Fade to Grey (Book 1): Fade to Grey (24 page)

He spent a good twenty seconds looking at me and the duck—a
huge, tongue wagging grin on his face—before turning his back to both of us.

“Why you good for nothing, overgrown poodle. I ought to shave
you bald and sell you on craigslist as a mutant Chihuahua.”

My boots were good to go in water, as long as it was less
than six inches deep. I didn’t want to overflow them if I could avoid it, so I
spent some time searching the brush for a stick long enough to reach the duck. It
took awhile, but I finally managed to get it into shallow water. I turned
around and tossed my reaching stick into the willows, spinning back around just
in time to see Max step into the shallow water and pick up my duck.

“Don’t you even think about it buddy. You had your chance to
help me, but you just sat there like some vacant eyed mutt,” I said.

He took three steps toward me and dropped the duck at my
feet, his face locked in a stupid grin that said, “Hey dad—got the duck for
you!”

I quickly gutted it and offered Max the entrails. He scarfed
them up without hesitation, licking his lips to make sure he didn’t miss
anything. I wedged the duck up in the crook of a willow branch for retrieval on
my return leg, and set off again. About twenty minutes later I was at the
campsite, or what was left of it. Most of the tent was shredded, clothing and
blankets scattered throughout the area, on the ground, in the lake—everywhere. Part
of me wanted to scavenge as much as I could, but the realistic side of me said,
“you take it, you carry it.” I cracked open the Pelican cases, saw that they
were filled with very expensive looking lenses and other camera equipment. I
spent the next half hour or so moving them away from the campsite into the
willows and covering them with brush. You never know, someday we might come
back. The smallest Pelican case had Emily’s name on it. I say small, and
compared to the others it was, but it was still about eighteen by twenty-four
inches. I opened it and found a complete set up—camera, several lenses, cords
and other whatnots. I set that aside to take. There was a large
National
Geographic
duffel bag filled with wet clothing, not Emily’s though, so I
dumped it out and started filling it with some useful items. A few minutes
later and I was ready to go. Hoisting the duffel over my shoulder I headed out,
grabbing Emily’s camera case on the way. A few steps later I got tired of
listening to the items inside the duffel clank and roll, so I wrung out some
assorted wet socks and shirts that I found, using them to pad the contents of
the duffel. The rest of the way back was uneventful, I picked up the mallard
and Emily’s backpack on the way, making it to my tent around 1:30 PM.

Emily was inside my sleeping bag dozing when I returned. She
woke when I entered the tent, groggy eyes brightening immensely when I showed
her the backpack, and positively glowing when I showed her the Pelican case.

My tent has a front vestibule that I had not deployed when I
first set it up, but I took the time now to give us the extra room for some of
the other items I brought back with me. She watched me from inside the sleeping
bag as I brought out the two burner propane stove, a pair of small fuel
bottles, a large aluminum frying pan and small stainless steel soup pot. I had
also found a thirty-two ounce bottle of vegetable oil, several spices that were
still sealed, assorted utensils, and about thirty more Styrofoam soup bowls.

“Anything else in there?” Emily asked.

“Just these,” I said as I removed two bottles of wine, one red
. . . one white. Already chilled thanks to the weather.

“Having a party, are we?” she said with a laugh.

I nodded at her and replied, “Yep, our gourmet meal will be
served . . . um . . . as soon as I catch it.” She laughed again and I joined
her. I reached over and grabbed my backpack, removing the telescopic fishing
rod and the small pack of lures. I turned to head out but she stopped me.

“Eric, not that I haven’t had fun with you in this condition,
but do you think you have any clothes that I can wear for while?”

I had totally forgotten that I was wearing what I had
originally given her to wear. I started stammering an apology as I dug into my
backpack, but she stopped me with a, “Don’t worry, I just didn’t want to go
through your pack without your permission when you were gone.”

I stopped digging and said, “The top compartment has clothes,
take whatever you want.” She sat up in the sleeping bag, letting it drop away
from her. My brain started to tell me,
“She doesn’t know what she’s doing,
doesn’t realize she’s sitting there naked right in front of me.”
Then my
brain kicked itself in the head and said,
“She knows exactly what she’s
doing.” I
thought I saw her give a sly smile as I left the tent.

I took the soup pot, filled it with lake water and added some
salt. After skinning the duck, I let it soak in the saltwater while I stood in
the rain, casting a Rooster Tail spinner into the lake. I fished for probably ninety
minutes or so, catching five nice perch and one monster walleye nineteen inches
long. When I was done I took them off the stringer I made from paracord, then
moved down the lake about a hundred yards from our tent where I dressed and
filleted them, giving Max his choice of the scraps and throwing the rest into
the lake. I came back and changed out the water in the duck pot, adding a bunch
of spices this time instead of salt, as well as half the bottle of white wine. I
took the propane stove and one of the fuel bottles about fifty feet away from
the tent, gathered up a bunch of rocks to make a semicircular windbreak and put
the duck pot on to boil. The clean fish I left in the aluminum frying pan
soaking in some water, they wouldn’t take near as long to get done. Finally, I
grabbed my water filter and used it to refill my canteen and water bladder from
the lake. When I returned to the tent Emily asked me why I didn’t just cook it
underneath the vestibule.

“Well,” I said, “that duck is gonna take several hours of
simmering to get nice and tender. Several hours in which the aroma of gourmet
duck is going to be permeating the surrounding area. Now would you want that
scent to be blown away and scattered by the wind, or trapped inside of our tent
acting like a magnet for any bears that may wander by tonight?

Emily replied, “I got it; soup under the tent is bad.”

“Very,” I said.

I got out of my rainwear and dug out a pack of cards. “We’ve
got some time to pass until dinner’s ready, know any games?”

We passed the next several hours playing gin, 500, hearts and
other assorted card games. It was starting to get dark and we were both
famished so I suited up again and went outside to fry the fish. I ended up
cutting each walleye fillet in thirds so it would fit better into the pan with
the perch. Several liberal sprinkles of garlic later they were bubbling in the
hot oil. When everything was ready I condensed it onto several of the Styrofoam
bowls and brought the feast back to the tent. We opened a bottle of red wine to
go with our dinner, it was from some vineyard in California, but had a French
sounding name—I don’t remember what it was. We drank it out of some more of the
Styrofoam bowls. Between the three of us nothing was left. Nothing. I cleaned
up, moving all of our pots and pans away from the tent, the duck bones went
into the lake and our dirty Styrofoam bowls and other garbage went into a trash
bag that I hung along with the food compartment of my backpack out of the reach
of bears. I showed Emily where I kept the wet wipes in my backpack, grabbed the
roll of toilet paper and went to do my business. When I got back Emily put my
raincoat on and we switched places, me with the wet wipes and her with the
toilet paper. I gave her my Quark light to take with her, and used a small LED
clip light to switch out the dead batteries on my weapon light before I
reattached it. The next several minutes were spent tidying up the tent. Wet and
dirty clothes on this side, clean and dry stuff over there, and so on. Emily
returned about fifteen minutes later, just as the rain was finally tapering off.
We were both feeling relaxed from the bottle of wine over dinner, but at the
same time a little cabin fever was setting in as well.

“Do you think we’ll be able to leave in the morning?” Emily
asked.

“Assuming it doesn’t start raining again that’s my plan. We
need to get back. Even if it is raining a little bit I may risk it,” I replied,
my mind suddenly heavy with the weight of everything that I knew was going to
crash around me when I returned.

Emily could read the concern on my face. We hadn’t really
talked too much about what was going on in the world other than the first time
I told her. She was silent, bathed in the dim electric blue illumination from
the hanging clip light.

“So we leave tomorrow?” she asked.

I nodded, “Weather permitting.”

“And assuming we make it back, the world may be full of
people that are sick . . . infected?”

I nodded again. “It’s a distinct possibility.”

She was silent again, unreadable. I waited. Finally she
looked up at me, her elfin face showing an honest smile. “Well then, the way I
see it our first time was all about you. Our second time was all about me. Our
third time . . .” Her smiled turned mischievous and her eyebrows raised . . . “Should
be all about us.”

Third time’s a charm. So was the fourth.

Well I think that’s enough for tonight. Emily is still
snoring softly, and I’ve got to sneak out to go pee before bed. The rain has
moved out, although the wind is still gusting. I can see a few stars above
through the scattered cloud cover. I’m going to set up a quick line and hang
Emily’s wet clothes out to start drying. It’s been a heck of a day. Goodnight.

April 24
^th
, Eric part 1

*click*

How could a day that started off so well end so terrible? Doc
seems very guarded about the prognosis; a lot of blood was lost. He won’t say
much at all, just that I should try and be hopeful. All I can do is wait . . . and
pray. I don’t even feel like talking. I keep wondering if I screwed up—analyzing
and reanalyzing my actions. I’m so tired. No way I’m going to sleep though;
every time I close my eyes I can smell the blood, I can see the tears, and I
can hear the screams.

April 21
^st
, Michelle

“Wake up sleepy head.” The voice was accompanied by a soft
knock on the door.

“I’m awake, be there in a minute,” Michelle replied.

Michelle rolled out of bed and stretched, intertwined her
fingers and pushed her hands as far up as they would go. A few yawns later and she
was up, dressed and headed out to the kitchen where Andy and Walter were
already seated around the table. Bernice was over at the stove, busily scraping
and flipping something that was giving off the aroma of steamed onions and
cheese.

“Morning,” Andy and Walter both echoed.

Walter said, “Help yourself to some scrambled eggs here.”

Michelle took a few small spoonfuls of eggs, then, as was her
custom, completely buried them in ketchup. Walter and Andy looked at her with
amused expressions. She knew what was coming next.

“Want some eggs with your ketchup?” said Walter.

“Well heck,” Andy replied, “she must have known that you were
the chef this morning. Probably would have dropped three cups of hot tar on
them eggs just to cover the aroma of your cooking, ifn’ she had it.”

“Now boys, the two of you settle down and let me enjoy this
fine breakfast. Walter, these eggs are just wonderful, and Andy—I’ve had your
cooking too. Both of you are gonna make somebody a fine wife one day,” Michelle
said.

Walter laughed and said, “This girl is a prize, why if I was twenty
years younger . . .”

“If you was twenty years younger you’d still be an old fart,”
Andy cut in. Michelle just smiled and shook her head at them. Here she was,
sitting around the breakfast table in a house that she had only been to a few
times before, and where recently a naked, infected stripper had been blown away
just outside the sliding glass door to the kitchen. And yet it felt like home. She
shook her head and chuckled to herself as they made small talk while finishing
their meal. After the eggs she had an apple, two homemade corn bread biscuits
covered with Bernice’s honey butter, and the final wedge of the last “cinnamon
bun a la’ Sheldon” left over from the other day.

“You imagine that Eric has already left the cabin?” Walter
asked.

“Nah, if I know that boy he either left in the middle of last
night, or he’s still sleeping—waiting for the setting sun to shine into his
eyes and wake his ass up,” Andy replied.

“How do we want to proceed today?” Michelle said. “There’s
probably a lot of things that need done, and fetching the radios is just one of
them,” she added.

Andy nodded and said, “Yep, we need to figure out the best
plan for getting those radios, and getting back here safely. I’m thinking that
we should also run over to the campground and make sure they’re all squared
away as well.” Michelle and Walter both agreed.

Walter asked, “Where is your office, what’s the best way to
get there from here, and what’s it like when we get there?”

Michelle thought about it for a second or two before
answering. “Given what we’ve heard about traffic on the roads and people trying
to get out of the cities, even out of the country, I think it’s best that we
don’t take a direct route. At least up to a certain point. The field office
that I work out of is located in the quaint little town of Fort Hammer.” Walter
and Andy nodded their heads, indicating familiarity as she continued. “Fort
Hammer is located about thirty-five miles south of the Canadian border, right
off of highway 403. The quickest way to get there from here is to hop right on
state road 704 out there.” Michelle pointed out toward the road that ran in
front of Sheldon’s marina. “A little over sixty miles west you’ll hit the
intersection of 704 and 403. Turn right, heading north on 403 and about twenty
miles later you’ll drive right through Fort Hammer. Well, that’s not exactly
true, I guess. Highway 403 does run straight up to the border, but it splits
into 403 business at an off-ramp that takes you into Fort Hammer. Anyhow, I
think the last census put us around 1700 people. Not much is there; we’ve got
the farmer’s Co-op, three gas stations, one supermarket, a bunch of little mom
and pop stores, some auto parts dealers and two little strip malls with a bunch
of miscellaneous stores—barbershop, pharmacy, video rental—that sort of thing. There’s
a little motel there as well. There’s a school, K-12, and a small bank branch
also. Most of the people who live there don’t work right in Fort Hammer; they
work up in Carson, the town right on the border. Ah, let me see, that’s really
about it; we’ve got a volunteer fire rescue department and about a dozen
churches . . . two part time cops also. Folks up there are pretty simple . . . nice
people. My office is located on one end of the strip mall that has the
barbershop in it. There’s also a little Chinese restaurant, a chiropractor and
podiatrist who share a suite, a gift store, and two or three empty offices as
well.”

Michelle stood up to stretch, eyeing the coffee maker and its
liquid brown gold. “Anybody need a refill?” she asked.

Walter handed her his cup, accompanied by a “Thank you,
darling,” and she filled them both up, returned to her seat, and continued.

“My first concern of course, is the drive there. 704 is a
straight shot over to 403, but I think the real issue is going to be the
traffic coming up out of the big cities. To our west, highway 83 runs straight
north from Bismarck all the way up to the border. To our east we’ve got highway
281 which runs from Jamestown where Eric and I grew up, north past Devil’s Lake
and through Richland before heading into Canada. Further east you’ve got I-29
which heads north out of Fargo, passes through Grand Forks and on into Canada. My
thoughts are that if even half of the information and rumors we’ve been hearing
are true, then it’s very likely that the border crossings have been closed. Heck,
we close them all the time for everything from bad weather to Amber alerts. I
could be wrong, but I don’t see how either Canada or the United States would
leave the borders open for free passage. They might be allowing their own
citizens access back, but I doubt much else, if even that. I’m not too worried
about I-29 out of Fargo, it’s pretty far to our east. However, if the main
border crossings above Richland on 281 and north of Bismarck on 83 are closed,
then the people are going to try and find another way. So, that brings me to
state road 344. Which I’m sure you both know is the furthest north, straight
crossover between 83 and 281. It’s about forty miles south of us. All of that
traffic that we’re assuming is not going to be able to cross the border heading
north on 83 from Bismarck, well, they’re gonna turn around and try the next
available big road, which is 344. Therein lies the SNAFU for us. Because when
they drive east off of 83, the next main road heading north to the border is
403.”

Andy and Walter had their chins in their hands, thinking. Walter
finally said, “So there’s a good chance that 403 is going to have a ton of
traffic on it.”

“Yes,” Michelle replied, “but remember, the crossing on 403,
up at Carson where Sam Ironfeather was headed to, may also be closed . . . probably
is. And that is going to send people looking for another route, and the road
that they’re gonna take is right out there, state route 704. That’s why I think
we’ve been seeing all of this traffic. I’ll bet the borders have been closed
for several days now, and we’re seeing the people trying to find another way,
or a gas station, someplace—anyplace else—besides the cities. Of course this is
all speculation. For all we know the borders could be open, people could be
staying in the cities, maybe the powers that be have already got a handle on
this ‘flu’ that’s spreading. But I doubt it.”

“It sounds to me like we may not want to risk this trip just
for some radios,” Andy said.

“If we have to ride this out for any length of time, reliable
communication is going to be critical,” Michelle pointed out.

Walter agreed, noting that, “These Fish and Wildlife radios
work off of solar powered repeater towers; if I understand it correctly, and
they’re going to give us the best range by far of any other communication
option we have.”

“So, you got any ideas, young lady?” Andy asked.

“Yep,” Michelle said. “About halfway between here and 403
there’s a gravel road that shoots north towards a series of small
interconnected lakes—people call them the ‘Crossbow Lakes’ for some reason.”

“I’ve been there; it’s been years ago though,” said Walter.

“On the northwest side of those lakes there is a cut-through
that we ran a backhoe and a few trucks across last fall, it was part of a
federal grant funded project to increase oxygenation in inland waterways by
creating a series of rifles on some feeder streams. Anyhow, that cut-through
goes about a half mile before it dead ends on Smyrna Chapel Road. There is a
locked gate, more of a cable really, on both ends of the cut-through. I have
the keys. Smyrna Chapel Road turns into several other roads on its way west. It’s
going to take us fifteen to twenty miles out of our way, but the good news is
that it eventually turns into Sawmill Station Road, which ends up in a small
little town called Fort Hammer.”

“I like the way the she thinks—reminds me of myself—which I
know I like,” said Andy.

Andy continued, “What about that cut-through, is it
passable?”

“It’s mostly flat, and a lot of the problem spots were filled
in with gravel. We may have to kick it in four wheel drive but other than that
it shouldn’t be a problem,” she said.

“OK, that sounds like the plan we should go with, route wise,”
Andy said. “There are, however, other things we need to think about. I know the
radios will come in real handy, but they’re not worth our lives. We have got to
be spot on when it comes to watching each other’s back. We take no chances,
OK?  And if we find that it doesn’t look good—for whatever reason—then we bail
out and come back here, right?”

Michelle nodded and said, “Right.”

“A couple more things also,” said Walter. “Make sure you fill
up the main tank on your truck as well as the transfer tank. And Andy, that
little 380 you carry on your hip needs to be replaced with something bigger,
and I strongly suggest that both of you carry several weapons, especially a
good shotgun. Eric’s should be fine for you Andy, but I’m gonna go dig up one
for the young lady as well . . . and lots of ammo for both of you—which I hope
you don’t need—but better safe than sorry.”

Walter disappeared and came back about twenty minutes later
with another twelve gauge pump shotgun, a Remington 870 police style with a
magazine tube extension. Very similar to what Michelle was trained with. He
also brought another 40 caliber handgun; a Smith and Wesson M&P model with
holster and four magazines. One hundred rounds of buckshot for the twelve
gauges and 250 rounds of jacketed hollow point ammo for each of the 40’s were
brought out as well.

“Can you spare all of this?” Michelle asked.

Walter just smiled and said, “Not a problem . . . plenty more
where that came from too . . . be right back.”

A few minutes later he came back with two soft nylon bags. Opening
one of them, he pulled out a Glock model 17, 9mm, two magazines for it, and an
inside-the-waistband holster. There were several boxes of ammo in the bag as well.

“I want you to give this to Doc Collins, alright?” Michelle
nodded.

“Now this here,” he said, “is a special little toy I’m
sending with you.” He reached in the bag and pulled out a stainless steel, 22
semi-automatic, Ruger Mark III pistol. Mounted on top of the pistol was a
small, lipstick sized object—a laser sight. Michelle noticed the end of the
barrel was threaded and guessed what that was for. She was right. Reaching into
the bag again, he pulled out a metal tube about the size of an empty toilet
paper roll, threaded it onto the gun barrel, and then tapped a small pressure
switch on the side of the gun’s grip. A small, red laser dot appeared on the
ceiling.

“Suppressor and laser, never leave home without ‘em. Let’s go
out to the deck.”

They spent the next twenty minutes shooting at targets. The
laser dot was fairly easy to see except in very bright light. The noise from
the gun was negligible, actually that’s incorrect, Michelle thought. A more
accurate way of describing it would probably be to say that the noise from the
ammunition was negligible. The louder sound actually came from the slide on the
gun moving after each shot. It sounded kind of like a muted “
che-whap
.”
Walter only had two magazines for the pistol; they held ten rounds each. There
was plenty of ammo, though. It also came with a black nylon shoulder holster,
although the gun wouldn’t fit when the suppressor was attached.

Bernice showed up a few minutes later with several baskets of
folded laundry in her arms. She set the baskets down next to the couch and went
back into the kitchen to finish assembling sandwiches for the trip. Michelle went
in to help her while Walter and Andy gassed up the truck.

It took about another hour before they were ready to go. The
truck was filled with gas and given a thorough “once over” for mechanical
issues. There were two spare tires and several other pieces and parts that Michelle
assumed Andy could install if needed. They also took two of the GMRS radios and
some extra batteries. Michelle watched as Walter and Andy loaded a dozen five
gallon buckets into the truck bed, whatever was in them was probably fairly
heavy. Bernice came down to the truck and handed Michelle three coolers—one
red, one blue, and one faded orange with several dents.