Fade to Grey (Book 1): Fade to Grey (23 page)

I really was starting to get cold now, sitting there in the
tent with no shirt on. I saw her shake her head and she said, “Nope, your
sweatpants are wet too.” Her hands pushed my chest backwards until I was laying
on top of the sleeping bag, then traced their way teasingly down my ribs and
across my stomach, hooking underneath my briefs. Her eyes never wavered from
mine as she gave a slow tug, paused for a second and then slowly drew them all
the way down and off, taking my sweatpants with them as well. I started to
shiver. She threw her leg over top of me, balancing on her knees as she
straddled my stomach.

“I saw a movie once,” she began, “where these two people were
stranded in a snowstorm. They managed to find a remote cabin but couldn’t get a
fire started, so in order to keep each other warm they had to share their own
body warmth.”

“Seems re—re—reasonable,” I mumbled through chattering teeth,
watching as she shook her head, her long hair whipping slowly back and forth.

She grabbed the bottom of both the t-shirt and sweat shirt
she had borrowed from me, pulling them up and off in one fluid motion, then dropped
down, her hands on the sleeping bag above my shoulders, her face just inches
from mine as her beautiful ebony hair cascaded over both of us. “Eric . . . thank
you, thank you for saving my life last night.” Emily took her time and enunciated
every word. Then she kissed me, delicate at first, then harder. She kissed her
way down my chin, lingering on my neck before moving further down. A few
minutes later my eyes closed and my hands clenched the floor of the tent. Damn,
it was hot in here . . .

Afterwards, we lay side by side on top of the sleeping bag
that we had unfolded, covered only by the poncho liner. Her head was tilted to
the left, resting against my shoulder. Her hand was against mine, her fingers
tracings small circles on my palm. She still had on my baggy Under Armour thermal
pants. We were both quiet, maybe enjoying the moment—maybe neither of us
wanting to be the first to speak. I had been in this situation before. It was
the “critical time” where what you say or do next determines the future of your
relationship, for good or ill. I rolled onto my right side and brushed my
fingers through her hair, twirling it into long ringlets. Her dark eyes watched
me with a mixture of apprehensiveness, neediness and fear.

I met her gaze, gave a reassuring smile and said, “Turn
over.”

“Why?” she said as her eyebrows narrowed a little.

“Emily, do you trust me?” Part of me wanted to raise and
lower my own eyebrows like Groucho Marx, but I managed to keep my face straight
and serious.

“I want to.” She said it slow, the hesitation conveying the
unspoken words,
“I have been hurt before.”

“Then roll over on your stomach.”

She waited another thirty seconds or so, just long enough to
sell herself the idea that it was her choice to turn over, not my request. Once
she was on her tummy I scooted right next to her and rearranged the poncho
liner so it covered both of us more evenly. I took my left hand and placed it
on her shoulders, rubbing gently in large circles. I felt her tense up at first,
but she began to relax with each knot I rubbed out. I moved my hand to her mid
back, digging small circles along the edge of her spine . . . heard her let out
a small “Mmmm . . .” Mimicking her move, I got up on my knees and straddled her
body, using both of my hands to press lightly along her lower spine and hips.

“So, in that movie you saw, the one where they were stuck in
the cabin and had to share body warmth, did they make it out alive?” I asked.

She turned her head a little so she wasn’t talking directly
into the sleeping bag. “Eventually, but they had to spend several weeks snowed
in at the cabin.”

I massaged her back and shoulders for another ten minutes
then ask again, “Do you trust me?  

“Yeah, I do,” she said.

I slid my fingers under the waistband of my thermal long
Johns she was wearing, turning them inside out as I pulled them off of her. I
started rubbing her calves. “What happened after they got rescued?”

“They both went back to their own lives and ended up marrying
other people,” she said between moans as I worked my way up to the back of her
knees.

“No regrets?”

“Yes, for the rest of their lives.”

“So it was a sad movie, make you cry at the end, huh?” I
said.

“No, because in the very end it had fast forwarded twenty or twenty-five
years into the future, the girl had just gotten a divorce from her husband and
the guy had lost his wife to cancer. Neither of them had seen the other since
their time at the cabin, but they met by accident at an outdoor skating rink
just as the first snowflakes of the year began to fall. Of course they fell in love.”

I was rubbing her upper thighs now, she was moaning and
purring at my touch. “Flip back over,” I said. She did. I moved so I was
kneeling near her feet. The poncho liner was half covering her torso, almost
like a camouflaged toga as I picked up her right foot with both of my hands,
bending her knee towards her chest. I dug my thumbs into the sole of her foot,
feeling her tension slip away with each pressure point I rubbed. Shifting
position, I ended up with her ankles on either side of my waist.

“So what did you learn about life and love from watching that
movie?” I asked as I planted a light kiss on the inside of each ankle.

I heard her gasp as I softly kissed my way up to her knee,
and then upward to her thigh. “I think I . . . learned to live life . . . in
the here and now. Not . . . to worry about . . . ohhhhh . . . tomorrow. And not
to . . . mmmm . . . not to live in yesterday.”

“Emily, do you trust me?” I asked for a third time.

“YES!” She panted.

Both of us fell asleep for a few hours afterward, waking only
when Max gave a short bark from outside of the tent—he wanted in. Emily flipped
the open sleeping bag to a closed position, sandwiching her inside but leaving
it unzipped. It was still raining and sleeting outside, contributing part of
the recipe for the typical cold and miserable North Dakota weather. Max was
standing near the door, anxious to get inside and away from the crappy conditions.
I unzipped part of the doorway and he nosed through. “Max, no,” I said, but it
was too late. He immediately shook and splattered the inside of the tent, as
well as every dry surface in a direct line of fire. Emily started giggling at
my predicament so I teasingly tossed one of her shoes toward her. I grabbed the
Barney towel and dried Max for the next several minutes with one side of it,
then flipped that side down and spread it out for him to lay on. He looked at
me with the “Not before I eat, pal” expression that I had seen many times
before. I’d dug into my pack and brought out his remaining dog food, pouring it
in his bowl dry. He chowed it down in less than a minute then went over and laid
down on Barney. I spun around on my hip until I was closer, then spent a few
quality minutes giving him a tummy rub followed by ear scratches and chest
thumps. I looked at my watch, 9:44 AM.

“So what are the plans for today? I take it we’re not
leaving,” Emily said.

I shook my head and replied, “Not today. The Gator is roughly
nine or ten miles away as the crow flies, but like they say, that crow doesn’t
have to fight through the five miles of briars and thorns just to get to the
old logging road. It was hard enough just for me in good weather, I don’t want
to risk it with you until this storm clears up, so we’re here at least until
tomorrow. By the same token, we need to get back as soon as possible, do you
have any dry clothes at your tent?”

“After what happened last night I doubt it,” she said.

I could guess, but I figured I better go ahead and ask, “So
what did happen?”

“About an hour after you left a strong gust of wind tore a three
foot gash in the wall of the tent. I tried to tape it shut with duck tape, but
it wouldn’t stick to the wet nylon. I tried moving as much as I could away from
the rip but the rain kept coming in. A few minutes later there was a big . . . I
don’t know, like a tearing sound from outside and I guess the rain fly got
blown away. Water started dripping through the roof of the tent soaking
everything inside, including me. It was so cold, the wind just sucked the heat
right out of me. My hands were numb by the time I managed to get my pack ready
to go. Luckily I had my flashlight next to me, although the batteries were
starting to go. I grabbed my pack and raincoat and left the tent in the middle
of that arctic monsoon. I think I made it, maybe a third of the way around the
lake trail before my raincoat got shredded on some brush. Not too long after
that I’d tripped over some driftwood and fell in the lake, it was only about a
foot deep there at the edge, but it thoroughly soaked the last dry spots I had.
I couldn’t even feel my legs when I got out. I don’t remember much after that,
just bits and pieces. I vaguely remember being carried into your tent, and I
think the light inside the tent for some reason made me believe I was on an
operating table in an ER somewhere. I kind of recall you telling me that my wet
clothes had to come off, but my first clear memory was when you snuggled up
against me inside the sleeping bag. I felt like I was being bathed in liquid
fire, the heat burning through me, melting my frozen body. I think I was
delirious for while . . . I was having these vivid . . . flashes . . .” She
looked up at me, trying to determine if it was safe to tell me—maybe wondering
if I’d make fun of her if she did. Apparently I have a trusting face. She
continued, “It was like being a living ice sculpture, immobile, frozen, alive
but dead to life and empty. And then this silver winged figure, radiant with
life and heat descended from a star filled sky and embraced me, melting me,
freeing me from my icy prison. I could feel his warmth and life flowing into
me, almost like I was drawing it straight from the source, but then I started
to get scared, like the link between us was flowing too fast, that I was taking
all of his life, watching him grow dimmer, fainter, watching him lose his life
as he gave it for me.” Emily had closed her eyes, almost weeping as she
finished, “Watching my angel die.”

I flipped the sleeping bag open and climbed in next to her,
wrapping her in my arms and giving her a long hug. “Well, I’m no angel, but I’m
certainly glad that things turned out a way they did and that you’re OK.” We
stayed like that for another half hour, not saying much with words but
conveying plenty by holding hands and snuggling. Tip for the guys out there . .
. chick stuff; live it-learn it-know it . . . you’ll be much better off. She
finally rolled towards me and asked, “So what are the plans for today?”

“I’ve been thinking about that, and I think the best way to
proceed is for me to hike back over to your campsite and gather anything I can
that would be of use here, as well as any personal things you need. Then we’ll
just hang out here until the weather clears up enough for us to make it back to
the Gator. I’ve still got a few freeze dried dinners, several packs of soup mix
and a lot of tea bags, but the hot chocolate is all gone. There’s also a chance
that I can get us some fish to eat, and I know Max would appreciate that
because I’m out of dog food for him.”

“Where is my backpack?”

“I don’t know, you weren’t wearing one when I found you last
night.”

“Keep an eye out for it on your way back to my campsite; it’s
got most of my personal stuff in it, OK?”

I said I would, then crawled out of the sleeping bag and got
dressed. She watched me the whole time, smiling. The side pockets on the lower
section of my backpack are removable. One of them is filled with my “last
chance” survival kit items. Basically a small removable pouch that can be
clipped to your belt—it was filled with the bare minimum of equipment that can
help you in a survival situation. I didn’t want to take my whole pack, but I
had learned a long time ago to always take something. I dressed in my thermals
that she had recently worn, layered over with a pair of Gortex camouflage pants.
Another clean, dry t-shirt over a long sleeve compression thermal were my base
layers underneath my rain jacket. I grabbed the 10/22 and switched back to the
factory magazine, pulling the sling across my shoulder as I said, “Let’s go
Max.”

The skies showed no sign of anything other than rain and wind
in my near future, but if you spend any amount of time working outdoors in
North Dakota, you get used to this kind of weather. Max and I circled back
along Emily’s route, finding her backpack near the shredded remains of her
plastic raincoat. It was a yellow Kelty day pack, great for a few hours away
from camp, not so great for anything longer. It was sitting in about eight
inches of water. I used a stick to hook the strap and pull it out of the lake, and
then hung it on a small bush to help drain the contents before continuing on my
way. I’d pick it up during the return trip. About 200 yards further on Max
froze, looking at a clump of cattails along the edge of the lake in front of
us.

“Easy, Max . . . wait.”

Max isn’t a pointer, or for that matter a retriever, but he
is a hunter. When he alerts like that, it’s best to pay attention. The clump of
cattails was about twenty-five yards ahead, so I dropped down on one knee and
flipped up the scope covers on the 2x7 Nikon that was mounted on top of the
10/22. Turning it up to full magnification, I scanned among the tan stems,
looking for whatever it was that Max had sensed. A few seconds later I saw
movement—a metallic green head darting back and forth. Mallard duck. Yeah, they
weren’t in season, and I was the guy in charge of enforcing that, but I think
considering the circumstances exceptions are going to be made. I dropped down on
my stomach, Max crouched beside me. Steadying the rifle, I clicked off the
safety and lightly touched the trigger, waiting for a clear shot. It took about
three minutes of waiting before the male duck moved into a less dense region of
the cattails. I slowly squeezed the trigger. BANG. The small crack of the bullet
breaking the sound barrier was partially muted by the wind and rain. Several
ducks burst from the cattails, quacking and beating their wings as they took
off along the edge of the lake before rising up and over the willows,
disappearing from my sight. I waited. No movement that I could tell, so I got
to my feet and shouldered my rifle after flipping the scope caps back down and
reapplying the safety. We walked over to the cattails and saw our duck, about ten
feet from shore partially floating among the reeds. I was guessing the water
was about two feet deep out there, over my boots. I looked at Max, and then out
at the duck, mentally commanding him to retrieve our dinner and deposit it in
my hands. I got this strange impression that he was sending the same exact
signal to me.

“Come on Max, you love the water, go get the duck . . . get
the duck Max . . .”