Fade to Grey (Book 2): Darkness Ascending (36 page)

“OK Eric, we’ve got you at our four o’clock—about
sixty yards away and crouching behind the sliding board.”

“Copy that.”
Eric removed his binoculars and searched the area, concentrating most of his
effort toward the wooden sided modular home that served as the campground’s
office. A low deck—a covered porch really—had been added at some point in the
not so recent history and sprawled outwards toward the split rail fence that
corralled the front yard. Or would have, if it hadn’t been in such disrepair.
The porch was occupied by two weathered rocking chairs and a much newer cedar
glider. One of the chairs was on its side, and the glider, suspended from the
rafters by four plastic covered green cables, stirred in the now stiff breeze.
At the far side of the tin roof covering the porch stood a mature burr oak
tree. Its lowest limb was a good eight feet above the roof, but from there it
towered another seventy feet, spreading out into a huge canopy that both
provided shade for the office, as well as a guaranteed gutter clogging leaf
fall every autumn. Its thick trunk, almost two feet in diameter, was carved
with dozens of initials—some encased in a rough heart shape, others without any
adornment.

The corner where the fence met the porch was his next
stop, and after glassing the area yet another time, he stood and darted
forward. As his footsteps carried him closer and closer toward the fence line
barely fifty yards away, the wind began to drop. He slowed his pace to walk,
and then stopped—lowering himself into a crouch and morphing onto a tan, black,
and brown lump growing from the short grass at the edge of the athletic field.

“What are you doing?”
Michelle’s voice cut through his headphones,
immediately re-emphasized by Sam.

“Wait . . .,”
Eric trailed off as his senses flared,
“something’s not right.”

“What do you mean . . . do you see something?”

“No, I don’t see anything. But something feels . . .
off.”

“Can you be more specific?”
Sam asked.

“Eric,”
Michelle’s familiar voice came across,
“I’ve got you covered from here, but
I can’t see anything else.”

The breeze dropped even further, now barely a whisper,
as the little tickle in Eric’s stomach spread to the back of his neck. As he
tried to focus, Walters’s stern voice cut in.
“Go with your gut, boy. What’s
it telling you?”

Keeping his eyes forward, Eric thumbed the safety of
the M2 into the off position.
“It’s like when you’re a kid and you’re
walking down a road, kicking a rock in front of you as you go. Only sometimes
your pace doesn’t line up with the rock’s position for the next kick, and you
have to take that little stutter step. And the more you kick that rock, the
further away you can feel when you’re not going to be lined up. That crinkled
in your gut. That’s what I’m feeling. Something is not lining up. Michelle, how
many RVs can you see down Golden Eagle Loop?”

“Um, I’ve got six . . ., no, wait . . . eight that I
can see from here.”

“Can you see any movement, or any doors hanging open .
. . any flags?”

“The only one that I’ve got a clear view of is Doc’s
RV sitting in the campground host slot. The other ones I’ve only got a partial
view because of the distance and angle. No flags or movement. If we pull
forward to about where you are, I’ll be able to see a lot more.”

“No, wait until I’m in position.”

“Are you sure?”

After a moment’s hesitation, accompanied by several
more chills of warning, Eric replied,
“No, I’m not sure. Hold on.”

As he studied the panorama in front of him, Eric
thought back to a long ago summer when he was thirteen years old. He’d already spent
over half of his month-long vacation hanging out and kicking around the
wilderness at Uncle Andy’s cabin. Every morning was made up of what his uncle
called ‘mountain man sports.’ Some days it would be fishing, or target
shooting, or canoeing. Other mornings would find them hiking up to the ridge at
first light to watch the sunrise over Ghost Echo Lake. Afternoons were built
around a never ending list of ‘man chores,’ like plowing the garden, or
splitting firewood. Evenings were his favorite though. Normally it was a campfire
by his uncle’s lake where he’d hear stories about Indians and bears and Uncle
Andy’s youth—sometimes all three mixed in the same tale. The final day he’d
spent with his uncle that summer had started with both of them choosing
seasoned limbs from the pile destined to be kindling, and then whittling,
carving, and sanding them into walking sticks. They fire-hardened the tips in a
blaze that Eric had started with a bow drill he’d made earlier that week, and
then decorated the shafts with animals, stars, and other nature symbols using
crushed berries for paint. At sunset, they had hiked several miles into the
forest and built a lean-to against the trunk of a fallen aspen. There was no
fire that night. No stories, either. Just two men in the wilderness—surrounded
by things with giant claws and sharp fangs. The lesson that night had been
simple, but lasting.

“Can you see anything?” his uncle had asked.

“Not really. It’s pretty dark and there’s no moon
tonight.”

“So learn to see another way.”

“Like with a flashlight?”

“What if you didn’t have a flashlight?”

“I guess I could move to an area where the trees
weren’t so thick. Maybe the stars would be bright enough for me to see.”

“You’ve got eyes like a cat, Eric. That’s a gift from
God that will serve you well the rest of your life. But for now, let’s say that
you’ve got no flashlight, no starlight, no fire, and nothing else besides what’s
here right now. How can you see?

He’d thought for a minute or two, and then replied,
“If I can’t use my eyes, I guess I’ll have to use my other senses.”

“How?”

“Well, if I’m quiet I should be able to hear the sound
of animals moving through the forest. If the wind is right, I might be able to
smell something, like a bear.”

“If you’re close enough to smell a bear, you might
have some other problems besides being stuck in the woods at night . . ., but
you’re right—your other four senses can give you a pretty complete picture of
your environment. And the really amazing thing is that if you practice . . . if
you ‘tune’ yourself to listen to those other senses, they kind of knit together
into a sixth sense.”

“Like magic?”

“Call it what you will, boy, but that sixth sense has
saved many a man’s life. So learn to listen to it.”

“Did you bring a gun?”

“No, I brought the same thing that you did—a walking
stick—which I’m about to use on my way back to the cabin.”

“WHAT?”

His uncle had hunkered down next to Eric and put a
hand on his shoulder. “You’ll be fine. There’s a saying that goes something
like this . . . ‘never fear in the darkness what your heart knows to be true in
the light.’ What that means is that the same squirrels that are out here in the
daytime—the same trees, the same bears and deer and moose—are the same ones
that are out here at night. Nature didn’t make any monsters, Eric.”

Eric scrutinized the campground as a swirling gust
shifted the wind to his left. “No monsters, huh,” he thought. “Until now,” he
mumbled.

“What did you say?”
Michelle asked.

“Nothing. Just thinking out loud,”
he sighed.
“Alright, move the truck until you’re
about where the road forks. That should put you about forty yards from Doc’s
camper. Once you’re there and providing cover, I’m going to hit the roof.”

“Got it.”

From his crouched position, he watched as Sam piloted
the SUV toward the split of the pavement. Michelle had her rifle shouldered,
peering down the barrel as she scanned for targets. In short order her voice
came through.
“I’ve got nothing. Still no deliberate movement . . . although
the wind is making it a bit confusing.”

“Mike, how are things down at your end?”

Callie answered,
“Hey Eric, Mike is getting the
other boat started, but I’m looking through the binoculars and everything looks
the same.”

“OK, thanks. Michelle . . . Sam . . ., I’m getting
ready to move.”

“We’re ready.”

Eric stood and scampered forward until he came to the
fence, then slid to the right, moving along the edge of the office building
until he reached the back corner. The ladder was resting on its side, tilted
forty-five degrees to lean against the block foundation of the office. He moved
the shotgun over his shoulder and cinched up the weapon’s sling, snugging it
against his back. As quietly as he could, he reached down and grabbed the
ladder, and then returned to the side of the building near the porch where the
roof was lower. So far, so good. The wind shifted again and blew against his
back as he brought the ladder into an upright position, carefully angling it
against the faded white length of aluminum gutter that ran around the perimeter
of the porch roof. His right foot was reaching for the second rung when an
abrupt shift in the breeze charged toward his face, bringing with it the
unmistakable scent of raw meat and feces. He froze.

“What is it?
”
Michelle asked almost immediately.

Ever so carefully, he stepped down off the ladder and
loosened the M2’s sling. Michelle repeated her question.

There were no windows on the front of the office, only
a wooden door that looked mostly shut, but not latched. Staring down the barrel
through the ghost ring sights on the shotgun, Eric noted the protruding length
of a crowbar near the threshold that was preventing the door from shutting all
the way.

“Michelle, I’ve got a smell coming from the office. At
least I think it’s from the office.”

He stepped around the ladder, and carefully over a
section of fence where the top runner was missing. Three more delicate paces
brought him even with the cedar glider. The wind jogged and danced again,
swirling a dust devil of last year’s leaves into a miniature cyclone near the
base of the carved oak tree as Eric crept forward on the planking.

His next stride produced a loud
squeak
, and he
gritted his teeth as the sharp noise disappeared in the shifting breeze . . . the
same breeze that now ricocheted and whirled underneath the tin roof of the
porch, bringing with it the fetid stench of decay and human waste. Four more
deliberate half steps positioned him with his back against the wall just
outside of the office door. Silent bells of alarm were ringing nonstop in his
head as he steadied his breathing. There were no windows on the front . . . no
windows on the sides either, and he racked his brain trying to remember if he
had seen a window on the back when he had scooped up the ladder. He drew a
blank.

“Doc,”
Eric’s bare whisper sounded thunderously loud, and he half expected the door to
fly open under the weight of charging ghouls at the sound,
“can you hear
me?”

Both Michelle’s and Walter’s voices came back
simultaneously in question.
“What did you say?”

He swallowed, and then tilted his chin slightly down
so the transducer microphone was corralled better against his throat.

“I need Doc Collins to answer a question. Are there
any windows in the office?”

Walters’s voice came back almost immediately.
“No,
the campground office has no windows. Did you copy that?”