“That’s all of them that I can see, but don’t forget that some might have gone behind the building.”
“I’ll cover that area,” I said, “so head up here where you’ll have a better angle to shoot from if they come from that direction.”
Michelle crept off of the dock and cat-footed to the depot, taking over the position I had just vacated inside the front wall. “How much more gas will it take?” she asked.
“At least a couple of hundred rotations to completely fill it.”
“You better get busy.”
My best guess put me at about thirty gallons already delivered, so I figured another 250 spins would put us pretty close to full, and I got cranking. Michelle scanned both sides of the building the entire time, but nothing came into view. It didn’t occur to either of us that something may have already crossed our field of view during the firefight, and as I finished my count, a low, throaty growl raised my hackles on edge. I spun my boots on the cement pad just in time to see a pair of yellow eyes cresting the retaining wall. In a flash, the feral crashed into me and sent us both cart-wheeling over the wall and onto the gravel.
Chapter 49
The crosshairs wobbled slightly before skewing sideways and off the target. It took several more deep breaths accompanied by a series of infinitesimal nudges on the bipod’s left leg before the tapering reticles hovered once again over their objective. At a range of almost 400 yards, even the slightest tremor would be magnified and cause the projectile—in this case, a 168 grain boat-tail hollow-point—to veer wide off of its intended trajectory. The laminated stock of the 300 Winchester magnum rifle in his hands, however, remained steady. With the speed of a frozen snail, the pad of his finger slid off of the guard and onto the trigger, lightly feathering the polished metal curve that was the first mechanical link in the chain of events that would send the bullet blistering on its way at over 3200 feet per second. Light pressure . . . a steady pull . . . a half breath . . . and the hand loaded cartridge would send its payload on a collision course, arriving in the blink of an eye and transferring over 2000 foot pounds of energy to the chest of his target. Ounce by ounce, his finger pressure increased on the trigger until it reached the breaking point of slightly less than three pounds, and then the pent up potential energy in the coiled firing pin spring was released, driving the pointed and tempered end of the pin into the rifle’s chamber.
Clack
He let the half breath seep through his teeth, and a moment later his gloved hand worked the bolt on the rifle, recocking it and once again closing the bolt on an empty chamber. His eyes shifted to the left at the walkie-talkie that sat propped against the trunk of a small willow tree. Soon . . . the command would come, and he would strike the first blow. For now though, he was content to wait and follow instructions . . . stay hidden, change out the batteries in the radio every morning, and keep watching. He was tired, and more than a little stiff from the lack of movement, but the anticipation of the role that he knew would eventually come kept him focused and on task. Well, mostly on task. He let the bipod balance the rifle while he rolled to the right and off of the thick waterproof mat he’d been lying on. Behind a low screen of camouflaged-patterned burlap, his soup simmered in the heavy foil bowl that sat atop his homemade tuna can alcohol stove. The remains of seven more similar, yet empty, “cook in the container” soup packages were neatly stacked like Siberian nesting dolls behind the squat, round stove that hissed with a good burn of blue flames. Five minutes later, the empty stack increased in height by one, and he returned to the rifle. Finger again on the trigger as he peered through the telescopic sight, he went through the motions and made his 200th one shot “kill” on the distant target. Cycling the action for number 201, he stared through the scope and let the crosshairs settle again. For once, his target was stationery—a radical change from what seemed to be the usual pattern of constant movement. The stubble-covered cheek that rested against the laminated stock smiled, and the finger tightened again.
Clack
Through the crosshairs, he watched as the old man on the orange tractor worked the hydraulics, and the front end bucket lifted another load of loose gravel from the large pile at the back edge of parking lot across the road. After a brief two point turn, the tractor scooted back across the highway and deposited the load onto the growing mound near the large metal warehouse. With a barely perceptible shift, the scope’s crosshairs moved up and left, wavering in transition before settling on the black face that popped up infrequently, occasionally even with binoculars, over the short wall on top of the roof. Target number two. Even with binoculars on the roof, the sniper was sure that he hadn’t—and wouldn’t—be seen . . . after all, he’d picked and set up the nest himself, and was confident in its invisibility. Dropping his eyes out of the scope, he focused on the open nylon pouch that decorated the gap underneath the rifle’s barrel. Twenty shiny brass cartridges, each in their own narrow sleeve, waited patiently. Another identical ammo wallet held their twins in his backpack. It was more than enough to take out the old man, the roof guard, and most importantly, he’d been told, the tall game warden.
Chapter 50
The speed that the feral crossed the short distance of the fuel depot before slamming into me was stunning, and I barely had time to lift the AR sideways as a makeshift shield before the impact sent both of us smashing backwards over the short block wall. My boot heels caught momentarily on the lip of the wall and worked as a fulcrum point that used the rest of my 6’4” frame in a science experiment, the focus of which seemed to key in on mass and acceleration. And abrupt deceleration. My shoulder blades exploded into the gravel with a jarring thump that knocked half of the wind out of me, and it was all I could do to hold onto the rifle that was being wrenched inch by inch out of my grip.
“Eric!” I heard Michelle yell as the creature shifted one hand to my hair, knocking my ear protectors partially off and forcing my head backwards. Incredibly, with only one hand now on the rifle between us, the strength and resistance didn’t seem to diminish at all. My throat was being exposed with every millimeter that the ghoul’s inhuman strength twisted into my hair, and I could smell its fetid, carrion breath blasting into my face as it inched closer. Amber yellow eyes reflected the maniacal grin that was chiseled on its face, and they lit up with rabid anticipation as I pushed the rifle away with all the strength I could muster. I moved it maybe one inch. Maybe. I could vaguely feel my feet thrashing against the gravel, trying to find a purchase as the ghoul crushed closer against my chest. In the soft illumination that was a combination of the still functioning pole lights and my own fading vision, I saw Michelle’s shadowy form moving behind the creature. A second, or maybe an hour later—I couldn’t tell, and it seemed like both—I felt the grip on my hair weaken momentarily, and then what seemed to be a double loop of rope dropped around the feral’s neck. Its hand released the rifle barrier and reached for the noose, and a familiar but distant clicking sound penetrated my brain. I slammed the now free rifle stock into the ghoul’s temple as Michelle’s frantic voice was screaming something at me. My blow seemed to have little effect, but the rope around its neck now appeared to be the focal point of its efforts, and the iron grip on my hair was forgotten as it began to twist and tear at the thick loops.
“ERIC . . . MOVE!” Michelle's voice penetrated the fog of my brain at the same instant that my eyes registered her waffle-soled hiking shoe impact with the creature’s face, spinning it slightly sideways and allowing me to roll free. I scrambled to my feet, gasping and wheezing like an old coal fired freight train as the feral began to thrash and spasm violently.
Michelle’s hand grabbed me by the vest and pulled hard towards the water. “Eric . . . that’s not going to hold it for long! We’ve got to go right now!”
As I stumbled fully to my feet with her tugging me toward the boat, my vision cleared enough for me to see that Michelle had somehow handcuffed one of the creature’s wrists to the thick rubber fuel line that sh
e had looped around its neck. Even now the hose was whipping back and forth in a frenzy, like a violent fly fishermen fighting off a swarm of gnats.
I lifted the AR and flung several wild shots at the monster, but it showed no reaction, and Michelle’s forceful heave refocused my momentum. There was just enough light to see by, and we thumped down the wooden dock and leapt into the patrol boat. I handed her my rifle and then reached for the key ring and my flashlight. “No sense in staying quiet now,” I said.
She grunted something that I didn’t catch as I was searching for the right key, and then several rounds of 5.56 blasted into the night from the AR-15. I knew the key I was looking for, and it didn’t take me long to find it and put it in the ignition. I turned it in stereo with a quick prayer, and the big fuel-injected Yamaha engines fired up immediately. Spinning toward the stern, my flashlight showed that the fuel nozzle had already been displaced by the creatures’ struggle, so I shifted into reverse and backed away from shore as Michelle dumped round after round into the dark silhouettes of at least a dozen more infected that were lumbering out of the darkness. Like a baby whale following its mother, the bass boat slipped off the shore and trailed after us, its anchor rope relaxing momentarily as I transitioned into forward, and then stretching taunt as the deep bladed propellers dug in.
I used the night scope and the NauticStar’s electronic compass to head about a mile southeast. The navigational GPS screen was indicating that we were about seven miles away, and on land, so there was no sense in relying on that. After about a mile, I shifted more to the south and headed toward the wide passage where Oswalds Bay became Devils Lake proper. I kept on that course for about five minutes before shifting to the southwest and increased our speed out into the light chop of the big lake. Keeping the boat steady at thirty miles an hour for eight minutes—if my math was correct—was a simple equation should put us about four miles out into the center of the western section of Devils Lake. When the indigo backlight of my watch showed that time was up, I throttled back and let the boat drift to a stop. All of the gauges showed optimal readings, and the fuel gauge was still showing full, so Michelle and I both scanned several full circles, but saw nothing except empty water. The depth indicator was reading thirty-five feet, and I dropped anchor and shut the boat down. One of the modifications that had been made to the patrol boats was to replace the livewells with onboard storage. Some of them were filled with additional life jackets, others with rescue and first aid equipment. I moved to the stern where two wide bench seats sat facing each other on heavy, tubular aluminum frames. Another alteration in place of the sport fishing seats, each was designed to hold four adults in handcuffs, and I could recall several occasions when both seats were filled. For now though, I lifted up the bench cushion and removed a double handful of surplus Coast Guard woolen blankets. Michelle plopped on the other bench as I replaced the seat, and she silently took the offered portion of blankets. A moment later I was seated beside her, our shoulders touching underneath the multi-layered sandwich of covers that draped across us from our outstretched legs to our chins. I felt some movement between us, and her hand found mine and squeezed lightly.
“Are you OK?” she asked delicately, as if she was afraid of the answer.
“Peachy keen.”
The boat bobbed in silence; the stillness magnified by the slight quiver that coursed through Michelle’s grasp.
“Did it bite you?”
I could hear the worry, both spoken and unspoken in her four words, and I beat back my usual inclination to give a sarcastic answer.
“I’m fine . . . thanks to you.”
Her silence spoke volumes that I could read instantaneously, and I squeezed her hand and leaned into her. “Seriously,” I said, “I’m OK. No bites, no scratches . . . nothing. Well, I think my left ass cheek is going to have a serious bruise.”
Her deep exhalation coincided with another tremor that passed over her body as the bottled up stress began to dissipate. I felt more than saw her nose edge skyward. “Thank you God,” she whispered.
I lifted my arm around Michelle, pulling her tight against me as I echoed her prayer. In the skies above, the breeze was beginning to break up the cloud cover, and the first, faint twinkles of stars were becoming visible.
“We shouldn’t have come here . . . to Devils Lake, I mean,” Michelle murmured into my shoulder.
“What . . . and miss all the fun and adventure, not to mention the free cardio workouts we get running for our lives when we’re not freezing our tails off in the cold. Plus,” I added with a wry grin, “if you act now, we’ll include at no additional cost a fabulous cruise to a mystery location that you may, or may not, be able to find.” Michelle elbowed me in the ribs, but I heaped on a few extra spoonfuls anyhow. “And don’t forget, the first thirty callers will also qualify for a return trip through a narrow, corpse-infested creek that passes under a bridge where hundreds of bloodsucking, red-eyed ghouls are waiting to welcome you with open arms, and mouths.”
“Thanks for making me feel even worse, Eric.”
“You know I’m just teasing.”
“I know, I just feel like . . . like . . .,” she dropped off with a deep sigh.
I shifted under the blankets and pulled her even closer. “Like you’re starting to wish that you were in a cult, and today was the day they were going to serve that ‘special fruit punch’ for breakfast.”
I felt her chest jog a few low cycles as she chuckled. “Yeah, kind of like that . . . where everything would just go away . . . no stress, no responsibilities, no worries . . .”
I listened in silence for a few heartbeats before I added, “No fears.”
“No fears,” she echoed softly.
I cleared my throat and pulled slightly away from her as I sat up, rolling my shoulders to stretch out the cramps. “I think that both of us are feeling a lot of the same things. Apprehension, anticipation, alarm . . . fear of what might happen, fear of what has already happened, and the absolute and honest dread that comes with the stark realization that we don’t have a freaking clue about what’s really happening.”
“Yeah, all of that and a lot more, too. I mean,” Michelle said as she spun to face me, “I feel so torn. This situation is just so surreal I can’t wrap my head around it. Is this the end, Eric?”
“The end?”
“As in ‘the end of the world, thank you for playing,’ end.”
“Nope.”
“And how can you be so sure, Eric?”
“Fast food.”
“What?”
“Well,” I began, “aside from the more commonly known signs of the apocalypse, I, being a scholar extraordinaire, have conducted extensive research on my own and determined that there are lesser known but equally important indicators of doomsday.”
I took a second to click my light on the lowest setting and shine it at Michelle’s face. The scoff that hovered somewhere between annoyed irritation and familiarity with my thought process was frozen there. I kept the dim light steady and locked for a solid thirty seconds, and then her expression broke and she groaned, “OK . . . I’ll bite . . . what the heck are you talking about?”
“Well, I’m glad you asked . . . you see, the sky raining fire and rivers turning red with blood are, of course, well known markers that point towards the end times, but my research has concluded that other signs are equally important, the most telling of these being the dreaded ‘box and sign’ conundrum.”
“Hold that thought,” Michelle said as she stood and turned on her own flashlight, scanning around the boat. After a few seconds she located the telescoping shepherd’s crook rescue pole, and unclipped it from the brackets. The curved metal loop was delicately, yet deliberately placed around my waist, and she guided me up and over to the edge of the boat deck. “Now,” she continued, “you were about to tell me something that had to do with fast food and a boxing sign. If it turns out to be something stupid, or in any way relates to an episode of the three stooges, th
en you better pray you brought dry clothes.”
I felt a series of not too light nudges toward the dark water as Michelle reinforced a reminder of the consequences. “Seriously, what I’m about to tell you is probably more classified then alien abductions and Elvis sightings put together,” I said.
A particularly forceful nudge shifted me a few inches closer to a cold bath. “OK-OK-OK, I’ll tell you, but it wasn’t a ‘boxing sign,’ it was the ‘box and sign’ . . ., uh, sign.”
She bent slightly at the knees, and her face took on an almost gleeful look of anticipation as the hook shoved into my lower back and drove me to the very edge. “Last chance.”
I spun against the railing to face her, throwing a haphazard grip around the tubing . . . just in case. “It’s the fast food conspiracy. Think about it Michelle . . . When you’re in line at the drive through, all of the windows are plastered with giant posters that show these artistic works of art in the shape of hamburgers, or salads, or chicken sandwiches. And when you get to the speaker, assuming you can even understand the 300 words per second that the mysterious voice on the other end talks in, you attempt to place an order for whatever was on that poster. Now you’re pulling ahead to where the kid making minimum wage—and having no talent for foodservice except the uncanny ability to turn every single box of fries upside down in your bag—hands you your order, along with incorrect change, and sends you on your way. But you’re hungry, so you don’t even leave the lot; you just slide into one of the parking spaces and open the bag. And after digging through several layers of loose french fries, you withdrawal that brown cardboard container and flip the hinged top backwards to reveal your own culinary masterpiece. Only it looks nothing like what’s on the posters in the window. Huge fluffy buns topped with a perfectly round, thick patty . . . garden fresh onion rings and finely shredded lettuce that looks like it was just picked, all of it crested with exactly the right amount of cheese, mustard, and ketchup . . . and the whole creation visibly steaming with warmth—that’s what you ordered. What you got, however, is a sad blot of ground something or other, only partially contained within a bun that has the faded impression of the tile floor and the cook’s lug-soled boot still imprinted. Most of the cheese is attached to the paper wrapper that the sandwich was half covered in, and if you want any lettuce, you have to make do with the triple helping of thick center ridges that are large enough to present a serious choking hazard to a billy goat. Your crisp, mouth watering onion slices have been demoted to soggy circles that aren’t even on the sandwich, and yet from past experience at any drive through in the world, you still feel lucky that they were even included. And to top it off, your condiments have either been applied with an electron microscope, or a seven cubic yard track hoe bucket. And then, as you glance back and forth between the artwork in the window and the cheerless and heartrending facsimile in your hands, you realize that all is right in the world . . . all is well. Because the day that you actually get something in your order that looks like the picture on the poster, well little camper, that’s the day of judgment.”
Fade to Grey (Book 2): Darkness Ascending Page 50
