Fade to Grey (Book 2): Darkness Ascending (9 page)

He took the bottle from her extended hand and
liberally, over liberally, smothered his food as Bernice began to speak.

“Eric, first things first. I’m awful sorry about Andy.
I don’t really know what happened up at the cabin, I don’t think anybody does
yet . . . ‘cept for you and Michelle, but I want you to know that I’m praying
for him.”

He nodded his head, swallowed a chunk of the spicy egg
sandwich, and reached for a napkin as he replied, “Thank you, that’s the best
thing for him right now.”

Noting Eric’s pause, Bernice pointed a wind-tanned,
work-hardened finger towards his plate. “You keep eating, I just want to say a
few more things.”

The last vestiges of slurps and licks sounded from the
corner, and Max shook his muscular frame like he had just come out of the water
after a long swim. There was no jingle of tags—Eric had always kept them
riveted to the orange collar for silence. The huge, yellow-gold eyes of his
best, and only, four legged friend regarded him with calm forgiveness after the
earlier slight.

Another impulsive glance at the former location of his
wristwatch brought with it another frown. “I need to take him out,” Eric said,
quickly scanning the room for Max’s leash, “he’s been in here way too long. I’m
surprised he’s not crossing his legs.”

“Michelle took him out before lunch, and then again
about 3:00 PM.”

“Wait . . . what? Do you mean he let Michelle put a
leash on him and take him outside?”

“Twice, and although it was mostly ‘straight out, do
your business, straight back,’ he didn’t seem to give her any problem. Mostly.”

“Mostly?”

“Well, he did growl at Wally who was leanin’ in your
truck trying to find some clothes for you.”

“Growl?”

Bernice chuckled, “It was probably more like ‘snarling
and snapping’ than a growl, but Wally managed to get inside and shut the door
before he lost anything more than a few years of his life from the fright. It
took Michelle about twenty minutes of tugging and pulling before she was
finally able to get your critter away from your truck. We almost thought we
were going to have to wake you up to come and get him.”

“Sorry,” Eric mumbled, still partially stunned at
Bernice’s revelation regarding Max and Michelle.

“How is your leg?”

“Doc thinks I should stay off of it for awhile. That’s
not going to happen.” Another ravenous snap at the egg sandwich and it was
finished. He assembled and doctored up the second one as Bernice cleared her
throat in preparation for whatever she was going to say next. He could sense
her hesitation.

“What is it?” Eric paused, hot sauce bottle in his
hand, “Bernice?”

“Eric, I’m worried.” It was said with a heavy
exhalation . . . a vulnerability. In the twenty plus years he had known
Bernice, it was the first time that he could recall hearing a tremor in her
voice.

He went to say something, but she raised a hand and
cut him off. “Let me get this out. I don’t know what’s going on in this world
right now, but I’ve got two daughters and three grandchildren, that as far as I
know, I might never see again. My husband’s best friend is lying on a bed and
may never wake up. My sister-in-law is missing . . . probably dead. Or worse.”

Eric set the sandwich down and focused his attention on
Bernice. Lines of stress creased her face as she continued.

“You’re hurt. Doc’s granddaughter is shot. That state
trooper fellow has a face that looks like a punching bag, and I’ve got about
thirty people down at the store or floating around here who are just as lost
and confused as I am.”

Bernice looked down at the floor, interlaced her
fingers prayer-like and closed her eyes. “Eric, I’m worried about Walter. I
couldn’t stand to lose him. You know that even as much as I rail and rant and
badger at him nonstop, it’s only because I love the old fool. The problem is
that he thinks, and usually acts, like he’s still a young man, and he ain’t.
There’s been a lot of cockamamie ideas floating around, and most of them
somehow involve my husband and a few others charging back to the campground on
some damned rescue mission. Now I know, just from what’s happened here, that
none of us are really safe, but I guess what I’m asking,” she looked up and met
Eric’s eyes, “is that . . .”

She stopped, and then looked down and away, trying to
conceal the gathering moisture in the corners of her eyes.

Eric stood and walked over. “Bernice, I don’t know
what’s happening . . . here . . . at the campground . . . or on the whole world
in general. To be honest I’m worried too. One of the main reasons I’m worried
is because I feel like we’re all in the dark. Now I think we can probably
alleviate, or at least address some of our concerns once we put our stories
together. It’s kind of like everyone is holding a piece of the puzzle, we just
need to put them on the same table. Maybe then we’ll have a better overall picture
of what’s going on.”

He knelt down next to Bernice and placed his hand over
top of hers. “Hey . . . look at me.”

She turned slightly; watery blue eyes that had seen
almost six decades of life met Eric’s.

“I’m not going to make a promise that I can’t keep. So
I can’t promise you that everyone, or anyone, is not going to get hurt. But I
will promise you that as far as it’s within my power, I’ll keep Walter safe.”

Bernice brought forth a fragile smile as she clasped
her hand over top of his. “I know, and thank you.”

The door cracked open about six inches and Walter’s
gruff voice broke in, “Git yer hands off of ma’ woman.”

A cavernous rumble resonated from Max’s chest, and
three swift toenail clicking paces brought him almost to the door.

“Oh shit. Never mind, I reckon you can keep her.”
Walter screeched as he yanked the door shut.

“Max . . . easy.” Eric stood up and got Max,
reassuring him with a few heavy pats on his front quarter. “Easy buddy, it’s
just Walter, you know him.”

A voice through the door sounded. “Tell him I’m sorry
for getting in your truck.”

Another reinforcing command at Max followed, and then
Eric opened the door. “It’s OK, you can come in now.”

“Uh huh . . . I ‘could’ come in now, but I ain’t,” he
said, still eyeing Max from the hallway.

Bernice stood and announced, “The food is all ready to
go. It’s in the four large kettles on the countertop. They all go. And I want
them all back—tonight.” After a momentary pause she added, “Clean.”

She passed by him, briefly stopping to mouth a silent
‘thank you’ before continuing out the door. Eric watched as she went by the
smiling figure in the hallway, stopping momentarily to give him a quick hug and
an even quicker swat on the seat of his pants.

Turning back to look at Eric, Walter scanned him from head
to toe. Apparently satisfied with what he saw, he glanced at his wristwatch and
said, “Finish your supper. Eat fast.”

Eric watched as Walter rolled his eyes slightly
upwards and made minuscule nods of his head, as if he was counting imaginary
fingers. “You’ve got about twenty-five minutes to make it to the tractor shed
past the chicken coop. The back door is already unlocked. Did Bernie bring you
a green bag?”

He looked to the left and saw the loosely woven bag on
the floor near the chair Bernice had sat in.

“Yes.”

“Open it.” Without another word, Walter turned and
walked down the hallway. Eric clicked the door shut and moved over to the bag.
Inside the hand knitted, bright yellowish-green shoulder bag were his boots and
belt. Underneath those he found a Colt Delta Elite 10mm handgun, a molded leather
holster for it, and several extra magazines—already loaded. The glossy, blue
steel finish on the weapon’s slide and frame both complemented, and drew your
attention to, the bright, blood red triangle set in the center of each grip.

Hefting the masterfully built pistol in his hands,
Eric couldn’t help but feel like he’d just been handed a six-gun and badge by
the widow of a recently deceased sheriff in an old western town.

Stomach now full, Eric switched out his sweat pants in
favor of his recently washed, woodland camouflage pattern BDU’s. Several
additional ovals and splatters now crisscrossed and marked the leafy
design—Eric suspected they always would. The black and gold Steelers top
stayed, however. Comfort over clash was his motto when it came to wardrobe. His
medium weight, forest green Gore-Tex duty jacket completed the picture.

Checking the pistol for safety and function was next.
Each of the four magazines were loaded with eight cartridges—Winchester silver
tip ammunition. Inserting them one at a time, he manually cycled the slide back
for each of the magazine’s cartridges. Thirty-two loaded, thirty-two extracted
and ejected with no issues. Not the ‘end all-be all’ firearm function test of
the century, but it would have to do for now. Several draws from the holster
followed next. It was a little stiff, but overall smooth.

The Delta Elite was built on a standard 1911 frame,
the classic ‘45 automatic’ government pistol design. Equipped with a single
stack magazine, it could hold a maximum of nine cartridges—‘eight in the bowl, one
in the hole’—at a time. Although he much favored his CZ, for the moment, that
was out of the question. Besides, the 10mm was a hard hitting cartridge that
approached 41 magnum ballistics. He reloaded one of the magazines, inserted it
in the Delta, and thumbed the slide release. There was now one in the ‘hole’
ready to go. He dropped that magazine out and topped it off with another round
before reinserting it. Eight in the bowl. The smooth metallic click of the
safety sliding up and back finished the preparation. These guns were carried
‘cocked and locked’ with the hammer back and safety on. Max watched as he slid
the loaded weapon into the leather holster.

“Max, wait.” Eric gathered up the leftover dishes and
carried them out to the kitchen. No one else was in sight, and no lights were
on. He slid his hand over to the light switch on the wall and flipped it up.
Nothing. Returning to the bedroom, he clipped Max onto the heavy nylon leash
and walked outside. The clear night and his familiarity with the surroundings
enabled him to navigate without incident down to the driveway. Stopping by his
pickup, Eric fished the keys out of the jacket’s pocket and unlocked the door.
Behind the seat was his backup equipment bag. It contained, among other things,
a second Quark flashlight. He grabbed the flashlight, two spare sets of lithium
batteries, and a long ago expired granola bar before locking up and walking
towards the small barn that Walter called his tractor shed. Less than 200 feet
from the house, the tractor shed was just past and slightly to the left of the
combination chicken coop/firewood splitting area. True to Walter’s word, the
back door was unlocked.

“How are you feeling?” The question came from a very
bundled up Doc Collins. Doc was sitting on a hay bale that had been pulled from
a stack of perhaps thirty or forty more. Callie, still dressed in nothing
heavier than the Hard Rock sweatshirt, stood nearby. The dull red glow from a
headlight she wore provided faint illumination onto the clipboard in her hands.
She looked up as Eric entered, smiled and nodded, and then went back to jotting
notes on the clipboard.

“Family meeting?” Eric asked.

“It’s supposed to be. Although from what I can gather,
this is just the preliminary one. The real one is going to come after we meet
with the campers down in the store.”

“So I just wake up after a long winter’s nap, and I’ve
already got three meetings scheduled? Sounds like I’m back at work.”

Doc said nothing in reply.

Eric set the Quark’s light output to low and looked
around the interior of the shed. The bright orange paint of Walter’s Kubota
tractor glistened like it had been freshly waxed. Even the front end loader
bucket appeared newly painted. Against the wall on the other side of the
tractor was a rectangular, upright fuel tank—painted a vivid yellow and
stenciled in black with the words ‘DIESEL FUEL ONLY.’ A manual pump handle
protruded from the top of the tank, and Eric could see some type of hose system
connected to a set of inline filters and a refueling nozzle.

Other than the tractor, the tank, and the hay, the
small barn was remarkably empty. And clean . . . almost spotless. Eric chuckled
to himself with the thought. Walter and Andy. Andy and Walter. Two peas in a
pod—so different but so similar. His uncle was a pack rat that never threw
anything away, although to be fair, he also knew where everything was at in the
bird’s nest backlash of his life. Walter, on the other hand, was neat and
organized to the point of having OCD. It was probably from his career as a
machinist in the navy, where everything was measured down to the micrometer. Eric
walked Max back to the tractor and secured his leash on the bucket pivot, and
then returned to his spot by the door.

“Is there any other information you want on this
medical form?” Callie asked.

Doc shook his head no and hugged himself tighter. “We
really only need the basic triage information, because anything else is going
to be a waste of my time. I want to know if they have any current infectious
diseases that could contaminate, or cross contaminate any procedure we may have
to perform, but I don’t really care that they might have broken their arm
twenty years ago, so keep it simple.”

Callie pulled out a tablet device from a backpack that
Eric hadn’t noticed by her feet. Seating herself on another hay bale, her face
was soon bathed in the flickering illumination of the screen.

“Remind me to ask Walter about getting this recharged,
the battery is kind of low.”

“What kind of tablet is that?” Eric asked.

“It’s a Samsung Galaxy.”

“Does it charge with a standard micro USB port?”

“Um, I think so.”

“Then I should be able to charge it using the power
outlet in my truck with an adapter I have.”

“That would be great. If Walter can’t figure out a way
for me to charge this inside the house, then I’ll come and find you.”

Eric thought back to his walk from the house up to the
tractor shed. He was sure that he had heard the low, muffled rumble of Walter’s
generator.

Callie’s fingers began to tap-dance on the tablet’s
screen. “OK Doc, this is what we have so far—quick and dirty as you requested.”

Eric pulled up a hay bale and sat down as Callie read
from the screen. “Section one—‘Name, age, sex,” she hesitated for a moment,
“next of kin.’” Doc grunted, and then tried to hug the heavy parka even tighter
against his skin.

“Section two—and I tried to be very straightforward
here—‘List any medical issues that you are currently being treated for,’ and
then I have a subsection underneath that where they’re supposed to write down
any and all medication that they take . . . dosages, frequency . . . and as you
requested, another line for them to tell us how much of it they have left.”

“Not that we can do anything about that,” Doc
countered.

She tapped the screen a few more times, “Section
three—in big, bold letters I have ‘Are you allergic to anything?’ After that
there’s a space for them to indicate what they’re allergic to, OK?”

Doc shivered again and briskly rubbed his arms.
“Sounds good so far.”

“The last section is just basic stuff. ‘Do you wear
contacts? Are you now, or could you possibly be pregnant? Height, weight, blood
type . . . any implanted medical devices?’—and then I have a final question in
bold print, it says, ‘Is there anything else we need to know about your medical
condition, either past or present, that would assist us in your treatment?’”

Doc nodded his head toward Callie, “How much room does
all that take on the sheet?”

“In the font size that it’s currently at, there’s
about three inches at the bottom left over, probably more on the actual paper
since this has built in margins.”

“Make a separate box in that section and give us a
couple fields to write down blood pressure, temperature, pulse rate, and
respiration.”

“BPR field . . . added,” Callie said after a few pecks
at the virtual keyboard.

“That ought to do it . . . and speaking of
temperature, I hope Walter brings some hot tea with him,” Doc grumbled as he
wrapped his arms forcefully around his torso.

“Hey Doc,” Eric began, “you’re going to make yourself
colder that way.”

“How? I’m compressing my body into a tighter core, and
thereby reducing my exposure to the elements. Plus I’m shivering, and that
friction is going to create heat. I’ll get warmer.”

Eric shook his head, “Nope, you’re going to get
colder. Have you ever seen a bluebird sitting on a tree limb in the middle of
winter?”

“Probably.”

“Do they look skinny to you?”

After a brief hesitation, Doc answered, “No, they look
fat . . . fluffy.”

“Well they’ve been keeping themselves warm a lot
longer than we have, and one of their secrets is to fluff out their feathers.
That traps the air. For the most part, it’s not whatever material is inside
that jacket you’re wearing, it’s the material’s ability to prevent air
molecules from moving. Humor me, fluff your jacket back out and stop hugging
yourself. If you’re not warmer in five minutes, I’ll buy you a beer.”

Distant sounds of a motorized vehicle briefly
penetrated the shed before cutting off.

“I think that was the Mule.”

“That figures . . . as soon as anybody mentions the
word ‘beer,’ Walter is drawn to it like a moth to a flame,” Doc commented
dryly.

Eric slipped quietly through the door, shutting it
behind him as he thumbed the break of the holster. Three quick steps put him at
the corner of the shed. He waited.

The small caravan of figures walked single file out of
the star lit clearing in Walter’s driveway. Snaking their way around the parked
vehicles, the line ebbed into a wider, shorter procession as they traveled up
the gravel lane past the chicken coop. They walked silently and with no
lights—the only signs of their passage were the low, soft
crunch
of
their footsteps and the occasional cluck of a disturbed hen.

He watched the approaching group carefully. His night
vision had always been keen, and he could pick out the forms of Walter and
Michelle leading the pack. As they closed the gap, Eric eased back around the
corner and out of sight. The door opened a few seconds later, and he closed his
eyes, concentrating his senses and focusing on sound. When his ears told him
the last person in line had begun to enter the shed, Eric silently flowed
around the corner and studied the path. Thirty seconds of waiting convinced him
that no one else was following, at least not anyone obvious, and he stepped
through the door.

As soon as he crossed the threshold, the person in
front of him—a tall figure wearing desert camouflage—turned to shut the door.
With a wide-eyed yelp and an impulsive grab at the rifle slung across his
chest, he jumped back and cut loose with a nonstop stream of cussing.

“Thompson, calm your ass down,” Walter hissed. Turning
to Eric he said, “And you stop ghosting people. And you and you,” he nosed
towards several other figures, “grab some hay bales and make us a little
circle.” Walter looked around the room for a count of three before adding,
“Please.”