Fade to Grey (Book 1): Fade to Grey (9 page)

“He’s seventy-five percent pure wolf, and as for the rest I
can’t be totally sure, but it’s probably a mix of husky, shepherd or Akita, and
a smattering of a few other things as well,” I answered.

“Yeah, other things like grizzly bear and wolverine,” said
Uncle Andy. “That’s probably why he’s not really hungry right now, he ate half
of that guy who tried to steal my truck.”

That comment brought a round of chuckles from the gathering. Even
Marty, who I had barely heard speak, broke out into a huge chorus of laughter. After
we had packed away all of the food we could hold, there wasn’t much left—the
few chunks of venison, several rolls, about half of the salad and mashed
potatoes, and nothing but the bones from the walleye. I took the remaining
venison and mixed it with a few of the rolls and potatoes, and then gave it to
Max. Apparently the grand theft auto suspect hadn’t filled him up after all.

Walter directed us all to leave everything on the table and
head back into his office. Michelle and Uncle Andy took the coffee pot and
chair back, and Walter brought up the rear carrying the mysterious foil covered
pan. We arranged ourselves in Walter’s office, scattering to the various
couches, chairs, and recliners throughout the room. There was a refrigerator
positioned on a side wall, and we had our choice of hot coffee, cold beer,
water, or various species of sodas. I went with a Dr. Pepper. Walter grabbed a
roll of paper towels off of the dispenser mounted near the refrigerator, tore
off several sheets and handed one to everybody. He then held the large round
pan like a waiter delivering dinner for a table of five, and with a mock half
bow, he said, “I present to you the world famous cinnamon buns ala’ de
Sheldon.” Removing the foil with a flourish like a magician, he revealed a
baker’s dozen of the largest sticky buns I had ever seen. Each spiral shaped
treat was the size of a volleyball in diameter and was covered in gobs of a
dark brown syrupy mixture, topped with melted cream cheese icing and sprinkled
with crushed pecans. By the time I finished, my stomach was distended almost to
the point of being uncomfortable . . . almost. I think the smile on everybody’s
eyes conveyed what they thought of the cinnamon buns ala’ de Sheldon. We stood
up, stretched a bit, and took turns using the small restroom off the side of
Walter’s office. A few minutes later, when everyone had returned and sat down,
Uncle Andy turned to Sam and said, “I know you’re probably in a hurry to get
moving, but if you don’t mind we’d sure appreciate some information on what’s
been going on.”

Sam took a big slug of coffee and said, “If I’d have known
about the buffet you serve in the garage . . . I mean the executive conference
room, I’d try and time it so I’d run out of gas all the time up here. I almost
hate to ruin the flavor of those cinnamon buns, but as they say—pardon my
French—there’s a shit storm coming.”

Sam asked, “What do you know so far?” We spent the next
several minutes telling him what we had heard.

“OK,” Sam said, “some of what I’m about to tell you was
transmitted to my regional office by a secure downlink system that was put in
by a Homeland Security after 9-11; other stuff is gonna be personal
observations or directly relayed from other troopers. OK, the day before the president’s
speech, when the public Internet was still working, national television also, we
got several faxes marked ‘classified’ from Homeland Security. The general bend
of those faxes were to expect an exponential increase in criminal activity over
the next several weeks due to the ‘likelihood of general population panic’ with
regards to what they were calling the Korean flu epidemic. Under direct orders
from the president, all leave was immediately canceled and all military personnel,
even the National Guard and reserves were moved to active duty status. That was
the first round of faxes. The second round came several hours after the president’s
speech. They were similar in nature, but focused more specifically on regional
and state law enforcement. The public Internet was shut down again, but our
link to Homeland was still active. The second round of faxes went so far as to
hint that there might be more to this flu then just a typical virus. Several
follow-up faxes indicated that federal law enforcement, including the National
Guard and military personnel stationed in the U.S. may be assisting in riot
control and ‘health and wellness’ sweeps, as they put it. The third and last
round of faxes, at least that I was aware of at that time, specified that
regional quarantine zones were in the process of being set up with the goal of
eliminating infection transfer. I’m probably not saying this word for word, but
that was the general idea. Keep in mind these were just the faxes that I was
privy to, others came and went straight to the brass. With me so far?  Good. OK,
so now we have Homeland Security trying to take charge of what it appears that
they really didn’t have a grip on themselves, and at the same time passing the
buck to the state agencies. About eight hours after the president’s speech, our
regional office got word that all civilian air traffic was grounded until
further notice. Air traffic control was being taken over by the military and
any aircraft not specifically authorized to be airborne would be shot out of
the sky—no warnings, no questions asked. At that same meeting, our watch
commander said that we should expect to be pulling double shifts at least, and
that all patrols would be issued full riot gear. As he was telling us this the
captain came in; his face was rather pale looking . . . that’s not an attempted
joke relating to my obviously superior heritage.”

We all laughed anyway. North Dakota has a fairly high
population of the Sioux, and Sam was obviously full blown Indian.

Sam continued, “Captain Reynolds had just returned via
military transport from Louisiana. He had been at a Homeland Security
conference and told us that, ‘As of right now, the governor of North Dakota,
following the example of at least thirty other governors, had declared a state
of emergency. Restrictions on travel would be enforced until the situation was
in hand, and all North Dakota National Guard troops were being tasked for law enforcement
duties. A statewide curfew was also in effect.’ One of my guys asked him how
we’re going to enforce the curfew when we couldn’t get the information about
the curfew out to the general public. Captain Reynolds said he didn’t know for
sure but whatever it took we needed to do that for the safety and security of
the citizens of North Dakota, even if it came down to driving back and forth
and using the PA system. He mentioned that new assignments, possibly anywhere
in the state may be coming down and to expect them. He really wasn’t looking
that good, and started mumbling something about quarantine zone failure, and
then he collapsed—dropped like a rock right there. We all shot to our feet,
some of the guys started CPR and others ran for the AED. It’s been awhile since
I’ve had a refresher course and the other guys were closer so I wasn’t directly
involved. Trying to call 911 was a joke as well; the lines had been down for I
don’t know how long. Our radios still worked and somebody contacted EMS, but
the response we got was something like ‘take a number’ and if you’re lucky we
might get to you in the next forty-eight hours. One of the guys doing CPR
stopped for a reassessment period; you know where after a couple minutes you
recheck for vitals. They found that Captain Reynolds still had a pulse and was
breathing. The AED—the electrode pads were already stuck to his chest—went into
analysis mode and came back with ‘unshockable heart rhythm detected,’ whatever
that means. The decision was made to put Captain Reynolds in what they call a ‘recovery
position’ since he was still breathing and had a pulse. Ernesto Fernandez, a
first year trooper, put him in that position and kept monitoring his ABC’s—you
know, airway-breathing-circulation. We were kind of milling about, talking
about the different crap that was going on, when trooper Fernandez screamed
something in Spanish and stood up really fast, backing away from Captain
Reynolds. I’m not really sure what happened next. One moment Captain Reynolds
was on the ground, apparently barely alive, the next he was on his feet and
launching toward the nearest person, which happened to be Trooper Evans. Several
of us jumped on and managed to get some cuffs around Captain Reynolds—let me
tell you he’s one strong SOB for an old guy—but he kept fighting us, even in
cuffs, so we ended up using some leg irons as well. That was just to restrain
him. The whole time he wouldn’t shut up, he wasn’t saying anything
intelligible, a lot of groans and snarls. Somebody, I don’t know who, suggested
that we move him to a more comfortable location so we took him into the holding
cell for juveniles—it’s the only one with a mattress—and put him in. Trooper
Fernandez went to the bathroom to wash his forearm. He had apparently been bit
by the captain and the wound was still bleeding freely. Trooper Evans said she
wasn’t injured. Since the call had already been placed to EMS, there wasn’t a
whole lot else we could do but head out to our assignments. I spent most of the
next twenty-four hours responding to a menagerie of issues. Accidents, looting,
fights, gunshots—you name it, I was there—but very little of it came in via the
local land lines. Most of it was just happening all around me. I made it back
to the barracks a couple of times in that period for a quick shower and a few
hours of sack time. The second time I was back, the on-duty sergeant, Alfred
Ramey, took me aside to talk. He and I had been pretty tight a few years before
when we worked an undercover sting against some bikers together. Anyhow, he
took me back to the holding cells where Captain Reynolds was. Alfred stopped me
about ten feet away by putting his hand on my chest. I looked at him to see if
he was screwing around, he had always been a practical joker, but his eyes were
deadly serious. He said, ‘I’m going to ask you two questions, don’t give me any
crap, just answer them, OK?’ I looked down and saw that his hand was resting
lightly on his sidearm. I slowly said, ‘OK.’

Alfred said, ‘When you were helping to restrain Captain
Reynolds, were you injured in any way, like scratches or bites, or did you get
any body fluids on you, like blood or spit . . . anything?’

I could see that he wasn’t kidding, and so I answered him, ‘No.’

He stared at me for a few seconds, like he was trying to
decide if he believed me.

‘OK then, second question. Do you have a strong stomach?’

I said, ‘Al, what the hell is going on?’

He moved his hands off of my chest and his gun and inclined
his head to the right, indicating that I should proceed down the hallway to the
holding cells. I stared him for a few more seconds but his face was stone, so I
went down the hall. Our station isn’t designed as an actual jail; it’s only got
four holding cells, all in a row on the west side of the hallway I was in. The
far cell was the one we use for juveniles—also where we put Captain Reynolds. The
first cell was empty. I could barely make out a low whimpering sound from
somewhere ahead. The second cell had somebody in it, I couldn’t tell at first
who it was. Female, dressed in gray sweats, sitting against the far wall with
her knees pulled up to her chest and hands over her head. She looked very
disheveled, maybe some trailer trash meth head jonesing for a fix. The whimper
was coming from her and she slowly rocked back and forth. I looked at Al and he
said, ‘Evans.’ I jerked my head back to the figure in the cell. I didn’t know
Trooper Evans very well; I knew her name, that she was married with no kids,
lived on the southeast side of our district in a subdivision called Ashley
Estates, not much else. I called into the cell, ‘Marcy . . . Marcy . . . it’s Sam,
Sam Ironfeather, are you okay?’ She didn’t answer. I looked at Al, but he’d
just inclined his head further. I walked to the third cell. Cell number three
and four do not have a solid wall between them, just bars. I could see into
both cells but not very well, the lights were out in the cells and the
illumination from the lights in the hall were not very bright thanks to the ‘energy
saving initiatives’ that came down the pike a year ago when the governor was
running for re-election. What I could see in the dim light was . . . well, I
don’t know how to describe it, it was like I saw what was there but because of
the lack of full illumination, my brain just didn’t process or believe what it
was really seeing. I reached down to my belt and grabbed my flashlight, hit the
switch and swept the cells with the light. Right about then the smell hit me. Between
the smell and the scene I was witnessing, I dropped to my knees and puked my
guts out. Al gave me a few minutes to heave and then pulled me back out of the
hallway. We went into the station control room and sat down. I grabbed a Coke
out of the little mini fridge, swirled some of it around my mouth, and spit it
out in a little garbage can.

Al said, ‘A short time after your shift went out the first
time, and I mean the first shift after we put Captain Reynolds in cell four,
Fernandez radioed in saying that he wasn’t feeling too hot. We didn’t have any
replacements and I told him to hang out as long as he could. About an hour
later he radioed in again saying he was feeling worse and was coming back to
the station. A few minutes later he got here and went straight to the showers .
. . said he felt like he was burning up. I offered to run him by the hospital
but he didn’t answer, just kept his head under the running water. I told him
that if he changed his mind to let me know and I went back to the desk. A few
more guys came in to get a couple hours of rest. About a half an hour later I
heard screams and yells from the back of the station house. I went back to see
what was going on and saw that the guys who came in for a rest had Fernandez
pinned under the metal frame of one of the twin beds. Fernandez was making, I
don’t know, like animal sounds. The guys who had him pinned were shouting at
him; stuff like, “What the hell are you doing Fernandez?” I asked them what was
going on and they said that Fernandez just bum rushed them. They started to
tell me more when one of the guys holding him down with the bed frame said, “Damn,
look at Fernandez’s eyes!” I got a little bit closer and shined my light onto
his face—all the white in both of his eyes had turned dark blood red.

‘Keep him there, I’ll be right back,’ Al told them.  Then he said,
‘I went to the weapons room and got a taser, checked to make sure it had a full
charge and went back. Even with three guys on the bed frame Fernandez was still
struggling. I did an about face back to the weapons room and got a second
taser, checked it and returned. It wasn’t like we had a lot of options. Fernandez
was totally ignoring us, so talking was out. I handed one of the tasers to the
guy closest to me on the bed frame and we coordinated our release. As soon as
they let go of the bed frame Fernandez was up and moving. We hit him with both
tasers. Nothing seemed to happen. Well, not like you’d expect anyhow. He didn’t
drop to the ground and flop like bacon. It seemed to stun him a little, though.
I yelled for the other two guys to go get more tasers and we kept the juice
flowing until they got back. They sunk two more wires into Fernandez before he
went down. Four tasers it took to knock him out. He was still naked from his
shower so one of the guys, Trooper Barnes I think, gave his taser to me and
grabbed Fernandez by the ankles and drug him all the way to cell three. After
that, those guys took off—maybe on patrol or maybe to their own houses—I don’t
know. About half an hour later, Trooper Evans radioed in requesting back up.’”

Sam paused for a few seconds, shook his head and said, “I
remembered hearing that call, but no one responded, no one could, we were all
swamped as it was. Even when she called out, ‘Shots fired, shots fired!’ no one
could break free, we all had our own shit to deal with and bullets were flying
all over town.”

“Anyhow, Al kept talking,” he said, ‘About an hour later
Evans showed up, driving her personal car and dressed like she was. The phones
had stopped ringing a short time before, I think that’s when the land lines
went down, and here comes Evans, walking like she’s in a daze. She comes right up
to the window, and I can see she’s been crying. I buzzed her in and walked back
to ask what’s up, but she heads straight to the cells and goes in number two,
shuts the door and just stands there. I ask her what the hell is wrong, and she
turns to me and says, “I just shot my husband.” I tried to get her to talk, but
all she would say was that she shot him and that she was so sorry and to leave
her the hell alone. To be honest, it seemed like the entire city was falling
apart and I didn’t have time to deal with her crap right then, so I left her in
there and went back to control. Just about then, the secure line from Homeland
Security rang. I picked it up, and me and the guy at HS went through the
authentication process; it checked out OK but I could hardly hear him, the
connection wasn’t that good so I turned down the volume on the audio monitors
for the cellblock cameras so I wouldn’t have to listen to Evan’s cry. I spent
the next twenty-five minutes relaying personnel information, like who showed up
and who was still fit for duty. Somewhere in the middle of that, the buzzer up front
rang. I put HS on hold and walked up to the window. Captain Reynolds’s wife was
there and wanted to see him. I told her what had happened; she apparently had
already heard it from another trooper, I don’t know which one. I buzzed her
back and gave her the code and keys for the detention hall and cell number four.
She had been in the station a lot and knew her way. I got back on the line with
HS and told the guy about Captain Reynolds and Fernandez but he totally blew
that off, didn’t even acknowledge it. He then read back a list of duty
assignments for all personnel effective immediately, code Alpha—highest
priority. By the time I was done writing that down another five or so minutes
had passed. Then he had the balls to order me to read it back to him. I bit my
tongue and did it. We hung up and I was getting ready to radio all cars to report
back to base for new assignments, when I happened to look at the monitor. I
could see Evans with her hands on the bars of her cell, it looked like she was
screaming or yelling. The lights were out in numbers three and four and I
couldn’t see much, but it looked like the captain, Fernandez, and Mrs. Reynolds
were having some sort of pow-wow at the bars that divided their cells. I took
off back there and—of all the rotten luck—I couldn’t find the damn keys to open
the door to the hallway. Then I remembered I gave my set to Mrs. Reynolds. Five
or six minutes later, I finally found the spare set so I opened the door and
went back to the holding cells. I don’t know why, but I kept my hand on my gun.
Evans’s cell looked OK, she was sitting on the floor in the back just like you
see her now. I asked her what went on and what was she yelling about, but she
wouldn’t say anything, just sat there and rocked, making that whimpering sound.
I pulled out my Maglite and went forward. I saw the same thing that made you
puke.’”