Fade to Grey (Book 1): Fade to Grey (30 page)

“So what exactly is going on?” Fred asked. “I mean, the last
news we were able to get was the president’s speech. Now the radio has nothing
but static or those darn ‘stay tuned’ messages.”

“You mind if we pull up a couple chairs and talk some shop? 
Although I can’t say as if we have a bunch of answers, but we might be able to
shed some light on the current state of affairs . . . at least in exchange for
some of that coffee I smell,” Andy said.

“Coffee?” Fred hacked out with amusement, “Do you mean the
furniture stripper that Bucky is condensing into battery acid?”

“Now you listen here old woman,” Bucky shot back, “don’t you
be talking ill about my cowboy coffee. Besides, I needed something to boil away
the taste of them fish you burned for supper.”

“There wasn’t a thing wrong with those fish, with the
possible exception that most people would use critters of that size as bait to
catch a real fish, although I imagine that a simple task like that might be a
little beyond your particular skill set,” she teased.

Michelle swiveled her eyes back and forth between the two
bickering campers. Although she was sure they were both teasing, her first
thought was that she had found the married equivalent of Walter and Andy.

Fred looked up and said, “Please, pull up some chairs. We’d
be happy to share our fire and some coffee with you.”

Andy removed a couple of folding camp chairs that he had behind
the seat of his truck, and he positioned them close enough to the fire to take
some of the evening chill away. Any remaining shivers were permanently laid to
rest with the first sip of the awfully strong coffee that was made in a cast
iron skillet by Bucky.

Michelle and Andy shared what little information they could
about their experiences with the infection. Bucky was stoically quiet throughout
their tale, occasionally adding a “Uh-huh” or a “Mmm-hmm” to the narrative. Fred,
on the other hand was a virtual chatterbox—frequently commenting with “Ohhhs”
and “You don’t says”—interspersed with the almost as frequent “Really?”

Without being too specific of their destination, Michelle broached
the subject of needing to get to the cut-through. Moving the Bronco wasn’t
going to be a problem. Moving the tent would be. It could certainly be done,
but it would be much easier and more convenient in the daylight.

“It’s already been a long day. I don’t see any problem in
waiting until tomorrow to push on,” Andy said.

Michelle agreed. It was 7:00 PM and she was already beat. Besides,
negotiating the cut-through would be much easier in the daylight as well.

“Would you like help getting your tent set up?” Fred asked.

“Actually,” Michelle replied, “we didn’t bring one. There’s
plenty of room in the truck though, so we’ll be fine.”

Both Bucky and Fred nodded as Andy and Michelle got up. Bucky
spoke, “Fred here is a night owl. I’m more of the early bird. So if you need
anything, one of us should be awake and piddling around. Help yourself to the
campfire—there’s plenty of wood.”

They returned to Andy’s truck–remembering to grab the shotgun
that Andy had leaned against the grill—and entered the vehicle.

“What do you think?” Andy asked.

“About what?” Michelle yawned.

“Them . . . Bucky and Fred I mean. And about tonight. Should
one of us stay awake and keep watch?”

Michelle considered Andy’s questions before replying, “I like
them. I’d say we’re pretty safe here, at least from them. That said, we should
still probably keep a watch. I’m going to volunteer you to go first.” Michelle
yawned again as she stretched out in the back seat. The luminous digital
readout of her wristwatch showed 7:17 PM. “Why don’t you wake me around 12:30
AM, OK?”

“Sounds like a plan. Get some rest,” Andy replied as he got
out of the truck.

Michelle drifted off to a weary, dreamless sleep almost
immediately, groggily awakening with the sound of the truck door opening.

“You awake?” Andy’s half whisper called out in the darkness.

“Yeah.” Michelle looked at her watch as she stretched and
twisted. It was a little after 1:40 AM.

“You let me sleep too long,” Michelle sighed as she sat up
and rolled her neck in slow circles.

“So fire me. But wait until the morning when I’m better
rested,” Andy said, “and speaking of rest, get out of my bed.”

Michelle chuckled as she located her flashlight and Glock
before sliding out of the vehicle. “Is everything good to go?” she whispered.

Andy crawled into the seat as he answered, “Yeah, Bucky went
to bed shortly after you did. Fred is still up . . . reading a book on one of
them little flat tablets like you have. I think she’s about ready to hit the
hay, though.”

“OK,” Michelle replied, “I’ll wake you around 3:00 AM,” she
teased.

“Don’t even think about it.” Andy’s sentence trailed off in
the beginnings of a snore.

Michelle walked over to the campfire and accepted a large mug
of Bucky’s cowboy coffee, reheated and condensed even further almost to the
consistency of maple syrup. A few sips of that and she was in no danger of
falling asleep.

April 22
^nd
, Michelle part 1

Michelle chatted with the older lady for about an hour before
Fred stood up and said, “This is silly . . . there isn’t any reason for us to
be missing out on sleep. I’m tired, and I’m sure you are too honey.” She rolled
up her sleeve and stuck her arm out towards Michelle.

The dim firelight reflected the confusion on Michelle's face.

Fred said, “Well, go ahead.”

“Go ahead and . . . what?” Michelle replied.

“If you’re one of those zombie people, go ahead and bite me
now. At least that way I’ll get a couple hours sleep before my eyes turn all
red and I chew the boots off of my Bucky.” The mirth in her eyes was clearly visible
in the glow of her computer's screen. So was the tiredness.

Michelle chuckled softly; declined her offer and told her to
get some rest.

"I know we've already told you, but feel free to use as
much of the wood as you want. And please help yourself to that foul brew my
husband calls coffee," Fred replied before wishing Michelle “Goodnight”
and heading in to the tent.

Michelle spent the rest of the night fluctuating between
states of deep concentration and whimsical thinking. It was a beautiful night—still
warm—yet she could sense that a change was coming. The cloud cover progressed
from almost nothing when she started her watch to almost one hundred percent at
first light. The wind was starting to pick up just a little as well. By dawn
though, Michelle felt very rested. Almost six hours of sleep earlier in the
evening, supplemented with several hours of peace and quiet and she was ready
to go. At 6:45 AM, Michelle quietly opened the passenger side back door to
Andy’s truck and took out the coolers. Andy was still softly snoring. A quick
inventory of the food confirmed that Bernice had packed enough to feed a small
army. Michelle figured they'd be back at Andy’s cabin later today if everything
went well—tomorrow if everything didn’t. Even with a two day cushion, there was
still plenty of extra food, including a dozen eggs and a quart sized plastic
Tupperware jug filled with some type of batter—pancake or waffle she guessed.
She wasn't a gourmet chef, but weren't they the same?  It was just whether you
cooked it on a pan or in a waffle iron . . . right? Well, gourmet chef or not, Michelle
felt fairly confident in her ability to whip up some pretty awesome camp food.
Bucky came out about five till seven, and using a combination of his cookware
and both of their food supplies, they quickly had the little clearing fairly
resonating with the aroma of hot breakfast. Andy and Fred soon joined Bucky and
Michelle, and the four of them shared a wonderful meal together as the wind
stirred little leaf tornados into a dance by the water’s edge.

After breakfast, Andy and Bucky worked together to take down
the cabin tent while Michelle and Fred cleaned up the breakfast dishes. When
the tent was down, Michelle unlocked the cable and Andy was able to pull his truck
through without too many problems. After relocking the cable behind the truck,
Michelle helped Fred and the boys set up the tent about twenty feet away from
the original location.

“This way, we won’t have to take your tent down again when we
come back through,” Andy said.

“When will that be?”

Andy and Michelle exchanged glances briefly before Michelle
answered. “If everything goes well, we should be back in three or four hours.”

Bucky nodded and asked, “You got an empty thermos?”

Andy crossed over the cable to his truck and retrieved an old
Stanley thermos, pausing only to dump out the leftover tea that Bernice had
filled it with yesterday. A quick trip to the fire and it was filled with a batch
of scalding hot cowboy coffee.

Fred pointed toward the handgun at Michelle’s waist. “If you
run out of bullets, you could probably use shots of that coffee as a weapon.”

Hands were shook all around, and Andy gave them Doc’s name
and directions to Ravenwood Campground, saying, “That’s where we’ll be
eventually.” A final round of handshakes and they were on the way.

The cut-through proved slightly more difficult than they had
imagined. Disrepair and recent rain made two of the small creek crossings a
little bit dicey. Any worse and it would have been winch time. The winch was
required, however, to move three small, fallen trees that were across the path,
but other than that they ran into no significant issues. It took a grand total
of about forty minutes to traverse the path, and after opening the far cable, Smyrna
Chapel Road lay in front of them.

“Turn left and head west. Stay on the main tar and chip road
and ignore any small turnoffs . . . most of them are just dead ends used for
field access anyhow.”

Several miles passed with no sign of other vehicles, moving
or otherwise. About five minutes further they crested a small rise and had to
hit the brakes. To the right, a dirt road meandered along a fence line,
gradually ending at a farmhouse a quarter mile away. Several barns and
outbuildings were scattered through the area as well.

Directly in front of them however, the already narrow road
tapered even further where it crossed a small one lane bridge about seventy-five
feet away. There was a low pile of railroad ties on the bridge, and a man
running a farm tractor with a front end loader was adding to it. Andy pulled
off the road and waited until they were noticed. It didn’t take long. Using the
binoculars, Michelle saw the man on the tractor pick up a handheld radio,
probably similar to their own GMRS walkie talkies. She was just about ready to
pass this information on when Andy asked, “What’s he got in his hand?”

“I think it’s a little radio. Probably calling in the cavalry.”

Before either of them could comment further, the man spun the
tractor so the loader bucket faced the truck. To the right a reflection caught Michelle’s
eye and she turned to see a pickup truck racing up the farm road toward them.

“Yep, reinforcements coming from the right. What do you want
to do?” The solid weight of the Glock on her hip was reassuring, but Michelle
still felt vulnerable. She repeated her question.

“Kid gloves. They’re probably just wondering who we are and
where we came from, but let’s not push it. Some of these old farmers are likely
to shoot first and ask questions later,” Andy said.

Michelle wasn’t wearing her uniform, but she had her badge
hanging from a lanyard around her neck. She opened the door and slowly stepped
out—Andy mirrored her on the other side. They left the doors open and waited
for the pickup to arrive.

The man on the tractor had left it running and stepped down. A
scoped deer rifle had materialized in his hands. They were close enough to see
his finger near the trigger. The muzzle wasn’t pointed at them—yet—but Michelle
got the distinct impression that he wouldn’t hesitate to use the gun. The
crunch of gravel slowed as the approaching vehicle—a newer model Nissan Titan;
metallic gray with a chrome plated roll bar, running boards, and a large yellow
Myers snow plow on the front—came to a stop about fifty feet away. A young man,
maybe twenty or twenty-one years old stepped out; AK-47 held across his chest. The
glint of at least two other gun barrels could be seen poking up over the cab.
Michelle could feel the tension in the air.

Andy slowly stepped to the front of his truck—hands in a
neutral position—nodded his head and said, “Hello.”

The man with the deer rifle came forward, stopping about ten
feet away from Andy. He was younger than Michelle had first thought . . . maybe
forty. His skin was weathered, though. Forty years spent in the sun maybe. His
face was friendly, his eyes not so much.

“How’d you get back there, this road don’t go nowhere but
back to some old abandoned farms.” His voice was nasally, like he was either
just getting, or getting over a cold.

Andy tilted his head toward Michelle and she stepped forward
a few feet, giving him a clear view of her badge.