Fade to Grey (Book 2): Darkness Ascending (48 page)

“That’s pretty much correct.”

“And,” her body spun on tiptoes completely through a
double 360 on the flat rocks, “your uncle is the one who knows this story?”

“Yes, one of the few.”

She vaulted into the air and kicked one heel behind
her, contacting it with an outstretched hand before sticking the landing.

“So, knowing that there are probably a thousand
stories that would keep any sane woman from marrying you . . . which particular
one would a lady ask your uncle to tell if she were, in fact, interested.”

“Are you implying that you’re interested?”

“I am,” she smiled like a Cheshire cat.

“Ask him to tell you the story about the fox.”

She sat back down on the bench and tilted my chin to
look directly at her. “I will.” Another one of her toe tingling kisses
followed. When we came up for air, she leaned back and laid across my thighs.
“Not that I want to ruin this moment,” she said, “but finish your story.”

“Where was I?”

“Nuclear missiles.”

“Yeah . . . anyhow, we sat on this bench just watching
our bobbers frozen in place, and my uncle pointed towards the tree line above
the dirt road again.

“Seventy-five miles, give or take, to a very
appealing, and non-mobile target for our enemies. Eric, if something ever
happens to trigger the launch of those missiles, their flight time is roughly thirty-five
minutes to their targets in the Soviet Union. The return volley, many of which
are still targeted at our missile fields, will be here in roughly the same
time.”

“And then we’ll all get blown up?”

“Probably not, although the Soviet’s targeting
technology isn’t quite up to snuff with ours, it’ll be plenty accurate enough
to turn Minot into a glowing mushroom cloud of radioactive waste, not to
mention the rest of the United States.”

Michelle stopped me again. “OK, wait a minute. Are you
saying that your uncle filled your head with visions of Armageddon when he came
back from wherever he’d gone?”

“What I’m saying is that for years afterward, every
time I sat on this bench, I kept looking toward the sky, half expecting to see
the trails of missiles that would signify the end of the world.”

“That’s kind of an eerie picture to paint in the head
of a thirteen year old kid. Did he ever tell you what happened . . . you know,
why he had to go away for a few days?”

“Not really. I ask him about it, oh . . . I guess
about eight years later, and all he would tell me is that something happened
that triggered a series of events that
could have
ended badly.”

“Do you think it had anything to do with what’s going
on now . . . the sickness, I mean?”

“No.”

Her lips flat lined as she studied the loose rocks on
the lakeshore. “You know, the 91
^st
near Minot is still active.”

“I know.”

“So when did you stop worrying about the missiles?” Michelle
asked.

“When I was twenty years old, very drunk, and sitting
right here proclaiming my wisdom to the world, or failing that, to anything
that would listen. I decided that there wasn’t a damn thing I could do about
it, so why worry.”

She sprawled across my lap in silence for another
moment, then got to her feet and extended a hand. I took it and stood alongside
her.

“Thank you for sharing.”

I said nothing, but squeezed her hand lightly.

“Are you ready to come up with a plan?” she asked.

“Yeah.”

“You know, I just remembered that I told your uncle I
wouldn’t rat him out for spilling the beans about the picture.”

I laughed out loud. “If I know my uncle, whatever he
said to you, or however he phrased it, was specifically designed to
get you
to tell me about your conversation with him.”

“He’s a pretty sneaky old man,” Michelle joined in my
amusement.

“Oh, you have no idea.”

The panel truck shook with the impact of the lashing
wind gusts, almost enough that he couldn’t feel the shivering
vibrations
that surged through the body of his daughter. Almost. Enclosed within, the
thirty-odd passengers had waited in a silence that was broken only by the
occasional sob or moan . . . sometimes both. Now, even the groans were
smothered as the squall threw a mixture of driving rain and fast melting hail
against the aluminum walls. Hours of rough transport had passed since the truck
had turned off the pavement and bounced, rattled, and squeaked its way onward
through the night. It had finally ended about ten minutes ago when the heavy
vehicle completed a multi-point, passenger jarring series of maneuvers before
coming to an idling rest. The faint, overhead freight light had come on, and
the guard, still chain smoking on the stool, responded to a series of thumps on
the cargo door. Crushing the stub of the unfiltered cancer stick under his heel,
he turned to the huddled crowd.

“You stay. Almost time for last ride, yes?”

A series of metallic rattles signified the lock was
being removed, and then the rolling door lifted partway. Several low
voices—some Russian, some English—drifted in, but were lost in the wind and
rain. The guard gripped a worn steel handle midway up the wall and pulled
himself upright. A moment later he hopped out of the truck and disappeared.
Across the cargo bed, one of the gray cloaked French ladies began to sing a
subdued melody to the block of children pressed against her. He didn’t
understand the words, but the tune was vaguely familiar. As his tired mind
attempted to track down the song, he felt his wife’s hand slide across his coat
sleeve before stopping with a gentle grasp at his wrist.

“It will be OK . . . just a little while longer. I
promise.” His attempt at reassurance fell on ears deafened by a decade’s worth
of halfhearted attempts to salvage a marriage they both knew was doomed.

Another series of shivers ran across his daughter’s
face, and he pulled her tighter as the door was rolled fully upward. The two
Russians stood there, flanked by three other men. Bright flashlights in their
hands shocked his eyes to slits. A voice—English, but with a hint of
French—crested at the literally captive audience.

“I want you to know this right now. As far as I’m
concerned, you’re cargo. Expendable cargo. At the first sign of trouble, I put
you out . . . permanently. No questions ask, no questions answered. You know
what’s happening in the world. Lots of people getting sick . . . bad sick. If
any of you give me even the slightest hint that you might be contaminated, my
boys will throw you out. We don’t care if we have to rip you out of the arms of
your wife, or tear you away from your mommy and daddy. You’re gone. And another
thing . . . this isn’t a luxury transport. Ain’t no room service or buffet
line. If you’re hungry now, you’ll be hungry until we get to where we’re
going.”

The Russian’s voice cut in. “Time to go now. You get
off truck and walk. No stop, or I shoot you in foot . . . maybe ass,” he added
with a harsh laugh.

The ramp was pulled out, and with the aid of bright
flashlights and encouragement in the form of shotgun muzzles, the passengers
stepped to the ground. They were directed down a short, rocky path that ended
with the sound of wind driven, slapping waves banging against an aged concrete
loading dock. Butting up against massive, creosote soaked timbers was the squat
silhouette of a rusty barge, it’s chocolate iron hull shielded from the
repetitive impacts by a line of automobile tires that hung suspended from the
deck. They were marched up a broad wooden incline tacked with remnants of
non-skid, traction enhancing material that had probably lost its effectiveness
at least a decade ago, until their entire group was huddled on the lightly
rolling ship. Incomplete sections of thick, steel railing bordered the
weathered planks that made up the barge’s topside, and rows of bulky cargo
anchor points were bolted to, or recessed into, the deck. The only raised
structures were the boxy form of the ship’s wheelhouse situated near the bow,
and a large boom pole draped with pulleys and hydraulic lines. The beam of a
flashlight illuminated a metal trapdoor. A tall, skinny form, artificially made
thicker with layers of insulated rain gear, joined his light with the one
already on the floor behind him. Water droplets mixed with hail cascaded
through his solid beard as he spoke.

“All of you will be down below with the others. It
ain’t heated, but there’s enough of you to stay warm. You’re the last load, so
you might have to squeeze in. Keep your hands to yourself, you hear me. If you
got to go, there’s a toilet down there. No paper though . . . and you can
forget about privacy—no walls either.”

“How soon until we get to the rescue station?” The
question had come from a ski jacket wrapped man at the edge of the group.
Immediately, flashlights and gun barrels were pointed his way.

The skinny, bearded man took a step forward and
pointed a silent finger at the crowd. “Maybe you didn’t hear me. No questions,
no answers. I mean that. I don’t want to know you, because I don’t care about
you. You . . . are . . . cargo. Nothing more.” He paused and looked over the
shivering group, his eyes lingering slightly longer on the children. “Don’t
test me, understand?”

Callous laughter echoed between the Russians, and the
bearded man looked their way briefly before turning back to the crowd. “This
one is free. Any more and you’re off of my ship.” He shined his light back at
the trapdoor. “You’ll be down below the whole time. As soon as my pilot gets
here, we leave. He might be here in ten minutes, or he may not show up for two
days. Either way, you’re down below. Once he gets here and the ship’s starts
moving, it’ll take about seven hours of slow going until we reach . . . your
destination. Once there, you get out, and get off my ship.” He reached under
the overhang of his rain jacket and drew out a large black revolver, thumbed
the hammer back with a
click
, and pointed it at the crowd. “Now, are
there any more questions?”

They were led through the trap door and down the metal
stairs to a short hallway. Two doors stood on opposite ends, and they were
directed toward the far one. The other, labeled “Engine Room” in hand painted,
grease splattered letters, was chained shut. Standing in front of the unmarked door
was a portly man with long gray hair that protruded from underneath a loose
fitting, knitted wool cap. The solid wooden stock of a military surplus rifle,
complete with bayonet, was held in his hands. With a nod toward the bearded
captain, he banged the metal butt plate of his rifle against the door.

“Stand back . . . we got the last load coming in . . .
make room!” His shout accompanied the removal of a key from his pocket. A
moment later the door swung open and they were moved inside. The large hold beyond
was almost sixty feet long and filled a sea of faces. The air reeked of sweat,
diesel fuel, and urine, and several members of his group made heaving sounds as
the stench hit them full force. Illumination in the large room was provided by
a pair of wire-enshrouded bulbs on opposite corners near the ceiling, and their
weak light showed that most of the hold’s occupants were already huddled
together in groups for warmth. The child in his arms shivered again, and he
found a place to sit down. His wife and other daughter joined a moment later,
along with the trio of Spanish ladies. Behind them, the cargo hold door shut
with the sound of a coffin nail under the weight of a blacksmith’s hammer. In
the echoing stillness that followed, he reached out his arms to encircle his
family. Intense tremors continued to shake through his daughter, and a wet,
raspy cough now emerged from his wife's lips. The gloomy darkness of the hold only
served to amplify the low moaning that began to reach his ears.

Back on the loading dock, beads of rain pooled in the
dense beard of the captain. He turned his narrow set, dark eyes toward another
man, equally protected against the weather with layers of heavy PVC. “That
makes 377 passengers. When is Lew going to get here?”

“I don’t know, boss. He said he’d be here. Maybe he’s
trying to hold out for a bigger cut.”

The captain grunted, muttering a series of low curses
under his breath before replying. “The only thing more he’ll get from me is a
bullet in the back of his head.” He lifted the sleeve of the yellow rain jacket
and studied the glowing points on his wristwatch. “He’s got two hours. If he
doesn’t show, we go without him.”

In front of the men, the headlights of the departing
moving truck slashed across the barge, illuminating for a split second the
faded white lettering on the side of the wheelhouse. It read,

A & J Logging Company

You Saw It, We Haul It

Ghost Echo Lake
Transportation

United States and Canada