Fade to Grey (Book 1): Fade to Grey (31 page)

“Officer Owens, United States Fish & Wildlife Service. We
came across that cut-through by Crossbow Lakes. I have the key.”

“Anybody else behind you with a key?” he asked.

Michelle’s hackles started to rise involuntarily. Something
about this guy was keeping her on edge. The two dominant sides of her logic
were fighting a battle—one side convincing her that the guy was just being
cautious, the other side thinking about all those horror movies where the
cannibal family asks the lost college kids if anybody knows where they’re at. She
chose to ignore the question. Time to try some psych 101.

“We need to get down this road, but it might be a little
difficult with all those railroad ties in the way. With what’s going on in the
world I can understand why you’d want to restrict access to your property, and
I can’t say as if I blame you. I’d really appreciate it if you can show us
another way around so you don’t have to move those railroad ties.”
State the
problem, sympathize with their situation, ask them for personal help while
restating, yet minimizing the consequences if they don’t.

“Where are you headed?” he asked.

“Fort Hammer.”

Michelle saw a glimmer of fear? . . . anger? . . . pain? Something
flashed in his eyes when she had answered.

“Why?” he replied softly.

“Why what?” Andy said.

“Why do you want to go to Fort Hammer?” he answered.

Michelle could sense Andy losing patience, so she cut in,
“It’s where my office is, and I need to get there as soon as possible . . . can
you tell me another way around . . . please,” she added.

A female voice sounded from the bed of the truck. “Keith, why
don’t you let these people cross by the old sawmill, that way you don’t have to
move your pile of ties.”

A look of resignation crossed onto his face and he slowly
nodded, saying, “Follow me.”

He led the way down the farmhouse driveway with the tractor—the
pickup truck following slowly behind them made both her and Andy a little
nervous. They followed the tractor down the driveway almost to the farmhouse
before it turned left onto a dirt path that led towards the old barn. A second
structure turned out to be the old sawmill. Three walls and a tin roof
sheltered the equipment while what looked like countless low mounds of aging
sawdust decorated the immediate vicinity. The creek that passed under the narrow
bridge obviously continued its course and meandered past the sawmill. What
Michelle had initially mistaken for another of the farm’s outbuildings turned
out to be an ancient covered bridge. The tractor drove across it and they followed,
slowly winding their way along a dirt track that twisted through several
woodlots before coming back out onto Smyrna Chapel Road. A heavy gate secured
with logging chain blocked the path. The farmer got off of his tractor and walked
back, stopping at Andy’s side of the truck.

“You plan on coming back through the same way?” he asked.

Michelle tilted forward on the seat and looked past Andy. “If
everything goes well we should be back through this same way in a few hours. If
things don’t go so smooth it may be later than that . . . I hope not though.”

He nodded, glancing upward at the late morning cloud cover
briefly before replying with a frown, “I’ll let you back through, but not at
night. So if you don’t make it back before dark, don’t bother showing up until
the next morning after sunrise. I’ve already buried one child today, so I don’t
believe a few dead strangers would make much of a difference to me at this
point.”

Michelle started to say something . . . to sympathize, but he
continued before she could find the right words. “When you come back through,
pull up to the bridge by the railroad ties and beep your horn a few times. If I
recognize your truck, I’ll come out and meet you and take you back this way. If
anything looks suspicious to me, well, just remember what I said about
strangers.”

Their attempts at thanking the farmer went unanswered, and he
turned and unlocked the thick chain—walking backwards and dragging the
galvanized livestock gate with him as he went. Without a word, Andy pulled
through and turned right, once again heading west on to Smyrna Chapel Road. Twenty
minutes later the tar and chip turned into pavement and became Sawmill Station
Road.

Several more farms were passed along the way, but neither
Andy nor Michelle had any interest in stopping. The gradual sways in the road
straightened out as it climbed over a small wooded hill in the distance.

“Just over that hill and we’ll come into the outskirts of
Fort Hammer.”

“How far from the hill to your office?”

“Not too far . . . maybe three miles or so. That little hill
is about the highest point around. You can see the town from the other side.”
When Andy didn’t say anything, Michelle added, “The county put up barricades
and closed the road for a day last year after the first big snow. Somebody had
organized what they called the ‘Fort Hammer 500’ . . . basically an impromptu
street party for the kids to go sledding. I wasn’t there, but from what I hear
it started off with just a few people, then more and more families came. By the
late afternoon there were a couple dozen moms doling out hot chocolate and cups
of soup to the hundred or so kids who were sledding. The coolest thing about it
though,” Michelle added, “was that it was a ‘shoe leather express’ only affair.
If the kids wanted to sled down the hill, they had to walk up the hill. Nobody
was pulling them with a snow machine or ATV.”

“My kinda town.” Andy replied. “It’s about time parents get
their kids’ fat butts off of the couch and outside.”

“Yeah, I feel the same. And apparently so do most of the
people in town. The local paper is already planning another similar event next
year.”

The flash of metal on the approaching hillside caused
Michelle to look through the binoculars again. “Andy, go slow—it looks like
there’s a wreck or something up ahead.”

Halfway up the hill they discovered the remains of a three
vehicle crash. Two cars and a box van—similar to the type you rent to move
furniture—were smashed and scattered over a small area about 150 feet this side
of the crest. One of the cars was totaled. The moving van and the other car
were also banged up pretty bad, but may have still been drivable if they were on
the road. They weren’t. Both of them were on their sides near the edge of the woods.
Andy slowed as Michelle rubbernecked. Nothing was moving that she could see. No
bodies, alive or otherwise, were visible either. Andy picked his way through
the scattered debris, avoiding most of the larger pieces of wreckage as
Michelle turned to keep looking backwards.

“I don’t see anything besides the cars,” Andy said. “You?”

The crunch of broken reflector pieces being ground into the
asphalt gave an eerie cadence to the otherwise silent hillside. “No . . .
nothing. It doesn’t look too old though. I guess it could be from yesterday or
the day before.”

Michelle was still looking backward as Andy crested the hill
and slowed, coming to a gradual stop as he uttered the two words that are
practically guaranteed to ruin your day.

“Oh shit.”

Michelle swiveled back around and looked; echoing his speech.
Standing on the road in front of them, scattered between twenty and one hundred
yards away, were at least twenty-five gray-skinned, infected walkers. They
started moving slowly toward the truck . . . toward her and Andy. As much as
that set her stomach twirling, there was something else in the picture.
Something impossible to miss. Down the road she could clearly see huge columns
of smoke. Fort Hammer was burning.

April 24
^th
, Eric part 2

*click*

It feels like there’s a knife twisting in my gut. I can’t sit
down, I can’t stand still. I think I’ve hobbled about thirty miles pacing back
and forth in the hallway, waiting for Doc to come back out. Rebecca came out a
few minutes ago. She put on her best “fake medical professional reassuring
smile” as she walked towards me. The question my face asked was the same,
always the same. Another practiced smile from her was accompanied by the answer
I had heard the last five times, “No change.” She reached up and put an
encouraging hand on my shoulder . . . “Keep praying,” she said. I nodded,
thanking her again.

“I’m going out on the deck to get some air, let me know if
anything changes, anything at all . . . OK?” I said.

“Of course, but make sure you drink lots of fluids, orange
juice or water . . . no alcohol—we might need some more of your blood.”

Blood. There was that word again. Seems like I’m surrounded
by it. Swimming in it. I can’t stop thinking how much of it is going to be on
my hands for the rest of my life. However long that is . . .

I limped out to the deck.

April 22
^nd
, Michelle part 2

The scene in front of them was surreal. Shambling, gray-skinned
walkers were moving slowly up the road, framed by the distant backsplash of dark
smoke and flames.

“Look down there,” Andy said, pointing. “Is that what I think
it is?”

Michelle squinted, but couldn’t really tell, so she grabbed
the binoculars and raised them to her eyes.

“Don’t let them get too close,” she mumbled as she turned the
focus adjustment wheel. The magnification of the compact, rubber-coated
binoculars was more than adequate to see that every one of the infected was
injured in some way. As she slowly scanned down the road, a sinking feeling that
started in her gut quickly morphed into a little voice inside of her head that said,
“
Do the math girl, you’re looking at it but you’re not adding it up
.” Michelle
increased the magnification as far as it would go and focused down the road
where Andy had indicated. It was maybe 150 yards away, just as the road was
curving out of her line of sight.

“Oh no,” she sighed.

Andy said, “Is that a . . .”

“School bus,” she finished for him, comprehension cascading
through her mind as that little voice rang his bell and said, “
We have a
winner
.”

All of the walkers were kids—high school Michelle guessed as
she scanned back through the crowd approaching them. Some of them still had
backpacks on, others were dressed in their school colors—jackets and matching
shirts. All were injured. There was one cheerleader in full uniform. Half of
her wavy blond hair—along with the scalp underneath it—was folded over,
covering the side of her face like a macabre earmuff. Another kid, pimply face
beneath artificially bright blue hair was missing his right arm from the elbow
down. She was zooming the binoculars back out for a wider view when . . .
SLAM
. . . the truck shook with a heavy impact and Michelle let out an involuntary
scream, dropping the binoculars as she did. Andy swore and they both looked out
the driver’s side window. Sickly, amber colored eyes stared back. A blood
encrusted grin pressed against the glass as a low growl vibrated through. Andy
swore again and slammed the truck into reverse, cutting the wheel all the way
as he mashed on the accelerator. The engine gunned to life and threw the truck
into a tight spin. The momentum carried them through a half circle, stopping
when the tailgate smashed into a small tree on the side of the road. The truck
sputtered and died. It was Michelle’s turn to swear. Andy reached for the
ignition key as Michelle pulled the Glock out of her holster.
SLAM!
  The
feral ghoul shouldered into the truck again, making it rock. Andy turned the
key—nothing. Out of the corner of her eye, Michelle saw him trying to start the
truck again. There was no sound—it wasn’t even turning over. The ghoul impacted
the back quarter panel as Andy let loose more profanity. Michelle was spinning
in her seat, trying to keep an eye on the location of the feral when she heard
Andy say, “I’m such an idiot.” Two seconds later the truck started. Michelle
felt the momentum shift as Andy put it in drive and started to take off. The
ghoul snarled and leapt into the bed of the truck with a heavy thump, losing his
balance and going down in a heap as Andy gave it gas. Michelle fought against
the acceleration and threw herself into the back seat, Glock in hand.

“Keep swerving a little—it’s in the bed—keep it off balance!”

The truck was jogging left and right with Andy’s attempts to
shake the stowaway, but Michelle managed to anchor herself and pry open the
sliding rear window. One of the front tires careened over a large piece of
debris from the wreckage, and the resulting bounce of the stiff suspension shot
the ghoul into the air again. With a howl of rage it crashed back into the bed
just behind the fuel tank, out of Michelle’s line of sight.

She yelled out, “Hard break now . . . then floor it!”

The deceleration threw her off balance for a moment, but she
was ready when the truck accelerated forward again. The yellow-eyed monster
wasn’t. He tumbled towards the closed tailgate, crashing into it before
regaining his balance in a crouch. Michelle shoved the Glock out the back, aligned
the sights and squeezed the trigger. The gunshots sounded strangely muted to
her, and she watched several impacts—almost as if she was seeing it in slow
motion. The rounds caught the ghoul in the upper chest and side of his neck,
spinning him over the tailgate and out of the truck. She watched as the feral’s
body rolled down the center of the road behind them, coming to a rest after
leaving a thirty foot bloody skid mark.

“HE’S OUT.”

“Is he down . . . is he staying down?  Andy asked.

“So far,” Michelle answered, her eyes never leaving the
mangled lump on the road. Andy drove the truck about 200 yards past the ghoul
before he stopped. Michelle was still breathing hard—still pointing the Glock
out the rear window.

“Is there another way around this hill?”

“Nope . . . none that I know of.”

“Well then, what do you say leave the truck here and sneak
back towards the road pizza, just to make sure he’s not going to try for a
repeat performance?” Andy asked.

Michelle said nothing at first, then replied, “Can you hand
me my binoculars?”

Andy located the Nikons and handed them to Michelle as she put
in a fresh magazine and holstered her pistol. Taking the binoculars, she
scanned the downed ghoul, the wreckage, and the top of the hill for any signs
of movement. There was none that she could detect.

With a slight frown and exhale, she answered, “I can’t see
anything moving.”

Dropping the binoculars onto the seat, Michelle swiveled her
head towards Andy and then back at the wreckage. She repeated the movement
twice more, finally ending with a tight lipped smile.

“What?” Andy asked suspiciously.

“Oh, just thinking about your idea . . . and that expression
about what’s the best thing to take when you go bear hunting.”

“Huh?” Andy squinted in confusion.

“Well,” Michelle smirked, “you wanted to leave the truck here
and sneak two hundred yards up the road toward the feral. And I’m thinking
about the joke that says ‘the best thing to take bear hunting is someone who
can’t run as fast as you can.’”

Michelle watched as Andy blinked his eyes slowly, a broad
smile forming on his lips as he replied, “If you’re going to think about that
expression, it wouldn’t hurt to give some consideration to this one. ‘Old age
and treachery will beat youth and skill every time.’”

Michelle grinned back, “Are you implying that if that thing
starts chasing us, you’d trip me?”

“Every day and twice on Sunday.”

Michelle laughed at his reply and said, “How about if we
compromise a bit. Let’s drive halfway back, and then we’ll walk the rest of the
way.”

“Deal.”

Andy turned the truck around and drove partway back, stopping
about seventy-five yards from the sprawled figure. He put the big vehicle in
park but left it idling in the center of the roadway. Michelle and Andy grabbed
their shotguns and took a thorough look around before they exited the truck. Outside
the vehicle it was eerily silent. No insects, birds or animals—no traffic
sounds either.

“Damn,” Andy said, “that son of a gun dented the crap out of
my truck.”

“Yeah, this side to,” Michelle replied, noticing the impact
on the quarter panel.

Andy said, “Michelle, I’m sorry for that back there.”

“What are you talking about?”

“The truck . . . I should have remembered that it won’t start
unless it’s in park. When I backed into the tree and the truck cut off, it was
still in reverse. I probably could have had us out of there ten seconds sooner
if I didn’t have my head in my ass.”

“Not your fault . . . we were both a little shocked when ‘Mr.
Happy’ smashed into the truck.” Andy said nothing in reply so she continued as
they carefully walked down the road, muzzles leading the way. “Let’s make sure
that he’s dead for good.” As they closed in, Michelle noticed fingers flex on
the ghoul. She sensed that tension increase in its body.

“It moved,” she whispered softly.

“I saw it,” Andy said. They closed to within twenty feet
before Andy stopped, raised his shotgun and fired a round into the head of the
prone figure. Michelle stepped to the edge of the road and found a fallen tree
branch about seven feet long. She used to it to make sure he was dead. He was.

After scanning the surroundings again and finding nothing,
they walked back to the truck and got in. They spent the next several minutes
in quiet retrospection, neither of them sharing their thoughts. Finally
Michelle spoke. “The other ones . . . from the school bus . . . they must still
be over the crest of the hill.”

Andy grunted in reply and said, “Decision time.”

Michelle turned to look at him as he continued, “If we go
forward, we’re either going to have to go around, or through, a bunch of
infected . . . kids.” His voice was flat—unemotional. “And that’s just on the
other side of the hill. We’ve still got another three miles before we get to
Fort Hammer. Judging from what we saw a few minutes ago, I don’t think that’s
going to be a walk in the park.”

Michelle was sitting quietly, her gaze traveling from the
crest of the hilltop to the shotgun leaning on the seat next to her. Andy
waited patiently. After what seemed like an eternity, she looked into his eyes
and asked him, “Do you think there’s a cure?  I mean, is there hope for them
once they get this . . . disease . . . virus . . . whatever it is?  Are we
doing them a favor by killing them?  Do they feel pain anymore?  Are they even
aware of what they’re doing?”

Andy shook his head slowly and lifted his shoulders. “I don’t
know. I don’t know that we’ll ever know.”

“I’m trying to make sense of this . . . to, I don’t know,
‘justify’ my place in this new reality.”

“I don’t think that anything could have prepared us for this,”
he answered calmly.

Michelle met his eyes, silently delving into their steel-colored
depths . . . searching for a lifeline that would pull her out of her own myriad
of internal struggles.

“How can you be so unruffled . . . so relaxed?”

“I’m not. I’ve just had a lot more years to practice hiding
it.”

Somehow, the assurance that Andy wasn’t entirely tranquil
soothed Michelle’s nerves, and she reached into the back and closed the sliding
window. Lying on the back seat next to some of her fired 40 caliber brass was
the old thermos. She grabbed it and brought it up front, pouring each of them a
slug into the empty Styrofoam cups gripped by the drink holder that stuck out
from the dashboard. It was still steaming—hopefully from the temperature and
not the concentration of chemicals in Bucky’s cowboy coffee.

They sipped it in silence. Michelle’s tongue curled and her
nose wrinkled with the first taste, but Andy showed no reaction as he stared
out the windshield. After a few moments, he upended the cup, draining the
contents and returning it to the holder.

Turning to look at her he said, “Michelle, I don’t have the
answer. But I think, given what we’ve experienced in the past few days, well, I
know that I wouldn’t want to be like they are . . . infected I mean. I don’t
think they know what they’re doing. A lot of them probably wouldn’t even be
alive with the wounds they have, but that infection is keeping them going
somehow. I’ve thought about it a lot. It seems like every hour I pray to God
for an answer . . . for guidance—heck I’d take a vague clue right now. Like I
said, I don’t have ‘the’ answer, but I do know this. When I think about our
decisions so far, everything from sending Eric to find Doc’s granddaughter, to
helping the guys walking along the road and the state trooper with gas. Everything
up to and including doing our part to make Ravenwood a safe zone . . . well
that just sits right with me inside here.” Michelle watched as he put his hand
over his chest. “I’m not saying that we’re angels, but I think we’re on the
same side as they are,” he finished.