Fade to Grey (Book 1): Fade to Grey (8 page)

“Max, guard the truck,” I said, letting him out so he could
assume his duty in the bed of my pickup.

The door to Walter’s office was locked so we walked up to the
main store. It was a madhouse in there. People were lined up at the register on
the grocery side, and that line stretched all the way to the back corner. The
bait store side was just as crowded. Almost everybody had some type of cover
over their mouth and nose—surgical masks, dish towels, or even a wad of paper
towels held in their hands. WTF? I looked around quickly and guessed that over
half of the edible inventory was already gone from the shelves. Walter himself
was standing at the juncture where the bait store transitioned into groceries. He
had a battery powered megaphone in his hand, and was repeatedly broadcasting, “Please
remember folks that we are cash only . . . we cannot take credit cards or
checks, and there is a maximum total grocery purchase limit of twenty-five
dollars. Gasoline, diesel and kerosene purchases are limited to ten gallons per
vehicle . . . no exceptions.” He saw us enter his field of vision and an
expression of relief crossed into his face. We edged our way through the crowd
over to him.

When we were a few feet away Uncle Andy chimed in, “Guess
we’re gonna have to change our lunch plans.”

Walter nodded and said, “Damn straight, and if you even want
to have the opportunity for lunch, which will probably be served closer to
supper time, give me a hand.”

“What the heck is going on?” asked Uncle Andy.

“The report is that the Korean flu is spreading all over the
United States; infected people are going crazy and attacking other folk. I’ve
already heard about ninety-nine different stories of what’s going on,
everything from the president being evacuated to martial law in every major
city.”

“Where are all these people coming from, or I guess a better
question would be where are they going?” Uncle Andy asked.

Walter made another announcement about the price limitations
before he answered. “From what I can gather, most of them are coming up from
the big cities, trying to get someplace away from all the other people.”

Just then a well dressed middle-aged couple intruded on our
conversation. The lady looked at her husband and then toward Walter before
saying, “Mister, my husband will write you a check for $5000.00 right now if
you just let us fill up the gas tank in our RV.”

Walter shook his head and replied, “Ma’am, I wish I could. But
if I do that for you than I have to do it for everybody, whether they have
$5000.00 or not. And besides, the way I hear it, checks aren’t worth anything
right now, heck as far as I know cash ain’t worth nothing either. I truly am
sorry, but I have to be fair with everybody, and I intend to do that until I
run out of food and gas.”

The husband gave the wife an “I told you so” look before
leading her away by the elbow.

“It’s been like this since we opened this morning,” Walter
said with a deep sigh.

“Tell us how we can help,” I said.

“Andy, you can wander around inside here and help me keep
things moving and . . . um . . . you know, make sure that items don’t wander
away without being paid for. Eric, you could be a great help to me if you could
kind of make your presence known outside near the gas pumps. We’ve already had
at least three fights, and things are going to get a lot hairier when we run out
of gas in that tank, which at the rate they’re emptying it should be less than
an hour.”

He turned around and used a key to open a locked glass
display case, remove a blister pack of Midland GMRS radios and a large pack of
AA batteries. As if by magic a small folding Buck knife appeared in his
calloused hands. A few short slices later the radios were freed and had
batteries installed. I looked down and noticed he had a similar radio on his
belt. He fiddled with the radios for a second after turning them on, verifying
that they were set to the same channel and security code as his.

“Eric,” he said, “I always knew you were a standup guy.” Turning
to Uncle Andy he said, “And you, you belligerent old goat, for helping me out I
forgive half of the stuff that I know ya done to me over the years.”

Uncle Andy got a mischievous look on his face and said, “Too
bad you only know about half the stuff I done to you.” I chuckled as I walked
outside.

Walter wasn’t kidding, I was outside less than ten minutes
before a fight broke out. Just as I was getting them separated, Michelle pulled
up. The back left quarter panel of her Tahoe had a fairly impressive dent in it.
I looked at her and then toward the dent and then back at her.

“Don’t ask,” she said.

I filled her in on what Walter had asked Uncle Andy and I to
do, and suggested she stay out here with me since she was in uniform and I was
still going plain clothes, badge and gun only. And cuffs; not gonna forget them
again. The next twenty-five minutes went fairly smooth, and then the pumps shut
off. I called Walter on the radio and he said that it wasn’t the gas level,
although that was getting mighty low, it was that the power had gone off, and to
hold down the fort until he could get the generator started. I asked him if he
had an extra megaphone I could use and he said he did, so Michelle went inside
and returned with it. A few minutes later the pumps came back on. I started
announcing on the megaphone that gas was cash only, prepaid only and limited to
ten gallons per vehicle, I also added that we expected to run out very soon and
to be prepared for that eventuality. As I was announcing this, Marty’s voice
came over the radio saying that he had a very irate customer inside. Michelle
said she’d take care of it and walked into the bait store. Less than ten
seconds later two gunshots exploded behind me.

People in the parking lot screamed and ducked behind their
cars. I drew my 9mm and did a fast, low “crouch-walk” toward the bait shop
where the shots had come from. I could hear several people screaming inside but
I couldn’t make out what they were saying. I made it to the door, did a quick
look-see into the bait shop window, and then shouldered the plywood
encapsulated door open, gun leading the way. Three people, one of them Michelle,
were piled on top of another guy. Michelle had the guy’s left arm twisted high
into the center of his back and was ordering him to stop resisting. I holstered
my gun and went to assist. We had him cuffed and stuffed in less than two
minutes. Michelle said that she went into the store and it seemed like she had
gone no more than three steps when she heard somebody yell, “Gun!” She turned
to see the guy we arrested fire two shots into the ceiling. As soon as the
second shot discharged another guy in line right behind him reached out and
drop kicked him in the crotch. Two other guys jumped on him before Michelle
could reverse course and enter into the mix up. Like I said though, we took him
out and stuffed him in the cage of Michelle’s Tahoe. At that point we didn’t
know what to do with him, so we left him there. When the dust settled down
about five minutes later, the gas ran out. When it rains, it pours.

The next two hours or so were utter chaos. People pushing and
shoving, cursing and swearing, and demanding that Walter fill their tanks. Several
shouting and pushing matches broke out, and at least four fender benders—most
of which I think were intentional. When all was said and done, we had cleared
out the cars in line for gas and roped off the pumps. There was hardly any food
left on the grocery side by then, so Walter shut that register down and had the
lady who was running it paint several pieces of plywood bright yellow. I found
out later that she was Marty’s sister. More on that later. After a few quick
coats of yellow—none of the layers completely dried before the next was put on—she
painted “no gas” in big black letters on the plywood. We took the plywood out
toward the road and set it up so it was visible coming from both directions on
the highway. When that was finished, we went back inside, turned the door signs
to “closed”, and locked the store down. Uncle Andy, Walter, Marty, and Francis
went back to Walter’s office; Michelle and I did a final walk around of the
store. At the front of the store, where the highway ran, at least a dozen cars
drove by, slowed down until they read the sign, and then left without pulling
in. We had just made the corner of the building when the sound of tires on
gravel alerted us to an approaching vehicle. Turning to look behind us we saw a
North Dakota state trooper in a late model Crown Victoria slide into the
parking lot a little too quick to be safe. The front right corner of his marked
patrol car stopped about eighteen inches from my left hip. Michelle and I
looked at each other and then toward the car. The big V8 engine gasped and
wheezed before shutting off with a sputter. A few seconds after that, the
driver’s side door opened.

The man that got out was short and stocky, close cropped dark
hair with the beginnings of silver wings above his ears. He was in full uniform
minus the hat. He walked over to us, dark eyes scanning us up and down as he
approached. His name tag read “Ironfeather.”

“Trooper,” I said.

He nodded his head towards us, appearing to relax a little
now that he was in the presence of fellow LEO’s.

Extending his hand, he said, “Sam Ironfeather.” Michelle and
I shook his hand and introduced ourselves.

“I thought this place would be busier,” Sam said.

“You should have been here an hour ago. In between the
fights, pushing and shoving, vehicle accidents, and generally crappy behavior,
we were even blessed enough to have some dirt bag fire a couple shots through
the ceiling when he didn’t get his way,” I said.

The trooper shook his head slightly and said, “If that’s all
you’ve had to put up with you better count your blessings,” he continued as
Michelle and I listened. “We’ve got problems all over, a lot of problems. But
right now my biggest problem is gas. You probably heard my ride tank out just
as I drifted in here. My last duty assignment has me heading to the town of
Carson on the Canadian border to help with the mess up there, but as it stands
right now it doesn’t look like I’m gonna make it unless I walk.”

I thought for a second or two and then said, “I might be able
to help you out, or rather you and I might be able to help each other out.”

“What did you have in mind?”

My answer was shattered by a combination of barks, growls,
and screams of pain. Michelle and I looked at each other and both of us said
the same word—“Max”—before we took off toward the back of the building, Trooper
Ironfeather following hot on our heels.

Approaching our trucks, I could see Max was on the ground
with his jaws clamped around the calf of the guy we had put in the back of
Michelle’s Tahoe. He was screaming, “Get it off of me!” over and over. I
whistled and called Max, who gave the guy a farewell chomp before trotting over
to my side. The guy was still in cuffs but had somehow managed to get them in
front of him. Michelle motioned towards her Tahoe which was parked about forty-five
feet away on the back side of the marina. The back window had been kicked out. I
pulled the guy to his feet, spun him around and slammed him against the closed
tailgate of my truck.

 “Buddy, this makes you 0-2 so far today, and my patience for
putting up with pieces of crap like you is all gone, so I’m gonna take those
cuffs off of you and recuff your hands behind your back, and if you don’t do it
exactly as I say, I’m gonna kick your sorry ass back onto the gravel and let
the dog finish you off. Do you understand me?”

He was still panting and sobbing about his encounter with
Max, so I dug my thumb into the base of his skull and repeated, “Do you
understand me?”

He winced and started sputtering, “Yes-yes-yes, just keep
that damn dog away from me.”

I recuffed him, took him back over to the Tahoe and put him
inside. I attached one side of my cuffs to the set of Michelle’s that he was
wearing and the other side to the anchor point in the seat crevice. He wasn’t
going anywhere now. I walked back over to the trucks. Walter and Uncle Andy
were there as well now.

“You want to sell that dog?” Sam asked.

“Well, a day or so ago, after he ate a spicy Slim Jim I
probably would have paid you to take him,” the memory of that smell still made
my nose wrinkle, “but I guess he’s earned his keep now.”

Introductions were made all around, and then Sam asked, “So
what about this deal you want to make?”

“Part of the deal is going to involve Uncle Andy, but here’s
the way I see it. You need to get to Carson, which is about an hour and a half away
at normal highway speeds, roughly translated to about three days walking if you
don’t have any gas.” Trooper Ironfeather showed a gap toothed grin as I
continued. “Now I believe that not fifteen feet from this very spot there’s
about one hundred gallons of gas sitting in a transfer tank,” I nodded toward
the back of Uncle Andy’s pickup. “I think in the interest of helping out a
fellow law enforcement officer I could probably talk the old man into filling
up your tank.”

“And this is going to cost me . . . ?” Sam said.

“Two things,” I replied. “Number one, delay your departure
for an hour and fill us in on exactly what the heck is going on.”

“And number two?”

“When you leave, take that joker in the back of the Tahoe
with you,” I replied dryly.

Sam seemed to ponder the alternatives for a few seconds
before answering, “I do believe I’d be willing to make that deal, if your uncle
here will agree to those terms as well, but I’ve got to tell you, the way
things have been going, the best I’m gonna be able to do with your perp, since
he hasn’t actually hurt anybody, is to drop his ass off in the next town that
has a still functioning jail. Where that may be though, I don’t have a clue, so
he may end up being a semi-permanent resident in the back seat of my Crown Vic.”

“Works for me,” said Uncle Andy.

Sam, Michelle, and I walked back to his car. Michelle got in
to steer while Sam and I pushed. We had to back Uncle Andy’s truck out of the
spot it was in so that transfer tank hose would reach. Forty gallons later we
had filled up Sam’s tank, and then we moved all of our vehicles and parked them
in front of the window to Walter’s office where we could keep an eye on them. Marty,
who was outside watching the refueling process asked me why we didn’t just
drive the truck over to the car. Before I could answer, Francis cut in with a
high, squeaky voice that sounded like it belonged on the Muppet show.

“Because if they did that everyone driving by would be able
to see, and the next thing you know they’d all be lined up behind the trooper’s
vehicle to get gas.” Marty didn’t reply.

I spent the next few minutes reintroducing Max to everybody
there. I’ve learned to do it gradually. And carefully. When it comes to Max and
me, he knows that I’m the Alpha of the pack. But truth be told, it usually
seems that the way we work together is more like two separate halves of one
Alpha. He’ll tolerate being in the proximity of others, as long as they don’t
get too close to him without my direct involvement. If I personally walk
somebody over to him, he’ll consent to a brief pat on the head after some
cursory smells. Most people don’t want to get that close, however. They see
this giant shaggy creature, almost jet black with sprinkles of silver along his
chest, and that brings most of them to a screeching halt. Then they notice his
eyes. Luminous gold and flecked with bits of black and platinum. That stops the
rest of them. When he curls his lips back and snarls, you better be moving in
the opposite direction. Fast. Anyway, I let him become familiar with the new
smells and he was doing OK until it came to Michelle. I swear his tail swished
back and forth about ninety miles an hour when Michelle leaned down and hugged on
him and started doing the baby talk like “Hi there Maxy boy, did you miss me .
. . I remember when you were just a widdle puppy . . . do you still like your
tummy wubbed . . .” Holy crap, I think I developed diabetes just listening to
it. And then the big ol’ turdball flopped onto his back and let Michelle rub his
tummy.

After the introductions were over, Walter picked up the radio
on his belt and called out, “Bernice, is lunch about ready?” His question
thundered out of the radios that Uncle Andy, Michelle and I still had cranked
up. We simultaneously reached for our radios to turn them off. A minute or so
later Walter repeated his call. It was answered by a gruff voice, feminine, but
only marginally so.

“It’s coming, just hold your dang horses . . . and send that
boy up here to help me carry it.”

Walter reached up to the wall beside his desk and withdrew a
set of keys from the hook and pegboard organizer that was mounted there. “Take
the Mule, it’s parked around the side by the maintenance shed, and tell Bernice
we need an extra plate as well.” Marty nodded his head and left without saying
anything.

“Trooper Ironfeather,” Walter said.

“Call me Sam,” the trooper replied.

“Sam it is then. I hope you don’t mind if we feed you a bit
before we hear your story.”

“The last time I ate was breakfast . . . yesterday,” Sam said.
“So I think I can oblige you there.”

A few minutes of small talk later, Walter’s radio came to
life. “Wally, you got enough chairs down there, or do I need to send some more
with the boy?”

“Nah, we got plenty; figured we’d eat in the conference room,
you joining us?” He replied.

“No, I got stuff in the oven that I got to watch on account
of the power going off and messing up my timer.” Bernice answered.

I hadn’t noticed when, but it looked like the main power was
back on line. “Ladies, gentlemen,” and after a short pause, Walter added “and
Andy . . . would you care to join me in the executive conference room?”

We walked through a door on the back of Walter’s office, down
a short hallway and passed through another door on the right. The room we
entered was about fifteen by twenty, garage door on one side and the door we
came through on the other. The floor was covered with about three inches of
wood shavings, sloping up toward a foot or more along the walls. The sole piece
of furniture was a picnic table about twelve feet long made of split aspen logs.
Benches were built into the table, and the whole project had been roughly hand
planed and assembled with pegs and glue—there wasn’t a nail or screw anywhere
in it. I know because I helped to build it a few years ago. A laundry-style
deep sink was mounted in one corner of the room.

Sam admired the table and the converted garage it was sitting
in. “Nice conference room.” He said it with a smile, but I could tell he meant
it. Personally, I felt much more comfortable here than I would have sitting
around a perfectly smooth mahogany table in the conference room of some glass
enshrouded high-rise.

“Built her myself, I did,” said Walter.

“Oh, you did not, you lying skunk,” snarled Uncle Andy. “I
take that back, because that would imply that you were on the same level as a
skunk, which now that I think about it is an insult . . . to skunks.”

“Well, as I recall it now, you and Eric may have been present
during a very tiny fraction of the building process, but Eric was the only one
to actually lift a finger to help me. The only thing you lifted were about nine
dozen of my beers that you drank while watching Eric and I work.”

Sam was hunkered down to get a closer look at the
construction of the table, shaking his head and smiling during the exchange
between Walter and Uncle Andy. We were all saved by the sound of an approaching
engine. Walter walked over to a button on the side of the garage door and
mashed it down with his thumb. The bay door rolled up into the ceiling
revealing the red Kawasaki Mule and Marty. The back of the Mule was covered
with various boxes and baskets which we all wasted no time in unloading and
arranging on the table. Walter hit another button and the bay door closed, then
he walked over beside the door leading to the hallway and turned a switch,
causing a large forced air heater mounted in the upper corner of the ceiling to
kick on. A few minutes later, the room was toasty and warm. Bernice had not
only reheated the venison roast that Uncle Andy had brought, she had also sent
along a heaping pile of garlic mashed potatoes; homemade gravy; four large,
whole walleyes baked in olive oil—covered with slices of oranges and sprinkled
with dill—a fresh romaine salad large enough to feed a herd of goats; and what
appeared to be about nineteen pounds of fresh baked rolls. I went to look
underneath the foil wrapper of the final tray, but Walter stopped me.

“I know that the only thing my Bernice uses that particular
tray for is a special dessert. Now I imagine she sent enough for everyone, but
between you and me, I plan on eating Andy’s portion, just don’t tell him,” he
said in a voice loud enough to be heard in the neighboring zip code.

“Speaking of Bernice,” Uncle Andy said, “does she still have
that sexy Victoria’s Secret lingerie I bought her last year?”

Without missing a beat Walter pounced, “Yep, she wears it for
me every night—said she thought about sending it back to you but she was sure
that it was much too small to fit on whatever heifer you were paying to sleep
with you.” Even Uncle Andy laughed at Walter’s reply.

We all sat down around the table except Walter, who remained
standing while he asked the blessing. “Dear Lord, we ask Your blessing on this
food, the hands that prepared it, and our family and friends that are not here
to share it with us. Please guide us in our daily life and give us wisdom and
strength to deal with whatever obstacles may be in our future. We ask this in
the name of Your Son Jesus, amen.”

Michelle excused herself from the table and returned a few
minutes later with the coffee maker and a folding chair from Walter’s office. She
plugged the coffee maker into an outlet and set it up on the chair, then filled
the pot at the sink, emptied it into the machine and hit the start button,
causing it to glow orange. She disappeared again and returned a short time
later with a sleeve of Styrofoam cups, and a handful of various sugars and creams.
Most of the meal was eaten in silence, the occasional grunt indicating a
requested pass of some item. You don’t really realize how hungry you are until
you start packing it away. Max was laying down behind me, watching the feast
take place in front of his eyes. I looked at the remaining venison in the pan.
There was still over half of it left, so I cut off a chunk about the size of a
baseball and tossed it to him. Walter saw me do that and took a roll from the
basket and lobbed it over as well. Max ignored it.

“Doesn’t he like bread?” Walter asked.

“He loves it . . . he just don’t like you,” Uncle Andy said.

“Oh yeah, watch this,” said Walter as he cut another big
chunk off the venison and tossed it to Max.

The chunk of meat landed about six inches in front of Max,
who looked at it but didn’t eat. Uncle Andy reached down and picked up the
venison, turned to smile at Walter and said, “Watch this . . . eat the deer
Max, eat the deer.”

Max snapped the chunk of meat out of my uncle’s hand and it
was gone two seconds later. Walter’s eyebrows raised as Uncle Andy said, “Just
be glad I didn’t tell him to eat you.” I turned my head to look the other way
so Walter didn’t see me smile. I didn’t have the heart or the inclination to
tell him that the only people who could feed Max were Uncle Andy and me. I
never specifically trained him to do that, that’s just the way it’s always
been.

Sam looked over at Max and asked, “What’s that monster weigh
. . . about ninety or so?”

“One hundred and seven the last time he was at the vet a
couple months ago,” I replied.

“Holy crap, he’s a freaking werewolf! What’s he got in him?” said
Sam.