Fade to Grey (Book 2): Darkness Ascending (45 page)

I edged up next to Michelle, studying her face. She seemed
awestruck with wonder at the beauty of her surroundings, and I almost had to
tug her hand to get her to follow me down the narrow trail. I stopped her at
the dragon rocks, and spun her around slowly. To the south and west, all you
could see was the upper reaches of tall trees gracefully arching above the
granite wall. Looking north . . . down the spoon and over the far thrusting
bedrock that enclosed the ridge top glade, you could see the sways and
switchbacks of the low hills as they meandered toward Canada. From ground level
by the dragon rock, looking east all you could see was blue sky and the wall of
exposed stone, also heavily covered with moss, lichens, and occasional clumps
of ferns. I pulled at her hand again as I whispered, “There’s more . . . come
with me.”

I led her down to the bottom into the sea of
wildflowers. Up ahead and to the right, a huge section of the wall had fallen
out years, or maybe eons ago. It left behind a rocky shelf about twenty feet
wide and maybe half that deep. That was my destination, and I could see Max
sitting there waiting for us.

“Close your eyes.”

She looked at me . . . then around me . . . still
trying to embrace the ancient, almost ethereal magnetism and charm of the
grove.

“Close your eyes,” I repeated softly.

I watched as she deliberately closed them a millimeter
at a time—her face beaming even brighter and her nostrils flaring as she took
in the delicate smell of the violets that glided towards us on the breeze. I
squeezed her hand and pulled her after me, guiding her around the occasional
foot catch until we stepped out onto the rock shelf.

“Wait for it,” my voice came out whisper quiet as I
moved behind her, letting my hands slide up until they rested on her shoulders.
“OK, open your eyes.”

She did, and immediately gasped. From the rock shelf, the
ridge sloped rapidly downward, a not so gradual drop in altitude of almost 700
feet over the distance of maybe half a mile until it ended at the wide expanse
of Ghost Echo Lake. Its iron gray, green, and blue waters filled the horizon
and painted a sometimes somber, but usually vivid counter to the summer green
or winter browned treetops below. I sat down cross-legged on the rock next to
Max and stared out at the vast breadth of creation that filled my eyes. It
never failed to amaze me, and I had always made it a point to visit this place
at least once every year. I sensed, rather than saw, Michelle sliding down next
to me. She didn’t say a word; she just wrapped her arm around my waist and
stared. We stayed like that—silent and unmoving—each of us lost in our own
thoughts until dusk began to approach. My arm had somehow found Michelle’s
waist. I gave her a gentle squeeze.

“I’ve got to get the firewood and packs.”

She shook her head slowly, almost like she was
fighting to recover from a daze. “This is unbelievable.”

“Stay here and enjoy it for awhile, I’ll be back.”

“I’ll help you.”

“Actually, you can if you want, but from inside.”

I stood, and she followed as I walked back through the
flowers. “Look over there,” I pointed toward the wall on the eastern side of
the dragon rock, “that’s the only modification I’ve made to this place.”

An area roughly fifteen feet square had been leveled
off in the gradual slope of the dirt. Numerous squat rock piles were stacked on
the downhill slope of the flat area to help prevent erosion. Judging from their
barely visible state beneath the regrowth of low plants, they were
accomplishing their task with efficiency. A small stone campfire circle
sprouted up near the massive granite wall. I guided her over to the west side
of the dragon rock. “It’s a lot easier for me to carry the wood up the trail
and throw it over the ‘castle walls,’ as you say, than to try and worm it
through the narrow entrance. It saves a lot of wear and tear on the moss in the
doorway as well. The food, and maybe our backpacks, will still have to come
through that way, though.”

She considered my words for a brief second before
replying, “Why don’t we both carry all of the supplies from the truck up to the
castle. After we do that, you can throw the wood over and I’ll carry it to the
fire ring. Then we can both work together to move our other supplies through
the tunnel—less chance of scraping up the moss that way.” 

“That works for me.”

Just after dark, we moved the last of the supplies
through the gateway and over to the campsite. I had grabbed enough firewood to
last for either several nights’ worth of small blazes, or one night kept at redneck
bonfire level. Because the fire ring was set against the granite walls—at least
fifteen feet tall by the campsite—any flames, even redneck sized, would be
invisible to spectators unless they were flying overhead. I stuck my flashlight
in a small crevice to hold it steady and we set up the tent. Twenty minutes
later, the tent was up and the fire was beginning to throw off its first coals.
I radioed Walter and let him know that we’d be back tomorrow sometime, and then
turned to Michelle. “Are you hungry yet?”

“Famished.”

“How’s a giant portion of beef stew sound to you?” I
asked.

“Canned or homemade?

“Would your answer be any different?”

Michelle laughed, “No, right now I’m hungry enough to
eat just about anything.”

“Well,” I said as I reached into the food sack I had loaded
up from the cabin’s kitchen, “it’s canned, and it’s one of those off brands
that my uncle got from some buyers club down in Bismarck, but I’ve had it
before. It’s pretty good. Plus, I brought two industrial sized cans of it.”

“That actually sounds pretty good, but I feel I
wouldn’t be doing myself justice if I didn’t ask about the other options. What
else ya’ got in the sack?”

I stuffed my face in the opening of the cotton duffel,
“I’ve got peanut butter, jelly, almost a whole loaf of rye bread—mostly
squished from its encounter with two large cans of beef stew, though. There’s
also a frozen carton of those fake eggs, although they won’t be of any use
until they thaw . . . hopefully by tomorrow morning. The last thing I’ve got is
a bottle of squeeze honey, and a zip lock bag filled with pancake and biscuit
mix. I’m sure the honey came from one of Uncle Andy’s beehives. Oh yeah,
there’s also about three pounds of dry dog food.”

“I’m so hungry it all sounds good, even the dog food, but
let’s go with the beef stew.”

“I’m on it.”

“And I’m,” she looked at me with an amused,
mischievous grin, “going to be in the tent for a minute.”

Her silhouette dipped through the opening, briefly
casting an erotic, shadow puppet peep show on the tent walls. The show ended in
darkness when she turned her flashlight off. I heard several fumbling noises;
most of them being associated with what I guessed were the zippers on her
backpack. After a few minutes she came out . . . the only obvious differences
that I noticed were the dark blue pullover sweatshirt she wore in place of, or
maybe over top of the long sleeve flannel she’d had on earlier . . . and her
hair—ponytailed on the way up—was now loose and hanging in gentle curls.

My largest pot was only big enough to handle one of
the cans at a time, so I set it up and got the beef stew warming. “Let me show
you something.”

“There’s more?”

“Well, you’ve had the main tour already, so this is
just the sprinkles on the cupcake.”

We got up and I walked her down to the western edge of
the spoon. A tiny spring—a seep, really—filtered its way from a patch of
meadowsweet toward the stone barrier. Before it drained through the granite and
moss, it pooled in a shallow, rocky basin surrounded by thick layers of
lichens. It was no wider than an average bathroom sink, and only about three
inches deep, but it was clean and I had drunk out of it many times. I used the
smaller of my nesting pots to fill both of our canteens and my backpack’s water
bladder to capacity, and then we headed back to the fire. My canteen was used
to refill the small pot.

“I’m assuming you’re still a fan of my hot chocolate?”

“As long as you’re still doubling the recipe I am.”

Four packs were emptied into the water, stirred, and
set on a flat rock at the edge of the fire.

“Tell me something . . .” Michelle started as she blew
on her steaming cup of hot chocolate a few minutes later.

“What do you want to know?”

She cut loose with a bemused snort; her head still shaking
in disbelief for several seconds afterwards. “What do I want to know?” she
echoed. “I don’t even know where to begin with that one.”

The firelight cast flickering shadows against the
mossy wall as I leaned forward and stirred the pot of stew. A dozen circular
swirls followed by several figure-eights evened out the heat distribution in
the slightly bubbling, chunky mixture, and then I crunched back down next to
her.

She didn’t skip a beat. “Let’s start with that.”

“With what?”

“With why you’re being so quiet. Normally you don’t
shut up, Eric. I mean, I know that we’ve had a lot to deal with in the past few
days, but seriously, where’s the chatterbox I grew up with?”

“Waiting and praying.”

“Waiting and praying for what?”

My arm had once again followed a mind of its own and
was wrapped around Michelle’s waist. Her forearm was folded over top of mine .
. . her fingers curved around my hand and squeezed gently.

“I’m waiting for this dream to end, and praying that
it won’t.”

I felt her long hair brush against my neck as she
leaned her head on my shoulder. “It’s not just your dream Eric, so let’s make
sure it doesn’t end, OK?”

“Deal.” I squeezed her even tighter. She tilted her
lips to my neck and gave me a soft, nibbling kiss.

“Besides,” she murmured, “I need to keep you around
long enough to answer a biology question for me.”

My eyebrows rose as I turned to look at her
questioningly.

“It’s about birds. I know that wasn’t your specialty
in college, but I was hoping you’d still be able to help me.”

I could sense that I was being set up, but I couldn’t
see where she was headed just yet.

Michelle continued, “I’ve heard through a reliable
source that you were able to photograph one of the rarest avian species in
existence.”

My eyebrows crunched together in confusion. “Huh?”

She pushed back and held meet at arm’s length. “My
source told me that you have a picture of a species known as the ‘flying
Owens.’ It’s a rare creature that is known for its ability to crash land on
hard surfaces. They tell me that the only picture known to exist of this
creature is in a field guide to western birds.”

The wheels all clicked together. My uncle was the only
one who knew about that. He and Michelle had just spent, what, almost two or
three days together. And he ratted me out.

“So, the old man sold me downriver, did he?”

“He couldn’t resist my charms. It only took a few
minutes before I had him eating out of my hands.”

“I see. I’m guessing that the both of you spent the
entire trip talking about me, at least when you weren’t invading military bases
or escaping from ghouls in the back hallway of your office.”

“Most of it. You were a pretty interesting topic of
conversation.” Her smile beamed so bright with reflected firelight that I
almost blinked. “Besides,” she added, “I ratted you out to him as well.”

“With?”

“I told him about the ill-fated Saint Patrick’s Day
keg party.”