Fade to Grey (Book 2): Darkness Ascending (68 page)

*click*

And so I left her dad’s cabin after bringing in all
the remaining food we had—it wasn’t much. I also brought two of our three ammo
boxes filled with the 5.56 ammunition. That gave her 840 additional rounds. I
couldn’t imagine a realistic scenario where someone could burn through anywhere
near that amount and still be alive. At Michelle’s suggestion, we transferred
her mother to the upstairs bed. Everything else supply-wise that could be moved
followed it. It took a lot of convincing for her dad to agree to be carried
upstairs, but in the end we worked out a deal—he’d agree to go, and if I
happened to find any cigarettes at the vet office, I’d bring them back for him.
In any event, there was now only one avenue they’d have to defend if the house
became compromised. Before I walked out the door, Michelle and Faith gave me a
final hug. It was impossible to miss the mischievous smile that passed between
them. My look of curiosity was rewarded a few seconds later when they handed me
the flattened macaroni and cheese box. The top had been folded over and
fastened with a scrap of masking tape, but it was the homemade bow that made me
choke up. It was fashioned out of a pencil thick braided rope of long red hair.

“We made it for you so you’ll have luck,” Michelle
said. “It was Faith’s idea, and we both contributed.”

I didn’t know what to say.

“Open it,” Faith chirped happily.

I removed the bow, zipping it into one of the interior
pockets in my jacket for safekeeping, and then opened the flat box. Inside was
the entire remaining two-thirds of our strawberry Pop-Tart.

4:39 AM. Still alive. I’ve spent the last couple
minutes trying to explore this room and find a weapon of some sort. I wish I
had my small backpack with me. Why? OK, since you insist, I’ll tell you more.
My backpack, you see, is about forty feet away, just outside the back door to
the vet office. If I had my backpack, I’d have extra batteries for my
flashlight. There’s also two more loaded magazines for my 9mm. Did I mention
about the hundred rounds of subsonic ammunition for my .22? Not that it
matters, because the rifle is lying on the ground near the backpack. Both of
them I had to sacrifice to avoid becoming . . . well, dead. What’s that saying?
Oh yeah . . . “and now for the rest of the story.” Where did I leave off? I
think it was with . . . Pop-Tarts. I should probably mention that Pop-Tarts
taste a lot better than the tiny brown chunks of dog treats that I’ve been
munching on. At least I hope they’re treats. They’d probably taste better if I
had some water to wash them down with. Guess where it’s at? Yep, the backpack.
Deep breath . . . OK, Pop-Tarts.

I made it to the patrol boat, and it fired right up.
The fuel status was showing at seventy-eight percent, so I backed it off the
dock and headed northwest just as the cloud muted sunlight was beginning to
fade. I passed through East Devils Lake and under the bridge of county road
0353. From there it was about eight miles—still northwest—until I angled off to
the southwest. Four miles give or take, and then I was in Mission Bay. Another
course change, again to the northwest, and I headed for the entry to Creel Bay
about three and a half miles away. I was hearing sporadic gunfire, but nothing
like the intensity of when we’d passed this point earlier today. Camp Grafton,
the small National Guard outpost at the entrance to Creel Bay, was totally
silent. I stayed in the middle of the channel as much as I could, cutting back
the engines when I was about two miles from my anticipated landing point. The
setting sun was still battling with the approach of dusk, so I shut off the
engines and dropped anchor. I waited. At full dark, and with the taste of
strawberry still on my lips, I started the motors and guided the patrol boat
the rest of the way using the night scope. Do you remember when I told Michelle
and her dad that the vet office was only about 300 yards from the lake? Yeah
well, what I found out after I beached the boat near some willow scrub was that
those 300 yards were occupied by several dozen bison. Also, the water off the
side of the boat was slightly deeper than my boots. Roughly three feet deeper.
Here’s a point of advice for anybody listening to this recording—traveling 300
yards with wet boots and wet pants through a field of agitated buffalo at night
does not put you in the best mood. Anyhow, I guess I stumbled into a buffalo .
. . or maybe beefalo . . . research project. They were stirred up and restless,
and at first I figured it was because of the gunshots that had been blasting
all day. Maybe that was part of it as well, but I didn’t find the real cause
until I was at the other side of the pasture. I jogged over the field, hopped
across the fence and crouched, scanning the area with the night scope. The
veterinarian’s office itself was a simple rectangular building about ninety feet
long and maybe half of that wide. I was looking at the back of it, and as far
as I could see, the only feature was a single door located near the right
corner. Across the parking lot from the main building were two smaller barns,
both of them faced by a large set of traditional double doors. On one of the
barns, the doors appeared to be shut and sealed. The other building had its
doors hanging partially open. As I stared through the scope, I heard a faint
sound to my right, like a heavy
thump
followed by something scuttling
through dry grass on a hot day. I turned to look, half expecting a ghoul to be
there and ready to pounce, but the sight that greeted me was so bizarre it took
a moment to register. In the fenced in area, fourteen of the bison had arranged
themselves in a half circle with their attention focused on a pair of prone
figures crawling on the ground in front of them. One of the crawlers seemed
almost immobile, but would occasionally slash its arms through the grass
futilely. The other one, obviously a ghoul as well but with a shattered body,
was lunging impotently at the facing herd. Every few seconds, one of the bison
would trot in and stomp it with its hoof. I took another look around, and after
once again coming up empty, I lined up and shot the crawlers. When they stopped
moving, I swear one of the buffalo looked straight at me. Turning back to the
vet office, I knelt down and said another prayer before taking off at a trot
for the back door.

The office was only about seventy five feet from the
fence, and I managed to cross the distance uneventfully. At the back door, I
risked a little bit of light to see what I was up against. Emblazoned in a
weather worn sticker was the alarm permit number for the current year, and a
warning that the premises were protected by a local security company. Two other
stickers, both substantially older than the alarm warning, advised that this
was an employee’s only entrance, and that all deliveries should use the side
door. None of the stickers applied to me, so I reached into my pack and found
the stiff metal pry bar that I had borrowed from Michelle’s father’s toolbox.
It took less than five seconds to pop the door open. The room I found myself in
was occupied with an eight foot folding table surrounded by a mishmash of
various chairs. A counter against the left hand wall supported a microwave oven
and a freestanding snack rack. It was loaded with an assortment of chips, all
of them the “baked” variety. I made a mental note to stuff my face with them on
the way out. Just past the rack was an old fashion, percolator-type coffee
maker, as well as its high tech replacement—one of those newer gizmos that
brewed your beverage from the little individual cups. I took an extra half
second to open the cupboard below the coffee makers. Inside I found a pair of
expensive looking, foil sealed coffee bags, each of them weighing in at a
pound. I stuffed them in my pack for Michelle. The other side of the area had a
pair of full size refrigerators. I left them alone and headed to the wooden
door at the end of the room.

Max doesn’t like going to the vet. Which I suppose is
only fair, because most veterinarians don’t like Max. Not that they don’t like
“Max” per se, but rather that they have expressed a personal interest in
returning to their homes at the end of the day with all of their limbs and most
of their face still attached. The vet we see now, or I guess “used to see,” is
a little bit different. He’s a transplant from somewhere in Australia, although
if I remember correctly, he said he’s been in the states for almost thirty
years. He likes Max. Sadly, Max doesn’t like him . . . or rather, Max doesn’t
like any of the procedures he’s ever been through at the veterinarian. A thick,
canvas and leather muzzle was required any time I had to take him in. Anyhow,
from my time at the veterinarians, I’ve learned a few things about their basic
operations. Exam rooms have carriers attached either to the door, or just to
the side of the door, for patient clipboards. X-ray rooms are labeled as such—that’s
probably a law. Most other rooms will also be labeled with their function, such
as laboratory, surgical, or grooming for example. In general, the rooms that
aren’t labeled are the ones that I would be looking for, although they might
just be labeled as “storage.” The door to the break room opened into a long
hallway, and directly across from me was a door labeled “grooming.” Yeah, I’m
here now—I know that. But you don’t know how I got here. When I got to the
hallway, the first sight that greeted me was a wide swath of dried blood
interspaced by several pools—also dried—that trailed off to my left down the
hallway. It was pitch black inside, and I froze and listened for at least five
minutes. I heard nothing that would indicate I wasn’t alone, so I soft stepped
down the hall. A series of doors on my right all displayed clipboard holders,
so I concentrated on the ones on the left side. The first one I came to was
labeled “radiology.” I passed it by. The second door had no markings, so I
tried the knob. It was locked. It took almost three minutes to pry the heavy
door open, and I gritted my teeth with each scrape and grunt that echoed down
the hall. The door finally popped out of its frame and opened. Inside was a “T”
shaped room with four compact desks and a medium size conference table. I spent
a few moments quietly rummaging through each desk, but all I came up with were
three packs of unfiltered cigarettes and two unopened cans of Copenhagen snuff.
I took the cigarettes for Michelle’s dad, but left the chew. The next room was
the lab, and the doors to it were similar to what you’d see on a saloon in the
old cowboy movies. Kind of like spring loaded, double flap, half length . . .
uh, doors. I’m guessing they’re designed like that so you can back into them to
enter the lab if you’re carrying handfuls of specimens or test tubes. Although
I could see several vials and bottles in the glass fronted cabinets, I left
that room alone. I’d spent enough time in chemistry class to know those bottles
would most likely be filled with testing and calibration reagents. Hold on a
second, I thought I just heard something . . .

*click*

OK, I’m back. I don’t know what it was . . . or is . .
. but something
whomped
into the outside wall of the office. I better
speed this up, because I can literally feel my time running out. I wonder if
I’ll get the “condemned man’s” last request? If so, I want my Benelli shotgun
and a couple hundred shells. And I want it to be daylight. And I want Michelle
and Max to be by my side. Oh, let’s not forget the blueberry muffins . . . sigh
. . . The clock shows 4:51 AM. Sunrise is still about an hour away. Maybe a
little more if the clouds hang around. I better finish up this recording, because
my gut tells me something is coming down the pike. Soon. Anyway, I skipped the
lab and moved down the hallway. The next door was labeled “storage,” and that’s
exactly what it was. Only not the kind of storage I needed. Cleaning supplies,
disinfectants, blankets, and other sundries occupied the wall length shelving
system on the right. The shelves on the left were stacked floor to ceiling with
various animal foods in bags and cans. I left it all alone and headed to the
next door. It was locked, but unlike the solid wooden door that led to the room
with the desks, this one was a simple hollow core interior door. Twenty seconds
with the pry bar and I was inside. Paydirt! It was a square room about fifteen
feet on a side. Every wall except the back was organized with columns of
freestanding metal shelving units—the solid ones, not the ones made out of the
wire grid. The back wall had two upright refrigerators and one chest freezer.
The last shelf on the right side was a locked sheet metal cabinet, but with the
pry bar it only stayed that way for about three seconds. High security was
apparently not what they had in mind when they designed this room. I wasn’t
complaining though. There were no windows, so I shut the door and wedged it
with the little wrecker bar while I searched. I had made a list of anything and
everything that I thought might be useful, but the number one priority was of
course,
diltiazem. I found it in less than a minute thanks to the
alphabetical organization of the pharmaceuticals in the room. One of the things
that I had done . . . OK, it was actually Michelle that suggested it . . . was
to empty out Faith’s large duffel bag and take it with me. Her clothes and toys
got temporarily moved to a giant sized, contractor grade garbage bag. I removed
the duffel from my pack and unrolled it, and then I switched my flashlight on
high and looked around the room. Whoever was in charge of this room, maybe
Austine for all I know, was a very detail oriented
person. Laminated, computer printed three by five cards were attached with
Velcro tabs to a strip of Velcro backing that ran along the front of each level
of shelving. Like I said, everything was organized alphabetically by name, and
that name was at the top of the card. Underneath that it was classified further
by the type of pharmaceutical it was. Antibiotic, antiviral, diuretic, immunosuppressive
agent, laxative,
ophthalmic anesthetic, topical antifungal cream,
vaccination. . . you get the point. There was a lot. The card data continued on
with the prescription’s fine print—things like milligram strength, quantity per
container, date of arrival, stocking quantity, and a whole lot more that I
didn’t take the time to read. The bottom of the card displayed a bar code for
scanning. There were four large plastic bottles filled with buffalo sized
dosages of Lynn’s medication, and five smaller boxes—each containing a
correspondingly smaller milligram dosage of pills. I took them all, and then I
went shopping. The formerly locked cabinet primarily held narcotic analgesics,
and the refrigerators were stocked with cartons of vials. A hasty glance showed
that most of the drugs in the refrigerators were antibiotics in suspension,
although there were other classifications as well, including several large cartons
of insulin. It was cold enough in this room that I was certain it wouldn’t
matter that the power had been out for who knows how long. I left the freezer
alone, though. Twenty-five minutes later I had the duffel filled to bursting with
all manners of medication, including every antibiotic that I recognized the
name of, and even quite a few that I didn’t. Inside my pack I keep a nylon
stuff bag with a drawstring closure. Mostly it gets used for storing a pile of
“whatnot,” which almost always turns out to be dirty clothes or damp towels.
Today I filled it with about forty pounds of pharmaceuticals before topping off
with a few double handfuls of miscellaneous medical supplies like syringes, and
then I slid it closed and got ready to leave. The large duffel bag probably
weighed almost seventy-five pounds, but the ballistic webbing handles made it
an easy lift. The nylon stuff bag was also workable, as long as I kept my
fingers through the mostly closed drawstring hole. Unfortunately, unless I
wanted to make two trips, that meant I’d be crossing fences and buffalo
enclosures without the night scope. Consequently, that would also mean I
wouldn’t have a gun immediately accessible either. My own night vision was
good, but the clouds were heavy, and I wasn’t sure that I wanted to come all
this way only to get stomped to death by a bison that I collided with in the
dark, so I decided to take my booty outside before I made a final decision. I
dropped the Quark on to its lowest setting and let my eyes adjust for a few
minutes before stalking down the hall and through the lunchroom. I set both of the
bags on the long table and then snuck over to the door—flashlight now off and
night scope turned on. As I got to the threshold, the sound of faint
voices—screaming and shouting mostly—began to filter through. I’ve got to admit
that a huge chunk of my self preservation mode was practically begging the rest
of my body to just hold the door shut and wait for the noise to go away. I
probably would have if a lot of the voices hadn’t sounded like children. I
opened the door and slid outside. That’s when the shooting started.