Fade to Grey (Book 1): Fade to Grey

by Brian Stewart

  I massaged her back and shoulders for another ten minutes then ask again, “Do you trust me?

  “Yeah, I do,” she said.

  I slid my fingers under the waistband of my thermal long Johns she was wearing, turning them inside out as I pulled them off of her. I started rubbing her calves. “What happened after they got rescued?”

  “They both went back to their own lives and ended up marrying other people,” she said between moans as I worked my way up to the back of her knees.

  “No regrets?”

  “Yes, for the rest of their lives.”

  “So it was a sad movie, make you cry at the end, huh?” I said.

  “No, because in the very end it had fast forwarded twenty or twenty-five years into the future, the girl had just gotten a divorce from her husband and the guy had lost his wife to cancer. Neither of them had seen the other since their time at the cabin, but they met by accident at an outdoor skating rink just as the first snowflakes of the year began to fall. Of course they fell in love.”

  I was rubbing her upper thighs now, she was moaning and purring at my touch. “Flip back over,” I said. She did. I moved so I was kneeling near her feet. The poncho liner was half covering her torso, almost like a camouflaged toga as I picked up her right foot with both of my hands, bending her knee towards her chest. I dug my thumbs into the sole of her foot, feeling her tension slip away with each pressure point I rubbed. Shifting position, I ended up with her ankles on either side of my waist.

  “So what did you learn about life and love from watching that movie?” I asked as I planted a light kiss on the inside of each ankle.

  I heard her gasp as I softly kissed my way up to her knee, and then upward to her thigh. “I think I . . . learned to live life . . . in the here and now. Not . . . to worry about . . . ohhhhh . . . tomorrow. And not to . . . mmmm . . . not to live in yesterday.”

  “Emily, do you trust me?” I asked for a third time.

  “YES!” She panted.

  Both of us fell asleep for a few hours afterward, waking only when Max gave a short bark from outside of the tent—he wanted in. Emily flipped the open sleeping bag to a closed position, sandwiching her inside but leaving it unzipped. It was still raining and sleeting outside, contributing part of the recipe for the typical cold and miserable North Dakota weather. Max was standing near the door, anxious to get inside and away from the crappy conditions. I unzipped part of the doorway and he nosed through. “Max, no,” I said, but it was too late. He immediately shook and splattered the inside of the tent, as well as every dry surface in a direct line of fire. Emily started giggling at my predicament so I teasingly tossed one of her shoes toward her. I grabbed the Barney towel and dried Max for the next several minutes with one side of it, then flipped that side down and spread it out for him to lay on. He looked at me with the “Not before I eat, pal” expression that I had seen many times before. I’d dug into my pack and brought out his remaining dog food, pouring it in his bowl dry. He chowed it down in less than a minute then went over and laid down on Barney. I spun around on my hip until I was closer, then spent a few quality minutes giving him a tummy rub followed by ear scratches and chest thumps. I looked at my watch, 9:44 AM.

  “So what are the plans for today? I take it we’re not leaving,” Emily said.

  I shook my head and replied, “Not today. The Gator is roughly nine or ten miles away as the crow flies, but like they say, that crow doesn’t have to fight through the five miles of briars and thorns just to get to the old logging road. It was hard enough just for me in good weather, I don’t want to risk it with you until this storm clears up, so we’re here at least until tomorrow. By the same token, we need to get back as soon as possible, do you have any dry clothes at your tent?”

  “After what happened last night I doubt it,” she said.

  I could guess, but I figured I better go ahead and ask, “So what did happen?”

  “About an hour after you left a strong gust of wind tore a three foot gash in the wall of the tent. I tried to tape it shut with duck tape, but it wouldn’t stick to the wet nylon. I tried moving as much as I could away from the rip but the rain kept coming in. A few minutes later there was a big . . . I don’t know, like a tearing sound from outside and I guess the rain fly got blown away. Water started dripping through the roof of the tent soaking everything inside, including me. It was so cold, the wind just sucked the heat right out of me. My hands were numb by the time I managed to get my pack ready to go. Luckily I had my flashlight next to me, although the batteries were starting to go. I grabbed my pack and raincoat and left the tent in the middle of that arctic monsoon. I think I made it, maybe a third of the way around the lake trail before my raincoat got shredded on some brush. Not too long after that I’d tripped over some driftwood and fell in the lake, it was only about a foot deep there at the edge, but it thoroughly soaked the last dry spots I had. I couldn’t even feel my legs when I got out. I don’t remember much after that, just bits and pieces. I vaguely remember being carried into your tent, and I think the light inside the tent for some reason made me believe I was on an operating table in an ER somewhere. I kind of recall you telling me that my wet clothes had to come off, but my first clear memory was when you snuggled up against me inside the sleeping bag. I felt like I was being bathed in liquid fire, the heat burning through me, melting my frozen body. I think I was delirious for while . . . I was having these vivid . . . flashes . . .” She looked up at me, trying to determine if it was safe to tell me—maybe wondering if I’d make fun of her if she did. Apparently I have a trusting face. She continued, “It was like being a living ice sculpture, immobile, frozen, alive but dead to life and empty. And then this silver winged figure, radiant with life and heat descended from a star filled sky and embraced me, melting me, freeing me from my icy prison. I could feel his warmth and life flowing into me, almost like I was drawing it straight from the source, but then I started to get scared, like the link between us was flowing too fast, that I was taking all of his life, watching him grow dimmer, fainter, watching him lose his life as he gave it for me.” Emily had closed her eyes, almost weeping as she finished, “Watching my angel die.”

  I flipped the sleeping bag open and climbed in next to her, wrapping her in my arms and giving her a long hug. “Well, I’m no angel, but I’m certainly glad that things turned out a way they did and that you’re OK.” We stayed like that for another half hour, not saying much with words but conveying plenty by holding hands and snuggling. Tip for the guys out there . . . chick stuff; live it-learn it-know it . . . you’ll be much better off. She finally rolled towards me and asked, “So what are the plans for today?”

  “I’ve been thinking about that, and I think the best way to proceed is for me to hike back over to your campsite and gather anything I can that would be of use here, as well as any personal things you need. Then we’ll just hang out here until the weather clears up enough for us to make it back to the Gator. I’ve still got a few freeze dried dinners, several packs of soup mix and a lot of tea bags, but the hot chocolate is all gone. There’s also a chance that I can get us some fish to eat, and I know Max would appreciate that because I’m out of dog food for him.”

  “Where is my backpack?”

  “I don’t know, you weren’t wearing one when I found you last night.”

  “Keep an eye out for it on your way back to my campsite; it’s got most of my personal stuff in it, OK?”

  I said I would, then crawled out of the sleeping bag and got dressed. She watched me the whole time, smiling. The side pockets on the lower section of my backpack are removable. One of them is filled with my “last chance” survival kit items. Basically a small removable pouch that can be clipped to your belt—it was filled with the bare minimum of equipment that can help you in a survival situation. I didn’t want to take my whole pack, but I had learned a long time ago to always take something. I dressed in my thermals that she had recently worn, layered over with a pair of Gortex
camouflage pants. Another clean, dry t-shirt over a long sleeve compression thermal were my base layers underneath my rain jacket. I grabbed the 10/22 and switched back to the factory magazine, pulling the sling across my shoulder as I said, “Let’s go Max.”

  The skies showed no sign of anything other than rain and wind in my near future, but if you spend any amount of time working outdoors in North Dakota, you get used to this kind of weather. Max and I circled back along Emily’s route, finding her backpack near the shredded remains of her plastic raincoat. It was a yellow Kelty day pack, great for a few hours away from camp, not so great for anything longer. It was sitting in about eight inches of water. I used a stick to hook the strap and pull it out of the lake, and then hung it on a small bush to help drain the contents before continuing on my way. I’d pick it up during the return trip. About 200 yards further on Max froze, looking at a clump of cattails along the edge of the lake in front of us.

  “Easy, Max . . . wait.”

  Max isn’t a pointer, or for that matter a retriever, but he is a hunter. When he alerts like that, it’s best to pay attention. The clump of cattails was about twenty-five yards ahead, so I dropped down on one knee and flipped up the scope covers on the 2x7 Nikon that was mounted on top of the 10/22. Turning it up to full magnification, I scanned among the tan stems, looking for whatever it was that Max had sensed. A few seconds later I saw movement—a metallic green head darting back and forth. Mallard duck. Yeah, they weren’t in season, and I was the guy in charge of enforcing that, but I think considering the circumstances exceptions are going to be made. I dropped down on my stomach, Max crouched beside me. Steadying the rifle, I clicked off the safety and lightly touched the trigger, waiting for a clear shot. It took about three minutes of waiting before the male duck moved into a less dense region of the cattails. I slowly squeezed the trigger. BANG. The small crack of the bullet breaking the sound barrier was partially muted by the wind and rain. Several ducks burst from the cattails, quacking and beating their wings as they took off along the edge of the lake before rising up and over the willows, disappearing from my sight. I waited. No movement that I could tell, so I got to my feet and shouldered my rifle after flipping the scope caps back down and reapplying the safety. We walked over to the cattails and saw our duck, about ten feet from shore partially floating among the reeds. I was guessing the water was about two feet deep out there, over my boots. I looked at Max, and then out at the duck, mentally commanding him to retrieve our dinner and deposit it in my hands. I got this strange impression that he was sending the same exact signal to me.

  “Come on Max, you love the water, go get the duck . . . get the duck Max . . .”

  He spent a good twenty seconds looking at me and the duck—a huge, tongue wagging grin on his face—before turning his back to both of us.

  “Why you good for nothing, overgrown poodle. I ought to shave you bald and sell you on craigslist as a mutant Chihuahua.”

  My boots were good to go in water, as long as it was less than six inches deep. I didn’t want to overflow them if I could avoid it, so I spent some time searching the brush for a stick long enough to reach the duck. It took awhile, but I finally managed to get it into shallow water. I turned around and tossed my reaching stick into the willows, spinning back around just in time to see Max step into the shallow water and pick up my duck.

  “Don’t you even think about it buddy. You had your chance to help me, but you just sat there like some vacant eyed mutt,” I said.

  He took three steps toward me and dropped the duck at my feet, his face locked in a stupid grin that said, “Hey dad—got the duck for you!”

  I quickly gutted it and offered Max the entrails. He scarfed them up without hesitation, licking his lips to make sure he didn’t miss anything. I wedged the duck up in the crook of a willow branch for retrieval on my return leg, and set off again. About twenty minutes later I was at the campsite, or what was left of it. Most of the tent was shredded, clothing and blankets scattered throughout the area, on the ground, in the lake—everywhere. Part of me wanted to scavenge as much as I could, but the realistic side of me said, “you take it, you carry it.” I cracked open the Pelican cases, saw that they were filled with very expensive looking lenses and other camera equipment. I spent the next half hour or so moving them away from the campsite into the willows and covering them with brush. You never know, someday we might come back. The smallest Pelican case had Emily’s name on it. I say small, and compared to the others it was, but it was still about eighteen by twenty-four inches. I opened it and found a complete set up—camera, several lenses, cords and other whatnots. I set that aside to take. There was a large National Geographic duffel bag filled with wet clothing, not Emily’s though, so I dumped it out and started filling it with some useful items. A few minutes later and I was ready to go. Hoisting the duffel over my shoulder I headed out, grabbing Emily’s camera case on the way. A few steps later I got tired of listening to the items inside the duffel clank and roll, so I wrung out some assorted wet socks and shirts that I found, using them to pad the contents of the duffel. The rest of the way back was uneventful, I picked up the mallard and Emily’s backpack on the way, making it to my tent around 1:30 PM.

  Emily was inside my sleeping bag dozing when I returned. She woke when I entered the tent, groggy eyes brightening immensely when I showed her the backpack, and positively glowing when I showed her the Pelican case.

  My tent has a front vestibule that I had not deployed when I first set it up, but I took the time now to give us the extra room for some of the other items I brought back with me. She watched me from inside the sleeping bag as I brought out the two burner propane stove, a pair of small fuel bottles, a large aluminum frying pan and small stainless steel soup pot. I had also found a thirty-two ounce bottle of vegetable oil, several spices that were still sealed, assorted utensils, and about thirty more Styrofoam soup bowls.

  “Anything else in there?” Emily asked.

  “Just these,” I said as I removed two bottles of wine, one red . . . one white. Already chilled thanks to the weather.

  “Having a party, are we?” she said with a laugh.

  I nodded at her and replied, “Yep, our gourmet meal will be served . . . um . . . as soon as I catch it.” She laughed again and I joined her. I reached over and grabbed my backpack, removing the telescopic fishing rod and the small pack of lures. I turned to head out but she stopped me.

  “Eric, not that I haven’t had fun with you in this condition, but do you think you have any clothes that I can wear for while?”

  I had totally forgotten that I was wearing what I had originally given her to wear. I started stammering an apology as I dug into my backpack, but she stopped me with a, “Don’t worry, I just didn’t want to go through your pack without your permission when you were gone.”

  I stopped digging and said, “The top compartment has clothes, take whatever you want.” She sat up in the sleeping bag, letting it drop away from her. My brain started to tell me, “She doesn’t know what she’s doing, doesn’t realize she’s sitting there naked right in front of me.” Then my brain kicked itself in the head and said, “She knows exactly what she’s doing.” I thought I saw her give a sly smile as I left the tent.

  I took the soup pot, filled it with lake water and added some salt. After skinning the duck, I let it soak in the saltwater while I stood in the rain, casting a Rooster Tail spinner into the lake. I fished for probably ninety minutes or so, catching five nice perch and one monster walleye nineteen inches long. When I was done I took them off the stringer I made from paracord, then moved down the lake about a hundred yards from our tent where I dressed and filleted them, giving Max his choice of the scraps and throwing the rest into the lake. I came back and changed out the water in the duck pot, adding a bunch of spices this time instead of salt, as well as half the bottle of white wine. I took the propane stove and one of the fuel bottles about fifty feet away from the tent, gathered up a bunch of rocks to mak
e a semicircular windbreak and put the duck pot on to boil. The clean fish I left in the aluminum frying pan soaking in some water, they wouldn’t take near as long to get done. Finally, I grabbed my water filter and used it to refill my canteen and water bladder from the lake. When I returned to the tent Emily asked me why I didn’t just cook it underneath the vestibule.

  “Well,” I said, “that duck is gonna take several hours of simmering to get nice and tender. Several hours in which the aroma of gourmet duck is going to be permeating the surrounding area. Now would you want that scent to be blown away and scattered by the wind, or trapped inside of our tent acting like a magnet for any bears that may wander by tonight?

  Emily replied, “I got it; soup under the tent is bad.”

  “Very,” I said.

  I got out of my rainwear and dug out a pack of cards. “We’ve got some time to pass until dinner’s ready, know any games?”

  We passed the next several hours playing gin, 500, hearts and other assorted card games. It was starting to get dark and we were both famished so I suited up again and went outside to fry the fish. I ended up cutting each walleye fillet in thirds so it would fit better into the pan with the perch. Several liberal sprinkles of garlic later they were bubbling in the hot oil. When everything was ready I condensed it onto several of the Styrofoam bowls and brought the feast back to the tent. We opened a bottle of red wine to go with our dinner, it was from some vineyard in California, but had a French sounding name—I don’t remember what it was. We drank it out of some more of the Styrofoam bowls. Between the three of us nothing was left. Nothing. I cleaned up, moving all of our pots and pans away from the tent, the duck bones went into the lake and our dirty Styrofoam bowls and other garbage went into a trash bag that I hung along with the food compartment of my backpack out of the reach of bears. I showed Emily where I kept the wet wipes in my backpack, grabbed the roll of toilet paper and went to do my business. When I got back Emily put my raincoat on and we switched places, me with the wet wipes and her with the toilet paper. I gave her my Quark light to take with her, and used a small LED clip light to switch out the dead batteries on my weapon light before I reattached it. The next several minutes were spent tidying up the tent. Wet and dirty clothes on this side, clean and dry stuff over there, and so on. Emily returned about fifteen minutes later, just as the rain was finally tapering off. We were both feeling relaxed from the bottle of wine over dinner, but at the same time a little cabin fever was setting in as well.