Fade to Grey (Book 2): Darkness Ascending (32 page)

Silence descended over the room as they digested the
new information. As they sat lost in their own thoughts, Walter stretched to
his feet and refilled both his pipe and his mug of cider. Once again, the
aromatic essence of scented smoke coiled through the room, pausing only briefly
to dance with the simmering liquids on the cast iron stove.

Sam raised his hand. “Just so you all know, earlier
this evening Eric asked me to escort one of the firemen back to the truck, with
a brief stopover to take a look at the practically brand new winch that Eric
lied to the paramedic about.”

“We needed to get him away from Ray for a minute.”

“Yeah, I know. I was inside the store the whole time
they were talking. I heard everything. Anyway, Wayne . . . that’s Lieutenant
Wayne King from the Richland Fire and Rescue Squad . . . seems to be a pretty
straight shooter. He wasn’t very forthcoming about details though. If I had to
guess, I’d say that he was worried about repercussions if they found out he
spilled the beans.” Sam took a drink out of his cup as he pondered for a
moment. “What I did find out was that he definitely does not like Ray Ingram.
At all. Apparently there have been several ‘incidents’ at the shelter that Ray
was directly involved in. There also seems to be, if I read him right, a growing
faction within the shelter that Mr. Ingram is grooming as his personal voting
bloc / enforcement squad.”

Mike flipped up an index finger for attention. “I want
to kick in some food for thought. Don’t misunderstand me though, OK?” He took a
sip from an ivory colored ceramic cup stenciled with a large blue jay before
continuing. “I’m not saying I like the guy. As a matter of fact, he reminds me
of the non-union ‘supervisors’ they used to bring fresh out of college and onto
the rigs. Guys that ain’t never seen a wrench that wasn’t in a textbook. Little
snot nosed desk jockeys that think they know everything about working oil, but
end up getting somebody hurt before they run home crying to mama.”

“Good thing you’re keepin’ an open mind about ‘em.”
Thompson cut in.

“Yeah, well, you know what I mean. Anyhow, like I
said, I don’t like the guy. But it just occurs to me, if I was in the same
situation, with the same resources . . . what would I do different? Here we
are, circling our wagons and doing our best to stay alive. And we have what, maybe
a hundred people at the campground that might possibly be infected. They’re
over in Richland with the likelihood that thousands of ghouls could show up at
their door. Again, I’m not trying to defend the dude. And I don’t like him.
But, you know what they say about walking a mile in someone else’s shoes.”

“Well,” Sam interrupted, “while you’re walking in
those shoes, let me throw out a few speed bumps that the lieutenant managed to
slide in. Remember the other shelters? The ones they lost contact with? Well,
it seems ol’ Ray was in charge of the security team that was supposed to
provide cover as the other shelters were moving supplies. That little armored
vehicle that he mentioned has a mobile repeater unit to increase their radio
range. Coincidentally, it stopped working during the move in, and that’s why
Ray’s team supposedly never responded. Could it have happened that way? Sure,
but the lieutenant found it awful convenient that some of Ray’s posse were
manning the APC at the time. Plus, just before it all went down, one of Wayne’s
firemen friends overheard a certain bearded paramedic making plans to move all
of the weapons and ammunition into shelter Yellow. And did I mention the APC
repeater works fine now.”

“I told you he’s a scumball,” Callie sneered.

“Uh-huh,” Sam nodded.

Preacher Dave spoke. “Those people that voted to go to
the shelter need to know this. They might change their mind.”

“If you tell them, it will most definitely get back to
Ray, and I’m guessing that would be very bad for Lieutenant King.”

“Why don’t you offer to let him stay here?”

“I did,” Sam answered, “and he immediately refused.
Wouldn’t say why, though . . . but I’m guessing it has something to do with his
family.”

The soft
pop
and
hiss
of the embers
filled the empty space of the sudden quiet that settled over the room. The
stillness dragged on for a solid minute before Walter cleared his throat.
“Well, that’s food for thought.” He brought his hand to his mouth and gave a
short smoker’s cough. “One more thing ‘afor we break up. I’m told that
Michelle, Thompson, Sam,” he inclined his head toward the garage, “and Andy
have already talked about this. But I want to be on the same page.” A deep,
throat wetting gulp of hot cider, followed by several puffs on his pipe
interrupted his speech momentarily. “I don’t want to be one of them things.
Neither does Bernie. If either of us come up sick, we got no hard feelings if
you put us down. Don’t give us the opportunity to hurt no one. Does everybody
understand what I’m saying here? Does anybody feel different?”

Nobody did, and a quick show of hands confirmed everybody’s
wishes.

“Alrighty then, that’s settled.” Walter turned to sit
but paused halfway, adding, “Now, don’t any of you impatient youngsters with
itchy trigger fingers pop me before my time. I’m old. Not every part of my body
works like it did when I was twenty, but just because I’m an old fart, that
doesn’t mean you have to fight to be first in line with a bullet each time I
cough.”

Several chuckles rebounded through the room as Walter
sat.

“OK,” Eric stood, “let’s figure out how we’re going to
take a run at Ravenwood.”

Bernice got up. “I’m off to bed.” Her announcement was
followed by similar ones from Rebecca and Fred. Bucky also moved off the couch
and nodded to the rest of them as he refilled his mug from the pot of battery
acid. “I got a lot of sleep today, so I’ll be on watch for the rest of the
night. Let me know if there’s anything else I can help with.”

The large coffee table in front of the couch was
cleared of cups, and Walter unfolded a USGS map of the surroundings. Pointing a
calloused fingertip toward a chunk of green shaded woodland, he said, “I agree
with Eric. This needs to be a small, surgical attempt. The problem is going to
be this,” his finger tapped a black line that threaded through the green,
“there’s only one way into, or out of, Ravenwood. If the team gets cornered or
cut off, there’s no escape.”

“No,” Eric shook his head as the wheels began to turn,
“that’s incorrect.” He wormed his way closer to the map. “Think ‘outside of the
box.’”

Several sets of tired eyes looked his way.

“Ravenwood campground has about a million ways to get
in . . . or out of.” He dropped his hand to the map and ran a finger around the
swath of blue surrounding the site. “All we need is a boat.” Turning to Walter,
Eric raised his eyebrows, “Know anybody that owns a marina?”

Eric watched as Walter folded up the map and yawned. A
glance at the clock on the wall showed a little past midnight, and he still had
several things to accomplish before he slept. Everybody else except Michelle
had just turned in, and he watched as she stood and stretched. It was like
watching a tall willow bend with the breeze, and her flexibility made him
grimace. And smile. Putting that thought out of his head for now, he took a
deep breath and pulled himself out of the recliner.

The metal door that had been shut during the meeting
now hung partway open as Doc finished checking his patients. A moment later it
pivoted on oiled hinges and he appeared, making several notations on a
clipboard held in the crook of his arm.

Doc looked up at Eric, “No change with Andy . . .
which could be good news,” he added almost immediately. “My granddaughter is
awake. She asked about you. Don’t keep her up too long.” Without waiting for a
reply, Doc ascended the stairs.

Taking a deep breath, exhaling, and repeating the
procedure several times brought Eric some semblance of calm, and he stepped
through the doorway. Michelle followed a pace behind.

The cement floor of the garage was polished smooth,
and the room still smelled faintly of bleach and antiseptic. The antiseptic
aroma reminded him of freshly peeled band aids mixed with the unforgettable
tang of every high school nurse’s office or athletic training room. Sheets had
been draped over some type of frame, dividing one half of the garage into two
separate medical areas. Moving to the closest improvised ‘room,’ he slid the
sheet aside and stepped in. The figure that lay still and unmoving beyond was
his uncle. A heavy wrapping of gauze encircled Andy’s head, completely covering
the right side of his face down to, and including, his ear. Moving to the
bedside, Eric took his uncle’s leathery hand in his own. He could sense
Michelle standing behind him as he spoke.

“Hey old man, I thought you said I’d never catch you
lying down on the job.”

Steady breathing was the only response.

“Don’t worry, we’ve got everything under control, and
all you need to do,” he squeezed his uncle’s hand, “is to concentrate on
getting better.”

The calloused hand of the person that had been the
most influential male role model in Eric’s life gave no indication that his
words had gotten through.

He felt Michelle’s arm slide around his waist and pull
close. “Eric, I’m so sorry. I should have been more aware. It’s my fault that
they got the drop on us. It’s my fault that Andy got shot.”

“I don’t believe that for a second. There was nothing
you could’ve done. Nothing he could have done. It was bad freakin’ luck.”

Michelle said nothing, and Eric wrapped both arms
around her, squeezing gently as he whispered, “It’s not your fault.”

They stayed in that position, trading hugs and
reassurance for several minutes. Finally, Michelle pulled away and managed a
weak smile. “Let’s go see Emily.”

They closed the curtain to Andy’s section and walked
over to Emily’s area. The sheets that had been hung were embroidered with
sporadic butterflies, and Eric cleared his throat before sliding them aside.

“Emily, it’s Eric and Michelle—are you awake?”

“Hey,” the weak voice sounded from beyond the curtain,
“come on in.”

He pushed past the divider and walked over to her
bedside. Michelle came through but stayed by the sheet wall.

“How are you feeling?”

Emily’s dark eyes focused on Eric momentarily before
closing briefly.

“Tired,” she mumbled behind still closed eyes.

“Doc . . . I mean your grandfather, says that you’re
going to be fine. You’ve lost a lot of blood, but he patched you up pretty
good.”

Her eyes fluttered open, and from beneath the bed sheet
a delicate hand appeared. Eric stepped close and took the offering, almost
fully enveloping her with his bear sized grip. She managed a smile, and then
took a shallow breath before speaking. “It still hurts if I breathe too deep.
And . . . whatever grandpa gave me for the pain is still making my head fuzzy.
But I guess that all things considered, I’m pretty lucky.”

Eric smiled down at her and squeezed her hand.
“Emily.” Her eyes blinked and refocused on him as he continued, “Thank you. You
saved Michelle; you put your life on the line for all of us.” He nosed toward
her bandaged shoulder. “You took a bullet for us, and I just wanted to say
thank you.”

She smiled and to squeeze his hand. “You owe me big
time. Has it rained?”

“Yes, I owe you big . . . um, what did you mean, ‘has
it rained?’”

The smile that broke across her face had its
beginnings somewhere in dreamland, but her words were crystal clear. “You owe
me,” she laughed momentarily before it turned to a wince. Through clenched
teeth she continued, “Rain . . . has it rained since I’ve been here?”

“No.”

“Good. Get my camera.”

“Emily, it’s a long way back up to where I found you. I
may not be able to get to it for quite awhile.”

“No you lunkhead, up on the bluff overlooking your
uncle’s cabin. That camera.”

It came rushing back to Eric, and he remembered that Emily
had been looking through a camera’s long telephoto lens at the scene that had
unfolded outside the cabin. Eric had taken off at a sprint, and when Emily
caught up to him at the cabin, she wasn’t carrying the heavy camera.

“Oh, that one.” He squeezed her hand again, “I’ll do
what I can . . . as soon as I can.”

“Good.” Her half closed eyes blinked twice, and then
turned their gaze over his shoulder as Michelle moved up.

The moments of silence that followed seemed—at least
to Eric—to last somewhere in the vicinity of a few dozen millennia as the two
ladies studied each other. Finally, Michelle stepped closer and took Emily’s
hand from Eric.

“You saved my life, Emily. I can never thank you
enough.” She moved closer and brushed Emily’s shiny black hair off of her
forehead. “You saved me from a terrible, terrible fate, at the risk of your own
life, and I just wanted you to know . . . personally . . . how much that means
to me.”

“S’OK, you would have done the same thing,” Emily
mumbled with a tired voice that matched her eyes. “Tell . . . Eric . . . to get
my camera.”

“I will,” Michelle answered as Emily closed her eyes.

Eric stood up and rubbed his eyebrows in
concentration. “I think I’m going to stop and see my uncle briefly on the way
out. Then I’m going up to see Max one more time tonight. After that, I’m
turning in.”

There was a folding chair leaning against the wall by
Emily’s head, and Michelle stood and reached for it, pried it open, and plopped
herself down. “I’m going to stay here for a little while, OK?”

He managed a weak smile, but nodded as he left.

His uncle showed no change, and Eric wished him a
silent ‘goodnight, get well’ as he looked in. It was hard to believe that the
person lying there, immobile, unconscious, and battling for survival, was the
same person that he’d known all his life to be full of energy, attitude, and
fire. But it was true. He bowed his head and said a quick prayer for healing
before walking back through the fire door.

“He’ll pull through, you wait and see.” It was Walter,
seated on the couch with his feet crossed and propped up on the coffee table.
Beside him sat a long rectangular box wrapped in a hodgepodge of paper grocery
bags. He swatted the cushion next to him and indicated for Eric to sit.

“Eric my boy, are you sure you want to do this . . .
Ravenwood I mean?”

“Want to . . . no. But I feel like it’s the right
thing to do.”

Walter said nothing as he studied Eric.

“What’s in the box?” Eric pointed a finger at the
Frankenstein wrapping job.

“Your birthday present from your uncle.”

“My birthday isn’t until October.”

“I know, but this is something that Andy had me order several
months ago. We weren’t sure how long it would take to get here.”

Walter twisted and grabbed the box, and then set it on
the table in front of Eric. A second, similarly wrapped, but much smaller
package—this one removed from underneath the couch—soon joined it.

“That one is from me and Bernice.”

“Which one should I open first?”

“Andy’s.”

Eric popped the snap on the sheath of his Buck knife;
the
click
immediately brought a flash memory of the last time he had
done so at the cabin. It took a forceful battle against his will to dismiss the
images that accompanied it.

Shaking his head, he slid the razor sharp blade
through the substantial layers of clear packing tape. Underneath was the
unmistakable red and white logo of Benelli, a manufacturer of high quality
weapons.

His eyes widened his he revealed the full length of
the carton. “Holy crap, this is an M2 shotgun.”

Walter nodded, “And not just that. Your uncle special
ordered it from their custom shop. Once it got here, we turned around and shipped
it off to some folks down in Texas who modified it even further for high speed
shooting at your 3 gun matches. It’s got a Nordic Component extended magazine
tube and a bunch of other bells and whistles. Everything on it has been buffed
and polished and tweaked so much so that you ought to be able to just sit in
your truck and let the gun hop up to the line and shoot the course by itself.”

The stunned look on Eric’s face accompanied the
knowledge that he was holding about $3000.00 in his hands.

“Open the other one,” Walter indicated.

He set the shotgun box on the table and sliced open
the other package. Inside were several unwrapped shotgun speed loaders, and an
additional pair of factory magazines for his CZ 9mm.

“I don’t know what to say. To either of you.”

“Don’t say anything, just come back safe.”

“Are you sure that you can spare the ammunition for
our little raid?” Eric asked with raised eyebrows.

Walter sighed, and then took a moment to tap out the
ashes of his pipe into a ceramic bowl decorated with scantily clad mermaids.
“Eric, you know that Andy and I have always been a little squirrelly when it
comes to trusting others for our well being. You also know that the motto of
‘be prepared’ is something that we’ve put more than just a little amount of
time, effort, and money in to. Your uncle has raised you well, and I know that
you share a lot of our philosophies about being self sufficient, honorable, and
Christian. I also know that you’re a young buck who probably doesn’t have the
means, financially anyhow, to accumulate a sufficient amount of . . .
‘supplies’ for the future. Well, we have. Underneath Andy’s new outbuilding is
a good size basement just about chock full of supplies. We figured on being
able to support a dozen people for somewhere between three to five years, food
wise, if something happened to our country, or economy. There’s also a metric
shit-ton of ammunition, and the weapons to fire it. I don’t want to get into
all of it right now, but let’s just say that Andy’s cabin was our destination
if the turds ever hit the fan.”

“Is this the part where you’re going to tell me that I
was dumb for not saving all of my pre-64 quarters and nickels?”

Walter chuckled, “Let me tell you something. There’s a
lot of yah-who’s out there who have been putting their money into things like
gold and silver, because they figured that if anything happened, it would be
the only currency that would remain stable and valuable. I want you to think
about what might be happening at thousands of places—maybe millions—across the
world. There are people that, as far as we know, are probably huddled in some
basement, or shelter, or attic . . . starving . . . dying of thirst. They might
be surrounded by those gray things, or cut off from safety. Now which do you think
they’d rather have right now, a bag of silver quarters, or some granola bars,
water, and a box of shells for their pistol?”