Fade to Grey (Book 2): Darkness Ascending (59 page)

“I see, you get in my pants and all of a sudden you don’t
want to be seen with me in public.”

“I . . . wait . . . . . . what?”

Michelle’s giggle blossomed in my ear. “I’m just
teasing you, Eric.”

“Uh huh.” I managed to stammer.

We crept to the dock and removed several life jackets
from the patrol boat. They piled nicely to allow Michelle a padded sniper nest
on the wooden planks. When she was in position, I crouched next to her and
traded the silenced .22 for her AR-15. A magazine exchange followed, and then I
paused as I looked at the patrol boat.

“Hey, I just had an idea.”

“What?”

“Just something to save us a step. The hand crank on
the fuel depot is what has the lock on it, but I can still drag the hose all
the way down and put it in the gas tank of the patrol boat.”

“Go,” Michelle said, “I’ll cover you.”

“I hope so.”

It took several minutes longer to accomplish the task
since I was attempting to be a stealthy as possible, but when I finished, the
metal nozzle was wedged under the boat’s spring loaded fueling cap. Now we just
needed the key. A stiff breeze knocked the patrol boat against the dock, and
the weeds at the lake edge rustled briskly as I half stood. After another quick
sweep of the night scope, I trotted toward the office. This time, I stayed off
to the side of the broken window. I briefly entertained the idea of using my
keys on the front door, but I didn’t even know if it was locked to start with,
and I had a strong suspicion that any noise would draw another shot in the
dark.

“Tempsee, don’t shoot,” I called softly through the
window.

The sound of wooden chair legs sliding across a
hardwood floor squeaked out of the broken window. I waited for a count of three
and then called out again. “Tempsee . . . Chuck . . . don’t shoot, OK . . . it’s
officer Coleman from the fish and game department. Can you hear me?”

More shuffling from inside sounded, followed by a
voice. “Go away, Coleman. I don’t want no company.” There was a definite
slurring in his voice as he spoke.

“Chuck, I need to come inside, just for a minute, OK?”

“What for? What do you want? . . . Show yourself.”

I muttered under my breath, wishing momentarily for
something . . . anything . . . to go right for a change. Biting down the bile
that tried to rise in my throat as my stomach churned in aggravation, I called
out again. “Tempsee, don’t shoot. I’m going to pull out my flashlight and show
you my face, and then I’m coming inside the front door. I’ve got my key if it’s
locked. Just don’t shoot, OK?”

There was no answer.

Tilting my head off to the side, I whispered into the
microphone.
“Did you get that? I’m going to have to risk a little bit of
light.”

“I got it.”

The Quark came out of my belt holster, and I turned it
to the lowest setting, and then clicked it up one notch higher, being careful
to shield the light against my jacket.

It was now or never. “Chuck, look at me . . . I’m not
one of those things, but there’s a bunch of them nearby, so don’t shoot me,
OK?” The scuffle of a chair was my only reply.

I shined the dim light through the window for a
second, and then stepped just to the edge—tilting the light to illuminate my
face as I whispered loudly through the broken glass. “I’m coming inside . . .
don’t shoot.”

“Go away.” The voice sounded tired this time.

Stepping past the windows to the front door brought
only the sound of my footfalls and the heavy, gusting breeze. The knob turned
easily, and the door swung open on silent hinges. I called out one final time.
“Hey Chuck, I’m coming in the door now.”

My muted light lead the way, and as soon as I crossed
the threshold, another flashlight clicked on, bathing my face in harsh, white
light.

“Turn that thing off or cover it.” My voice cut
through the stillness inside of the office building.

“What for?” The maintenance man’s flashlight cast
enough backsplash for me to see him tilted back on two legs of a heavy wooden
office chair. He was dressed in work dungarees overlapped with a winter parka,
and underneath the fur enshrouded hood, the brim of a grease speckled athletic
hat protruded like a single duck’s bill. A blue steel revolver—the muzzle of
which was pointed precariously close to my torso—sat clenched in his right
hand. In the reflected illumination from the flashlight gripped in his left
hand, I could see glistens of red on the hand that held the gun.

“Turn off your light, Chuck,” I whispered loudly,
“there’s about a dozen of those things just past the maintenance building, and
they’re going to see your light.”

“So what.”

Michelle’s hushed voice came through my headset.
“From
out here, that light looks like a beacon.”

“Tempsee . . . come on man, turn off the damn light,
you’re going to bring those things right down on us.”

“So.”

Tactic change time. I took three steps into the room,
angling across his field of fire—the flashlight and revolver followed me
loosely. “What happened to your hand?”

“Nothing.”

“You’re bleeding, Chuck.” I edged past him, briefly
shifting my light to the back wall where the board with keys hung. It was
empty.

With a double set of thumps, Chuck dropped out of his
chair and twisted into an unsteady, upright position. I watched carefully as he
shifted the revolver, using his underarm as a makeshift holster. His bloody
hand now free, he reached under the parka and pulled out a flat glass bottle
half filled with a clear liquid. The bottle was upended, and a long,
multi-swallow chug drained the majority of its contents. With the bottle still
gripped, he took the back of his hand and wiped the dribble from his lips,
leaving a bloody smear along half of his face. His hand reversed course, and
then hurled the container toward the far right window. It missed the glass, but
shattered loudly upon impact with the block wall. Chuck’s stubble crusted face
twisted into a hateful grin, and his free hand reached into the parka’s
voluminous side pocket, returning a second later with a jangling ring of keys.

 “You looking for these?”

“Chuck, you’re hurt. Turn off your flashlight and
we’ll see about getting you fixed up, OK?”

A momentary look of confusion crossed his face, but it
didn’t last, and the angry drunk returned in an instant, yelling, “Do you think
I give a damn? The whole world can go rot in hell for all I care, and you, and
all the rest of the big shots can lead the way.”

“Chuck, you’re not making any sense. C’mon man, give
me the keys and let me take a look at your hand.” I took a step towards him as
I continued. “Seriously . . . there’s a whole bunch of infected people just
past the maintenance building. Turn off your flashlight, or they’re going to be
here any second.” Michelle’s voice through the headset confirmed my apparently
latent psychic abilities.

“I’ve got one at the corner . . . now two.”

“Drop them,”
I tilted my chin down and answered her.

“I ain’t dropping the damn keys,” Chuck replied,
unaware that I had been talking to Michelle.

“Listen,” I said as I stepped towards him, closing
into arm’s reach, “give me the keys and we can all get out of here. But turn
off your flashlight and shut the hell up, or we’re going to have some serious
problems.”

His alcohol fueled personality did nothing but
intensify his everyday crappy attitude, and like dozens of other drunks I’ve
had to deal with on the job, I could see him growing beer muscles as he
processed my words.

He took a partial step towards me and blasted out a
mountain of sterile, dry breath that was the universal standard of vodka
drinkers worldwide. “I don’t take orders from you, or anyone else. And if you
think I’m just going to hand you these keys,” he jingled them momentarily on an
extended finger before dropping them back into the overcoat’s pocket, “well
then you can just kiss my ass.” His hand, still dripping blood but now free of
the keys, crossed in front of him as he grabbed for his gun.

Michelle's echo of
“two down”
coincided with my
knee slamming hard into Chuck’s groin, and he exploded out with a huge gout of vodka
breath as he partially collapsed against me. I torqued my arm into a lightning
fast arc, smashing my elbow into the side of his head. He went down rapidly and
hard, and I followed him partway to the floor, kicking the revolver away from
his body and into the darkness. My knee dropped down and compressed his throat,
squishing out a gurgle of response as he weakly grabbed at me in his
semi-conscious state. I ignored him and fished the keys out of his pocket,
dropping them in my own before reaching back down and turning his flashlight
off.

Returning to my feet, I clicked the Quark up another
notch and shined it down on his moaning form. “Tempsee, for once in your life
stop acting like the world owes you everything. Now stay on the floor and keep
your mouth shut and your light off. You do that—you might just survive long
enough to convince other people how big of an asshole you are.” I spun away
without another word and headed to the back corner of the office, stopping to
pick up a small plastic garbage can on the way. Against the back wall of the
office a bare bones utility table was positioned, and it took me less than a
minute to grab the four port charging unit, along with the radios it held, and
put them in the can. Positioned at the edge of the table was a nearly full,
quart-sized bottle of hand sanitizer, and I took a moment to pump a giant glob
of it into my hand. The key ring in my pocket, my flashlight, and the stock of
Michelle’s AR got slathered with the stuff, and then I headed back towards the door.

“‘Chelle, what’s it look like out there?”

“Two down and not moving at the left corner—your right
as you come out. Nothing else in sight yet.”

“I’m coming out the front door in five seconds.”

 Chuck was feebly trying to move into a sitting
position as I passed, and I nudged him with the toe of my boot. “If you keep
your light off and stay quiet, we might all live through the night. Do you
understand me Tempsee . . . no noise, no lights.” I clicked off my own light
and headed out the door.

I half jogged down to the patrol boat and dropped off
the garbage can filled with radios. The next four minutes was spent shuttling
back and forth between the boats to move our supplies. It was a job that would
have taken less than a minute in normal light, but because I was depending on
the “one eyed Cyclops while looking through a night scope” method, it became
exponentially harder. Gas cans, extra ammo, and dry bags all made the trip. As
a final touch I dropped the smaller boat’s anchor line into the patrol boat as
an improvised tow.

“I’m heading for the fuel now,”
I whispered as I trotted across the gravel,
“but
I’m going to need my flashlight to find the right key.”

“Understood . . . everything’s still clear.”

When I reached the fuel tank seconds later, I turned
my Quark on low just as Michelle's voice came through my headset.
“The light
is back on in the office.”

I mentally cursed myself for not throwing Chuck’s gun
and flashlight outside, and as I located the right key and removed the padlock
from the tank’s pump handle, a loud crash emanated from the office, accompanied
by a series of curses and frenzied yelling. I holstered my flashlight again as
Chuck’s voice boomed into the night.

“YOU WANT LIGHT? I’LL GIVE YOU LIGHT . . . I’LL GIVE
YOU ALL THE LIGHT IN THE WORLD!”