Fade to Grey (Book 1): Fade to Grey (10 page)

Sam continued, “Al crooked his index finger in a ‘come here’
gesture. We walked over to the surveillance system monitors and sat down in the
swivel chairs. The video feed had already been time indexed to right before
Mrs. Reynolds entered the hallway. We hit ‘play’ and watched. Mrs. Reynolds
walked down the hall looking into each cell. She stopped briefly at number
three where Fernandez was, seemed to shift her head a little bit, and then went
to number four. She leaned against the cell bars and it looked like she was
talking. Al hit the pause button and told me that when he turned down the audio
so he could hear the guy from HS, he must have accidentally hit the mute button
on the audio recorders as well, so we didn’t have any sound to go along with
the images we were watching. We started up the video again and watched Mrs.
Reynolds use the code and key to enter cell number four. She walked over to her
husband; we could see he was still struggling with the cuffs and irons. Then we
watched her reach into her pocket and pull out some small object. Who’d have
thought she would have brought her own handcuff key. We watched her unshackle
his legs and fumble around a little bit trying to get his cuffs off. She
managed to get one of them unlocked before . . .”

Sam paused, took a deep breath, and said, “Did you ever watch
one of those shows where there’s a street magician doing some type of trick . .
. cards or rings or some other type of sleight of hand?  And they show it to
you again and again and you think you see how he’s doing it, and you’re like, ‘The
ace of spades is not under his hat where I’ll bet most people think it is,
because I’m more clever than everybody else and I saw him move it underneath
the empty cup on the little wooden table in front of him.’ And then he takes
off his hat and sure enough there’s a bouquet of roses there instead of the ace
of spades and you’ve just about convinced yourself that you’re ‘Karnack the Infallible’
and could never be fooled by a simple card trick, and then the guy lifts up the
empty cup to reveal two white doves that flutter away. And then, the magician
has the guy who’s filming the show open his wallet and sure enough the ace of
spades is in there.” Sam continued, “And the narrator of this documentary on
magicians and their tricks says something like, ‘OK, so you missed how he did
it, but when you were watching him perform did you notice the two monkeys and
the zebra walk past in the background?’ So they replay the clip one more time
and sure enough while the magician was showing you the card trick, in the background
two gorillas and a zebra walked by, but you were so focused on trying to learn
the trick, trying to figure out the secret that you never noticed?”

Francis and Marty were both nodding their head, saying that
they just saw something last month on a show called “
Magicians and Their
Secrets
” that had that very scenario on it.

Sam said, “Yeah, I saw that too, it’s what came to mind with
what happened next.” Sam got up and went to the coffee machine for a refill. We
waited. Silent.

He stayed standing, took a long drink of black coffee and
said, “We were so focused on Mrs. Reynolds that we never even noticed Fernandez.
He was standing at the bars that separated the two cages. When Mrs. Reynolds
unlocked one side of her husband’s cuffs he lurched upwards and latched onto
her hair. She was apparently screaming and hitting at him, kind of like an old
woman would hit at somebody with a purse, only she didn’t have a purse with her.
This was when Evans in cell three started yelling. Mrs. Reynolds was backing up,
putting up a pretty good fight. Her husband slipped or twisted his leg somehow
and went down, and almost immediately started crawling towards her. She backed
away—still screaming—and backed right into the arms of Fernandez.”

Sam looked around the room and said, “We watched it right
there on the video as Trooper Fernandez and Captain Reynolds tore her to
shreds.”

Nobody said anything. We sensed there was more. There was.

Sam leaned his left arm against the window sill to steady
himself, his eyes lost somewhere on the horizon of Ghost Echo Lake. We watched
him raise the coffee mug to take another sip, noticed it shake in his hands, saw
him put it back down without drinking any, unsure of the steadiness in his own
hands. Without looking our way Sam said, “We watched them eat her.”

After a minute or two Sam sat back down and continued, “We
were sitting there, not believing what we were seeing, not saying anything to
each other; I guess ‘stunned’ is the closest word that applies. The secure fax
line from HS spit out several more sheets of paper. Al reached up and grabbed
them. The first was confirmation of duty reassignments. I had just started
reading down the list when we heard a gunshot, then two more, and then another.
We raced back to the cellblock, guns drawn as several more shots rang out. The
lights in the hall were bright enough to show us a scene right out of H.P.
Lovecraft’s worst nightmare. Captain Reynolds, or rather the thing that used to
be Captain Reynolds was outside of cell two, covered in blood and entrails. He
. . . I mean ‘it’ was groaning and hissing, trying to reach Evans through the
bars. Apparently Mrs. Reynolds didn’t relock the cell when she entered. Two
more shots rang out. Evans must have brought her gun with her. I saw Captain
Reynolds stagger back slightly as the rounds impacted him, but he didn’t drop. Our
ears were ringing from the gunshots, but I distinctly remember hearing Evans shout,
‘Not me—not this way.’ Captain Reynolds moved toward the cell again and both Al
and myself opened up. I know I hit him at least half a dozen times but he
didn’t drop, instead he started walking toward us. Both of us emptied our mags
into him and he finally fell not five feet from me. I jumped over the body as I
was yelling for Al to get the keys for Evans’s cell. I looked in just in time
to see Evans raise her head, mouthing those words, ‘Not me—not this way.’ Then
she stuck her SIG in her mouth and blew out the back of her skull.”

“Holy crap,” said Walter.

Sam was silent for a few minutes, and then he sighed and said,
“Fernandez was still in the cell, still reaching for us anytime we walked close
by. We made a decision, Al and I, and went and got a shotgun out of the armory.
On our way back to the cell block we made a detour through the control center—I
don’t even remember why now—but as we passed the fax machine, I looked at the
remaining pages underneath the new duty assignments. The first was marked ‘Classified:
approved only for release to authorize personnel in law enforcement . . .’ blah,
blah, blah . . . the same crap they put on all of their faxes. Anyhow, it was a
map of the USA with shaded gray areas indicating confirmed infection zones. Almost
all of the major cities were in those shaded areas. The last fax was different.
It was marked ‘Classified: top secret, eyes only level four and above.’”

We waited.

“That fax was from Homeland Security via USAMRIID, the United
States Army Medical Research Institute for Infectious Diseases. In it they
started spelling out the signs and symptoms of what they were calling ‘MKCP—variant
Z,’ whatever that stood for. I scanned over the fax; I wish I would have kept
the damned thing, but in it they listed several sub variants. Again, I didn’t
read everything, most of it was written in that obscure ‘egg headed rocket
scientist’ language, I just skimmed over it until I came to the part about
treatment. There, in big black letters was something that I could understand. It
was one word, and it said ‘NONE.’

At the bottom of the fax was a paragraph from some lieutenant
colonel. In it he recommended physical destruction of the central nervous
system as the best way to handle infected patients. Incineration of the remains
was highly recommended. And then, almost in what looked like an afterthought,
the colonel added that variant Z and its sub variants were highly likely, over ninety
percent in his estimation, to end up being a PK.”

“What’s PK?” asked Uncle Andy.

Sam looked around the room and said, “According to the fax,
PK means planet killer.”

Nobody said anything, I think we were all too shocked—I know
I was. The sun was just starting to set as Sam finished up. “Al looked at me after
reading the faxes and said, ‘What are you gonna do, Sam?’  I probably thought
it over without answering for a good five minutes before I told him that I was
going to ‘Keep on doing the job I loved until it killed me or I found something
better.’  He smiled, because that’s the same thing we used to say to each other
every day during our undercover biker sting. I asked him what his plans were,
and he said he was going to try and grab his family and head to their hunting
cabin over near Devil’s Lake. Then he picked up the shotgun and said, ‘Central
nervous system, huh?’  We walked back to the hallway and opened the door;
Captain Reynolds was still alive. He wasn’t moving much, but we could see him
quiver as we got closer. Al said, ‘Oh yeah, there was another fax that came in
while you were on patrol. It said that confirmed routes of transmission have
been by bites and open wounds exposed to infected bodily fluids like blood and
tissue, so try not to get anything on you.’  We stepped over Captain Reynolds,
and Fernandez shot to the front of his cell, unsuccessfully trying to squeeze
between the bars to reach us. I changed mags in my SIG and told Al to hold off
on the shotgun. I could see the front of Fernandez’s head through the bars from
my angle and I lined up the sights. I almost couldn’t do it, but I kept hearing
one word repeat over and over in my head—the word was ‘None.’  I pulled the
trigger and Fernandez went down. We stepped back over Captain Reynolds; his
body still quivered. I looked at Al, silently asking the question; he nodded
his head, so I backed up as far as I could and put a round through Captain
Reynolds’s head. He stopped quivering.”

“The rest, as they say, is history. I looked at the duty
assignment roster from HS and they had me farmed out to the Border Patrol up in
Carson where route 403 crosses into Canada. We went down to the armory and
loaded up—that reminds me, I might have a few things you could use. Anyway, we
locked the station house down after broadcasting the new duty assignments over
the radio. We didn’t get any response. I can tell you this, the interstates are
jammed packed with people leaving the cities. There are accidents everywhere
and cars stalled left and right, a lot of them out of gas. People were walking,
whole families. I don’t even know if they know where they’re heading, and I
have a feeling this is only the tip of the iceberg. I took a lot of back roads
on the way here, probably why I ran out of gas.” Sam looked at his watch and said,
“I’ve got to be heading out. Eric, why don’t you and Michelle follow me out to
my car?” He shook hands all around and told us to be safe, and then Michelle
and I walked him out. Uncle Andy followed as well. We walked around to the
trunk of his patrol car and he used a key to pop it. Inside I could see several
firearms—AR’s, shotguns, and several handguns, along with boxes and boxes of
ammo.

“You need any of these?” he said.

The words “Damn straight” were almost out of my mouth when
Uncle Andy cut in.

“No, we’re good to go, besides where you’re going you’ll
probably need them more then we will out here in the boonies.”

I looked at Uncle Andy questioningly, but he ignored me.

“You sure?” asked Sam.

“Yep,” said Uncle Andy, “and just so you know, if you’re ever
in this neck of the woods again, and in need of gas, we’ll take care of you. Thank
you for sharing the information and,” he added, “putting up with that miserable
SOB that owns the marina.”

Sam smiled his gap toothed grin again and turned to Michelle
and I and said, “Well, if your uncle won’t let you play with guns, maybe he’ll
let you have these.”

He pulled out a large nylon duffel bag marked “North Dakota
State Police” and opened the zipper part way. I could see it was stuffed full
of the heavy duty zip tie handcuffs, probably several hundred pairs of them.

“Those I will definitely take,” I said.

“One more thing,” Sam said as he dug around underneath the
guns in his trunk. “I never tried them, but the German police swear by these,” he
said as he handed us a leather bag with the words “Homeland Security Riot
Control” stenciled on it. Inside it were half a dozen pairs of Kevlar and
carbon fiber riot gloves. They came up to midway between your wrist and elbow
and supposedly could stop knives and broken bottles.

“Wow, thanks,” Michelle and I echoed.

“No problem,” said Sam.

Sam used one of the pairs of the zip cuffs on the guy in the
Tahoe, giving us back our duty ones. I noticed he wasn’t too gentle stuffing
the guy in the back of his Crown Vic. Given what he’s been through, I could
imagine he wasn’t in a very happy go lucky mood.

I shook his hand again and wished him well. He kept his right
hand clasping mine and used his left hand to grip along my forearm. “Central
nervous system, head or neck,” he said.

I nodded.

Sam got in to his patrol car, cranked the engine a few times
until it caught, and then sped off.

Michelle leaned her left hand on top of my right shoulder and
said, “Eric, I’m scared.”

“Me too,” I mumbled.

Just then Marty trotted up to us and said, “Walter needs you
in the office, he said there’s a problem at the campground.”

I shook my head to clear out the thoughts of gloom and doom
that had been circling there and walked back toward the office, Michelle and
Uncle Andy beside me. Walter was sitting at his desk, speaking into a
microphone of the marine radio base station he keeps there.

“Sally, they’re back inside now but the state trooper’s not
here anymore, over,”
he said.

A voice came out of the speaker.
“What about the other
two, they’re lawmen as well, right?  Over.”

“Yes ma’am they are, let me talk to them and get back to you,
over,”
Walter
replied.

“OK, I’ll keep this channel open until I hear from you, over,
out.”

Walter hung the microphone on the little Y-shaped metal
bracket mounted on the side of the radio. I didn’t say anything; I just waited
for him to speak. Francis beat him to it.

“Are mom and dad OK?” she asked.

Walter nodded his head and said, “Yep, they’re doing fine—far
as I know. Why don’t you and your brother go get your stuff together and I’ll
run you back to the campground.”

“Can we take the Mule?” Marty asked.

“Nah, it’ll do you youngen’s a bit of good to walk around
once in awhile,” Walter said with a smirk as Francis and Marty left to gather
their things.

A few seconds later Walter mumbled to no one in particular, “Plus
it’ll give me time to talk when you’re not around.”

“What’s going on?” Michelle asked.

Walter looked up at all of us; we were still standing. He
stood up, walked over to the refrigerator, and took out a few beers . . . holding
several in his hand and extending them out to us. I shook my head no, so did
Michelle, but Uncle Andy took one. Walter rubbed his eyes and motioned for us
to sit down.

“I know I don’t have any right to ask this of you, but would
one or the both of you mind taking a ride up to the campground to see if you
can get some things straightened out there?  I’d be much obliged,” he said.

Michelle repeated her question. “What’s going on?”

Walter took a long swig of his beer before replying. “Ravenwood,
the RV campground northeast of here, has about one hundred and twenty slots for
campers, I think about eighty of them are designed for RV’s, maybe fifty of
those eighty are the larger pull through types. The remaining forty or so slots
are the ones set aside for tent camping. Eric, you’re probably aware that the
campground is run by the state Natural Resources Department.” I nodded. “However,”
Walter continued, “they don’t have a resident park ranger; all they got is
what’s called a campground host. Someone they let stay there for free in
exchange for collecting fees and issuing camping permits. Once a week or so a
state park ranger will swing by to make sure everything’s OK and collect the
revenue.”

“Yeah, a lot of the more out of the way campgrounds use that
type of system,” I said.

“Uh Huh,” Walter replied, “for the last . . . oh, I guess
about five months or so, the campground hosts have been Doc and Sally Collins. Sally
is my baby sister.” He paused before continuing. “Sally’s had some . . . issues
. . . with alcohol in the past. Her husband’s a good guy; Doc Collins, retired
orthopedic surgeon. Anyhow, after Sally’s last bout with rehab, he decided to
move them up here for a spell to get her away from all the high society
cocktail functions and champagne brunches she was always attending. Things have
been working out pretty well I suppose. We get together once or twice a week to
play dominoes or cards; sometimes Bernice and Sally take turns cooking up some
fancy feast for a picnic, and like I said things had been going pretty well. Francis
and Marty are their kids, well, Sally’s from a previous marriage. No matter
which way you slice it though, they’re my niece and nephew. They’re pretty good
kids really—that Francis has eyes like an eagle and could spot somebody trying
to swipe a pack of gum by looking in the curved security mirror while handling
a whole line of customers. And Marty, he don’t talk too much, least wise about
things that he’s not interested in, but get him talking about fishing and the
boy won’t shut up, he’s pretty dang good at it too. Bernice and I have several
empty rooms up at the house since our kids moved away, and it just worked out
better for everybody to give Sally and Doc some more space in their RV and the
kids their own rooms away from mom and dad.” Walter tipped the beer back for
another sip. “Like I said, Ravenwood has room for about one hundred and twenty,
but right now they’ve got one hundred and eighty-some squeezed in there, with
more lined up outside. A lot of fights, a whole lot of pushing and shoving, and
Doc and Sally don’t really know what to do.”

I nodded my head. “I’ll go.”

“Not alone, you won’t,” said Michelle.

I thought about her answer for a few seconds, convinced
myself that it wasn’t worth a fight trying to get her to stay here before
saying, “I better put my uniform on, and let’s take your Tahoe for the effect. You
got gas in it?”

“Quarter tank of gas and about a pound of broken glass,” Michelle
said, reminding me about the busted window.

“Uncle Andy, I’m gonna leave Max here with you. I’m also
gonna leave the Fish and Wildlife radio with you so we have a secure line of
communications; I’d rather not use the marine frequency for anything important.”

Michelle chimed in, “I’ve got the mobile and another portable
in my truck so we should be good to go.”

Uncle Andy nodded his understanding and said, “I’ll be right
here if you need me.”

“What about Marty and Francis?”  I asked.

“I’ll tell them that we’ll run em’ up to the campground when
you two get back, after things settle down,” Walter said.

I nodded and went out to my truck to change. A couple minutes
later I was ready to go, duty dress with a level II-A vest underneath. I handed
Uncle Andy the radio, gave Max a quick wrestle and hug, and then walked out to
the Tahoe; Michelle was already inside. She pulled out of the parking lot and
took the highway east; a quarter mile later, just as the sun finished slipping
below the horizon, she made a left onto Ravenwood Campground Road.

We had gone less than a mile when we saw a series of
headlights coming our way. They passed by us, traveling at a rate of speed that
was probably fifteen or twenty miles per hour faster than the posted limit of thirty-five.
It was a line of four RV’s with a few trucks and cars mixed in. The next five
miles saw several repeats of that convoy, some larger, some smaller. A mile out
from the campground entrance Michelle hit the red emergency lights. I looked at
her with my eyebrows raised.

“If the natives are restless, this will give them a little
bit of time to calm down before we get there,” she said.

Personally, I’d rather go in quick and quiet, but her federal
law enforcement training was kicking in, and in general they like to announce
themselves. I could see the merit of that in certain situations, I just didn’t
know if this was one of them. About 200 yards from the entrance we saw a line
of RV’s pulled off on both sides of the road; the lane between them was
currently occupied by a pickup truck with a pop-up camper towed behind it. The
truck was trying to back up between the rows of parked RV’s, apparently
unsuccessfully, judging from several gashes on the side of an Airstream RV. A
small gathering of about a dozen men, women and children were engaged in a
heated discussion in the illumination of multiple headlights. Michelle pulled
the

Tahoe into a diagonal road blocking position, left the lights
and engine running, and locked it up.

I smiled and said, “Are you going to lock it up with the
window busted out?”

She laughed and replied, “Crooks are dumb; I once answered a
call about a stolen car that was sighted at the trailhead parking area of a
federally protected wetland. Turns out the crackhead had been sitting there for
over two hours because he locked himself ‘in’ the car.” I shook my head and
laughed along with her.