Fade to Grey (Book 2): Darkness Ascending (71 page)

“OK, are you ready?” I looked at Shawn and Mack as I shouldered
against the door to the outside.

They both nodded.

“Remember,” I said, “the fence is only about a hundred
feet away, and once we’re inside, it’s about 300 yards to the lake . . . and
the boat. I’ve got to grab my rifle. It should be just outside on the ground.”

“And I’m grabbing your backpack,” Mack said.

“And I’m shooting anything that tries to kill us.”
Shawn hefted the .308 rifle now in his hands.

I was carrying both the large duffel and the stuff
bag. “And once I get the 22, you’re taking both bags and I’m taking over as
guide and guard. Everybody understand?”

Everybody did, and I began to push the door open as
the sound of shattering glass and squeaking metal came down the hallway. Groans
and snarls accompanied them.

“They’re inside . . . we’ve got to move now!  
Go-go-go . . !” Shawn hissed.

I took a deep breath and pushed at the door. It
resisted my effort for a moment, so I pressed harder and felt something sliding
across the ground near the door’s kick plate as it opened into the darkness.
The cool slap of night air chilled my face as I stepped through onto the small
gravel landing. Mack was right behind me with his hand on the duffel, and Shawn
came through last, linked to his son by a hand on his shoulder. As soon as our
modified human chain had our boots on the ground, Mack flipped open the cell
I’d given him and cast the blue glow towards the yard. About eight feet away
near the edge of the gravel were two piles of bodies. I guided our chain to the
one on the right and knelt down next to the corpse of the man in the flight
suit. Mack followed my lead and went for the backpack while I dropped my load
and searched in the dim light for the silenced .22.

My exclamation of “Got it” occurred almost simultaneously
with Shawn’s warning curse.

“Shit . . . Look out!” The heavy rifle tore apart the
stillness of the night as he fired off three quick rounds almost right next to
us.

I grabbed the .22 and turned on the night scope as I
pushed to my feet. The landscape came alive in vibrant green, and my immediate
impression of our chances of survival was bleak. At least twenty of the
infected were close by and converging on the light from the cell phone. I fired
a round at the closest one and he collapsed, but my second shot into an
approaching fat lady ended with nothing more than a dry click. I didn’t know
what else to do in the spur of the moment, so I held the night scoped rifle
against my eye with one arm and reached for the barrel of the .308 with the other,
yelling as I attempted this last ditch maneuver. “Shawn . . . let me aim for
you!” My hand snagged the barrel on the first try, and after his reflex action
of trying to jerk it away, my words must have sunk in. I pulled the barrel
through the darkness and pointed it at the lady who I was sure had never jogged
before tonight. “Mack—stay down! Shawn—five rounds now!” The big rifle jumped
in my grasp and I steered it toward the obese jogger barely ten feet away and
closing. With every muzzle flash that blasted into the darkness, I felt the
weapon’s aim being fine tuned by its wielder. Rounds three, four, and five
connected solidly in her chest, and she stumbled and rolled. Her legs were
still churning feebly against the dirt, but they were insufficient to move her
bulk. I dropped the hot barrel of Shawn’s battle rifle and swept my hand along
the bottom of the .22. The extended magazine was missing—probably lost
somewhere in the gravel when I pulled out of my backpack—so I grabbed another
one off my vest and ran it home. One of the modifications I had made to the
Ruger was an extra large charging handle that allowed easier access for my big
fingers than the standard factory model. I flipped it back and let it drop to
chamber a cartridge, and then put three rounds on target at a ghoul that was
fast stepping our way. Behind him was a line of at least thirty more, and
skittering at the rear of the pack were several fast moving figures. Just to
make things worse, the door to the vet office was beginning to spill out ghouls
in a solid line.

“SHAWN, GRAB THE BAGS NOW!” I yelled at full volume,
no longer concerned if it gave us away . . . they knew where we were. I heard
the grunting and exertion as Mack’s father slung his rifle and heaved the bags
into his hands. It was time for the last gambit. “Mack, throw the phone now and
link us up.” With a cast iron bucket full of more discipline under fire than
anybody his age should ever have to possess, Mack threw the glowing blue cell
phone towards the veterinarian’s office and then grabbed on to my vest with one
hand and the duffel with his other.

“I’m hooked to both of you . . . let’s go,” he
whispered loudly.

I began to trot for the fence
backwards—pulling-guiding them along through the darkness. In the bouncing
image of the night vision, it looked like the main line of infected were
veering towards the bait. I turned around to get my bearings on the fence, but
came up short when my back slammed into one of the posts and warbled the
strands of wire. They jangled with a metallic, teeth clenching clatter. I
muttered some not so kind words under my breath, trying to clear the stun and
get my bearings as Shawn lifted his son across the thick mesh fence. It took
another eternity of almost fifteen seconds before I managed to shake off the
effects from the stupidity of my distance misjudgment. By then Shawn was across
as well, but the wires on top were now pinging like a cheap aluminum wind chime
caught in a gale. I shoved the scope to my eye and saw a throng of infected
keying in on the noise as they moved this way. Leading the pack was a hulking
brute wearing nothing but his birthday suit and tennis shoes. I half wondered
what he was doing when he’d become infected. They were less than fifty feet
away and I was moving the crosshairs toward the giant, naked jogger when I felt
Shawn’s hand on my shoulder.

“Eric . . . move your ass . . . I can see them!”

I dropped the scope and squinted, confused for a split
second at the meaning of his words. It all became clear in a heartbeat as I
realized what Shawn meant. The first beginnings of dawn were approaching, and
the pitch blackness that for once had been our friend was starting to creep
away. I threw the rifle over my shoulder as I stood and vaulted the fence. The
wires sang with musical abandon at my crossing, and the pack launched forward.

“Give me a bag!” I reached towards Shawn as I yelled,
and he thrust the nylon stuff bag into my grip.

The fence wire was shaking with the impact of
countless clawing hands, and I grabbed onto the barely visible shadow of Mack.
“Shawn, hold on to Mack and follow me . . . RUN!” We took off at a trot; both
Shawn and I carrying the weight of a bag full of medicine each with our outside
hand, and supporting the limping figure of his son between us. The pounding
stomps and wild snarls of our pursuers sounded behind us, and I risked a quick
look over my shoulder. The big man wearing nothing but tennis shoes had crossed
the fence along with five or six others, and they were charging our way
rapidly. I knew we’d never make it to the boat in time, so I shifted to the
left towards the solid mass of shadows. “GIVE IT EVERYTHING YOU’VE GOT . . .
MOVE IT!” The ground churned under our feet, and Shawn and I practically lifted
Mack as we ran forward, increasing our speed but still losing the gap with the
maniacal pack of ghouls chasing us. In front, the low mountain of darkness
began to shift and stomp with our approach. My breath was coming in ragged
gasps, and I drove my feet into the ground straight towards the herd of bison
as Shawn cut loose with the standard southern boy war cry.

“ShhhhiiiiiiiiiTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTT!”

Loud, heavy blasts of air were being huffed by the
bison as they stamped the ground in agitation, and at the last second I shot
forward and pulled Mack and Shawn to the left, crossing in front of the herd of
buffalo.

“Cut to the right . . .NOW!” I said as I let go of Mac
and grabbed my pistol from the holster.

BANG . . . BANG
!

The slide locked back, and the herd of buffalo charge forward—smashing
into the ghouls and trampling them as they sought safety on the far side of the
pasture.

My maneuver put me slightly out of step, and I
adjusted my trajectory enough to hook up with Mack a dozen steps later. We
didn’t slow down until we hit the lake. At the boat, I launched the stuff bag
toward the seats, and then turned and readied the rifle. Shawn threw the duffle
across the bow railing, scooped up Mack, and charged through the water.

“We’re in!” he yelled from behind me, and I turned and
leapt for the boat. I came up short and once again sank to my waist. Shawn’s
hand latched on to my vest and yanked. I practically flew into the boat, and
then scrambled for the key. The big engines started on the first attempt, and I
slammed it in reverse and dumped the throttle to full. With a thundering bass
roar, the tweaked and tuned Yamahas spun their props and churned the water into
a froth of bubbles as the NauticStar pulled out of the reeds and into the lake.
Seventy feet out I throttled it down and cut the wheel. In the dim light of the
rapidly approaching daybreak, a skirmish line of figures stepped through the
weeds and brush to stand at the edge of the water.

“Take the wheel,” I gasped to no one in particular as
I grabbed the .22 and peered through the scope, praying that my eyes were
deceiving me.

Shawn was right next to me, and he took over as captain
while the night scope lit up the predawn gloom, bringing a vivid nightmare to
my eyes in electric green glory. At the water’s edge were about two dozen
infected, and I could see at least four hyperactive ferals shifting and weaving
through their ranks. My attention to them was only in passing, because standing
near the center of the line was the angel of death. Her black eyes were
glistening with malice, and her creamy white skin showed no sign of my shot or
the hundreds of bite marks that had been there just a few hours ago. As the
boat bounced further away through the chop, I held the rifle as steady as I
could against a rail and emptied the magazine. Her ebony eyes narrowed, like
they were burning my image into their depths, and then she turned and melted
into the brush. The line of ghouls followed a few seconds later.

I took control of the boat from Shawn, spinning us
toward the center of the bay and running the engines up to ninety percent
power. In two minutes we were a half mile from shore, and I throttled back to
idle and let the boat drift. Mack was sitting on one of the benches with a
blanket draped across his shoulder as his father dug through a chocolate
colored nylon fanny pack. I searched around and found the welcome sight of my
own backpack, grabbing it on my way over to the pair.

“You know anything about injuries?” Shawn asked as he
cut away the bloody gauze that was barely hanging on to his son’s leg after our
run to freedom.

“Yep . . . let me take a look at what we’ve got going
on here.” Mack’s trousers were already slid to knee level, and the final layer
of wrapping that came off in his father’s hands brought an angry wound into
view. It was almost dead center in the muscle over the femur midway between the
knee and hip joint, and it was seeping a mixture of blood and watery pus. There
was no exit wound that I could find, and the skin and tissue surrounding the
entry hole was hot to the touch and angry, dull red in color. I raised my hand
to Mack’s forehead, and it was also hot.

“What have you been able to do for him so far?” I
asked.

“Not much,” Shawn replied, “all I’ve been able to
scavenge is some Tylenol for the pain and some hand sanitizer to clean the
outside.”

“Does he have any allergies to medicine?”

“No, he’s good to go with anything.”

I reached into my pack and pulled out the bottle of
antibiotics that I was supposed to be taking for my ankle. It was a mix of
amoxicillin and
clavulanate potassium. Each pill was 250 milligrams, and
I removed three. “Here ya go Mack,” I said as I handed him two of the capsules,
“this stuff is pretty strong, and it’s going to start fighting the infection in
your leg. I’ve got a bunch of stitches in my ankle . . . well actually, they
used to be in my ankle until I had to bail out of the second story of a barn
that a pair of wild men set on fire underneath me . . .”

Shawn
chuckled, and even Mack broke out in a grin at my teasing.

“Anyhow, I’m
on the same stuff.” I popped my pill and then continued. “We’re going to have
to clean around the wound, and I’ve got this little bottle of liquid that will turn
your leg purple, but it should wear off before you get married, OK?”

“Yes sir.”

I retrieved the
emergency first aid kit out from underneath the console of the patrol boat and took
out the bottle of betadine antiseptic and some extra gauze pads, and then
cleaned the area as best I could. I estimated that Mack was around eleven or
twelve years old, and for someone that young to have pushed through two days of
infection, followed by our practically superhuman charge across the bison field
without complaining spoke a lot of his character. He winced in pain several
times as I saturated the area with the antiseptic, but he toughed through the
wrapping.

“OK, no more
running, jumping, dancing—especially square dancing—horse racing, water polo,
pole vaulting, or sitting on a comfortable couch,” I said as we got him
dressed.

“Why can’t I
sit on a couch?”

“Because I’m
stuck in the middle of a lake in North Dakota, and all I’ve got to sit on are
these hard seat cushions and scrawny blankets. So if anybody gets to sit on the
first comfy couch we find, it’s going to be me.”

He rolled his
eyes and snickered, and then Shawn and I worked together to make him a
cushioned bed out of as many life jackets as we could round up.

“All right
partner,” I said to him, “try and get some shut eye. We’ve got a short trip
ahead of us, and then we’re going to pick up some more passengers, OK?”

“OK,” he said as he settled in and rubbed his
obviously tired eyes.

I stood and walked back to the wheel. Shawn followed,
and both of us just about collapsed as we sat on the wide bench seat. The
bucket of radios that I had reclaimed from the ranger station sat next to me,
and I took a moment to plug the charger into the boat’s inverter outlet before
dropping the radios into their charging cradle. Four tiny red LED indicators
began flashing, and I slid the radios onto the dash and out of my way for now.

The RPMs of the engines spooled up, and their high
performance props dug in and pushed the patrol boat forward.

Shawn nudged me with an elbow, and then stretched out
his hand. I took it, and we shook again. “Thanks for the ride,” he said.

I nodded and said, “It wouldn’t have happened if it
hadn’t been for you and Mack.”

He was silent for a moment, and then he turned his
head my way and asked, “What do you think about his leg?”

“It’s definitely infected and there’s no exit wound,
so the bullet is still in there. The antibiotic that I’ve given him should help
to at least suppress the infection, but judging from the location, there’s a
possibility that the bone in his leg could be involved. That’s not good, but
the bright side is that we have a crap load of medicine, and I happen to know
where a very experienced orthopedic surgeon is staying, and he owes me a big
favor. So, if things work out, and you’re willing to stick with me and my
companions for a bit, well then, I think Mack will be just fine. In the
meantime, we’ll keep him on the antibiotics and Tylenol. He’s got a fever, but
part of that could be from our sprint to the boat. Either way though, we need
to make sure that he’s drinking plenty of water.”

He rubbed his eyebrows with his thumb and forefinger,
and then kicked back against the seat and stretched. A yawn followed, and then
he turned back towards me and nodded his head. “You, sir, have just bought
yourself two additional traveling companions. Now do you want to tell me where
we’re going?”

I smiled and pushed the throttle to half power. As the
boat surged forward, I leaned towards Shawn and said, “We’re going to pick up
my girlfriend, her unconscious mother, her chain smoking father, and a little
girl that I adopted about twenty-four hours ago.”

Shawn started chuckling and shaking his head, and then
he reached into his pocket and drew out a can of snuff. When he popped the lid
off, the tobacco inside was practically floating in lake water. His head
shaking and laughter increased in both tempo and volume as he stared at the
saturated mess, and then I watched him put a three fingered pinch into his
mouth and spit over the side, clearing out most of the Devils Lake flavoring.
When he finally settled, he pointed a thick finger straight through the
windshield and said, “Sounds like fun . . . lead the way.”

I pushed the throttle to full, and the NauticStar
rocketed across the early morning wave caps that were beginning to reflect the
first golden rays of sunlight.

I kept the patrol boat at full throttle until I was on
the other side of Mission Bay, and then I dropped back to about forty miles an
hour. It would save fuel, and also allow me to scan the lake for Michelle if
she took my advice and left in her dad’s bass boat. As I approached the underpass
that lead into East Devils Lake, I pulled my walkie-talkie and headset out of
the backpack and radioed Michelle.

“This is don’t worry calling be careful, do you copy?”

There was no answer after ten seconds, so I called
again.
“Michelle . . . this is Eric calling, do you read me?”

I looked at the battery meter on the radio—it was
still reading three out of the four bars. The channel was correct also. I tried
again.
“Michelle, this is Eric . . . can you hear me? I’m less than two
miles away and heading in . . . ETA—ninety seconds.”

Silence.

I shoved the throttle to maximum and the boat jumped
across the waves.

“Are you in range with those radios?” Shawn asked.

“We should be well within the range over the flat
water.” I had given him a quick rundown of the situation at the cabin, and he
sighed and stood up as I veered toward the dock. My time estimate was true, and
I ran the boat flat out until I had to back off in order to avoid wrecking.

Shawn was up front getting Mack awake and armed with
of the .308 as I drifted to an almost perfect stop against the end of the dock.
One look at the bank tightened my gut into a coiled knot of tension. Michelle’s
dad’s bass boat was still here, and the back door to the cabin was barely
visible through the pile of unmoving bodies that were pressed against it.
Scattered throughout the yard were at least thirty more corpses.

“Michelle, this is Eric . . . can you hear me . . .
are you OK?”

No answer.

As far as I could tell, there was no movement anywhere
within my range of vision, so I grabbed the .22 and hopped onto the dock.

“Planning on going yourself?” Shawn asked as his feet
thumped onto the wooden planks next to me.

“You should probably stay here with your boy. If I
don’t come back in ten minutes, I won’t be coming back.”

“We’d still be feeding the sickos at the vet office if
you hadn’t shown up, so how about letting me start paying you back.”

“You don’t owe me anything, and you’ve got Mack to think
about,” I said.

“OK,” he replied, “let me try this again. Shut up and
give me your 9mm, and let’s go rescue your dysfunctional family. I already told
Mack to stay at the wheel and be ready to shoot or skedaddle, and he charges by
the hour so let’s get moving.”

The dread of
what might be
sucked away the
humor I normally would have enjoyed from Shawn’s barb, and in any case I didn’t
have time to argue. I handed him the loaded CZ and my one remaining magazine.
“You’ve got thirty-six shots, and it’s dead on target . . . so if you miss, it
ain’t the gun’s fault.”

He took the pistol and extra magazine from me, and
then patted the .45 in the holster at his hip. “Well, if we run into anything
larger than an armadillo, I’ll put away your BB gun and bring out the heavy
weapons.”

I unscrewed the night scope mount and set it on the
dock, mentally cursing my lack of attention to details that once again left me
with the wrong optic at the wrong time of day. There was no time to zero in
with the reflex sight, and in any event it was fifteen feet behind me in the
boat, tucked away in my backpack. The aftermarket stainless steel barrel also
came without the standard factory sights, so this was going to be a strictly
“fire by instinct” venture. It would still be much better than trying to swing
the rifle in close quarters with the bulky night vision scope attached.

My soul was screaming at me to charge forward and tear
through the mound of corpses piled against the door, but the little voice of
logic that I seldom listened to spoke up, reminding me that if they were still
alive, the last thing I’d want to do would be to draw more attention to the
cabin.

“We need to go around front,” I whisper to Shawn,
“there’s another door on the side by the road.” He nodded and we padded down
the dock and onto shore. I guided us through the gap between the cabins,
pausing once again by the air conditioner. The scene that greeted us looked like
the aftermath of a WWII battle. There was nothing left of Faith’s grandparents
cabin across the road except the still smoldering embers of the main beam, and
the blackened, crumpled remains of the tin roof. The street was littered with
bodies spread in a wide fan, the apex of which pointed towards the front door
of Michelle’s dad’s cabin. A few of the ghouls were still feebly crawling, and
their movement through the intermixed tendrils of smoke and morning mist created
an effect that brought to mind the consequences of an artillery barrage, less
the giant craters.

“Was it like this when you left?” Shawn asked.

I shook my head. “No, only a few bodies were on the
street, and that cabin wasn’t burned down.”

“I don’t think the ones that are trying to crawl are
worth a bullet, do you?” he asked.

“No.”

I crept forward, carefully looking in as many
directions as I could for signs of movement, but the only thing I noted was the
occasional wounded crawler. The front of the cabin looked like the movie set of
a low budget slasher flick. Corpses were sprawled everywhere, some of them two
or three deep. The small porch roof was collapsed and lying on the ground next
to the front entrance, the door to which had been torn off its hinges and was
now buried under the dumpy body of a fisherman dressed in chest waders. A floppy-brimmed
hat hooked through with several artificial flies still perched on the light
brown halo of hair above his dull cherry eyes, and at least a pair of bullet
holes decorated his rib cage. I looked up at the second floor window—the glass
was broken and several streaks of blood trailed down the siding.