Fade to Grey (Book 2): Darkness Ascending (31 page)

Eric followed Michelle down the hallway to the right
hand door. “Would you mind going in first so Max doesn’t freak out?” she asked.

“I thought you were a member of the pack,” he teased.

“I am, but if he’s changed into a zombie dog, you’ll
be first on the menu.”

“Funny. Real funny.”

Eric cracked the door to the room with a large,
handmade table. He had put Max in there just a few minutes before the meeting,
and the giant black canine was curled up in the near corner. Several
scatterings of wood chips decorated his dark fur, and his golden eyes stared
unblinkingly as they entered.

“Hey buddy,” Eric called out as he dropped to the
floor and stretched out beside Max. A huge paw pushed through the wood chips
and lodged against Eric’s chest as Max thumped his tail.

Michelle took a seat on the tabletop and watched the
two boys as they began to wrestle and play in the thick layer of shavings.
After ten seconds they were both covered head to toe with the dusty flakes.

“You know, we still don’t have any idea if Max is
susceptible to this disease.”

Eric threw a double handful of shavings at Max, who
dodged and weaved before crashing into his crouched form and bowling him over.

“OK, OK, you win.” Eric laughed as he stood. Turning
to face Michelle, he said “Yeah, you’re right. We don’t know. We also don’t
know if I’m sick. Or anybody else, really. So until that time comes, I’m not
going to worry about it.”

“I wish I had your confidence.”

“Maybe it’s just apathy.”

“No,” she said, “it’s not.”

He closed the distance between them and lowered a hand
to her shoulder. Emerald eyes slowly met, and locked, with his. The look on her
face showed determination mixed with trepidation.

“What is it? What’s wrong?

“I’m about to do something wrong. I’m about to put my
best friend in a position that they shouldn’t have to be in.”

The confused look on his face was frozen as her hand
reached up and touched his cheek. “Wait . . . let me finish.” Her dancer’s
lithe body curled into the ‘crisscross applesauce’ position on top of the table
as she stared into his eyes. “I want to make a deal with you. I’ll go to the
campground with your team. I’ll change my vote, even though I honestly don’t
think it’s worth the risk. I’ll do that, if you promise me . . . promise me . .
.,” her words trailed off.

“What?”

“My mother.”

“Huh?”

“Eric, when I went to Fort Hammer with Andy, one of
the things I grabbed from my office was the memory card from the answering
machine. When you were sleeping, I borrowed Bernice’s laptop and played the
messages. Before the phone lines went down, my mother had apparently managed to
get through.” She shifted her legs underneath and elevated upwards, coming eye
to eye as she continued. “Devils Lake. She left me a message saying that she
was heading to Dad’s cabin at Devils Lake, Eric.”

She plopped back down into a sitting position, lowered
her head and ran her fingers through the tangled mass of wavy strawberry blonde
hair. “I can’t do it alone,” she barely whispered, “so that’s what I’m asking.
That’s the position I’m putting my best friend in. A dangerous mission at the
campground in trade for a suicide mission to Devils Lake.”

“So when do we leave?”

“Eric, please say no. Tell me that my mother’s already
gone, and that I’d be throwing my life—our lives—away. Tell me that we can just
go somewhere where none of these ghouls, or creeps, or
whatevers
are
jumping out from behind every shadow. Just tell me no, and then tell me how
wrong I am for even asking. Tell me, please.”

“So when do we leave?”

Deep green eyes, moistened with hastily wiped tears
looked up at him. “Eric, I love you.”

His fingers joined with hers in the tangled cascade of
curls. “And I love you. So let’s make sure we survive both of these fools’
errands. Besides, the way I figure it, you’ve been blind to my affections for
about twenty-five years now, so with penalties and interest, you’re going to
owe me another, oh, about forty more.”

“Forty more years, is that so?”

He shifted his hands and embraced her tightly, “At
least forty.”

They returned to Walters’s office just in time to see
the results of another preliminary vote. This time, Doc Collins had his hand in
the air. So did Crowbar Mike. Michelle stepped into the center of the circle
and raised her hand to join them.

“OK,” Walter said, “let’s do this for real. All in
favor of a rescue mission . . .”

Eric cut him off before he finished. “Wait, let me say
one final thing before we vote. Ever since this possibility was brought up to
me, I’ve been giving it some thought. Running the numbers, as they say. Yes, I
voted to go back, but maybe I need to clarify something. When I think ‘rescue
mission,’ I’m not picturing everybody charging into the campground with guns
blazing. My idea is more of a stealth approach. We go in, spend just enough
time there to determine if there are survivors, and then get the heck
out—hopefully with any survivors we find. I’m not looking for, nor, do I think
we can afford, a firefight. Anyhow, that’s just my opinion.”

The faces around the room nodded in understanding, and
then Walter called for a vote. Every hand went up.

Back at the store they found that the crowd had separated
into two unequal groups. Diane was standing in front of the larger gathering
with her arms crossed—Mr. Lee mirrored her pose as he stood at the head of the much
smaller faction. Leonard and Glenda were seated in the corner, away from both
divisions.

“Is that your final decision?” Diane asked.

“We’ve already told you that.”

“Fine . . . then we’re done here.”

Both she and Mr. Lee turned to face Eric as he stepped
forward. “Who wants to go first?”

“Why don’t you tell us what the special people decided
in their little clubhouse meeting,” Diane mouth sarcastically.

Eric frowned and shook his head. Enough was enough.
“Diane, I’m trying . . . really trying . . . to give you a little leeway. But
I’ve got to be honest; you’re not making it very easy with your piss poor
attitude and mouthy personality. Give it a rest, OK?” The corner of his eye
caught the beginnings of a smile cresting on Mr. Lee’s face as he continued,
“I’ll get right to the point. We’re going back to the campground to attempt a
rescue mission. I don’t have the details worked out yet, but I just wanted you
to know what our decision was.” His head swiveled back and forth between the
two groups. “I guess from the looks of things, everybody here is not on the
same page about going to the shelter.”

Mr. Lee nodded as Diane spoke. “We,” her arms gestured
to the large group she headed, “are going to shelter Yellow with the firemen.
They,” she pointed a finger across the room, “are not. Although for the life of
me I just can’t understand why.”

Eric took another step forward and studied the faces
of those that had elected to stay. Mr. Lee, the man with a braided beard and
his wife. Another two couples that he recognized the faces of, but didn’t know
anything specific about. Behind them sat BB and his mother. Sleeping in her
arms was another child. Ten people.

“OK. That’s it then. We’re still going to run a guard
up on the roof tonight—I think Leonard and his wife Glenda have already
volunteered for that. The rest of you, get some sleep.”

Sam stepped forward and removed a key from the large
ring. “This works on both doors.” He handed it to Diane, and then after a
moment of contemplation, removed a second key and handed it to Mr. Lee. “Even
though the firemen are outside and we’ve got guards on the roof, I’d still work
out some type of watch in here. You’ve got the two shotguns from Mr. Sheldon
and several other personal weapons. Figure it out.”

Walter pointed at the table. “I’m leaving you that
camouflage radio for tonight. We’ll monitor the other one up at the house.” He
looked around the room for a moment before adding, “Be safe and get some sleep.
I’m putting a guard up on the roof of my house as well. Remember what I said
about the areas that are off limits.”

With that, they turned and filed out the door. It took
another several minutes to get the roof guards switched out, and then Eric
loaded everyone into the bed of his truck and drove them up to Walters’s house.
A return trip brought Max, and Eric walked him alone up the hill to Walters’s tractor
shed.

Sitting on the floor with his back leaning against a
hay bale, he spent some time rubbing the muscular haunches of enormous wolf hybrid.
Curious gold eyes flecked with silver and black stared back at him as he
talked.

“Hey buddy, I’ve got to leave you in here tonight.
Just to make sure, OK? If you’re still feeling good tomorrow, I’ll see about
getting you back in the house.”

Max nuzzled his elbow and pressed closer. “Just make
sure you’re OK buddy . . . I don’t want to lose you.” Max gave a small whine
and molded his body against Eric before dropping down across his lap.

“Hey—you big fur ball,” Eric reached down and grabbed
two enormous handfuls of hair at the side of Max’s brawny neck, “look at me.” With
an agile turn, Max flopped onto his back and regarded Eric with a look that
conveyed greater intelligence and understanding than any domesticated dog was
capable of.

Raking his fingers in a big circle across Max’s belly
brought out a huge panting tongue, and Eric changed the scratching to a series
of soft pats. “Listen, if anything happens to me, keep Michelle safe. And make
sure you eat, OK?”

Dark eyebrows furrowed for a moment, and then a pair
of huge paws reached up and pushed against Eric’s underarms. A moment later,
the massive black canine scrabbled to his feet, knocking Eric backwards and
prone. It was immediately followed by almost 110 pounds of muscle sitting on Eric’s
chest.

“I’ll take that as an ‘OK,’ then.”

They were gathered in the downstairs living room,
seated on various couches, chairs, and throw cushions that were scattered
across a thick layer of 1970s era carpeting. It was pea soup green, at least in
the sections that had been sheltered by furniture throughout the decades. A
worn and faded path crossed the room, stretching from the bottom of the stairs
past several side doors until finally ending at the heavily built, metal fire
door that led to the garage. Only now the garage was being used as a hospital.
The low embers from an earlier log pile still faintly glowed through the open
door of an ancient cast iron wood stove, and steaming on the stove’s top were
three Dutch ovens. One of them held a fragrant mixture of mulled cider,
complete with several floating sticks of cinnamon bark. The second pot was half
filled with an apparently caustic solution of formaldehyde and turpentine. Whatever
it was practically singed Eric’s eyebrows when he peered under the lid.
Michelle seemed to like it though, and had a large earthenware mug of the
solution cradled directly under her nose. Her eyes were shut, but her dimples
gave away the huge smile hidden behind her cup. Eric had gone with option
number three—hot chocolate. Judging by the shallow depth of the liquid, so had almost
everybody else. He had been formally introduced to the older couple, Bucky and
Frederica—Fred for short—a few moments ago, and they had expressed their
condolences about Uncle Andy. Eric raised his eyes from the cup of hot
chocolate to the garage exit. He still hadn’t stopped to see his uncle.
Somewhere inside, it almost seemed that as long as he could keep putting that off,
everything would be OK. Or maybe not. He made a silent promise to himself to go
see his uncle—and Emily—as soon as the meeting was over.

Bernice spoke first. “I ain’t much for words, and I’m
awful tired, so let me go first and then I can get to bed. Like you know, we’ve
been dividing up food and supplies for the people from the campground.” She
looked around the room and added, “All of you as well. What I mean is that as
long as you stay here, we’ll feed you from the community cupboard—as long as it
lasts. If you decide to leave, you’ll walk away with the same gallon of rice
and other miscellaneous supplies that we’re handing out tomorrow morning after
breakfast. That’s all I got to say besides ‘good night.’”

She turned to leave but Doc called out, “Bernie, hold
up a minute. Before everyone disappears, there’s something that Callie found
that’s very interesting. Callie?”

Bernice stopped her retreat and settled against the
arm of the couch as Callie stood. It took her several near-acrobatic maneuvers
to step around Thompson and through the seated crowd, but she ended up in the
corner of the room by the stairs.

“It’s really by accident that I found this, and to be
honest, Doctor Collins and I can’t shed any light on what it means, other than
to say . . . well, you’ll see.” Her golden earrings danced and jangled as she
tossed her head and beamed. The backpack riding over her shoulder on one strap
was shrugged to the side, and as she reached into the main compartment, her
dark brown eyes and brilliant smile turned toward Eric. “Don’t forget I need to
take a look at your ankle tonight.”

Long fingers, still somehow retaining a tan, withdrew
her tablet computer from the backpack. After a moment’s fidgeting, the screen
flickered to life.

“Have you ever seen those thick books full of trivia
that people keep in their bathrooms? I have a couple that came as a free eBook
download when I got this tablet last Christmas. Some of the stuff in those
books is pretty funny, by the way,” she added.

The tiredness in the room was evident with the lack of
responses.

“Anyway,” Callie stretched out the word with a sigh
and shake of her head, “I remembered reading something in one of those books
about how the human race breaks down, percentage wise, into different
categories.”

“Humor me,” she said, “stand up if you’re left
handed.” Scott immediately stood up, and Callie remained standing as well. Her
nose slowly bobbed as she did another count. “OK, that’s two people. We have
fifteen total people in this room right now. According to the almighty bathroom
trivia book, about ten percent of the people in the United States are left
handed. Ten percent of fifteen people equals one and a half people. We’ve got
two, so that’s pretty close. Go ahead and sit down for a minute, Scott.” She
flipped her finger over the screen and scrolled.

“OK, let’s try this again. If you were born in a
foreign country, stand up.” Callie dropped her back against the wall and slid
down into a squatting position, taking herself out of the ratio. As she did,
Doc, Fred, and Dave stood.

“Three people, that’s twenty percent. According to
this list, we should be around twelve percent. Remember though, we only have
fifteen people. If we had ten times that amount, the numbers would probably smooth
out somewhat. Go ahead and sit down.”

“Moving on, I’d like you to stand up if you’ve ever
had a pet cat.”

Doc and Fred stood for a second time. They were joined
by Sam, Walter, Bernice, Amy, and to everyone’s surprise, Crowbar Mike.

“Alright, that’s seven people—a little less than half.
According to the book, about fifty percent of the people in the United States
have owned a cat, so we’re right on, there. Go ahead and sit down, and we’ll
try one more.”

Amy and Mike stopped at the Dutch ovens for refill
before returning to their chairs.

Callie scrolled again, and then announced, “OK, stand
up if you have a tattoo.”

This time, it was Sam, Mike, Walter, Amy, and Rebecca.

“OK,” Callie said, “that’s five.”

Eric looked over at Michelle and cleared his throat.
Loudly. When she didn’t respond, he added a few thunderous, whooping coughs.
The spectacle wasn’t lost on anybody present, and Rebecca pointed an accusatory
finger at Michelle.

“Ohhh, Michelle . . . did that fair skin of yours
suffer under the needle?” She teased with a laugh and several shakes of her
finger.

Michelle shot Eric piercing laser beams of guaranteed
payback from behind her mug as Amy chimed in, “Michelle is an inky? Well I
never . . .”

Dave, his son Scott, and Callie began to chuckle as
Michelle blushed, and then Thompson’s deep voice cut through the mirth, “Show
us.”

“Yeah,” Eric choked out, “show us!”

Michelle’s face turned beet red as she tried vainly to
compress her entire body behind the coffee cup in her hands.

The crowd erupted in laughter at Michelle’s
predicament, and Eric joined them as he thought back to the story of her
tattoo.

Michelle and a few of her girlfriends in college had
traveled to San Diego for spring break during their junior year. When they
arrived, she realized that a certain “area” had been neglected—grooming
wise—during the long North Dakota winter. Her girlfriends had talked her into
getting a professional job at a local salon before they hit the beach, only the
obviously foreign salon worker had misinterpreted her directions and waxed
everything. Eric chuckled almost uncontrollably as he remembered Michelle, bug-eyed
and silently mouthing a repeated exclamation of, “Everything.” The last night
of their vacation, and after way too many drinks, the girls had wandered into a
beachside tattoo and piercing boutique. In a fit of temporary insanity,
Michelle had let the girls decide on the design for her—something to remember
their trip by. It was a classic. A one inch tall stick figure pushing a lawn mower.
Down there.

The laughter and good natured ribbing went on for a
solid minute longer, and then everybody gradually settled down as Callie
continued. “OK, five,” her eyes rose toward Michelle, “plus one more, equals
six. That’s forty percent. According to the book, about thirty percent of
people have tattoos, so we’re maybe a little higher there.”

“Where are you going with this?” Bernice asked with a
yawn.

“Yes ma’am, I’m getting there. Down at the store I had
all of the campground residents fill out a single page medical form. This was
before the firemen showed up and any decisions had been made, or even talked
about. At least that I know of. Anyway, you know what I’m talking about,
because each of you filled out the same form earlier tonight. Once we collected
all the forms, I started entering them into a little spreadsheet program on my
tablet . . . just so we’d have something in place without shuffling through the
individual papers. Overall, it was a fairly typical mix that you’d expect to
see in a random cross section of medical patients. Until you looked at one
column.”

Callie glanced at the screen for a moment before
continuing, “Last time . . . stand up if you have type O blood.”

Heads swiveled left and right, but nobody moved.

Callie pointed a finger at the tablet. “I have several
medical books and study guides on here. Most of them deal with physical therapy
and various aspects of patient rehabilitation, but some of them are from my
short stint as an EMT. In one of those, I found a reference to the spread of
blood types across various ethnic backgrounds. If you don’t take into account
ethnicity, then about forty percent of the people in this room should have type
O blood. It’s the most common blood type in the world.” She looked at Thompson.
“African Americans have an even higher likelihood—about fifty-three percent—of
having type O blood. Hispanic people are even higher, and the Native American
population,” she turned to Sam as she finished, “is almost exclusively type O.”

Eric thought back quickly to his recent count. “We
have sixty-two people. That count consists of everybody at the store and up
here—including my uncle and Doc’s niece. How many—total—type O people do we
have?”

Callie shook her head. “Zero.”

“What are the odds of that happening?” Fred asked in
her slightly accented speech.

Doc shook his head, “It doesn’t. Or at least the odds
against it are so astronomically high that the statistical likelihood borders
on winning the lottery ten times in a row.”

“Why didn’t we catch this earlier,” Michelle asked, “I
mean, it’s not like we haven’t been busy trying to stay alive, but everybody
here also filled out the first medical form on the day we swept through the
campground.”

“Two reasons,” Doc quipped, “the first one is that we
barely had time to take a hard look at those original forms. And the second
one,” he did a quick scan around the room before shaking his head, “is that it
wasn’t on there. I photocopied those forms from a blank one I had laying
around—one from my practice. Think about this, when is the last time you had to
list your blood type on any medical form unless it was for a surgical
admittance? What I’m trying to say is that the question of ‘what blood type are
you’ isn’t a standard question. The only reason we even included it on the new
‘short form’ was because Andy ended up getting a small transfusion from Eric.
Andy still wears his military dog tags which list his blood type, and Eric’s is
the same.”

“How did you know?” Eric asked.

Rebecca nodded towards him. “You told us.”

“I did?”

“You were exhausted,” she answered, “and probably
don’t remember.”

Eric said nothing in reply, but glanced again toward
the metal door.

“OK,” Walter turned to face Doc, “does this knowledge
help us in any way?”

A quick shrug accompanied his answer. “I don’t know.
Again, the likelihood that this is an accident does not seem remotely feasible.
Therefore, we can make a broad assumption that this infection is somehow
related to a person’s specific blood type. I want to caution you on assuming
that because you’re not blood type O, you’re immune to this pathogen.” He stood
and frowned, trying to meet each of their eyes as his own expression dropped
into dead seriousness. “Brenda,” he stated firmly, “was blood type B.”

“How do we know that? She didn’t fill out one of the
new forms.”

“She had a medical information card. I found it among
her personal effects . . . after.”