Fade to Grey (Book 2): Darkness Ascending (61 page)

“You have been spending way too much time around your
uncle,” Michelle said as she shifted her grip on the rescue pole and gave it a
yank, pulling me away from the water and into her arms.

“Hey, I just call it as I see it.”

In response, she lowered the shepherd’s hook and
embraced me with both hands. “Eric, I feel like I’m in a world of translucent
shadows, and you’re the only solid anchor that I have left.”

I returned her embrace as she buried her face against
my neck. I wasn’t really sure what to say, and one of the few, accurate lessons
that has ever been beaten into my male ego jumped at the chance to remind me,
“if
you’re ever holding a girl and don’t know what to say, the best choice is to
just keep holding her and say nothing.”

We stood, locked together in a hug as the boat rolled
slightly under our feet. After too short of the time, she released me and edged
back toward the bench. “What do you think Eric,” she asked, “can you stomach a
rehydrated enchilada before we get moving?”

“I’ll do you one better,” I said, moving to the
storage compartment under the pilot’s seat and returning a few seconds later
with four packs of ramen noodles. “There’s two more where these came from. All
of the patrol boats have been unofficially ‘stocked’ with several packs of soup
and,” I revealed my second surprise, “a number of instant coffee tea bags. It’s
not your battery acid cowboy coffee, but maybe it will do.”

“You’re almost forgiven for the fast food apocalypse
story.”

“Did I mention that I have one remaining bottle of
somebody’s favor root beer?”

Michelle’s white teeth were visible in the starlight
as she smiled. “If you cook the soup, I’ll see about moving you back into the
good graces of the queen.”

“I accept your offer, ma’am, with one caveat.”

“Which is?”

“This boat ain’t moving until dawn.”

“Why?” Her tone had dropped a notch with her reply.

I sat opposite her on the facing bench and nodded my
head. “I know time is of the essence, but here’s the thing, or rather ‘things.’
We have no working GPS navigation system on the patrol boat, or rather, it’s so
inaccurate for whatever reason that it’s practically worthless. From where we
are right now, we’ve got a pretty long haul ahead of us. Could I do it at night
using a starlight scope and my knowledge of the lake? Probably. But it would
take all night and we’d have to be pretty close to the shoreline, which would
in turn increase the overall distance we’d have to travel, not to mention
costing us a lot of fuel. There’s also the distinct possibility that moving us
that close to shore will draw some unwanted attention, especially if we use the
spotlight to help with navigation.” I stood and shifted to the bench Michelle
was sitting on, taking a moment to drop a single blanket around our shoulders.

“Thank you,” Michelle breathed.

“Now, if we wait until morning, we’ll both be able to
get some much needed rest, or at least some downtime. And then, once the sun’s
up, we can kick this puppy in gear and stay out in the deep water far away from
shore. We can be in the area where you think your dad’s cabin is in about an
hour. It would also be a lot easier to find it in the daylight.”

“How far are we from this point?” Michelle asked.

“If we wait ‘till morning and stay in the deep water,
or at least far enough away from shore to avoid any incidents, I can navigate us
there with the compass and some landmarks. Rough guess, but from here, we need to
head about five or so miles southeast, and then about ten or twelve miles
northeast. That little two-leg plot will take as around Grahams Island State
Park and put us into the central section of Devils Lake. Then we’ve got
another, oh, about seven miles before we cross underneath Highway 57 and into
Mission Bay. We head straight across that and pass under the bridge on Highway
20. Once we’re through that, we get into the eastern section of Devils Lake. We
follow that a little bit northeast—maybe four miles or so—and then the lake
turns and we head southeast. Rough guess again, but from that point it’s
probably another ten miles until we pass underneath the bridge on county road
0353 and into East Devils Lake. And using your recollection as a guide, we’re
figuring that your dad’s cabin is about a mile or two away from that last
bridge, so our total trip length is going to be about twenty-eight or thirty
miles.”

“How fast is this boat?”

“It will easily cruise at fifty, but with the patrol
enhancements, its top end is closer to seventy if we had to.”

“Using your figures, that could put us there in only
about thirty minutes.”

“I’m adding a buffer so we have time to stash the bass
boat for our return trip, and also to switch the reflex sight back onto the
.22.”

Michelle was silent as she contemplated the options on
the table. Finally, she turned to me and arched her eyebrows. “Why,” she said,
“do I get the feeling that you already know what my answer will be?”

“Because both of us know that you’re intelligent, and
that you’d choose the only realistic alternative that we have.”

“I see. Well I guess you’d better start cooking the
soup while I make the bed . . . and Eric . . .”

“Yeah.”

“Give me my root beer.”

“You got him?”

“Yeah.”

“How are you positioned?”

Sam’s whispered voice came back across the Fish and
Wildlife radio,
“I’m looking right at him from about 120 yards to his four
o’clock.”

Andy’s steady voice crept into the headphones over
Sam’s ears.
“You’re sure he’s a single—not paired with a spotter?”

“I’ve got one person only, but he’s a hoss . . . reminds
me of that guy in the warehouse only bulkier—almost round. He’s wearing full
camo and lying prone behind some sort of netting or screen . . . one rifle on a
bipod, and strictly amateur hour.”

“Explain.”

Sam spoke in a hushed voice as he watched the target
through the 4-12 power Nikon rifle scope that sat atop Michelle’s 30-06. The
scope was cranked all the way up to maximum magnification, and he knew from
personal experience that the deer rifle was dead on accurate.
“Well first
off, he’s got a pile of bright silver bowls—foil maybe—that are scattered
behind the netting. I can see some of them wavering when a strong breeze kicks
up, so he doesn’t have the sense to remove possible giveaways. Secondly, when
he’s not looking through his scope, he’s lying on his back staring up at the
sky or cooking something on a little burner. He has yet to even look in any
other direction. And finally, he really hasn’t stopped fidgeting since I’ve
been watching him. Trust me Andy, this guy is a clown.”

“Roger that. Maintain and observe while we figure out
our next move. Marina out.”

Andy sat the radio down on the battle scarred end
table that leaned precariously against the threadbare couch arm in Walters’s
office. “What do you think?” The question was offered to the small assembly
gathered there. Crowbar Mike, Preacher Dave, Callie, Amy, Bucky, and of course,
Walter.

“Are we sure it’s only one guy?” Bucky asked as he
sipped from a bottle of generic soda. “I mean, this is the first time we’ve
actually got good eyes on him, so how do we know he isn’t being switched out
every night?”

“We don’t, but as a general rule, when a force commits
a sniper, they leave him there and he’s on his own until the mission ends.”

“And that, ladies and gentlemen, brings us back to the
all important question of who ‘they’ are,” Andy stated.

Amy raised her hand and spoke. “I’m not really up to
speed on covert tactics and black ops ever since I let my subscription to
Soldier
of Fortune
expire . . .,” a barely suppressed grin crept onto her lips,
“and
Woman’s Home Journal
doesn’t include many tips on effective sniping
at holiday get-togethers.” The faces staring back at her split and began
chuckling as she continued. “But how do we know it’s a ‘they’ and not a ‘he’?”

“Why would a single person just lay out there and
watch us? I mean, there’s got to be a reason,” Callie said.

“He hasn’t shot at us yet, but I’ve got to tell you,
I’m getting real nervous just driving the tractor around to draw his
attention,” Walter stated dryly.

“Callie, to answer your question, militarily speaking,
there are several things to consider.” Andy stood and began pacing. “Among
other things, you observe to collect intelligence for a strike, or to search
for a weak spot in the enemy’s perimeter. You also pre-position assets, such as
snipers, for an upcoming assault.” He stopped pacing and picked up the radio.
“Sam,
keep your eyes on the target . . . I want to try something.”

“10-4.”

Andy keyed the radio again.
“Mr. Lee, give us
another look around, but this time, keep Thompson’s face visible for a good
five seconds.”

Lying on his back on the rooftop of the store, Choon
Lee lifted the woodchip stuffed dummy into a sitting position. The camouflage
BDU jacket was practically bursting at the seams, but it was light enough to move
without difficulty, and with the addition of a few wire coat hangers, it easily
supported the balaclava-covered mockup of Thompson’s face. The right arm of the
phony guard had a pair of lightweight kid’s binoculars hot glued into the glove
that was also—thanks to coat hangers—attached. A thin, stiff wire allowed Choon
to move the binocular hand like a giant puppeteer.

“Son of a bitch.”
The state trooper’s irate tone came over the speaker.

“What did you see?”

“This clown just took a shot—a dry fire—at the dummy.
Then he racked the bolt and lined up for another.”
The crosshairs on the Nikon settled on the prone
sniper.
“Do you want me to take him out permanently?”

“Actually,”
Andy’s eyebrows furrowed,
“I think we should invite him in for a little
chat. Thompson, are you still bedded down and good to go?”

“Snug as a bug and covering Sam.”

“All right then, everybody hold position and we’ll
wait until dark for plan B.”

Andy returned to the vacant space at the end of the
couch and plopped down, sending a puff of dust erupting through the shafts of
fading sunlight. Somebody—Callie maybe—thrust a ceramic mug of twice reheated
coffee into his hands as he sat back and closed his eyes. His head still
throbbed, both with the layers of heavy gauze that enshrouded him like a crown,
and the stress of worrying about Eric and Michelle. Two days past, they had
left for Devils Lake. If everything had gone according to plan, they should
have been back long ago. But they weren’t back. He took a sip of the hot, muddy
liquid and tried to focus on the task at hand.

Boom . . . . . . . Boom-boom-boom . . . . . . . Boom .
. .

The series of gunshots exploding in the night racked
him out of the half fog of nervous sleep, and he fumbled for the .45 on his hip
as their echoes reverberated over the landscape.

Crack . . .crack . . cra-boom . . .

More shots rang out, and he wormed forward, reaching
for the rifle with one hand and trying to steady his gaze on the distant scene.
Something was going on at the marina, and the rapid fire thunder of guns once
again broke into the temporary silence. Through the scope, he could see several
idling vehicles, their headlights quartering away across to scrub to the
southwest. Numerous figures were darting between the cars, popping up and
firing off rounds before ducking back down and out of sight. He angled the
scope to the left and peered into the headlight’s illumination, searching for whatever
the group was firing upon. Nothing was immediately visible, at least to his
sleep deprived eyes, but judging from the continual barrage, he could make a
fairly accurate guess. Walkers. Red eyes. Creeps. The words and the thoughts
that accompanied them sent a cold chill down his spine, and he resisted the
impulse to grab his flashlight and search the area around him. He counted to
twenty, forcing his breathing to slow and biting back the tendrils of fear that
reached out of the darkness. His proximity alarms hadn’t been triggered, and
after another slow count to ten, he set the pistol down and firmed his grip on
the laminated stock.

BA-BOOM . . . BA-BOOM.

A pair of huge caliber explosions, the sound of which
were at least equivalent to the potential ferocity that could be unleashed from
his own rifle, shattered into the night and eclipsed the rapid fire chatter
that was still breaking loose. Another .300 Winchester magnum? Maybe even a
.338? Dropping into his well practiced routine, he eased the crosshairs back to
the vehicles and searched for a target.

“OK, we’re on the road about forty yards away from
him,”
Sam’s low whisper came through
the radio.
“Give me a few more rounds over the next minute to edge a bit
closer, and then pour on the juice.”

“10-4 . . . and be careful Sam, I’d rather have him
dead and you alive.”

“Understood.”
Sam turned to the crouching form of Thompson. “Are you sure you’ll be OK here?”

“No.”

“You want me to take your hand and walk you back home
to mama?”

“Would you please? ‘Cause that sounds a lot better
than being stuck out here by myself just waiting for one of those zombies to
run out of the dark and bite me.”

“Don’t be such a wuss. I thought you were a soldier,”
Sam teased.

“I’m in the guard . . . you know, as in ‘part time-no
danger-pay for college’ guard.”

“Fine then, next time I get stuck with you, I’ll make
sure to bring a teddy bear to keep you safe.”

“That’s cold Sam . . . real cold . . . and so am I, so
get moving.” Thompson huffed back, his low laughter barely audible over the
distant gunfire.

The state trooper stood up and scanned the area
through the night vision scope they had removed from the .30 caliber AR-10. For
this ‘hop and bop’ as Andy called it, it would be much easier to freehand it as
a monocular and approach with only a handgun . . . and the special little
surprise in his jacket pocket.

“Thompson,” Sam whispered as he scanned around with a
night scope, “all that I can see is clear—no bad guys.”

“Are you sure you don’t want me to come with you?” Thompson
offered as the firing at the marina picked up its pace.

Sam thumped his partner lightly on the shoulder. “We’d
make too much noise. You just be ready in case I need you. Until then, no
worries . . . I got this.”