Fade to Grey (Book 1): Fade to Grey (39 page)

"Holy shit,” Andy said.

"Yeah," Thompson responded," but I ain't done
yet. So at 0545, both of the guard units are out at the Bradleys. I figured the
colonel hadn't found out about Captain Walker's ‘strategic repositioning of the
M2s’ yet. Anyhow, we get on board and they drive us down into Fort Hammer. Or
what's left of it. It looked like a war zone down there, a bunch of buildings
on fire, cars wrecked . . . one of the big buses was on its side smoldering. And
the bodies, man, the bodies were everywhere. But it was eerie. Nothing was
moving. It was like those pictures you see of a city after some bomb went off. Nothing
alive, just rubble and bodies. And smoke. We did a quick sweep of the immediate
area for hostiles, then Rollins—one of the other guys in my unit—notices the
bank and says, ‘Why don't we use the bank as our forward position, it ought to
give us some pretty good security.’ It wasn't burning, so we hoofed it over and
went inside. Man, where I come from banks are made out of cement. Most of ‘em
don't even have windows.” Thompson turned to face Michelle and said, "I
guess things are little more relaxed up here in the sticks."

She nodded her understanding. Michelle was a customer of Fort
Hammer Savings and Trust Bank, and their building was a throwback to
friendlier, more trusting days.

He continued, "So we go inside this bank, and the first
thing we notice is that the back wall has a huge hole in it, like somebody
drove a car partway through. Everything's all smashed up inside, money blowing
everywhere, it was trashed. Then somebody—I don't know who—yells, ‘Contact.’ I
turned around and some guy was coming through the hole in the back of the bank.
Dude was all messed up . . . burned. But he’s coming for us. We started
yelling, trying to get him to stop, but he just keeps coming. I was the
closest, and really the only one with a clear shot, so I put a round through
the guy’s face and dropped him.”

Thompson kept pacing. “And like the true bad-ass that I am, I
puked my guts out immediately after. I don’t care how many times you’ve seen
Scarface, or Rambo, Platoon or any other high body count movie, the first time
you intentionally draw your weapon, aligned the sights, squeeze the trigger,
and drop the hammer on another human being will change you forever. It doesn’t
matter that something was wrong with them, or even that you did it in self
defense, it will change you.”

Both Andy and Michelle nodded—they’d already been there.

“I don’t suppose there’s any more beer squirreled away in the
house . . .?” Thompson asked.

“No,” Michelle replied, “but there’s about two inches left in
the bottle of Rock and Rye that I keep for . . . ahem, ‘medical emergencies’ like
the flu. I’d be happy to get it for you.”

It took Thompson all of three seconds to express an interest
in the whiskey that Michelle kept in the bedroom closet upstairs, so she
grabbed the Maglite and went up. She hadn’t touched the stuff for probably two
years—partially because it tasted good to her, and partially because she had her
doubts on its supposedly medicinal qualities. In any event, it was in a shoebox
that had made the move from her old apartment, mixed in and unnoticed with all of
her other crap. After grabbing the bottle, Michelle walked over to the single
window in the bedroom. It faced the road, and one of her favorite things to do
was to get her old wooden chair and sit in front of that window watching the
stars. The storm outside made that impossible now. She could see Andy’s truck
in the driveway, but that was about it. The wind and rain were really hammering
the house now, and Michelle hoped that the storm would shift away from where
Eric was. She doubted it though. Bottle in hand, she turned to walk back downstairs—paused
for a second—trying to grasp whatever thread of thought had caused her to halt,
but lost it again. What was it?  Something was . . . different maybe?  She
couldn’t think, and the more she tried the more elusive it became. Rubbing her
temples in exasperation, Michelle headed downstairs.

Thompson mixed half of the Rock and Rye with a can of Pepsi
from Bernice’s cooler before continuing. “So, after I get done blowing chunks,
I hear the radio blast to life . . . it was Colonel Jordan ordering the
Bradleys back to the school. The pricks took off and left our dicks in the dirt.
CC started rounding everybody up and organizing them into a defensive position
in the bank just as the shit hits the fan. Man, I don’t know where they came
from, but all a sudden there were like dozens of people outside the front of
the bank. Live people—not infected . . . at least not that we could tell. I
guess they must have been the people they turned away from the school the night
before. Maybe they heard my gunshot, I don’t know. Anyhow, they show up and the
lieutenant is trying to get them calmed down and safe in the bank with us. That
took about ten minutes. We were on the radio calling for a transport for the
civies . . . then the other ones started showing up. The sick ones. At first it
was just one or two, and you could pretty much tell they were messed up. CC
gave the order to fire on anybody obviously sick—you know like walking around
with half their face gone—that kind of stuff. For the first fifteen minutes or so
it went pretty smooth, nothing we couldn’t handle, but we were burning through
a lot of ammo. And no one would answer us on the radio. Well, the people we
stashed in the bank with us, they were starting to catch on about the radio. And
they start panicking. Flipping out. Demanding to be taken to safety. That’s
when CC orders Nash—he was a guy from the other guard unit, I didn’t know him
very well—to take half the guys and escort the civilians up to the school. So
now get this. Nash is getting the guys together, getting ready to evac the
civilians when Sanderson, one of our guys, says, ‘Check this shit out.’ We look
out the front door and here comes that big black Suburban the suits had showed
up in. It parks across the highway and the two suits exit the vehicle and go
into one of the stores in that strip mall, just down from where your office was
ma’am. Right about then five or six infected people tried to come through the
hole in the back wall. We managed to put them down, but one of the civilians
must have panicked, because she ran into our field of fire and got killed. Nash
started screaming for everybody else to move out and we managed to clear the
way for them. It wasn’t like there were thousands, but I think our gunfire was
bringing them in. Anyhow, Nash’s unit started humping up the road, keeping the
townspeople inside their little mobile perimeter. And it’s working. We could
hear Nash calling over the radio to the school telling them to get ready to
receive civilians. Then that asshole Colonel Jordan comes over the radio and
orders Nash to hold position, saying something like ‘all civilian residents of
Fort Hammer had been declared battlefield casualties and will not be allowed
into the command post.’ Well Nash, he ain’t stopping for nobody. Especially now
that a couple dozen more infected had made their way onto the street. I think a
bunch of them came out of one of the buses. He started screaming into the radio
about how his men and their escorts are not infected, but the colonel just
repeats that crap about battlefield casualties. I grabbed my binoculars to get
a better look while CC was calling out to Nash on the radio, trying to get him
to return to the bank. He was already over halfway to the school by then. That’s
when one of the Bradleys came down the hill towards Nash. About a hundred feet
away it stops, and we hear over the radio, ‘Disburse or you will be fired upon.’
Both the lieutenant and Nash are calling out on the radio, trying to get them
to listen . . . telling them that they weren’t infected. CC grabbed my
binoculars and told me to keep trying the radio . . . to try and get Nash back
to the bank. I hadn’t even keyed the microphone when the 240 on the Bradley
opened up. They took out most of the civilians and half of Nash’s men in the
first minute. Things went to shit from there. We were running out of ammo, only
had half our guys, and it seemed like every time we killed one of those
infected, two more would come to the funeral. That’s when CC says ‘Those son-of-a-bitches.’
I turned around and saw him looking through the binoculars. Then he just drops
them and shakes his head, still swearing under his breath. We had a little
break in the action—I guess maybe we had cleared out the immediate area—so I
ask him what was up.

The lieutenant looks around at all of us and says, ‘I just
saw Nash. He was on the other side of the highway helping one of his guys hop
along. It looked like the guy had been shot in the leg . . . lotta’ blood. They
made it to the sidewalk by the strip mall and were trying to get in one of the
offices, when one of those suit bastards came out and shot them from behind.’

‘Asshole cowards,’ Rollins says.

‘Yeah,’ the lieutenant says. Then he's all quiet for a few seconds.
Finally he looks up and us and says, ‘Men, it's been an honor to serve with you.
I strongly suggest you do not return to the high school. I doubt you will have
a warm reception. Stay together if you can, watch each other's back, and get
the hell out of dodge. I firmly believe that the military we serve is not
represented by the actions of Colonel Jordon and these DHS flunkies, and in
keeping with my oath I am going to defend this country from all enemies, both
foreign and domestic.’

‘What do you have in mind?’ Sanderson asked.

‘I'm going suit hunting,’ CC replied.’

"So then a few more people came down the road, I don't
know if they were sick or not. I think something else was starting to catch on
fire because the smoke was really getting thick. Anyhow, we all decided that CC
wasn't going hunting alone. At the very least he could use our help keeping him
in the clear. So that's what we did. We waited for a break in the action, then
fanned out of the building and worked our way around the buses and cars into a
position where the lieutenant would have a clear line of sight towards the
office the suits went in. It probably would've worked like we planned, if it
hadn't been for that station wagon." Thompson paused, shaking his head and
obviously reliving that memory. He refilled his glass with the last of the
whiskey and not much Pepsi before continuing. "We were taking position
behind some pickup trucks that were parked in the middle of the street when we
heard the sound of an engine gunning. I looked down the road and saw this
station wagon barreling towards us. I'm pretty sure the driver was being
attacked by one of the infected. Anyhow, we scattered maybe a half second
before the car rammed into the side of the first pickup truck, then flipped
over and rolled a couple times. Somehow I ended up next to the lieutenant. Some
of our guys started firing then. We looked around and saw at least ten or
twelve of those walkers heading our way. But then CC says ‘There you are you
rat bastards.’ I turned around and saw him raise his M4 and fire. From forty yards
away he couldn't miss and drilled one of the suits in the forehead. The other
suit looks over at us, and I swear he had this confused expression on his face,
like he couldn't possibly even fathom why somebody would want to take a shot at
him. And it was the same prick who waxed Captain Walker. Lieutenant Calhoun
double tapped him in the chest. And that's about it, you know the rest. Me and
CC ended up in your office and I don't know where the rest of our guys got to. I
hope they took the lieutenants advice and stayed away from the school."

Andy asked. "What do you suppose would happen to them if
they went back to the school?"

Thompson thought about it for a second before answering. "Probably
a bullet in the head. At the very least they'd probably get the shit kicked out
of them like Tonto.”

"Who?” Andy asked.

“That cop . . . dark haired guy that stood up with the
mayor."

Michelle knew both of the cops in Fort Hammer. They were
twins—Alex and Emmett Hughes—and they were both blond. She started to get a
sinking feeling in her gut. "Did you get his name?" she asked
cautiously.

"Yeah . . . I think it was Ironfeather . . . Yeah, that
was it, Sam Ironfeather.

April 24
^th
, Eric part 4

Twenty minutes into our trek I knew I was not backtracking
along the same route I had followed in to the clearing. I was well aware that
even a clearly marked trail can look totally different if you hike it in the
opposite direction that you normally do, but this wasn’t a clearly marked trail.
It wasn’t a trail at all. The storm had soaked everything to the core, and at
times we were forced to find a way around areas of standing water. Either that
or go through. Emily chugged along as best she could, and to my immense
satisfaction she didn’t complain at all. Not once. On the other hand she wasn’t
very talkative. If I wasn’t so busy trying to keep us on a straight course I
might have asked her what was wrong. About 10:00 AM I stopped us for a quick
break in a small clearing. One side of the clearing was dominated by a moss
covered fallen tree which Emily promptly sat on, then swiveled and reclined to
stretch out. Almost like she was trying to get a tan . . . if that were
possible through so many layers of clothing.

“Tea or water?” I asked.

She didn’t reply so I repeated the question.

“I’m OK for now,” she finally said in a tone of deep thought
or worry.

I let the silence drag on for a few more seconds. From
personal experience I know that I, like most guys, am a “fixer” who will chomp
at the bit wanting to correct some wrong. Let me clarify that. Somebody else’s
wrong. My own personal errors and problems seem to follow me all the days of
the week. In any event I could sense that Emily was most definitely not “OK.”

I took off my backpack, removed the gun and said, “Wait here,
OK, I’m going to do a small circle around the clearing to see if I can get Max
some breakfast. I won’t be gone longer than fifteen minutes. If you change your
mind about water, it’s in my pack. OK?”

I saw her nod, so I whistled for Max and he bounded out of
the forest. He noticed the gun in my hand and went straight into
excited-intense-hunting mode. He’s never been a tail wagging, tongue lolling,
happy-go-lucky type of hunter. With him it was all business. I glanced again at
Emily  . . . hesitated . . . then made a decision. “Max, wait,” I commanded. He
stood there as I walked over toward the fallen tree. I thought I knew why her
mood had shifted abruptly, having been through it several times before with
other girls. Well, maybe more than several. The problem for me was that, in
addition to her, I was also feeling a bit edgy. Like my short little improvised
search and rescue “vacation” was coming to an end and every step I took brought
me closer to the reality, or more accurately the unreality of what was
happening in the world. And I couldn’t shake a growing sensation in the back of
my head. Something was coming down the pike. Something bad. I could feel it.

I sat on the log next to Emily—her hands were withdrawn for
warmth up into the long sleeves she was wearing. I lifted up one of the sleeve
ends to create an opening, and gently snaked my hand inside. I took hold of her
hand, squeezed it a little and said, “Hey, it’s OK. No worries, remember?” I scanned
her reclining form. Covered in baggy clothes from head to toe she looked like a
large cocoon. I told her that. I meant it as an icebreaker, but she didn’t take
it that way.

She looked at me and said, “So you think I’m a slug . . . that’s
great Eric . . . Thanks.”

Do you remember the old science fiction series “Lost in
Space?” Well it was before my time, at least the originals, but I remember
watching reruns with my mom and Uncle Andy. Anytime something nasty was about
to appear, the big ol’ fish bowl headed robot would wave his pincher-ended arms
and say, “
Danger . . . danger!”
It was genetically imprinted into
everybody’s head who watched that show. As soon as the words left Emily’s
mouth, I had a vision of the robot waving his arms accompanied by his famous
quote. I knew hunting was going to have to wait for a bit.

“Emily . . . Emily, look at me. First off . . .” She turned
to look away so I squeezed her hand and said her name again. She looked back at
me; I could see the moisture in her eyes. I let go of her hand for a second,
set the gun against some limbs and straddled the log like I was mounting a
horse. I grabbed both ends of the sleeves and pulled her up toward me, wrapping
her in a big hug and just staying like that for several minutes. Not saying
anything, just contact. I could feel her body quivering as she fought to
withhold the tears. Time for a biology lesson.

“Emily, I said cocoon. Slugs don’t make cocoons, caterpillars
do. And caterpillar’s turn into some of the most beautiful creatures in the
world. And you are most definitely not a slug.” I hugged her tighter, felt her
return the embrace as she sniffled.

“I feel like such a slut. I’ve never . . . you’re probably
going to think I’m lying to you, but I’ve never had a one night stand before. I
feel so dirty . . . like I’m just some tramp in a bar at spring break that gets
passed around to every guy that buys her drink and . . .”

I interrupted with, “Whoa . . . whoa . . . just wait a minute,
Emily. You are most definitely not a slut . . . or a tramp . . . or anything
even remotely similar. You’re just the opposite as a matter of fact. In the
short time that I’ve spent with you, if there’s one thing I’ve learned is that
you have class . . . and integrity . . . and focus . . . and that one there is
not a camera joke. Just because two people spent some time with each other in
the heat of the moment doesn’t make either one of them less than human. In
different circumstances things may or may not have played out like they did,
but let me tell you this—if I get eaten by a zombie on the way back to
civilization, I am absolutely not going to regret spending the past few days in
the arms of a beautiful woman. You.”

Her eyes darted away for a moment, then locked on to mine and
she said, “I want to believe you, but really, for all I know you could just be
some guy that my grandfather hired to find me. And when we get back I’m going
to see that the world is just the same as when I left. No infected people, no
epidemic. And just to complete my picture I’ll probably find out that you’re
married and have a bunch of kids.”

I smiled and shook my head. “No, I’m not married. I have no
children. Well, except Max.”

My smile must have disappeared because she a reached a hand
up and placed it along the side of my face and asked, “What’s wrong?”

I hesitated a moment before answering. “As to the infection,
Emily . . . it’s real. And it’s dangerous. And I’m leading you right back into
it.”

It was her turn to squeeze me tightly. We stayed like that,
silently rocking back and forth for a few minutes until a distant “
ke-iii
”
tilted our heads skyward. Far up in the azure sky a pair of red tail hawks
circled.

I held onto Emily for a few more minutes as we watched the
hawks riding the thermals. Eventually they drifted beyond our view. “Don’t they
mate for life?” Emily asked.

“Some birds do, but I’m not sure about red tails. Ornithology
wasn’t my specialty in college.”

She was silent for a bit, and then in a low, soft voice she
said, “I’ve only been with one other guy. We dated for about eight months in
college. He cheated on me with his roommate’s sister. Anyhow, I just wanted you
to know.”

There was nothing much I could, or should, say to that, so I took
her hand again in mine and held it. Max came over and laid down near the log,
giving me a look that said, “Hey dad, remember me?  Of the three of us here, do
you remember who didn’t have breakfast?  Any chance we’re going to go look for
some?”

Emily took a deep breath and in a surprisingly lighthearted tone
asked, “So you said you weren’t married, right?”

“Never.”

“Do you have a girlfriend or a significant other?”

“I do not have a current girlfriend or significant other,” I
replied almost like I was answering on a witness stand.

“So you didn’t cheat on anybody by being with me these past
few days?” She was fishing, and I knew where this was going to be headed, but I
was OK with it. Honesty is the best policy. Although I think a comedian once
said that if honesty is the best policy, then by default dishonesty is the
second best policy.

I let her stew for a second before answering. “Nope, I didn’t
cheat on anybody. Nor am I engaged, divorced, secretly married to twenty-three
different wives, or in love with my neighbor’s second cousin twice removed
sister in law. And just to be clear, I’ve never been on the Jerry Springer show
and I’m not gay.”

Without skipping a beat she rounded third base and headed for
home with the only possible question left unasked. “Is there anybody you’re
interested in, or is anybody interested in you . . . that you know of?”

“Scoping out the competition, are we?” I teased.

“Maybe.”

“There is a girl named Michelle, I went to high school with
her. We’ve never officially dated, but we’ve always been good friends. A few
times it’s been . . .”

Emily interrupted me with a giggle. “Friends with benefits?”

“Yeah. The last time I saw her before all this mess started
was about a year ago, and then it was just as friends. To be honest, I was
seeing another girl at that time though. Anyhow, through whatever circumstance
or coincidence, she is now part of our . . . I don’t know what to call it, our ‘group’
maybe. And we’re fortunate to have her.”

“She’s the Fish and Wildlife officer that helped you and your
uncle clear the campground?”

“That’s her.”

I started counting the seconds. That giant, hollow sounding
“guy clock” was ticking . . .
TOCK . . . TOCK
. . . Waiting for the
inevitable question . . . “Here it comes,” I thought.

“Can you teach me how to shoot?” Emily asked.

That question caught me off guard. It was definitely not the
one I thought was coming. I recovered quickly however, answering, “I’d be happy
to teach you how to shoot.”

“OK, good,” Emily replied.

I gave her another quick squeeze before I stood up, glad that
I had ducked the bullet of the most dangerous question, or at least one of
them, that a girl can ask you.

“Is she prettier than me?” Emily added.

Shit
.

As much as any guy hates answering that question, I had
actually given it some thought in the tent while Emily slept. And like I said,
honesty is the high road. “You’re both beautiful. Physically and in other ways.
For me to answer any differently would be a lie. However, you and Michelle are
polar opposites in a lot of ways. So the answer to your question is ‘no,’ she
is not prettier than you, nor are you prettier than her. You’re both stunningly
beautiful. It’s like comparing a morning glory to a sunflower.”

“Which one am I?” she asked me, her face neutral and
unreadable.

“Morning glory, without a doubt,” I answered.

She pondered that for a moment, then broke into a slight
smile and chimed, “Good.”

I arched my eyebrows in an unspoken question, waiting for an
explanation.

Her mischievous smirk came back and she said, “Because
sunflowers only last for a short time before they get all ugly and fall over,
whereas morning glories bloom for a long, long time.”

I laughed and shook my head . . . “Women.”

“Well, are you going to teach me how to shoot or not?” Emily
was all smiles now.

“As soon as me and Max take a quick gander around for a
rabbit or squirrel,” I said.

“Gander . . . you actually said, ‘gander.’ What are you, some
Louisiana Cajun redneck hick?”

“That’s me,” I said as I grabbed the gun and whistled for Max.
Forty-five minutes later my buddy was finishing the last of his late breakfast
just as Emily scored her first bull’s eye.

Thirty miles south of Winnipeg, Canada.

The short, dark haired man was nervous, fidgeting constantly
with the gold wedding band on his left hand. Beside him a woman slept uneasily
in the passenger seat of their Escalade. A glance in the rear view mirror
showed that both of his daughters were still snoozing, practically smothered
under multiple layers of sheets, blankets, and quite a few towels they had
removed from their hotel three days ago. It wasn’t like anyone was going to
miss them, most of the hotel staff had already left a few days before that. Why
stay when there’s no electricity, and in all likelihood no pay. A gust of wind
buffeted the luxury SUV, costing the man another gray hair, another spike in
blood pressure. “This has got to be the place,” he muttered under his breath, “where
are they?” His wife shifted in her sleep, unconsciously pulling the coat he had
laid over top of her a little tighter. His coat. He shivered in the damp chill,
hoping they’d be here soon. They’d promised, swore that there would be room for
him and his family. Another twenty minutes of waiting passed. He’d reached for
the key several times, almost turned it twice. “Just five minutes of heat,
that’s all I need, five minutes of heat,” he thought. He couldn’t do it though,
couldn’t risk it. That was part of the deal he’d made. They were very specific
in their demands. At least a quarter tank of gas, that’s how much had to be in
the Escalade when he signed it over to them. Any less, even a hair less, and
the deal was off. It was dead on the mark right now. Lights. He saw headlights
approaching, watched them drift through the darkness slowly before cutting across
the median and entering the parking lot. They approached his Cadillac from
behind, swinging a wide arc and passing him as they used the headlights to scan
the recesses of the dark lot. Once the glare of the headlights passed, he could
tell what kind of vehicle it was. Box van, twenty-four foot . . . like they use
to deliver large furniture. His company owned at least a dozen of them. And now
here he was, trading a $50,000 SUV for a ride in one. Well, more specifically a
ride in one across the border to safety in the United States. The van parked
about fifty feet away, headlights still on and pointed directly at him. He saw
the cab light go on as the passenger door opened. A man climbed down the high
step to the ground, turned on a flashlight and walked over to him. It wasn’t
the man he had made the deal with; he had been told it may not be. The man
walked straight past the driver’s side door and went around back, shining his
flashlight at the license plate. He gently nudged his wife on the shoulder. Her
weary eyes slowly opened in response. “They’re here, go ahead and wake the kids,”
he said. A few seconds later there was a tap on his window. The man with the
flashlight was standing there.