Fade to Grey (Book 2): Darkness Ascending (3 page)

“
You left me Eric. I loved you and you left me
.”

Each word she spoke testified, rang true, and was
admitted.

Bang
. . .

The iron gavel slammed again.

“I
trusted you. You let them take me. You let them
have me. YOU LET THEM CHANGE ME!
”

Eric’s very soul screamed under the weight of her
words. They were true, and each one she spoke tightened the noose of judgment
around his neck.

BANG
. . .

Michelle lifted her head, revealing her angelic face,
emerald eyes now corrupted into glossy, obsidian orbs.

“
I loved you Eric,”
she hissed
, “and you
left me to die
.”

With a casual, almost nonchalant toss of her head, she
lowered her perfectly white teeth to her own shoulder and tore off a patch of
flesh.  He watched in horror as Michelle snapped her neck skyward and then down,
like a crocodile pulling a newborn zebra from the muddy bank into the watery
depths.

BA-BANG
. .
.

The window shattered with the guilty verdict, and
Michelle’s hand—once soft and holding his—shot through with serpentine
quickness. Long, delicate fingers that should have been wearing a ring . . .
Eric’s ring . . . now descended and crushed with vice-like strength around his
already damaged neck.

“
I . . . loved . . . you
,” Michelle spit each
word out with venom as she thrust his head backwards, opening his mouth, “
and
. . . you . . . left . . . me . . . to . . . die
.”

Utterly helpless with undiluted terror, Eric watched
as Michelle brought her left arm through the window, and almost reverently
placed it in his open mouth. Glistening eyes the deep, deep black of a starless
night leaned in close.

“
Eat
,” she whispered as she forced his jaw
shut, tearing off a small, ragged bit of her flesh.

“
Eat
,” she said again as her powerful fingers
forced him to chew, “
and pay for your crimes
.”

“
Eat
,” Michelle gave a vicious, victorious howl
as he swallowed, “
and serve me
.”

The fibrous, fleshy chunk left a vibrantly sizzling
trail as it descended into his stomach. Almost with a detached awareness, Eric began
to note the hordes of gray-skinned figures closing in on the truck as the final
sliver of light, of hope, slipped below the horizon.

His eyes now closed, and with a strange, tingling
warmth on his lips, he began to hear the whispers.

Crunchy on the outside, soft and chewy on the inside
. . .

Crunchy on the outside, soft and chewy on the inside
. . .

Tap . . . tap . . . tap
. A spasmodic tremor jerked Eric awake. Eyes wide with
the vivid recollection of the nightmare, he took gasping, shallow breaths as
his pounding heart raced. He was on his side, still in bed with Michelle.
Almost in the exact position he fell asleep in—foreheads almost touching. Light
was trickling through a partially opened blind above the dresser, and in the
unseen recesses of the floor beside the bed he could hear Max softly snoring.

The pillow underneath his face was damp with hot, sour
sweat, and he could feel his hair plastered against his skull. Forcing his
breathing to slow down, Eric felt the razor edge of adrenaline-induced panic
dulling as it slowly receded.

With an apprehensive shadow of fear creeping into his
throat, he delicately issued the mental command for the toes on his left foot
to slowly wiggle. They did. Reassured, he checked off his other limbs. All were
present and accounted for. A deep, slow breath followed, and then another, and
then a third as his heart descended into double digits.

Casting his eyes slightly upwards, Eric studied
Michelle’s sleeping face. The fine, delicately chiseled features displayed both
beauty and toughness . . . vulnerability and determination. A light, almost
invisible scattering of freckles decorated her cheeks, now partially covered by
a swirling descent of her long reddish blond hair. He could see her eyes
shifting underneath their lids as she dreamed.

With another shiver of memory, he said a quick prayer
that her dream was better than his. It had to be. Another deep breath followed
. . . and again. Finally, Eric began to relax as he came fully awake. His nose
caught the distant, almost negligible scent of perfume. Michelle’s perfume. It
was a light, flowery-musky combination that she wore like no one else. It was
her scent. Never overpowering, even on the occasions where she had applied it
in his presence, the fragrance always sent him tumbling back through time.

He had watched the face so close in front of him
change through the years. From a gawky, bright red-haired tomboy to somebody
else’s stunningly beautiful prom date. From the ponytailed junior high school
archery champion to the amazingly attractive woman accepting her commission
into Federal law enforcement. And with each memory he kicked himself for not
having the guts to tell her the truth. With a sigh and slow blink, he managed
to push those thoughts away for the millionth time.

And for the millionth time, they didn’t stay gone. It
was their friendship. The one thing that Eric refused to sacrifice was the
relationship with his best friend, even at the ongoing cost of his heart. Or
maybe he was just afraid. He had been shot at by poachers, charged by bears,
threatened by drug dealers and organized crime smugglers, and he had taken it
all with a grain of salt. But the thought of somehow losing Michelle’s
friendship, and the dream of more that was intricately locked to it, always
sent the migration of butterflies straight to his stomach.

And yet, the memories of the past few days were
skewing his long held sense of reality. From hearing Michelle’s voice at
Walter’s store just a few days ago, to the yellow-eyed feral charging out of
the Gulfstream . . . and onward through Emily’s rescue and the battle at the
cabin. The world was changing right around him. Maybe it was time that he
changed as well. Maybe it was time to stop being afraid. Maybe this one moment,
right here—right now, was the last chance he would ever get to tell Michelle
that he loved her . . . that he always had.

Quietly sliding his left arm from underneath the light
covers, he slowly brought it up to her face. With a gentle touch, he gathered the
wavy tangles of hair that had fallen across her cheek, twirling them in slow
ringlets as his fingertips softly caressed her temple. Michelle’s lips parted
with a deep inhalation as she ascended from the heavy fog of sleep.

It was now or never, Eric thought.

“I love you.”

He had barely said it. The whisper of a whisper. A
single flap of a sparrow’s wing amid the onslaught of a hurricane. But he had
said it. And she had heard.

Her porcelain face, eyes still closed and dotted with
grains of sleep sand, broke loose and smiled with his words.

“I know,” she said as her right hand slid underneath
the covers and across his face, finally settling in a loose grip on the short,
damp hair at the back of his neck, “and I love you too, b
ut you left me to die.” She had breathed out the last words
in a smoky, resonating voice. Sleepy eyes snapped open to reveal polished ebony
mirrors that reflected back a fisheye caricature of his own terror. Fingers
became inescapable bands of steel locked onto his hair . . . drawing him the
final few inches to her piranha-like teeth.

Eric screamed.

Tap . . . tap . . . tap
. “Eric, are you awake?”

Eric froze, rigid and disoriented as the twin
nightmares—unwilling to depart –locked in a conflict with his slowly waking consciousness.
Like ancient enemies battling for possession of his soul, they swirled and
whirled in a vortex of scintillating colors. Dark violet sparking with angry, jagged
shards of metallic green lightning struggled against a forest of blue-gray fog.
The cyclone twisted and tore with vivid flashes of shattered bones and sharp
teeth, but the growing, enveloping mist would not, could not, be denied. With a
final blaze of white-hot embers and black eyes, the spinning whirlwind slowed,
became still, and then dissipated in the rapidly brightening haze.

Tap . . . tap . . . tap
.

“Eric, it’s Amy. Are you OK?”

“Yeah . . . just . . . waking up. Give me a minute,
OK?”

“OK. We just wanted to check on you. You’ve been
sleeping for quite awhile and we wanted to make sure that everything was
alright. And nobody wanted to open the door with Max in there.”

As if that was his cue, a low rumble emanated from the
floor beside the bed.

Eric rolled over and sat up, sleepy eyes blinking in
the fading glare of what he guessed was the late afternoon sun.  It was shining
in a single, wide beam directly through the room’s lone window, striking his
face as it slowly transitioned to a watery orange postscript near the ceiling.
Silent, but softly telling, as if it were a last chance echo warning that
darkness followed in its wake.

Squinting, Eric gradually shifted his head left and
right, shrugged his shoulders and filled his lungs to capacity—holding it
momentarily as he stretched.

Thump-thump-thump
.

“What?” He snapped out with sleepy annoyance as the
last vestiges of his restless slumber evaporated. Max apparently shared the
sentiment and growled, almost snarling, at the disturbance.

A gruff voice, partially muted by the interfering
barrier, spoke. “Eric, it’s Walter. Do you mind holding Max while I come in?”

Eric blinked his eyes and rubbed his forehead, still
trying to transition into the waking world as he answered. “Give me a sec.”

With another quick series of stretches and rolls, he
became keenly aware that his body felt like it had been dragged a few miles
down a rough cut logging road. And he was hungry. Starving, actually. A quick
flip of his wrist to check the time resulted in a cascade of memories. No
watch. Damn, he had busted it on the Gator. And then there was the cabin, the
cowboy . . . Michelle and Uncle Andy. Shit . . . Uncle Andy! Wave after wave of
memories crashed to the surface as Eric flipped the covers off, rotated and
stood up. Immediately, a sharp, burning throb exploded from his ankle. A few
not so mumbled choice words escaped.

“You okay, boy?”

Eric ignored him for second and called Max up to the
bed. Max yawned, stretching his paws far forward as his massive black frame
slowly rose.

“Come here, buddy.” Eric thumped his hand on the still
warm mattress. Max, after another stretch and shake, obliged and hopped up.

A quick look around confirmed that he had no clothes
except the underwear he had on. Grabbing one of the loose sheets, he twisted it
around kilt-like before settling back on the bed.

“Come on in.”

Walter clicked the door partially open and peeked in,
confirming that Max was under control before entering. He was carrying a large
silver “hot bag” in one hand and a small, vaguely familiar duffel in the other.
Extending the silver bag, Walter said, “Bernice washed up the clothes you was
wearin’ when ya got here last night. There’s a few small rips and whatnot, and
some of the . . . stains . . . didn’t all come out, but they’re good to go. I
also . . . hope you don’t mind . . . but I borrowed your keys and got some
clothes from behind the seat in your truck.”

Eric accepted both packages, holding Walter’s eyes as
he did. After a hesitant pause, he cleared his throat and said, “Tell me.”

Walter nodded. “Your uncle is alive. Anything more
than that is going to have to come from Doc. He’s waiting outside right now,
him and Rebecca. Go on and get dressed.”

He nodded mutely as he stood, wincing again with the
pain in his ankle as he emptied the contents of both bags onto the bed beside
Max. Black sweats and a ratty but comfortable Pittsburgh Steelers long sleeve
top, both from the duffel, fit the ticket. He had two sets of socks, but no
shoes.

“Ain’t no sense in putting on socks ‘till Doc takes a
look at your foot.”

Eric sat back on the corner of the bed, sliding his
hand onto Max’s muscular haunch for a moment of balance before nodding.

Walter opened the door, and with a mumbled “C’mon in,”
admitted Doc, Preacher Dave’s wife Rebecca, and another lady that Eric didn’t
recognize. All of them were carrying various bags, plastic tubs and containers.
The lady he didn’t know was toting a five gallon bucket. Doc, although still
haggard and worn down, appeared to have at least gotten some rest. The nurse
Rebecca—her slim, almost angular face carrying the same reassuring
half-smile—looked exhausted.

Several folding chairs seemed to miraculously appear
and the trio sat down. Two more identical chairs were handed through the
doorway by unseen accomplices. One of the chairs went to Walter, and the other
was unfolded and placed at the edge of the bed.

“Put your leg upon this chair and let me take a look
at your ankle,” Doc said.

Without moving a muscle, Eric bored his eyes straight
at Doc Collins. “Tell me about my uncle first.”

Doc nodded as he replied, “I will, but while I’m doing
that were going to need to soak your ankle so I can clean it out, and in order
for me to soak it, we need to cut off your duct tape and gauze bandage.” He
patted the seat of the chair again.

Eric held his position momentarily, considering. He
was naturally stubborn and resistant when it came to being pushed in a
direction that wasn’t his choosing. This seemed like one of those times. Max
was picking up on his tension as well, and Eric felt, or rather sensed his
annoyance with the crowd beginning to surface.

Biting down the frustration and impatience he felt,
Eric forced a few deep, steady breaths out as he raised his leg to the chair.
With his left hand, he leaned slightly over and rubbed Max on the muscular,
padded area at the front of his chest.

“Easy Max, it’s OK.”

For his part, Max seemed to settle down to a watchful,
if not quite wary observation of the procedure.

In less than two minutes, his homemade band aid had
been removed with the help of flat-tipped scissors that came out of Doc’s
medical bag. Some poking and prodding of the wound, accompanied by several
“mmmm’s” and “hmmm’s” preceded a pair of injections.

“I’ve given you something to numb the area, just a
local, for when we clean and re-stitch it. The second shot was some
antibiotics, although I’m going to want you to take some more orally for a
while.”

Doc looked over at the new girl and Eric followed his
gaze. She was tall, dark haired and athletically built. Probably college age or
just out, he guessed. She was wearing khakis and a faded tan Hard Rock Café
sweatshirt. Medium sized golden hoop earrings dangled and bounced against her
cheekbones as she brought the almost full bucket over. The chair was removed
and replaced with the bucket, and the girl knelt down and carefully supported
Eric’s leg as his foot was lowered into the warm, frothy liquid.

Her eyes were large and friendly, and she shifted them
between Eric and the container as she submerged his wound. “It’s going to sting
a bit, but we need to leave it in there for at least ten minutes.” Her voice
was both firm and comforting at the same time.

She stood, checked a small walkie-talkie clipped at
her waist, and then addressed Doc. “I’m on channel seven. Just call me when
you’re ready and I’ll come back.” A minor shift of her head directed her
attention at Rebecca. “Ms. Rebecca, you really need to get some sleep. I can
handle things here and in the sickroom, and Amy is getting another girl for
backup, OK?”

Rebecca dipped her nose slightly. “I’ll go in a
minute.”

The dark haired lady shook her head slightly, and with
a low, musical giggle, she replied, “I hope so.” A moment later the door
clicked behind her.

“Who was that?” Eric asked.

“A lucky find.” Rebecca yawned her answer. “Her name
is Callie. She’s a physical therapy assistant. She was also an EMT for a few
years. So I guess that makes her my backup nurse.”

“What about Sally?” Eric asked as he looked back at
Doc.

His peripheral vision caught the quick turn down of
Walter and Rebecca’s faces. Doc gave a barely perceptible shake of his head
before mumbling, “She’s gone.” A long, silent gap filled the space between them
before he added, “At least we think she’s gone.”

The tepid water in the bucket released a briny aroma
as he digested Doc’s words.

Doc Collins exchanged glances with Walter before
continuing. “But that’s a topic for later . . .” he looked again at Walter, “but
not too much later.”

Turning back to Eric he said, “Andy is alive, and
although it’s too early to tell, he might be one of the luckiest SOB’s in the
world.”

Eric waited. There was more, there was always more. In
his experience, first came the give—immediately followed by the take.

“Your wife and child made it through the seventeen
hour surgery Mr. Jones.”

“That’s great.”

“However, both of them passed on immediately
afterwards due to unforeseen and unrelated complications.”

“Tell me . . . everything.”

Doc nodded his head and began. “The good news, well,
great news is that the bullet did not penetrate Andy’s skull.” Using his index
finger and his own head as a visual aid, Doc traced a line that started above
his right ear and traveled slightly upwards as it progressed forward.

“The bullet struck the parietal bone at a
complementing angle, as opposed to a conflicting one. It would be very similar
to shooting a bullet in a close, angular plane to the surface of a lake.”

“Like skimming rocks,” Walter chimed.

“Yes,” Doc replied, “very similar. Because of the
angle of impact, the bullet followed the contour of the resisting surface,
which in this case was your uncle’s skull. It exited the skin approximately four
inches later, about two inches above the temporal line.” His index finger
indicated the position of the exit. “The bony structure was not visibly damaged
anywhere that I could tell along the wound channel. Blood loss was substantial,
although we often see that in similar injuries. Head wounds tend to bleed a
lot. Our impromptu transfusion, although maybe not necessary, definitely
helped.”

Eric waited, slowly counting to five . . . uneasiness
evident on his face with the approach of the take.

“When a traumatic event happens to a body, it is often
the unseen damage that determines the outcome.” Doc pointed his finger casually
at Eric’s face.

“That shiner you got started off as, relatively
speaking, a slow moving blunt force trauma. Although I doubt it felt slow
moving at the time.”

Eric forced down the memory of his fight with the
cowboy. He could tell that it wouldn’t be alone, but traveling with an
incredible number of footnotes, to do lists, and responsibilities that were
even now assembling and brawling to be number one.

Doc continued. “Immediately after the impact, your
face probably hurt quite a bit. However the damage was not just on the surface.
Cellular walls, skin tissue, capillaries and other parts of the localized
anatomy surrounding the point of impact were also damaged. Even hard tissue
like the zygomatic bone below your eye absorbed some of the impact. The
combined results of which are going to be swelling, tenderness, and the
discoloration evident with the
hematoma.”