Fade to Grey (Book 1): Fade to Grey (26 page)

“Grips,” Andy interjected.

“Yeah, I guess. I know next to nothing about guns. Anyway, he
keeps it in the back of his waistband in some kind of holster. I saw it poking
out when he leaned down to tie his boot laces. I can’t get a read on him. He’s
been nothing but cordial to everybody as far as I know. He’s on the team night security
patrol, and he let the team day people take his shotgun with them. Last night
he was a major factor in convincing those people in the RV they weren’t
welcome, and we know he probably saved Doc and Jason’s lives with his axe. It’s
just, I don’t know . . . something that I’m missing. My gut tells me there’s
more to him than what we’ve seen or know about so far, a lot more.”

They were all silent for a while, digesting her observations
about VW, adding it to the rapidly growing list of potential problems. Eventually
Doc chimed in. “Well, for right now let’s let sleeping dogs lay. On the medical
side, I’m . . . I guess ‘happy’ . . . that as of this morning at 6:00 AM I can
now report that our total campground population is down to 161 people. That’s a
big drop from two days ago. Of course that number reflects the thirty odd
people who moved on to greener pastures this morning. I expect that number to
drop even further as the days go on. What I’m hoping for is that we end up with
a condensed community of go-getters and team players. What I dread happening is
that we end up with a bunch of dependents and freeloaders who will only be here
as long as they perceive that ‘here’ is better than ‘there’—wherever ‘there’ is.
I do have one request, well, I have a lot of requests but we’ll get to them
later, I know you have to get going. My one immediate request however, is some
way to prevent or at least make it more difficult for people to drive up
Ravenwood Campground Road. Right now it’s only that rope out at the end. If
there was some way we could replace that rope with a chain or steel cable, it
may prevent future incidents like we had last night. Of course, anybody who
wanted to leave would have to be escorted down and the chain unlocked for them.
Small price to pay for the added security it might provide.”

Andy said he’d talk to Walter about it and see what could be
worked out. Amy and Michelle started to say something at the same time, both
paused to give the other one a chance, then both continued at the same time
again. Amy held up her hands, laughing, “You first.”

Michelle chuckled along with her and said, “The preacher . .
. Dave . . . said you were going to get a third security team together, right?”

“Yeah, but it may take a little time for us to figure out
everybody’s skill sets and who would work out best.  Remember, I’ve only been
on the job for about . . .” Amy stole a glance at a small silver watch on her
wrist before continuing, “fourteen hours.” She paused, grinned, and then
finished. “And most of my ‘work force volunteers’ have been sleeping for the
majority of that time.”

Michelle nodded and said, “I was just curious what you’d name
them. You’ve got ‘team day’ and ‘team night’ . . . is the next one ‘team
afternoon’?”

Amy laughed again and shook her head. “No. When we add a
third team all of the names will change, probably to colors: red—blue—green . .
. or something like that.”

Andy asked, “Why not teams one, two, and three?”

Amy answered, “Think back to gym class, how would it make you
feel to be placed on ‘team two’ . . . or worse yet, ‘team three’?  We may have
the best of intentions in mind, but how people perceive of their net worth
influences everything about how they act, and interact with others.”

Doc was nodding, agreeing with Amy. After a few more moments
of silence, they all stood up to stretch out the kinks in their assorted backs
and necks, and then said their goodbyes. Amy turned and headed for the door, but
stopped after only two steps.

Turning around she said, “One more thing; there is a young
lady here. Samantha—I don’t know her last name—but she came up to me late last
night and we chatted for a bit. She said she’s some kind of ‘information and
network systems engineer’ . . . something to do with computers. Anyhow, I
didn’t spend a whole lot of time with her, but she seems to think that if she
had access to certain equipment, and here’s the kicker . . . ‘and power’ she
might be able to pick up Internet traffic from satellites that might still be
active. She specifically mentioned Canadian satellites. Again, I don’t know all
the technical details—or even if it’s possible—but if there are sources of
information we can exploit outside of the U.S., it might be well worth the time
and effort. She’s got a tent set up on Blue Heron loop, space number thirteen if
you want to talk to her.”

Andy said they would, then thanked Amy again for everything
she’d done so far. Michelle gathered up all of the coffee mugs and washed them
in the small sink as Amy left. As she was doing that, Andy gave Doc the gun
from Walter.

“You know how one of these things work Doc?”

“Yes.” Doc’s reply was short . . . intense.

“Somethin’ wrong, Doc?” Andy asked.

After a short pause Doc shook his head and said, “No . . . no
problem. I just . . . it’s just . . .”

Michelle could see him reaching for the words, coming up
empty though. He looked really tired. She was sure that they all did.

After another minute of silence he took the gun, loaded a
magazine and inserted it, pulled the slide back, and let it go—chambering a
round. Andy and Michelle watched as he fitted the holster through his belt,
placed the gun inside and covered it with his shirt. He looked up, switching
his gaze between both of them like he was watching a very slow tennis match. “The
last patient I operated on before I retired was a nine year old boy who got
caught in a drive by shooting. One of the bullets smashed into his femur. Bone
fragments were everywhere, and he had lost a lot of blood by the time they got
him to the table. Our surgical team managed to stabilize him, but he died later
that night—one of the bone fragments had worked its way into his heart. A few
days later the gang unit caught the shooter—apparently one of their informants
ratted him out for a walk on another charge. They recovered the gun as well. It
was just like this one; a Glock model 17, 9mm.”

Michelle was about to say something, anything she could think
of to sympathize with Doc’s situation, but Andy beat her to it.

“Hey Doc,” Andy said, a little fire coming through in his
voice, “take a look around you, we’re not in Kansas anymore Toto. We got people
with red eyes walking around trying to eat you. We’ve got infected SOB’s
dragging Michelle here underneath a car trying to rip her leg off. We’ve got
people that aren’t infected, at least not yet, who according to Sam Ironfeather
have been shooting at each other for days now down in the cities. Hell, the
list goes on and on and it’s only been, what . . . three days since all this
crap started.” Doc started to say, “I know, I know . . .” but Andy cut him off.

“You’re tired Doc, you need to get some rest. But you also
need to get your head out of the sand and come to the realization that it’s
going to be very likely . . . VERY LIKELY, that at some point in the future
you’re going to need this gun. And when that time comes, you need to be
prepared—mentally, spiritually, and emotionally—to drop the hammer. I don’t
wish this situation on anybody, but it’s where we’re at right now, so suck it
up . . . and get some rest, OK?”

Doc said he would, and they shook hands again before leaving.

Andy and Michelle walked down to Blue Heron loop, stopping
occasionally to chat with other campers. Arriving at site thirteen, they found
an old Datsun station wagon parked in front of a small, off-brand dome tent. The
station wagon had obviously seen better days, and both of their experience with
off-brand tents led them to believe that this one wasn’t long for the world. No
one was sitting outside at the picnic table so they called out Samantha’s name.
No answer. Andy tried again a little louder—she might be sleeping. Still
nothing.

“They ain’t home.”

It came from the site across the road; an older man, tall
with long gray hair sat on a picnic table next to a short silver haired woman.

“Do you know where she went?” Andy asked.

“She ain’t alone, she got that long-haired, skinny-armed
boyfriend with all them tattoos and black clothes,” the old man said.

“Do you know where I can find them?” Michelle said.

“They said they was going up to get some juice at the other
road.”

“OK, thank you,” both Andy and Michelle said.

“Tell them to bring back some juice for us here, you remind
them that we gave em’ two cans of ravioli last night.” It was the old lady this
time.

“OK, we will,” Andy said as they walked off.

On the way back Michelle asked Andy if he remembered anyone
fitting the description of Samantha’s boyfriend at the camp meeting last night.
He said he didn’t.

As they approached Golden Eagle loop he started shaking his
head and chuckling. “What’s so funny?” Michelle asked.

“I don’t think that old couple is going to get payback for
their ravioli,” he said.

“Why not?” She was curious.

Andy stopped and pointed. Seated at a picnic table that
occupied an empty site on Golden Eagle loop were two people. Each of them had a
laptop computer in front of them, with the power supply plugged into the site’s
electrical outlet. Both of them were wearing headphones and furiously moving
their fingers across the mouse pad and keyboard.

“Cause’ I think that the kind of juice they were after
doesn’t come in a cup,” Andy said.

Michelle and Andy walked over to their table, waiting politely
to be noticed. They were ignored. Michelle cleared her throat to draw their
attention while studying the two of them. Both of them were wearing jeans and
puffy winter coats—hers was purple, his was black. Multiple earrings protruded
from various locations, including three silver studs through the boy’s left
eyebrow as well. The girl was about five and a half feet tall with short, brown
hair feathered back along the side, tapering to a little rat tail in the back. There
were several turquoise colored beads hanging from the rat tail. She was slim
with a fair complexion. Probably from being inside all day long.

Samantha was what most people, Michelle thought, would assign
the title of “plain” to. Michelle wasn’t really big on cosmetics herself, but
with the right touch Samantha might be able to move up into the “kind of cute”
category. No tattoos were visible on the boy—the coat covered most of him. Check
that—Michelle corrected herself when she noticed some archaic writing inked
across the back of his hands as they moved on the laptop. They were engrossed
in some type of computer game, and Michelle couldn’t really tell from her angle
what it was, and truth be told she probably wouldn’t have a clue if she was
looking straight at it either. She and computers didn’t get along.

Andy leaned down behind the girl and said, “You’re almost to
the zero G area inside the alien ship. I’d dump the minigun and pick up the
gauss rifle that’s behind the busted APC over there.” Her fingers stopped their
dance over the keys and she looked up at Andy.

“Do you play Crysis at the senior center?” Her voice was flat;
unemotional.

Andy replied, “Geriatric champion in shooters eight years
running. What about you, shouldn’t you be at home practicing with your Easy
Bake Oven and watching reruns of Cinderella?”

A smile slowly crept across her lips. She extended a hand
towards him, “Samantha . . . and you are?”

“The guy you need to talk to about hacking into Canadian
satellites,” Andy replied.

He moved through the brush along the trail that served as a
shortcut from the campground to the boat launch. Had it been later in the
season, the shrubs, vines, and trees would have been all leafed out. For now
though, they were skeletonized echoes of their summer and fall glory.

He didn’t like to lie. Even now it was twisting his guts into
multiple knots. He had almost turned around several times . . . almost. The
first time was because it was still dark out. He didn’t like the dark. Never
had. Probably due to the incessant nightmares of his youth that were fueled and
refueled almost continually by his two older brothers. It was apparently a
contest between them to see which could be the first to frighten their baby
brother to death. The second time he had almost turned around was when he
briefly considered asking for help. Maybe, he thought, that doctor at the
campground . . . the little Asian man with a friendly face and tired eyes could
have reassured him that his family would be OK, that it was just a normal flu
and nothing to be concerned about. The third time he contemplated a retreat was
when something crossed the trail about thirty yards in front of him. Deer? 
Fox?  He wasn’t sure, there had only been a brief flash that accompanied the
soft sound which had alerted him in the first place, and in any event his
glasses were slightly foggy from the contrasting temperatures between the cool
morning air and the slightly clammy sweat from his face.

He stopped for a moment and felt his forehead. It was
definitely hot now. Or was it?  Maybe it was the layers of clothing he wore, or
the slight exertion of walking along the uneven trail that was making him feel
flushed. He had felt fine last night when the nurse checked his temperature,
pulse, and blood pressure. Well, his blood pressure had been up quite a bit. She
had asked him . . . something. He couldn’t really think right now. Maybe it was
about medicine. It didn’t matter. He remembered feeling fine even earlier than
that, when they were all gathered at the soccer field. That memory caused his
guts to clinch again. Did they know?  He thought that one lady, the little
short one who always bounced when she walked had looked at him funny when he
handed her the paper. The fourfold paper where he listed himself as sole
occupant of his campsite. Technically it wasn’t a lie. After all, he really was
the only one at the campsite. The others were on the boat.