“And while I’m doing that, what will you be doing?” she asked.
“I’m going to go talk to Chuck, but I don’t want him to know about you just yet.”
“I see, you get in my pants and all of a sudden you don’t want to be seen with me in public.”
“I . . . wait . . . . . . what?”
Michelle’s giggle blossomed in my ear. “I’m just teasing you, Eric.”
“Uh huh.” I managed to stammer.
We crept to the dock and removed several life jackets from the patrol boat. They piled nicely to allow Michelle a padded sniper nest on the wooden planks. When she was in position, I crouched next to her and traded the silenced .22 for her AR-15. A magazine exchange followed, and then I paused as I looked at the patrol boat.
“Hey, I just had an idea.”
“What?”
“Just something to save us a step. The hand crank on the fuel depot is what has the lock on it, but I can still drag the hose all the way down and put it in the gas tank of the patrol boat.”
“Go,” Michelle said, “I’ll cover you.”
“I hope so.”
It took several minutes longer to accomplish the task since I was attempting to be a stealthy as possible, but when I finished, the metal nozzle was wedged under the boat’s spring loaded fueling cap. Now we just needed the key. A stiff breeze knocked the patrol boat against the dock, and the weeds at the lake edge rustled briskly as I half stood. After another quick sweep of the night scope, I trotted toward the office. This time, I stayed off to the side of the broken window. I briefly entertained the idea of using my keys on the front door, but I didn’t even know if it was locked to start with, and I had a strong suspicion that any noise would draw another shot in the dark.
“Tempsee, don’t shoot,” I called softly through the window.
The sound of wooden chair legs sliding across a hardwood floor squeaked out of the broken window. I waited for a count of three and then called out again. “Tempsee . . . Chuck . . . don’t shoot, OK . . . it’s officer Coleman from the fish and game department. Can you hear me?”
More shuffling from inside sounded, followed by a voice. “Go away, Coleman. I don’t want no company.” There was a definite slurring in his voice as he spoke.
“Chuck, I need to come inside, just for a minute, OK?”
“What for? What do you want? . . . Show yourself.”
I muttered under my breath, wishing momentarily for something . . . anything . . . to go right for a change. Biting down the bile that tried to rise in my throat as my stomach churned in aggravation, I called out again. “Tempsee, don’t shoot. I’m going to pull out my flashlight and show you my face, and then I’m coming inside the front door. I’ve got my key if it’s locked. Just don’t shoot, OK?”
There was no answer.
Tilting my head off to the side, I whispered into the microphone. “Did you get that? I’m going to have to risk a little bit of light.”
“I got it.”
The Quark came out of my belt holster, and I turned it to the lowest setting, and then clicked it up one notch higher, being careful to shield the light against my jacket.
It was now or never. “Chuck, look at me . . . I’m not one of those things, but there’s a bunch of them nearby, so don’t shoot me, OK?” The scuffle of a chair was my only reply.
I shined the dim light through the window for a second, and then stepped just to the edge—tilting the light to illuminate my face as I whispered loudly through the broken glass. “I’m coming inside . . . don’t shoot.”
“Go away.” The voice sounded tired this time.
Stepping past the windows to the front door brought only the sound of my footfalls and the heavy, gusting breeze. The knob turned easily, and the door swung open on silent hinges. I called out one final time. “Hey Chuck, I’m coming in the door now.”
My muted light lead the way, and as soon as I crossed the threshold, another flashlight clicked on, bathing my face in harsh, white light.
“Turn that thing off or cover it.” My voice cut through the stillness inside of the office building.
“What for?” The maintenance man’s flashlight cast enough backsplash for me to see him tilted back on two legs of a heavy wooden office chair. He was dressed in work dungarees overlapped with a winter parka, and underneath the fur enshrouded hood, the brim of a grease speckled athletic hat protruded like a single duck’s bill. A blue steel revolver—the muzzle of which was pointed precariously close to my torso—sat clenched in his right hand. In the reflected illumination from the flashlight gripped in his left hand, I could see glistens of red on the hand that held the gun.
“Turn off your light, Chuck,” I whispered loudly, “there’s about a dozen of those things just past the maintenance building, and they’re going to see your light.”
“So what.”
Michelle’s hushed voice came through my headset. “From out here, that light looks like a beacon.”
“Tempsee . . . come on man, turn off the damn light, you’re going to bring those things right down on us.”
“So.”
Tactic change time. I took three steps into the room, angling across his field of fire—the flashlight and revolver followed me loosely. “What happened to your hand?”
“Nothing.”
“You’re bleeding, Chuck.” I edged past him, briefly shifting my light to the back wall where the board with keys hung. It was empty.
With a double set of thumps, Chuck dropped out of his chair and twisted into an unsteady, upright position. I watched carefully as he shifted the revolver, using his underarm as a makeshift holster. His bloody hand now free, he reached under the parka and pulled out a flat glass bottle half filled with a clear liquid. The bottle was upended, and a long, multi-swallow chug drained the majority of its contents. With the bottle still gripped, he took the back of his hand and wiped the dribble from his lips, leaving a bloody smear along half of his face. His hand reversed course, and then hurled the container toward the far right window. It missed the glass, but shattered loudly upon impact with the block wall. Chuck’s stubble crusted face twisted into a hateful grin, and his free hand reached into the parka’s voluminous side pocket, returning a second later with a jangling ring of keys.
“You looking for these?”
“Chuck, you’re hurt. Turn off your flashlight and we’ll see about getting you fixed up, OK?”
A momentary look of confusion crossed his face, but it didn’t last, and the angry drunk returned in an instant, yelling, “Do you think I give a damn? The whole world can go rot in hell for all I care, and you, and all the rest of the big shots can lead the way.”
“Chuck, you’re not making any sense. C’mon man, give me the keys and let me take a look at your hand.” I took a step towards him as I continued. “Seriously . . . there’s a whole bunch of infected people just past the maintenance building. Turn off your flashlight, or they’re going to be here any second.” Michelle’s voice through the headset confirmed my apparently latent psychic abilities.
“I’ve got one at the corner . . . now two.”
“Drop them,” I tilted my chin down and answered her.
“I ain’t dropping the damn keys,” Chuck replied, unaware that I had been talking to Michelle.
“Listen,” I said as I stepped towards him, closing into arm’s reach, “give me the keys and we can all get out of here. But turn off your flashlight and shut the hell up, or we’re going to have some serious problems.”
His alcohol fueled personality did nothing but intensify his everyday crappy attitude, and like dozens of other drunks I’ve had to deal with on the job, I could see him growing beer muscles as he processed my words.
He took a partial step towards me and blasted out a mountain of sterile, dry breath that was the universal standard of vodka drinkers worldwide. “I don’t take orders from you, or anyone else. And if you think I’m just going to hand you these keys,” he jingled them momentar
ily on an extended finger before dropping them back into the overcoat’s pocket, “well then you can just kiss my ass.” His hand, still dripping blood but now free of the keys, crossed in front of him as he grabbed for his gun.
Michelle's echo of “two down” coincided with my knee slamming hard into Chuck’s groin, and he exploded out with a huge gout of vodka breath as he partially collapsed against me. I torqued my arm into a lightning fast arc, smashing my elbow into the side of his head. He went down rapidly and hard, and I followed him partway to the floor, kicking the revolver away from his body and into the darkness. My knee dropped down and compressed his throat, squishing out a gurgle of response as he weakly grabbed at me in his semi-conscious state. I ignored him and fished the keys out of his pocket, dropping them in my own before reaching back down and turning his flashlight off.
Returning to my feet, I clicked the Quark up another notch and shined it down on his moaning form. “Tempsee, for once in your life stop acting like the world owes you everything. Now stay on the floor and keep your mouth shut and your light off. You do that—you might just survive long enough to convince other people how big of an asshole you are.” I spun away without another word and headed to the back corner of the office, stopping to pick up a small plastic garbage can on the way. Against the back wall of the office a bare bones utility table was positioned, and it took me less than a minute to grab the four port charging unit, along with the radios it held, and put them in the can. Positioned at the edge of the table was a nearly full, quart-sized bottle of hand sanitizer, and I took a moment to pump a giant glob of it into my hand. The key ring in my pocket, my flashlight, and the stock of Michelle’s AR got slathered with the stuff, and then I headed back towards the door.
“‘Chelle, what’s it look like out there?”
“Two down and not moving at the left corner—your right as you come out. Nothing else in sight yet.”
“I’m coming out the front door in five seconds.”
Chuck was feebly trying to move into a sitting position as I passed, and I nudged him with the toe of my boot. “If you keep your light off and stay quiet, we might all live through the night. Do you understand me Tempsee . . . no noise, no lights.” I clicked off my own light and headed out the door.
I half jogged down to the patrol boat and dropped off the garbage can filled with radios. The next four minutes was spent shuttling back and forth between the boats to move our supplies. It was a job that would have taken less than a minute in normal light, but because I was depending on the “one eyed Cyclops while looking through a night scope” method, it became exponentially harder. Gas cans, extra ammo, and dry bags all made the trip. As a final touch I dropped the smaller boat’s anchor line into the patrol boat as an improvised tow.
“I’m heading for the fuel now,” I whispered as I trotted across the gravel, “but I’m going to need my flashlight to find the right key.”
“Understood . . . everything’s still clear.”
When I reached the fuel tank seconds later, I turned my Quark on low just as Michelle's voice came through my headset. “The light is back on in the office.”
I mentally cursed myself for not throwing Chuck’s gun and flashlight outside, and as I located the right key and removed the padlock from the tank’s pump handle, a loud crash emanated from the office, accompanied by a series of curses and frenzied yelling. I holstered my flashlight again as Chuck’s voice boomed into the night.
“YOU WANT LIGHT? I’LL GIVE YOU LIGHT . . . I’LL GIVE YOU ALL THE LIGHT IN THE WORLD!”
Something about his words crinkled at my gut, and I furiously began spinning the fuel pump as I grasped for the meaning behind the warning. Realization came too late, and the distant sound of an engine starting matched with the faint, but rapidly growing intensity on top of the pole lights around the parking lot.
“Eric . . . this is not good!” Michelle's voice, although not panicking, had a definite edge of concern attached.
“Shit . . . there’s a generator unit in the maintenance shop . . . it’s got a remote start. He must have hit it.” My hand spun the crank as fast as I could, but I was limited by the volume of gas it could push with each rotation. Four complete circles equaled one gallon of gas. My mental arithmetic estimated I had transferred around seven gallons when the ping of a bullet ricocheted off the fuel tank.
“Damn it, he shooting at me!” I shouted as I dropped the handle and vaulted over the low retaining wall.
One of the lights near the boat ramp went out, and a sideways glance around the corner of my cover showed Michelle twisting to line up on another. I took the opportunity to unsling the rifle and turn on the night scope. Another bullet zinged against the fuel tank as I steadied the crosshairs and waited for a target in the green night scope. The illumination from the pole lights peaked, and the entire parking area was bathed with a dazzling intensity as the distant hum from the generator smoothed out. I didn’t need night vision to see the drunk maintenance man step out of the doorway and lift the revolver toward the fuel depot. I also didn’t need to remind myself of what would happen if he managed to hit a vulnerable component, especially the component known as Eric the human fuel pump. That thought, combined with Michelle’s aggravated shouting sealed my decision—along with Chuck Tempsee’s fate. I adjusted my aim and sent a single round into his chest. He immediately dropped to his knees, and I followed up the single with another triple just to be sure. The rifle’s quadruple explosions seemed extraordinarily loud, even through my protective headgear.
“Say again . . . I didn’t copy that last message,” I shouted through the microphone as I stood and wormed my way back to the fuel pump.
“I’m hitting the lights, but the distance and the angle that I’m shooting at isn’t breaking the glass covers. Crap, we’ve got incoming.”
I ducked to the inside of the retaining wall and took a rapid assessment of the situation. There were three ghouls scampering around the far corner of the office, and as I watched, one of them crumpled to his knees before face planting hard into the dirt. A second one followed moments later, and I could see Michelle lining up on the last one as it turned its red eyes towards her. I made a decision and went for the lights. Half of a thirty round magazine later, I had managed to knock out three more of the nearest pole lights in addition to the one at the peak of the shop. The dock and boat launch area descended into shadows, but were still visible from the reflected illumination of the remaining lights. So was the fuel depot.
“Reloading,” Michelle called out as I searched the area for a target.
“Back in position and ready.” Her voice was accompanied by several deep breaths, and I took one more quick scan before dropping the rifle to a one handed grip and using my free hand to spin a pump handle again. The noise of the fuel transfer was a muted whirr as the pump’s impellers pushed the gas down the long hose and into the tank. I got to a count of ninety-four rotations when Michelle came across the radio—her warning tone carrying a sense of urgency as she spoke. “Eric, I’ve got multiple targets in a group coming through the gap between the office and the shop, and I think at least one or two more passed around the back side of the office, which means they might come out on your side . . . and Eric . . . I’m almost positive at least one of these over here is a feral.”
I dropped the handle again and scooted around toward the front corner of the low fuel depot wall. Using the top of the wall as a brace, I scanned towards the area she had indicated, watching a group of three infected . . . then four . . . then seven . . . materialize next to the office. True to her observation, one of the ghouls near the back of the group seemed to move with darting quickness and deliberation.
“I see it . . . second from the back on your left.” As I watched, the small pack shifted across the bodies of their fallen companions, ignoring them completely, but seeming somehow drawn to the front door where Chuck’s body lay. I whispered into the microphone. “Wait for your shot. I don’t think they see us yet, a
nd if you can take out the feral, we might have a better chance of getting through this in one piece.”
“Just be ready to rain down with the heavy artillery if this doesn’t work,” her soft, even voice came through my headset.
I kept my eye on the feral as the group nosed toward the body of the maintenance man, and the faint thack of the Ruger cycling came across the radio. Six ghouls now stood in front of the office.
“Nice shot. Now take your time and dust the rest of them.” I made a mental note to never piss off Michelle as one by one, the remaining infected dropped—each accompanied by a single, muted metallic cycle of the silenced .22.
Fade to Grey (Book 2): Darkness Ascending Page 49
