Fade to Grey (Book 1): Fade to Grey

by Brian Stewart

  Michelle cut in before Walter could answer. “Holy crap, y’all are more confusing than a bunch of old bitties arguing at the hair parlor.”

  “Y’all? . . . When did you start talking like a southerner?” I asked with a grin.

  “It was during my time at charm and etiquette school in Georgia,” she said, flashing her pearly whites and batting her eyes. She had pronounced Georgia in four long syllables like “gee-org-gi-aaa.”

  “Now sit your sorry ass down, you redneck yankee hick before I kick you so hard in the balls our kids will be born already bruised,” she snarled.

  “Charm school huh . . . And what was that remark about ‘our’ kids?” I laughed.

  “Never mind,” she said. “Now as I was saying, Walter, don’t listen to these bookend morons. The simple fact is that because of our location we can only get TV and Internet through satellite. Whatever the government did to control the flow of information involved them somehow taking over those satellites. The only TV stations that are still able to be watched are going to be the ones that don’t come through satellites, like a local news broadcast. So until the fed’s decide otherwise, we’re not gonna get TV or Internet out here. Understand?”

  “I do, thank you for that clear explanation young lady,” Walter beamed.

  “Actually,” Uncle Andy started, “that’s not entirely . . . accurate . . . about the Internet thing. I may be able to—well, never mind let me think about it.”

  “Well here’s the way I see it,” said Walter. “This whole business of the TV not working, phones not being dependable, credit card machines going down and all of this new sickness that’s spreading all over has me more than a little on edge.”

  “What new sickness?” Michelle, Uncle Andy and I echoed in unison.

  “That’s what I was trying to tell you before I was so rudely interrupted by ‘Captain Technology’ and his big worded explanation on how televisions work.”

  Uncle Andy started to say something in reply, but I cut him off.

  “What new sickness?” I emphasized the word “what.”

  “As I mentioned, I talked to my daughter this morning and she told me that the local news, both television and radio, were reporting what’s being called ‘the Korean super flu.’ She said that every hospital and clinic that she knows of was being overrun with cases and that the governor of Florida had already declared a state of emergency and ordered the National Guard to assist. Her roommate had got through to her a few hours before—she was driving home from Atlanta—and told her that it was just as bad up there. She said she wasn’t even sure if she could make it all the way back to their apartment because the roads were practically gridlocked. Anyhow, my daughter said that the news was reporting that this ‘Korean super flu’ was apparently causing severe encephalitis-like symptoms and was highly contagious. People were locking their doors, covering their windows with plastic, and breathing through handkerchiefs. There’s a little market just down the street from her apartment, and when I was on the phone with her I could hear what sounded like gunshots. She looked out her window and said it looked like a gang shooting or something by the market. Very unusual for the area she lives in. She started to tell me something about ‘biting’ but we got cut off.

  “I’m glad I’m not in Atlanta or Miami,” Michelle said.

  “Not yet,” Walter said.

  “What do you mean ‘not yet?’” Michelle asked.

  Walter replied, “What I mean is that we all saw the same presidential press conference. We all heard that reporter ask the president to explain how the soldiers that were bombed by that chemical or whatever, how they had been transferred to the same places where these outbreaks were happening . . . you know, being a coincidence and all.”

  All of us nodded our understanding.

  “And then my daughter tells me about what’s going on in Florida and what her roommate said about Atlanta and I’ve got to figure that sooner or later it’s gonna end up here as well. Heck, I haven’t been able to get a call through to anywhere since I talked to my daughter.”

  “What are you suggesting we do about it?” said Uncle Andy.

  “I don’t know, but I think we need to figure out some things beforehand in case that flu does show up here,” Walter replied.

  We talked about it for a while more, nobody really committing to anything, but all agreeing to think about it. A deck of cards soon appeared in Walters hands and we spent the next two hours playing Rook. My eyes were beginning to droop when we called it a night. Uncle Andy told Walter that he and I would stop back around lunchtime the day after tomorrow to exchange any new information. Uncle Andy then asked me to “escort this delicate flower of the desert safely to her chariot” while he finished up with Walter. Michelle rolled her eyes, but stood up and took my hand and said to Uncle Andy, “Don’t worry, I’ll keep him safe.”

  I could hear both of the old farts chuckling as I let myself be pulled out the door.

  Michelle and I stood outside the office in the drizzle for a minute or two. Her head was tilted upward, looking toward the stars that were hidden by the inky black clouds, her hand still holding on to mine. Neither of us said anything, we were both lost in thought. My eyes flickered to the window of Walter’s office, drawn there by some subconsciously observed movement. I saw Uncle Andy reach into his vest and pull out what looked like a wad of cash and give it to Walter.

  “I wonder what that was for,” I muttered.

  “What?” Michelle asked.

  “Ah, probably nothing . . . just thinking out loud,” I said.

  “Walk me to my truck, I want to give you something,” Michelle said.

  I have to admit that when those words came out of her mouth my eyebrows went up. “Still thinking about my lime green Scooby Doo bikini underwear?” she said with a Cheshire cat smile.

  “Um . . .” I started to say.

  “Well, keep thinking about it. But for now I want to give you something else.”

  We walked over to her Tahoe and she sprung the locks with the remote. She opened the back passenger door and leaned over, reaching for something on the seat. The mercury vapor lights by the boat launch shed enough illumination for me to confirm that she had definitely slimmed down and toned up. She must have sensed me looking.

  “Officer Eric,” she said, “are you having felony level thoughts back there?”

  “I think that in countries like Thailand they’d only be considered third degree misdemeanors,” I replied. I heard her giggle from the darkness inside her truck. That was actually one of the first things I learned during my training as a WCO. Disconnect or turn off the switch so when you open the doors of your truck at night no light comes on.

  She fumbled around for a few more seconds and came out with a small plastic hard case about half the size of a briefcase. I watched her sit down on the edge of the car seat and use a small red LED light held between her teeth to brighten the surface of a business card. She wrote something on it, paused for a second and then wrote something else. She set the case down and handed the card to me.

  “What is it? I asked.

  “The card is my business card; the front has all of my new office contact information, the back has my personal contact information. If the phones and Internet come back on, give me a call.” Michelle stood up, and then paused for a moment as she met my eyes. Almost too soft to hear she added, “I’d like to see you.”

  “Uh oh,” I thought, both my dream and my nightmare converging into one. “Don’t blow it again,” I said to myself as I walked up and hugged her.

  “Yeah, I’d like that.”

  We held each other—testing the waters we’d both sailed before—until she parted, clearing her throat and saying, “What was I talking about?”

  “I think you were going to tell me about the case.”

  “Yeah, the case has a brand new Motorola two-way radio with all of the USFW channels on it. The way the repeater towers are set up you should be able to communicate wi
th me as long as we’re within about twenty miles from each other. The area around your uncle’s cabin, Ghost Echo Lake, and some of the state forest land between here and the Canadian border have solar powered repeaters that are used by the U.S. Forest Service, Border Patrol, Fish and Wildlife, and Customs. Each of our agencies have separate frequencies however, so you couldn’t pull a fast one and try to have the border patrol deport me,” she displayed a fake frown and I laughed. “You won’t be able to reach me using the radio when I’m at my office, I’d be too far away. But I’d feel a lot better if I knew I could get a hold of you when I’m down in this area. I don’t know Eric, I have a bad feeling in my stomach. I don’t think this is going to just blow over in a few days.”

  “Me either.”

  I stood in the semi-darkness of the parking lot, frozen in the moment—and Michelle’s glittering eyes—as years of unfinished thoughts stirred in the depths of my memories.

  It was my turn to clear my throat. “A-hem . . . thanks for the radio.”

  She nodded, and then leaned forward; resting her hands on top of my shoulders and planting a light kiss on my cheek.

  “You take care of yourself, OK Eric?” she said.

  “Don’t worry about me,” I replied. “Have you been practicing with your Glock lately?” I asked, indicating the 40 caliber model 23 at her hip.

  “Not as much as I should,” she said. “What about you, are you still doing those three gun matches and burning through tons of taxpayer purchased ammunition every weekend?”

  “Yep, and the team I shoot with made it to nationals last year. We got blown out of the water there, but at least we made it.”

  “Very cool,” she said.

  Michelle squeezed my hand, shut the back door of the Tahoe and walked around to the driver’s side. She got in, started it up and drove out of the parking lot. I watched her tail lights fade through the increasing drizzle.

  Chapter 4

  *click*

  Good morning Mr. Recorder, or should I say good afternoon, since it’s a little after lunch time and I’m just waking up. It’s April 18th. I don’t know where Uncle Andy and Max are, probably outside getting into some type of trouble. Wow, I feel like cement. Did you ever have one of those “hard sleeps” where it seems like you didn’t move at all during the night and when you wake up there’s an imprint of your entire body smashed into the mattress? That’s what I feel like, but is kind of a good feeling too. Hold on, got to go see the doctor.

  *click*

  Ahhh, much better—Dr. Pepper, what a lifesaver. Truth be told, I usually only have two of them per day, one in the morning and one at lunchtime. Usually. Sometimes I only have one all day, and to be honest there are days where I’ve slugged the caffeine and sugar down nonstop, but those are rare. So let me see, we made it home last night a little before midnight. The dirt road was slick from all the light rain, but still passable due to all the upkeep through the years. There was one point that Uncle Andy’s truck slid off the edge into some brush, probably due to the weight of the fuel barrels, but he was able to drive himself out without help from a winch. We made it back and decided to wait until today to move the fuel and propane, no complaints from me—I was beat. I can hear something running outside, either his tractor or Terramite, so I better see if I can go help him. Later.

  *click*

  OK, it’s the same day as this morning, only it’s, umm, later; if that makes sense. The rain must have let up sometime during the night when I was out like a light. It’s bright and sunny out today, well it was . . . it’s almost dark now, but a lot cooler. I’d guess it’s around thirty-eight degrees right now, which if I really think about it is probably just about right for this time of year up here. So, what about today? How about I start with right now? I am currently sitting on a cross section of a big aspen tree that we cut up a few years back. We made a half dozen improvised “campfire chairs” from the sections, and my butt is occupying one of them. We got a nice fire going at the edge of the lake by the cabin; it just seemed too nice of a day to not spend some time enjoying it outside. Max is lying here beside me and Uncle Andy is up at the cabin getting supper ready. And by that I mean he’s gathering up the stuff that we’re gonna cook over the fire. Tonight’s specialty: tube steak buried in homemade sauerkraut and smothered in ketchup. We made blackberry mountain pies for dessert. I told Uncle Andy that he gets to choose the beverage. He said he had already narrowed it down to either hot chocolate, cold beer, or sippin’ whiskey. Quite a spread. After my breakfast of Dr. Pepper and Pop Tarts, I helped unload the fuel and propane. One of the twenty pound propane canisters was empty. Uncle Andy was sure he had filled all of them so we marked that one as a potential bad egg and set it aside. After we were done with that, Uncle Andy went out to his new shed to, as he put it, “try and sort through all the crap there to find what I need.” While he was doing that, I unpacked the new solar panels and started building a replacement frame mount for them. The ones that came with them were pretty flimsy, and the wind up here could turn them into kites if they weren’t secured. That took the rest of the afternoon. After I got done with the mounts, Max and I went for a nice run along the edge of the dirt road. We did about three and a half miles. Tomorrow we’re supposed to go in to the marina at lunchtime. We’ll probably leave here about 11:00 AM or so. I plan on trying to get the other panels installed in the morning. The extra batteries shouldn’t take too long either. I’ve got to remind myself to start one of the generators tomorrow and power the well pump so it fills his water tank in the attic. His water tank is 240 gallons, and that’s a lot of weight to have in the attic, but we knew that’s where it would be, so it’s actually sitting on four six by six posts that we framed into a closet below. We installed a little battery powered “low water level” alarm last year, and it started chirping when I got a shower today. Uncle Andy’s cabin has always been, I don’t know, maybe a combination of a source of pride, a place of refuge, and an escape from reality. When he first bought it, the cabin was basically a twenty by twenty box made out of rough-sawn logs. It had a full basement built out of field stones and mortar. The story behind the cabin, at least as Uncle Andy tells it, was that the guy who built it hand dug the basement sometime in the 1920s. The original cabin burned down in the 1950s. The next guy who bought it was some rich businessman from Fargo. He hired a contractor to come in and rebuild the cabin in 1966. That guy—the contractor I mean—apparently because money was not an issue for his client, had a helicopter fly in a portable sawmill; and the current walls on the main cabin are built from Bur Oak logs that were harvested on the property itself. He also put in a septic tank and had a company come out and drill a water well so you didn’t have to go to the lake everyday. The way the story is told, because of the time of year or road conditions—not sure which—he had to pay to have a bulldozer actually pull the drilling truck all the way from the gravel road back to the cabin. Other improvements were made at the same time; the floor and walls of the basement were redone with reinforced concrete pourings, a dock was built out onto the lake, and a couple of small outbuildings were put up. Only one of the outbuildings is still standing; Uncle Andy uses it for a fuel storage shed. The dock, or at least most of it, is still standing. I’m not sure how much I’d trust my full weight on it though. When I was younger, I’d help Uncle Andy work on the cabin, and through the years we’ve built two additional “wings” onto the original cabin. One of the wings has a little refurbished kitchen area complete with a large pantry and a built in rack that can hold over a cord of firewood; the other wing is Uncle Andy’s combination bedroom and library/game room. Did I mention that my uncle’s a computer geek? Well, he is. He’s probably the only senior citizen that plays Call of Duty and Star Craft 2 until the wee hours of the morning on a system he built himself. He’s got a flat screen monitor that’s got to be at least thirty inches across and a Bose surround sound audio setup. Let me tell you, when he gets into his games, he really goes for broke. I remember the la
st time I was here . . . I was outside painting the trim around the windows because he told me he wasn’t feeling so hot. After about an hour of painting, I heard some noise from inside the cabin. Uncle Andy was swearing and stomping his feet—heck, I thought he was having some kind of fit or seizure, so I ran inside. What I found still makes me laugh. There he was, sitting in his “gaming chair” with nothing but his underwear on, headphones wrapped around his ears and his nose about four inches from the big screen. He was cursing up a storm into the microphone, apparently chewing out somebody else in the online game he was playing. He never noticed me standing there so I watched for a few minutes, and right when his character—the guy he was playing in the game—went into some dark tunnel or cave, I snuck up behind him and gave him a double five fingered death grip on his ribs. He shit his pants. Literally. Well, I just heard him yell so I’m going to run up and gave him a hand carrying our dinner back to the fire.

  *click*

  It’s a little after midnight and Uncle Andy just left to go back to the cabin; I’m not far behind. We spend most of the night feeding the fire and reminiscing of days gone by. There’s something about staring into the cherry red center of a campfire. The coals ebb and flow with waves of pulsating heat and the little runners of flame dance and jump to their own rhythm. It’s almost hypnotic. We heard a couple of wolves call this evening, and Max barked back an answer. They were pretty far away though. About 10:30 PM or so, just after the last mountain pie was eaten, Max alerted to something out in the darkness. He gave a low growl and raised his hackles, focusing on something to the north that neither Uncle Andy nor I could see, even with a flashlight. There are a few bears up here, mostly black, but three grizzlies have been tagged in the Turtle Mountains in the last five years, and we’re right on the outskirts of the mountains. In any event nothing burst out of the brush and ate us, and eventually Max settled down. I think I’ve peed about twenty times already this evening. Uncle Andy brought down a large kettle that we used to make some hot tea with lemon, mint and honey—lots of honey. I think I had about forty gallons of it. Well, I’m getting tired, so off to bed now.