Fade to Grey (Book 2): Darkness Ascending (86 page)

I stepped into the kitchen where Walter, Uncle Andy,
and Doc were standing. It took less than a minute to tell them about my plan to
take Max to the cabin, and then Shawn walked over to us with Emily in tow.

“Emily has an idea that might help us out,” Shawn
started right in, “and I can’t think of any reason it wouldn’t work. But hey,”
he continued, “I’m just a country boy with bricks in my head, so I told her to
run it by you.”

We all swiveled to look at her, and Emily’s elfin face
took on a serious expression as she explained. “I was just talking to Shawn,
and he was telling me more about what Walter said—I’m talking about the data
not being able to be copied because of some high tech security program or
something.”

“That’s supposedly correct,” Uncle Andy replied.

“Well if high tech won’t do it, what about low tech?”
she asked.

“What are you referring to?” Walter replied.

“It’s simple, I would think,” Emily answered. “If you
can’t save or copy the information without it imploding because of some ultra
security protocol, why don’t you just clone the laptop display onto the movie
screen like you did when we watched the transmission that Samantha got from the
satellite. Then all you have to do is take pictures of the screen. Not with a
little utility on the laptop, I’m talking about actual digital pictures of the
big screen. You won’t get the resolution of the actual files, and it might not
work for everything, but it would certainly be a way to get around your
security problem and have a lot of the data still available after the rest of
it times out.”

“Do you know anybody that has a camera?” I tried to
keep a straight face.

“Young lady,” Uncle Andy said, “I think you’ve just
been drafted.”

Emily smiled and spun around. “I’ll go get my stuff,”
she said as she walked away.

Bernice clanged a pot in the kitchen sink, and that
noise attracted my attention to Oakley. He was sitting on a tall stool at the
kitchen island where the serving line had been, and he was staring down at a
small tablet in front of him. His right hand was slowly twirling a pencil, and
as I watched he dropped the eraser end to the tablet and scrubbed. After
blowing away particles of rubberized graphite, he flipped the point towards the
paper and scribbled a short series of characters, and then he sat back and
stared at the tablet again. An almost imperceptible shake of his head
accompanied the stare.

“Do you think he can remember the right code?” I asked
no one in particular.

“Some people have a mind for numbers. He’s sure that
his part of the code key is accurate,” my uncle answered, “and he said he’s
ninety-nine percent sure that he has Major Larrabee’s correct, but the one
percent that’s holding him up is the arrangement of a small section right in
the middle of the string.”

“I guess we’ll find out soon enough. I mean, look at
it this way,” Walter said, “if it falls through, we’re no further behind than
we were yesterday.”

“Yesterday sucked,” Uncle Andy said as he looked down
at his bandaged leg.

“OK, we’re eighty-seven minutes post removal of my
tooth,” Oakley began as he studied the microscopic drive held in his
fingertips. “That gives us a little over ten hours . . . minimum . . . if we
can even access this little guy. The problem is that I’m pretty sure the midline
sequence of Major Larrabee’s code follows one of the potential strings that
I’ve written down. Unfortunately, I can’t decide between them, and we only get
two shots of this.”

“How many did you to narrow it down to?” Emily asked
as she finished setting up her tripod.

There was a space of silence, and then the lieutenant
gave the answer that I already knew.

“Seven,” he said.

“Well, if this doesn’t work out, I imagine we can all
play a few hands of gin rummy,” Sam answered.

We had taken several precautions to eliminate
potential Murphy’s Law scenarios. Samantha’s laptop was fully charged, and both
the laptop and projector were plugged into a battery backup system, which was
in turn fully charged and being powered by one of the inverter generator
outlets.

“One final thing,” Oakley said, “I have no way of
knowing how much data is on this drive until we get in. If we have the right
code, we may find that it’s a single document two pages long. On the other end
of the spectrum—again, assuming we can even get in—we might find gigabytes of
technical data, extrapolative assumptions, and a lot of other potential file
types—videos, spreadsheets . . . whatever. What I’m trying to say is to not get
your hopes up. However, if we can get in, and if it’s loaded with data, please
let me do my job. I process things differently than most people, and when I’m
digging through trying to organize the whole ball of wax in my own way, I won’t
be very receptive to questions, OK?”

“We’ll keep the interruptions to a minimum,” Doc
responded.

“Just make sure that you give Emily a chance to take
pictures before you switch pages,” Sam said.

“I will.” Oakley glanced at the miniature drive one
final time and then inserted it into the port on Samantha’s laptop. A few
seconds later the computer gave an audible beep and both the laptop’s display
and the projector screen turned dull yellow. I watched as a single flashing
cursor appeared on the field of yellow. Oakley’s fingers began to precisely tap
the keyboard, and with every peck the cursor jumped to a seemingly random part
of the screen.

“That’s my code. Now let’s try my top choice for Major
Larrabee’s.” He gazed at the tablet to his right, and then began to
methodically punch in a long series of characters. When he finished, his index
finger hovered above the enter key. “Here goes . . .”

With one tap, the screen fuzzed out for a long
heartbeat, and then fuzzed back in to the wall of yellow with the flashing
cursor.

“That wasn’t it,” Oakley mumbled as he studied the
tablet again. “We’ve got one more shot at this. Anybody feel lucky?”

“Which one feels right . . . of the ones that are
remaining, I mean,” Uncle Andy offered.

“I’ve listed them in what I felt was my priority to
try. I really thought that the first one was it.”

“Look at the next two . . . numbers two and three on
your list. Get rid of the other ones. Of those two, which one do you keep going
back to?”

Lieutenant Oakley looked up at my uncle and shrugged.
“I don’t know. The third one was originally my number one choice, but the more
I thought about it, the more I tried to remember . . . well, I ended up
switching it with the one that didn’t work.”

“Number three was originally your number one choice?”
Walter asked.

Oakley nodded.

“Use that one.” The reply came bluntly and quickly
from my uncle.

I followed Oakley as he swiveled his neck looking for
a consensus. Sam shrugged his shoulders, and Doc Collins raised his eyebrows
noncommittally. The rest of the small gathering nodded.

“Alright then, let’s see what’s behind door number
three,” Oakley mumbled as he turned to the keyboard. Once again the field of
yellow showed nothing more than a randomly appearing cursor as the lieutenant
entered the long series of the code. When his half was done, he began entering
the equally complex chain that occupied group three on the tablet. In a repeat
of the last attempt, his finger paused above the enter key. “Anybody want to
make a wish?”

His finger tapped the key, and just like before, the
yellow barrier pixilated away. I caught myself holding my breath, and then the
screen changed. Instead of a return to yellow, it now displayed a black
background with a single large, emerald shaped teardrop in the center.

“We’re in,” Oakley said.

*click*

I’ll bet you didn’t expect to hear another recording
from me, did you? To be honest, I wasn’t sure if I’d make any more. I think the
last time was—no wait, it was . . . hmmm. I can’t remember. I know I recorded a
few things that night in the vet’s office, but I can’t remember if I recorded
something else after that. I guess it doesn’t really matter. I’m at the cabin.
Max is here with me, as well as Michelle. She just headed for what she called a
‘very, very long, and much deserved’ bath. It’s a little after 9:00 PM, and
I’ve got a new round of scratches—and probably bruises—from my latest wrestling
match with my brute of a puppy. It’s all good though, and I’m pretty sure that
both of us needed the bonding time. Speaking of Max, he’s outside on the front
porch. Probably crashed pretty hard after the wrestling and a huge bowl of dry
dog food. I’ve got the door shut and barred, but he knows to scratch if he
wants in. You’re probably not going to believe this, but even after all the
exertion of the past few days, I actually feel like going jogging. I figure
that I’ll take the Max on the ridge trail first thing in the morning, and then,
based on what we hear from the marina, we’ll probably head over there. I’m sure
that Max will want to stay here though. Let me see . . . oh yeah, the data
drive. I only stayed to see if they were able to get in. Apparently the code
worked. The first thing that came up was a giant, emerald green gem in the
shape of a teardrop. That blinked on the screen for almost a solid minute
before a little graphic started playing around the borders. It was a series of
translucent, tumbling rods, each containing a DNA helix. They circled the
display several times before spiraling inward and assembling themselves into
the silhouette of a bird. The entire image then solidified with a pulse of
violet light. Underneath the outline of the bird, a row of typewriter font
lettering appeared.

PROJECT FALCON

CLASSIFIED ABOVE TOP SECRET.

PRESIDENTIAL AUTHORIZATION REQUIRED TO VIEW.

I’ll admit I was intrigued, but the next page was an
abstract of the project that was so filled with techno-mumbo-jumbo that my head
was spinning before I finished the first paragraph, so I wished them well and
headed out the door.

We got to the cabin about an hour ago, and I kind of
feel guilty for this, but I made a beeline to the cabinet where I happen to
know that an entire Tupperware container filled with hot chocolate packets
resided. I took out four packets just for me. While I’m making a confession, I
might as well tell you that I’m thawing a moose steak for Michelle and I to
split at breakfast. I also pulled out another venison roast that had been in
the deep freeze for almost three years. When I opened it, I could see a layer
of freezer burn, but once I trim that off it should make several good meals for
Max. Michelle has her smart phone charging on the battery bank, but I can’t
seem to locate mine. I also can’t recall the last time I saw it. It probably
doesn’t matter anyhow since it was just a basic flip phone with no other bells
and whistles, almost like the one that I found on the dead girl at the vet
office. Bad memory there—gonna trade it in on something better. Something like
a short trip down the hallway to the bathroom. Maybe somebody wants their back
scrubbed. Bye.

*click*

It’s a little after midnight. I’m down in the basement
adding a few pieces of wood to the fire. I’m not sure if I’ll have the energy
for a jog in the morning. Michelle
did
want her back scrubbed. And her
sides. And her front . . .

The rusted metal of the barge’s hull was unaffected by
the slapping waves that occasionally worked themselves into a drumming harmonic
as they beat against the unyielding surface. Sporadically, the drumbeat was
returned from somewhere below deck with the hollow pounding of a fist. On top
of the deck, several crouching figures huddled together around the remains of
the captain. One of them—an amber-eyed man that by all normal accounts would have
been considered borderline geriatric, but now moved with the grace and
athleticism of a teenager—scuttled over to the wheelhouse. The heavy wooden
door was splintered, and despite the recent downpour, still ran with streaks of
red and brown. Keen vision was not needed to see the fragments of bone still
embedded in the splinters. The feral creature stepped inside and stared at the
objects within. One of the weak lay on the floor. It had the same skin, but it
didn’t survive the transformation. It wouldn’t be eaten, either. Yellow eyes
looked with a distant, fleeting memory at the objects surrounding it. Several
blinking lights were pulsing, but they meant nothing to the creature. The low
rumble of the fuel starving diesel engines idling in neutral carried their
faint vibrations through the decking, and the creature shifted its stance and
stared through the weather shield of the wheelhouse. The crimson smudges where
the captain’s head had been softened still marred the glass, but beyond the
haze something else began to appear in the gathering dusk. Moving with an
agility that it had never possessed before, even in the long ago prime of its
life, the creature stalked out of the wheelhouse and towards the front of the
barge. Citrine orbs focused across the grey chop to the distant shoreline. Somewhere
ahead was the missing piece. The emptiness in his gut that called out, but
couldn’t be sated with mere flesh. The queen. He clenched his teeth;
momentarily pausing again in surprise as his tongue encountered the new growth
of multiple objects that had been removed decades ago. The coppery taste of
blood still seeped through their crevices and registered on his tongue. There
were others like him on board. He could feel them below. Many of the mindless
were here as well. Waiting. They would all wait until he called them. Until it
was time to feed. Until it was time to find the master and become complete.

Underneath the creature’s feet, the rusty shell of the
logging barge drifted with the wind and current. Its course had taken it
gradually southeast until a change in the weather pattern pushed it back
towards the center of the deep lake. For almost two days it had been caught in
the still waters of a slowly circling eddy. Last night’s storm had finally
broken it free from its spiraling prison and gently guided it into the natural
current that led almost due south. As dusk turned to darkness, the creature
called to the others. One by one they responded and joined him at the metal
railing. Standing this close together, he became keenly aware of each one. Their
injuries were his. Their hunger, or lack of it became his own. Raising an arm
that seven days ago had been punctured with IV lines from his ambulance journey
to the hospital, the old/young creature pointed towards the jagged silhouette
of the distant, sloping shoreline. A hissing gurgle escaped its throat, but
each of the almost forty, yellow-eyed warriors became instantly aware of his
message. There was food there, and after the food they would merge with the
master.

The last fading reflection of daylight finally
succumbed to the overcast clouds of what promised to be a dark night. Drifting
slowly, the hulking behemoth that had spent decades laboring under heavy loads
of hardwood, coal—and as it turned out, smuggled human souls—began to shudder
as the scant remaining drops of its precious diesel fuel bled into the engine.
In the darkened wheelhouse, a pair of amber caution lights flickered to life.
The warning buzzer that would have accompanied their status had long ago
stopped working, but silent or not, the message was the same. Death was coming.