Fade to Grey (Book 1): Fade to Grey (12 page)

“Yes,” Michelle smirked, “we understand ‘healthy.’”

“Yeah, that  . . . but not healthy. I touched her forehead
and it was burning up. I don’t see too good at night, and with only one
headlight I normally don’t drive after dark, but I figured I should try and get
her to some kind of doctor, so I started driving again. A couple minutes later
I hear this big thump in the back, so I pull off the road and she’s laying on
the floor in the back. I got out of my seat and helped her back on the couch,
that’s where I got all of this blood on me from. Her eyes were, like,
fluttering, like she was trying to send Morse code on acid, and the light in
the back of my van isn’t so bright, but her eyes were like all dark, I mean all
dark.” He emphasized the word “all.”

“So, I start driving again and after about a half hour I see
lights up ahead—not car lights, I saw plenty of them—but like streetlights,
those up there,” he inclined his head to indicate the lights above the parking
lot of the marina.

“I pulled in here, and I was going to try and get her out to
get her some fresh air or something, but I didn’t want to drag her over the
front seats so I went around and in the back. I tried to get her to sit up but
she would just flop back down, so I got out and went to see if somebody could
help me. I walked all around this building a few times, tried all the doors but
nobody was home. I could see there was a couple lights over there along the
lake, thought it might be a house, but like I said, I don’t see too well at
night. I walked down to the lake to see if anybody might be fishing there, but
no dice, so I washed my hands off and came back here. I was going to try and
drive to the next place, but when I got back here, dude . . . she was gone. I’m
serious man, freakin’ abracadabra like, she was out of there. Man, I looked all
over, out to the road, in that big gravel lot across the highway, all around
the store, even back down to the lake, but she ain’t anywhere. So I was coming
back, and that’s when you showed up.”

Michelle’s eyes met mine, our thoughts racing to the same
conclusion. Michelle said, “Go tell Andy and Walter, I’ll watch this turkey.”

I scanned the area all around with my light but saw nothing
moving, so I went over to the passenger side of Uncle Andy’s truck. I gave him
and Walter and a brief rundown of what the guy said, and when I was done Walter
said, “Shit.”

The guy still hadn’t moved, neither had Max, so I motioned
for Michelle to come over. When she got over to us I asked her, “Do you have
any other guns in your truck?”

“Only the 45 that I took off the guy who went trigger happy
inside the bait store. It’s only got five rounds left, but it’s a nice one,
Springfield Armory 1911, looks like it’s got some custom parts on it too."

"Get it," I told her, probably a little too harshly.
Her eyes narrowed at me, but she walked toward her truck.

"Are you still carrying your Mustang?" I asked my
uncle. He nodded yes.

"Get it out and have it ready,” I said as Michelle came
back.

“Walter, do you remember how to shoot?” I teased.

“Boy, I’ve been shooting guns longer than you’ve been alive
about three times.” Michelle handed him the Springfield; he hit the magazine
release and dropped it out, racked back the slide and locked it open to make
sure the gun was empty, then counted the rounds in the magazine, reinserted it,
and hit the slide release to chamber a round. I heard his thumb click the
safety on.

Uncle Andy and Walter left the truck running and walked over
toward the front of the bait shop where we had the guy seated.

“Uncle Andy, Walter, stay here and keep a watch out, remember
Ironfeather’s advice if you have to shoot, head or neck, OK?” They nodded.

“What’s this lady look like, how are we gonna recognize her?”
Walter asked, bringing a burst of amused laughter from Mr. Westwick, who
blurted out, “I’m pretty sure that she’s gonna be the only mostly naked, hot
blond running around in the dark freezing her nipples off near the Canadian
border, or maybe you see that kind of thing up here all the time.” We all
shared a brief chuckle.

“Michelle,” I said, “you and I need to get back to my truck;
it’s still parked outside of Walter’s office, you ready?” She nodded yes as she
drew her Glock. We started moving, side by side, slowly advancing around to the
right. Our flashlights were dancing left and right, illuminating pie shaped
wedges of the parking lot and casting shadows that flickered and jumped. We
made it to the door that went into the grocery side of Sheldon’s. I tested it—still
locked. Twenty more feet and we made it to the back corner. Lots of
miscellaneous piles and stacks of pallets were back here, so we swung wide to
give us some clearance in case anything leapt out at us. Nothing did. Seventy-five
feet across the gravel parking lot my truck was parked. We trotted over to it,
shined our lights in front, in the bed and underneath it, it was clear. I
unlocked the doors and we got in, started it up, and drove around to the front
slowly, completing our loop of the marina and finding nothing. I left the truck
running and got out, turned back inside and folded the seat forward. Behind the
seat of my truck I always keep several things. The first thing is a duffel bag
that contains a complete change of clothes for work—plus a towel, toothbrush,
etc . . . everything I need to be presentable at work if I get stuck out in the
boonies, or at some girl’s place. The second thing is BOB, also known as the
“bug out bag,” or the “get home bag,” or even as Uncle Andy calls it the “get
out of dodge” bag. No matter what you call it, it’s basically a lightweight
survival pack that with practice, someone could survive almost anywhere for several
days to a week, maybe longer if you’re good and can supplement the items inside.
The third thing that’s always there is a small tool box that will allow me to
make basic field repairs on my truck. The final thing is a long, thickly padded
nylon case with several pockets sewn on the outside. Inside of it is a Mossberg
590 twelve gauge pump shotgun, nine shots, parkerized finish with night sights.
Scattered between the pockets are thirty shells, twenty of them are number four
buckshot, and the other ten are slugs. The tubular magazine in the shotgun is
also loaded with eight rounds of buckshot. Oh, there’s another case back there
also; it has extra magazines and ammo for my CZ, it’s also where I keep my belt
gear, like extra batteries for my flashlight, my cuffs and pepper spray, that
kind of stuff. I pulled out the shotgun, worked the slide to chamber a round
and loaded up one more. Michelle and I walked over to where my uncle and Walter
were.

“Nothing out back as far as we could see, and we’ve got to find
this . . . lady,” I said. “I’ll take the other portable radio, that leaves
Michelle with her mobile, and you still have the one I gave you earlier,
right?”

Uncle Andy patted his left hip and said, “Right here
underneath my coat.”

“Michelle, why don’t you head east back toward the
campground, but go past the turnoff and out the highway a little bit, and then
if you don’t see anything on the highway, turn around and drive up Ravenwood Campground
Road, at least a mile or so. I know we just came from there but none of us were
really looking for anything on our way back. I’m going to go west out the
highway for a few miles to check that direction. Walter, Uncle Andy, you stay
here and hold down the fort.” I extended the Mossberg toward them and Uncle
Andy hesitated for a second before taking it.

“Don’t you think one of you two might need this?” he asked.

“Keep it,” I said. I looked around at Walter, my uncle, and
Michelle. “Remember, if you find her, or she finds you, call on the radio,
don’t do anything yourself, understand?”

“Does that apply to you also?” Michelle snipped.

“I promise, and I’m sorry for being short earlier, it’s been
a long day and this ranks right up there with the ‘last thing I need.’”

She smiled and said, “I won’t tell you to be careful if you
won’t tell me not to worry.”

I turned to Mr. Westwick and asked him, “How long ago was the
last time you saw her . . . think.”

He tilted his head left, paused for a few seconds and said, “Um,
I guess about, well, probably about twenty minutes or so.”

Michelle said, “She couldn’t be more than a mile or two,
three at the outside and that’s if she’s running.”

“Let’s go, and remember, stay in contact,” I said.

I got into my truck, hit the auxiliary off-road lights and
pulled out onto the highway heading west; in my rearview I could see Michelle’s
tail lights heading east.

I drove slow, my off-road lights flooding the pavement in
front of me with brilliant white light. After a quarter mile, I keyed the radio
and reported that so far I had nothing. They answered back the same. The
highway was strangely devoid of traffic, which typically is the way it is. Lately,
even though it’s not a main highway or thoroughfare, there’s still been a huge
increase in the amount of traffic with all the people heading north. The next half
mile was empty, with the exception of a fox that crossed in front of me. I
checked in again, nothing all around. At the one mile mark, my radio crackled
to life; it was Walter saying that all was clear at the marina. Michelle and I
confirmed the same. I drove out the road another two miles; nothing was moving,
so I turned around and headed back to the marina. Michelle beat me back by
about thirty seconds. I drove another loop around Sheldon’s, using the off-road
lights to push back the darkness, but came up empty. I drove to the front, left
my truck running, and walked over and stood next to Michelle.

“Where could she be?” said Uncle Andy.

Michelle and I took all of ten seconds to relay that we
hadn’t found squat along the road.

“Do you think she would have walked cross country into the
brush, or maybe she fell into the lake,” Walter said.

I considered it, but told them I thought it was unlikely. We
kept offering up suggestions but nothing seemed to pan out until Michelle
mentioned that, “Maybe she got a ride with somebody else.”

That seemed to make a lot of sense, and I had just about
convinced myself that it was the most likely scenario that had taken place when
our guy sitting on the curb looked up at me and said, “Hey dude, like, I’m not
trying to tell you your business or anything, but there’s another road out of
here.”

I looked down at him questioningly, and a few milliseconds
later as it was sinking in, Walter shouted out “Shit . . . the road up to my
house . . . Bernice!” I spun around and sprinted to my truck yelling, “Max, get
in the truck.” I saw him vault up and over the closed tailgate, heard his claws
hit the bed liner just before I dropped it into gear. Michelle barely made it
to the passenger seat and we were off like a shot, racing around the back of
the marina and heading up the road toward Walter’s house. I could see the
headlights of Uncle Andy’s truck about one hundred yards behind me. Walter’s
driveway follows the contour of Ghost Echo Lake for about 300 yards before it
makes a sharp dogleg to the left and climbs a low, wooded hill that overlooks
the water. Walter’s house is on top of that low hill. I gunned the V8 engine
and raced along the shore, slowing down only enough to make the sharp left,
then accelerating up the short switchback road until I made it to the small
clearing that surrounds his house. I skidded to a stop, slammed the truck into
park and leapt out, flashlight and gun leading the way. I heard Michelle shut
her door and saw the beam of her light dart forward and back, searching. Max
started barking and two seconds later I heard a huge
BOOM
, followed
quickly by another, and another. The explosions were coming from Walter’s house.
I sprinted up the short stairs that lead to the wrap-around deck, zigzagged to
the right around some folding chairs and a converted 55 gallon barrel barbecue
grill, made it to the first corner and turned left toward the kitchen entrance.
As soon as I made that turn I saw the blond. Or what was left of her. Standing
in the doorway to the kitchen was Bernice, she was casually holding a shotgun
in the crook of her arm, like she was walking through a field at a private
hunting preserve with all of her country club buddies, waiting to step on a
stocked bird so it would fly. She looked up at me and then down at the body and
said, “Little chilly to be running around all nekkid like that, doncha’ think?”
Then she slid the kitchen door shut and walked back inside her house. I sat
down to catch my breath, shaking my head and wondering if I should laugh or
swear. I buried my face in my hands and did both.

A short time later we were all sitting in Walter and
Bernice’s living room with huge mugs of spiced apple cider heated up to
borderline scalding temperatures nestled in our hands. Nobody said anything; I
think we were all too busy just processing what had happened, and the
implications that may be forthcoming.

Walter fired up his pipe and the aromatic scent of cherry
apple tobacco drifted through the room. Finally Michelle spoke.

“Well, first things first. We need to come up with a plan, a
serious plan. Think about it—whatever this sickness is, it’s not just in Miami
anymore. We’re in the middle of nowhere and it’s already impacting us, and even
though I would imagine that big cities have it a lot worse, I think we’re only
seeing the tip of our particular iceberg right now. There’s traffic that’s been
buzzing up and down the highway nonstop for the last two days; there’s at least
300 people . . . maybe over 400 at a campground that’s only eight miles that
way.” She pointed her finger towards the northeast. “Everywhere you look there
are cars, trucks, campers, and RV’s pulled off the side of the road. How many
of those people driving by, how many of those that are parked along the road,
heck—how many of those 300-400 people at the campground are already infected?”

We were silent . . . everybody just raising eyebrows and
casting glances around the room. She was hitting the nail on the head, the nail
that all of us had been quietly keeping to ourselves. She continued.

“We need a plan . . . it doesn’t need to be the ‘end all-be
all’ plan of the century, but it at least needs to be a start. We need to start
prioritizing stuff, because if we don’t, sooner or later that’s gonna be us,”
she nodded towards the dead blonde that was still on the deck.

I stood up and said, “Michelle’s right, everything she said
is spot on. Her and I are supposed to be at the campground for the meeting at
10:00 AM tomorrow . . .”

My Uncle cut in with, “I think I’ll tag along to that meeting
as well.”

That worked for me, and even if it wouldn’t have, I was too
tired to argue. I continued, “It’s already almost 1:00 AM, so somewhere in the
next nine hours we’ve got to come up with some damn good ideas, not to mention
getting some sleep. Uncle Andy, Walter, Bernice . . . I know it’s late, but if
you can get a jump start on some kind of plan, it will still allow us a little
bit of time for sleep, and then we can hash out some of the details in the morning.”

“You’re not gonna help with the plan?” Bernice said.

“Yeah, I will, as soon as I get back,” I replied.

“Where are we going?” Michelle said, emphasizing “we.”

“We,” I re-emphasized the word, “are going to release back
into Mother Nature one mostly innocent hippie.”

I got up and left, Michelle followed me out. Walking down the
stairs outside the deck I slowed down, then stopped.

“What is it?” asked Michelle.

I was silent for a moment, thinking, doing the math. She
waited another moment before asking, “Well…?”

“I was just thinking about what Sam Ironfeather said . . . running
the numbers . . .”

“And . . .?” She sighed.

“Just based on what Sam told us about Trooper Fernandez, you
know, how long it took the bite to affect him, and considering how long some of
those people have already been in the campground, I’d say it’s highly likely
that if any of them were exposed to whatever this is before they got there,
then by now they’ve already . . . I don’t know what the word would be, maybe .
. . ‘turned.’”

Michelle let out a deep breath. “Great,” she said.

Do you remember a long time ago when I said that this was
going to be a very long update?  Yeah, me too, and I’m almost done. Michelle
and I drove back to the marina in my truck. Mr. Westwick was sitting exactly
where we left him. I had the impression that if we would have moved to
Venezuela for twelve years and then returned, he would have still been sitting
there. As it was, he just looked up and us and said, “Find her?” I nodded. He
started to say something, maybe to ask how she was, but whatever he saw in my
face must have told him the story, or at least enough of it that he didn’t want
to know any more. We stood him up, uncuffed him and told him that his story
checked out and he was free to go. I warned him not to pick up any more
hitchhikers, no matter how hot they looked. Then Michelle reached into her side
pocket and pulled out the bags of pot we found during the search and tossed them
to him. His reflexes were about five times too slow and the bags bounced off of
his chest and dropped to the ground at his feet.

“Oh man, you serious? . . . This is, like, totally cool.”

Michelle said, “I think the world has enough problems to
worry about right now, just don’t toke and drive, OK?”

“Scouts honor,” he said, holding up both of his hands,
forming the “V” peace sign on each. His ear to ear smile immediately had me convinced
that he had no intention of honoring that promise. I didn’t care. Michelle’s
truck was still idling, driver’s side door open and headlights on. It’s amazing
that nobody driving by swiped it, I thought. I turned to walk back toward my
truck, but our now liberated hippie stopped me with a question.

“Um . . . Mr. Officer dude . . . like, um . . . it’s like
really hard to ask this man, because you’ve been so cool, the chick too, Oh
sorry ma’am, …I mean Mrs. Officer dude, but like, you know, you left my van
running the whole time you were gone, and like a few minutes before you came
back she ran out of gas; it was, like, so lame, I just had to sit there and
listen to her breathe her last breath.”

Why is it that everybody around me runs out of gas. Am I like
some cosmic petroleum black hole?  I don’t know. I did feel a little bad
though, partly because he was right, we did leave his van running. Mostly
though because as far as I am able to fathom, the story he told us had no BS in
it, and that’s a rare commodity from somebody in handcuffs. I wish I had a dime
for every joker I’ve pulled over who was swerving along the back roads shining
a spotlight into the fields looking for deer. They’d be totally trashed, beer
cans nine inches deep on the floor of their truck, and they’d swear they “only
had two beers.” The infamous two beers speech; never one, never three . . . always
two.

I told him to wait there, and Michelle and I drove back to
Walter’s house. She went inside and I drove Uncle Andy’s truck back down, put
about ten gallons in the van and wished him well. I saw the flicker of a
lighter through the passenger side window as he pulled out onto the highway. So
much for his promise.

When I got back to Walter’s, Bernice told me that everybody
else had gone to bed after coming up with what they thought were a few good
ideas. I also got the rapid fire rules.

“Breakfast is at 7:00 AM—sharp . . . leave your clothes outside
your door tonight and I’ll do them in the morning . . . no hanky panky under my
roof with the redhead unless you’re married to her, which you ain’t . . . and
if your dog pisses on the floor or kills any of my chickens I’ll turn both him
and you into rugs.” She started to walk down the hallway but turned after three
steps and added, “And . . . the first job after breakfast for you boys is to
get miss plastic tits off my deck.” Behind one of the closed doors along the
hallway I heard a faint chuckle.

So here I am, it’s 1:39 AM, I’m tired. Good night.

April 20
^th

*click*

I’m lying in bed, according to my watch its 6:47 AM, it’s April
20
^th
, I think. I actually feel pretty rested, although I know I
dreamed . . . something. Have you ever seen that little kid’s toy, it’s kind of
a plastic hot dog shaped thing that’s filled with liquid, and when you try and
grasp it, the slippery little critter folds in around itself and squirts out of
your hand?  That’s what I feel like trying to remember this dream. Hold on
somebody’s knocking at my door.

“Yeah, I’m awake.”

“Breakfast is in ten minutes, your clothes are outside the
door . . . and don’t forget about the bimbo on the porch.” It was Bernice,
obviously.

I didn’t really know how to reply, so I just said, “Thank
you.”

OK, Max is licking my face and pawing me. Time to get out of
bed. I’ll update this again later if I have time.

*click*

It’s about, 7:45 AM I think, and things are moving quickly
here. I rolled out of bed, wrapped a blanket around me, and let Max outside. A
quick, hot shower later and I was feeling rather human, especially with my
clean clothes that Bernice had somehow managed to wash, dry, and press. I headed
to breakfast a few minutes later; Michelle was just coming out of her room. She
still looked very sleepy and was groggily moving toward the shower. The four of
us minus Michelle slammed down a mess of French toast, scrambled eggs, and hot
oatmeal. Bernice made an extra plate for Michelle, and then asked if I wanted
the scraps for the big hairy varmint. Uncle Andy couldn’t resist and said, “Oh
Bernice, I think Walter’s already had enough.” Bernice stared at the two old
men, her face unreadable, and then she turned to me again and said, “Do you
want the scraps or should I throw them out?”

“I’d be happy to take the scraps, but don’t let that stop you
from throwing them . . .” I nodded toward my uncle and Walter . . . “out.”

We all shared a quick smile and laugh, except Bernice. I
think in all the years I’ve known her, I’ve only ever seen her laugh once. It
was a few years ago at Thanksgiving. I was up at Uncle Andy’s cabin for the
holiday, and Bernice and Walter invited us over for a traditional Thanksgiving
dinner. There was about eight inches of new snow on the ground, and after we
ate, Uncle Andy and Walter were “feeling their Wheaties” and decided to go sled
riding down the hill toward the lake. There was a narrow, but basically
straight run that Walter had cut through the forest many years ago for his
daughters to sled on. The only problem was that in the years since they grew
up, so did the trail. It was still passable for the downhill run, but at the
very bottom a thick tangle of briars had overtaken the area. Uncle Andy,
wearing nothing but jeans, boots, and several layers of buttoned down flannel
shirts, made the first run, packing down the snow until his sled stopped about
halfway down the hill. Walter, in his brand new, fluorescent orange, insulated
snowmobile suit extended the trail another fifty feet or so. When he walked
back up to the top he was complaining that because of his much greater speed,
all the snow was flying up and sticking to his goggles. He said that halfway
down the hill he was completely blind. Uncle Andy called him a wuss and with a
running start, sped down the narrow packed run. About thirty feet from the
briar patch, his sled hit a bump and shot him into the air, tail over tea cup. Walter
laughed at him the whole time Uncle Andy was climbing back up the hill. Bernice
had stepped out onto the porch with some hot coffee for everybody, and Walter
drained his entire cup without stopping, gave several Indian war cries and took
off down the hill. Approaching the midpoint of the run, Walter achieved what he
later referred to as “terminal velocity,” and at that exact moment “my darn
goggles got ripped off my face by the shockwave when I passed through the sound
barrier, and I had zero visibility for the rest of my ride.” I’ve got to say,
from our vantage point up on the deck it sure looked like he was moving to beat
the band. Our vantage point also gave us an incredible view of the large black
bear that shambled out of the briars right into the projected path of Walter’s
sled. It was one of those moments in nature that you rarely get to see, like a
penguin slipping on the ice, or a monkey jumping to a limb and missing. This
bright orange, unguided missile was streaking at breakneck speeds down the icy
run, its lone pilot unaware of the danger fast approaching—also forgetting
about the bump. When Walter’s sled impacted the bump, the plastic sled split in
two and ejected Walter “at roughly the equivalent of the speed of light” as he
puts it. “Ah kinda felt like I had achieved some kind of a Zen state of mind,
all free and floatn’ through the air . . . ‘till I done run into a big hairy
wall.” The bear, also apparently taken by surprise, was not in the least bit
amused and proceeded to shred Walter’s orange snow suit into tiny pieces. It
threw Walter up in the air several times, and even bounced him off a tree for
good measure before huffing defiantly and ambling off. Uncle Andy and I stared
in disbelief at the scene that unfolded before our very eyes, and Bernice let
out a string of hysterical laughter, the tone and resonance of which would make
a pack of Yeti grimace and cover their ears. Walter slowly made his way back up
the hill, shedding puffs of insulation with every limping step. The three of us
watched with an amused curiosity as he drug himself up the stairs, grabbed the
half drank cup of coffee from my hand and sat down in a snow covered folding
chair. Bernice, face made of stone once more, stared at him for a few seconds
before saying, “Wally, you big dummy . . . bear season don’t start ‘til next week.”
I think I almost peed my pants I laughed so hard.

So anyway, Walter and my uncle are in the basement getting a
tarp to move the blond. Right now the plan is to take the body down to the
marina and temporarily put it in a small storage building that Walter uses to
work on boat motors. After that, we’ve set aside one hour to share ideas and
come up with a plan, and then we’re off to the campground. We want to try and
get there early enough to talk to Doc and Sally about, well, everything. Max
ran all over creation this morning after I let him out. If he’s inside for too
long he gets grumpy, but he’s never been one of those dogs that could only get
exercise if you were there to help, like throwing a ball or a Frisbee. He’d
much rather sprint after rabbits, squirrels and whatever else he thinks he can
catch, and he usually catches it. I think this morning though, he came up empty.
Bernice had saved the table scraps; a few spoonfuls of scrambled eggs, some
oatmeal, and I think she even used the rest of the loaf of bread and remaining
batter to cook more French toast for him. She plays tough but she’s a real
softy at heart, at least for animals. Max scarfed down his breakfast in about three
and a half seconds . . . I need to remember to get a few good meals in him
today. I think I hear Michelle calling me, so I’ll try and update some more
later. That reminds me, my laptop is in my truck, and I want to copy all of
these voice files to my hard drive. Yep, just one of the many things that I
have a feeling are going to take up my time today. Later.