a big red ribbon around it, balloons . . . the whole nine
yards. After dinner they went to a movie where he tried to paw her the entire
time. Before the movie even ended, Michelle had had enough and asked him to
take her home, but instead he took off down the highway about one hundred miles
an hour, swerving back and forth trying to scare her. Brody finally stopped the
car at an abandoned service station, where Michelle proceeded to chew him out
with every cuss word she could think of, and she knew a lot of them. He had just
laughed at her, and then grabbed Michelle by the hair, trying to pull her
towards his crotch. She ended up raking her nails across his face and jamming her
thumb in his eye until he let go. He wasn’t laughing anymore. Michelle got out
of the car and started walking back toward town. A minute or two later he pulled
up beside her; called her all kinds of names and flipped her off before squealing
tires on his way back to whatever rock he crawled out from under. The next day
at school the word was all over that he “did her” twice in his new Porsche. She
was pissed. And embarrassed. A little hurt too. Eric must have heard the
rumors, and why not, everybody in school had. But he was one of the few who
knew her better. He also knew her well enough to know that she could take care
of herself. Instead of coming up to Michelle and asking, “Is there anything I
can do?,” he just put his arm around her and walked down the hall—past the
smirking faces of all the people who were enjoying the lies at her expense,
past the leers and sneers, past everything—even the front door of the school. They
ended up ditching school and walking straight out to the parking lot; getting
in his old Jeep Cherokee and driving forty miles away to a state park where they
spent the day hiking and talking. Of course the real story of what had happened
the night before came out. Eric didn’t say much, he just let her talk about it.
It felt really good to know he was there to just listen. By the end of the day,
Michelle was one hundred and ten percent improved . . . thanks to Eric. Although
she did have to loan him twenty bucks for gas so they could get back. Eric was
so embarrassed. Over the next few weeks Michelle had gradually forgotten about
Brody. Michelle ran track, and the girls had made it to states, so the team
chartered a bus for Bismarck. They had left on a Friday, competed all day
Saturday, and then returned late Sunday night. On Monday morning at school, the
big story wasn’t that the girls track team had placed second at states; it was
that somebody had put three half grown pigs into Brody’s Porsche on Saturday
night. They spent the whole night chewing up, shitting on, and destroying
everything inside his custom car. To the tune of over thirty thousand dollars
worth of damage. And Michelle was in Bismarck. Perfect alibi. Eric never
admitted to being the culprit, either to her, or the police when they
questioned him. But she knew it was him, well, at least she thought it was.

That memory flashed through Michelle’s mind, bringing a smile
to her closed-eye face as she shifted onto her left side. The smell of pig shit
and leather . . . her smile widened. Michelle’s mind shifted gears again,
taking her back to that conference a few years ago when they finally . . .
MICHELLE
STOP
!  She shook her head to clear it. If she started thinking about that
again, she’d never go to sleep. Michelle forced the smile off of her face and
took a deep breath. Where had she started this?  Oh yeah, the weather. Anyhow, she
hoped that Eric was able to find Doc’s granddaughter. That was the last thought
Michelle remembered having before she drifted off to sleep.

 “Hey . . . ‘Chelle . . . wake up dear.” Something was
lightly tapping her on the shoulder.

“C’mon, wake up Michelle, time for lunch . . . or rather
supper.” The voice was soft but insistent. She groggily opened her eyes one at
a time to find that she was sprawled out on the couch, covered by several
blankets. Andy was kneeling down next to her, waving a cup of soup under her
nose. The aroma of chicken broth and black pepper spiked Michelle’s senses into
a higher gear, and she sat up and took the cup from Andy—rolled her neck in a
few small circles to loosen up—and took a small sip. It was hot; not scalding .
. . just right. She was still sleepy, and it took her a few moments to realize
how dark it was in the house. Somebody, she assumed Andy, had found and lit two
small candles. Michelle glanced over to get the time from the digital atomic
clock—a housewarming gift from her mom—but she couldn’t see it from her angle. Weird.
Her sleep addled brain finally got up to speed and realized that the power must
be out. She balanced her soup cup on the arm of the couch and mashed the button
on her watch that would backlight the face. It was almost 9:00 PM. She had
slept for over eight hours. Shifting her eyes, she located Thompson in the
darkened room; his camouflage blended in with the shadows pretty efficiently. He
also had a cup in his hand, more soup she guessed. Andy walked out of the door
that led to the kitchen . . . he was carrying another candle in one hand and
the apparent required cup of soup in the other.

“This is just our appetizer. The chef is still preparing the
entrée. On tonight’s menu is a specialty of the house—layers of meat and cheese
sandwiched between fresh pasta, and smothered in a thick and hearty sauce made
of the finest Roma tomatoes, and garnished with an impressive zest of imported
parmesan cheese. It will be served with lightly toasted, fresh baked bread and
accompanied by the finest stock the vineyards have available.” The way that
Andy had his arm held out carrying the candle, accompanied of course by his
ridiculous combination of French and Italian accents brought a smile to Michelle’s
face. A much needed smile.

“So, I’m guessing our chef is Chef Boyardee, and the entrée
is raviolis with a couple pieces of Sunbeam bread. No doubt the ‘vineyards
finest’ comes from the wonderful grapes in Golden, Colorado, and is cleverly
hidden in a Coors Light bottle,” she giggled.

“That’ll work for me,” Thompson grunted.

“Me too,” Michelle added.

“Enjoy your naps?” Andy asked.

Thompson grunted an affirmative as he slurped the soup. Michelle,
still groggy, nodded toward Andy and said, “Yeah, I guess I was tired. I still
am. You’ve got to be running on fumes yourself, letting me and Thompson sleep
while you stood watch.”

Andy hesitated before he replied. “I imagine that would be
correct if I had stayed awake, but the truth is I slept almost as long as you
two did. Thompson had drifted off a few minutes before you start snoring, and
after I dug up some blankets and covered you, I sat back in the recliner and
was out like a light before my eyes closed. I just woke up about a half hour
ago.”

Michelle let that sink in for a second. She guessed that they
were pretty safe this far out, but then again, maybe not. There was no denying
that they had all needed sleep . . . that their bodies needed time to reset and
process what they’d been through, but was it a tactical error that they didn’t
post a guard? Probably. Was it a fatal error?  Not this time. Could it have
been?  Yes. Her eyes had adjusted to the dim candlelight and she could clearly
see Andy thinking along the same lines. Knowing him, he’d probably already kicked
his own ass several times, and nothing Michelle could say or do would make him
feel worse than he already did. So she went with plan B. Change the subject.

“I recognize the delicate aroma of sage and rosemary. Could
it be that this soup I’m enjoying, the one with bite-sized portions of avian delight
surrounded by bow tie pasta also comes from the chef’s personal recipe book?”

Andy paused for a second, shook his head a little and said,
“Michelle . . . Thompson . . . I should’ve stayed awake. It was a mistake and
I’m . . .”

Michelle cut him off with “Hey Andy, the last time I checked
you weren’t wearing blue spandex leotards with a big ‘S’ on them. And I think I
would’ve noticed your cape by now as well. However . . .” she stood up and
continued, “if the stress of the situation is getting to you, maybe I can spend
a few moments teaching you how to breathe.”

Thompson started chuckling as she walked over and gave Andy a
big hug. “No worries.” Andy sighed, relaxed a little and then said, “OK.”

After finishing her soup, Michelle grabbed one of the candles
and walked out to the kitchen. Andy had opened a family sized can of ravioli
and it was slowly bubbling on the stovetop. She knew from experience that she
could eat an entire can of that size herself, and she imagined Thompson could
out-eat her without even breaking a sweat. She took stock of what she had—a few
assorted canned food, several boxes of macaroni, some soup, tuna, and not much
else was in the pantry. Michelle opened the refrigerator. Mistake. The power
must have been off for several days, because the odor of assorted spoiled food
wafted out towards her. With a nose wrinkling in revolt, she quickly shut the
door. Thompson came in, noticed the look on her face and did the math.

“Food went bad, huh?”

“I guess so. I wonder how long the power’s been out?”

“Don’t know for sure, there was power at the school this
morning when I left, and I remember that some parts of town had lights on last
night. Maybe there’s a line down somewhere on the way out here. If so I don’t
expect it’ll get fixed anytime soon.”

“Me either. Oh well, we’re not staying here anyhow.”

“Yeah, we should talk about that. But how about I help you
empty the fridge. There’s probably some stuff we can still use in there, and at
the very least you can throw out whatever is causing the stink.”

They ended up salvaging a half-full bottle of soy sauce,
several bottles of water, some mustard and ketchup, and a few unopened jars of
jelly—part of a gift set from Miss Fran this past Christmas. Everything else
went in a garbage can and then outside. Michelle noticed that Andy had set the
lone six-pack of Coors Light outside to chill.

Working together, Thompson and Michelle scrounged together a
fairly impressive feast. They used the last of the refrigerated stuff from
Bernice’s cooler—some fried chicken, lunch meat and some type of CDA. Cooked
dead animal. Could be deer, could be cow, heck . . . knowing Walter it could
also be possum or beaver. They decided to wait and let Andy try it first. Dessert
was saltine crackers and jelly. She passed on the Coors Light . . . even though
it was almost 10:00 PM, her body clock was reporting that it was still early in
the morning. Michelle decided to go with water. Grabbing a glass from the
cupboard, she held it under the faucet in the kitchen sink and turned on the
cold tap. It came out, but only at about half of the normal pressure. Setting
her glass aside, she grabbed four of her largest pots, filled them with water,
and put them on the stove to heat up. The stove ran off propane, but her water
heater was electric, and she was not in the mood for cold bath.