Fade to Grey (Book 1): Fade to Grey

by Brian Stewart

  “Are we ready?” Andy asked.

  “Ready,” Michelle whispered.

  Thompson echoed, “Ready.”

  A few seconds later Andy said, “I can’t see anything moving through the bullet holes, so get ready, I’m gonna open the door in . . . three . . . two . . .”

  “Wait,” Michelle hissed. Andy stopped his countdown.

  “When you open that door, if it’s a go, take two extra seconds and use one of those shotguns to prop the door open so it doesn’t slam shut again. Plus that will give me a lot more light shining down the hall.”

  “Good idea,” Andy whispered.

  Michelle heard him shuffle things around a bit, and then the countdown started again.

  “Three . . . two . . . one . . .”

  The door squealed open. Michelle held her breath—focusing up the hall—forcing herself to stay on task.

  “GO . . . GO!” Andy said in a low shout.

  Thompson grabbed the first pile and took off. What seemed like forever later he was back for another run. A short time after that he was back again, loaded up and moving out on number three. Michelle heard Andy shout, “Walker,” followed by a single shot. Thompson came back for run four, and Michelle could hear him wheezing and puffing. She also heard something moving out towards the office.

  “How many more trips?” she asked—not wanting to risk a look backwards to see what was left.

  “This trip and one more,” huffed Thompson.

  “Make it fast soldier, we’re about to have company up here,” Michelle said through gritted teeth.

  Thompson grunted and took off. Two seconds later a red eyed walker moved through the remains of the door. Then another followed, and then a third. Michelle could see more behind them. Her first shot took the jaw, and half of the face off the lead walker. Her second shot blew into the shoulder of number two, an older man wearing a tuxedo. It didn’t stop him though. Michelle’s third shot sent a tight pattern of 00 buckshot directly into his face, dropping him like a rock. The walker behind him—a lady dressed in a postal uniform—lost her footing and went down on top of the two bodies. She used that brief interlude to slam three more shells into the shotgun. Two more walkers were added to the pile by the time Thompson made it back for the final load, and Michelle could hear him gasping with the effort of exertion as he hoisted the last boxes. She was just about to start moving backwards when the sickly sweet stench of overripe rotten bananas assaulted her. Climbing to the top of the pile of corpses was a girl—a teenager Michelle guessed. She was grossly overweight and dressed in a hospital gown. Spewing from her mouth and foaming all over her face, neck, and chest was a frothy pink mass of bubbles. Her red eyes locked onto Michelle as she crawled on all fours over the pile of corpses in the hallway. The stench emanating from her was almost overwhelming, and Michelle felt her stomach teetering on the brink. She forced herself to swallow it down long enough to raise the shotgun and fire, blowing away the top half of the girl’s skull. Thompson thumped up the hallway and yelled, “WE’RE LOADED, LET’S GO, LET’S GO.”

  Michelle didn’t need any further words of encouragement, and turned and ran. They made it out the metal door, skewed right down the stairs and leapt through the open doors of the pickup. Andy was already in the driver’s seat.

  “GO!” Thompson shouted as Andy gunned the big engine and accelerated toward the alley. From the back seat Michelle peered out the sliding rear window. A large group of walkers were spilling out of the metal door.

  Chapter 24

  Andy piloted his big Chevy to the narrow alley while Thompson and Michelle swiveled their heads in all directions looking for more infected. Outside of the group that had flooded from Michelle’s office as they were leaving, they saw nothing.

  “Are you okay?” Michelle asked Andy.

  “Fine . . . what about you?”

  “I’m OK . . . turn left on the next street.”

  It was so easy to say . . . “I’m OK” . . . but was she? Physically she was uninjured. Mentally, she was holding it together, but at the same time Michelle could feel that tickling at the base of her brain, that primal warning advising her that pretty soon she was going to have to stop and process what she’d just been through. Or else.

  “Keep going through the next two stop signs, then take a right on Water Street and follow that until it dead ends—about a quarter mile. Then left on Dry Lake Road.”

  “Got it,” Andy said.

  Michelle absently noted that Thompson was refilling the magazines for his M4 using some of the 5.56 ammo from her office. Good for him. She shut her eyes for a few seconds—felt that itch in her brain stem intensify. “Not now.” Michelle snapped her eyes open and shook her head briskly. She wasn’t ready to deal with this yet.

  Andy turned left on Dry Lake Road, immediately swerving a little to the right to avoid a car that was idling near the center of the road. Bluish-white smoke was puffing lazily from the tailpipe of the car—an older Buick Skylark—but the windows were so heavily tinted they couldn’t tell if it was occupied.

  “How far?” Andy asked.

  “A little over two miles, it will be a gravel driveway on the right just past an old grain silo.”

  A series of frequently repaired potholes jarred Michelle into awareness, and as she took in the familiar scenery, her mind drifted back again to the planning of their trip. After she had told Andy about her office, he had asked about her house. Walter had referred to it as the “Secondary target.”

  “It’s my house. What do you want to know about it?” she had questioned.

  “Everything,” Andy had replied while he filled both of their coffee mugs to the brim. “Roommates, layout, neighbors, anything we’re likely to run into that could cause us problems.”

  Michelle took a long drink of her coffee, and then arched her back over the chair and stretched. “OK, my house. Let me see . . . well, my house is a small remodeled farmhouse. It was originally intended as a duplex rental, but the owner worked out a deal with me where I took both sides at a reduced rate. When I had initially looked at the property, the price was right but the square footage was wrong. I was paying by the week for an apartment in town while I searched for a permanent residence, but everything else I looked at didn’t fit the bill either, so I kept searching. Out of the blue one day, the owner of the duplex called me up and asked if I would be interested in taking possession of the entire property at a rate ‘to be negotiated.’ Apparently he was having a difficult time finding qualified tenants. Anyhow, he was willing to finance on a rent to own basis and the negotiated price was still within my means. The only downside was that I had two kitchens, a result of the remodel into a duplex. Oh, and no indoor pets. On the bright side I didn’t have a whole lot of stuff to move after my divorce—I didn’t want anything that the miserable SOB had been around—so I ended up using only one side of the duplex after all. Saves me a lot on heating and cooling.” She reached for an apple on Walter’s table, took a bite, and then continued.

  “My nearest neighbors are about 200 yards away—both sides. Across the road and down from me is the Glass farm. It’s got several hundred acres of mostly cleared land—of course it’s owned by Mr. and Mrs. Glass. They have a small prefabricated house close to the road, a modular house I think they call it. One of those ones that is pretty much built off-site and then trucked to the location it’s going to be at. They used to have a much larger farmhouse on the property, but it burned down a few years ago. Mr. Glass is a retired state congressman—I remember meeting him when we went on a field trip to the state capital when I was in third grade. His wife reminds me of the stereotypical ‘grandma’ figure. Snow white hair, always wearing a shawl . . . and to complete the ensemble her glasses are suspended from a small beaded chain around her neck. A few days after I moved in, there was a knock at my door. When I answered it, Mrs. Glass was standing there with a plate of fresh baked cookies. Homemade. She’s also somewhat of an expert on gardening. I’m pretty sure she wo
rked at the local Co-op for about twenty years, and she’s still the president of the Fort Hammer ‘Petals and Pearls’ club. Last summer she spent a few days digging up various locations around my yard, and by fall I had several patches of beautiful wildflowers sprouting. Anyhow, they’re across the road. The neighbors on my side of the road are usually in flux. Both of the properties are rented out and the tenants have changed at least twice in each house just since I’ve been here. I don’t know the names of the current residents.”

  Andy slowed the truck down as he approached the silo, offering a questioning look in the rearview mirror at Michelle. She caught his gaze and nodded as she answered, “That’s it.”

  They pulled up to the house and sat there with the truck still idling. “Everything look OK, Michelle?” Andy asked.

  “As far as I can tell from here, but let’s still treat this as an unknown area until we check it out.”

  Ten minutes later they had swept the house—both sides—as well as the tiny attic, basement, and outside storage shed. The small barn in the back was empty as well. Everything was clear.

  Finishing up the search, Michelle commented, “At least I remembered my flashlight this time.”

  “That’s probably a good thing, since you left Andy’s in the hallway of the office when we took off,” Thompson’s deep voice added dryly.

  Michelle started to reply, but was cut off by Andy. “Save it. We’ve got a decision to make. I know it’s still early, but after what we’ve been through, I’m thinking we may want to take a little break here.”

  Thompson and Michelle both agreed. “All right, let’s unload the truck, and then we’ll figure out the rest from there,” Andy said as he started for the door.

  The wind was picking up and the temperature was dropping—something was definitely brewing in Mother Nature’s arsenal. Without rushing, it took all three of them about ten minutes to move the radios, guns, and ammo from the truck into the house. They also grabbed their backpacks and the coolers of food that Bernice had sent along. Once inside, Michelle, Andy, and Thompson double checked everything to make sure it was locked and secure. When they were satisfied, all three of them migrated into the small living room and collapsed.

  Five minutes of silence passed before the rain started splattering against the windows. Andy stood up from the recliner he had chosen and said, “Years ago—and by that I mean long before either of you were born—I was stationed in a different part of the world on one of my deployments with the Air Force. It was the first combat tour for a lot of guys in my unit. Not that we were typical ground pounders, but my guys were stationed a stone’s throw from the front lines. And those lines could move in any direction at any time. We were required to be armed at all times, even though we weren’t specifically a combat unit. A lot of the guys, well let’s just say that it was the first time they’d ever been away from home, much less dumped into a hot zone in a different country. Most of them were straight out of basic. You could tell these guys were keyed up. Weeks on end of snipers taking potshots, mortars screeching out of the night . . . waiting for the call to tell us we were now on the wrong side of the battle lines. Anyhow, there was this grizzled old master sergeant, Sergeant Barish—big ol’ Scottish fellow—looked like a washtub with legs. He starts noticing that the guys are beginning to crack. Know what he does?” Andy paused and looked at Thompson, and then toward Michelle. Both of them were silent.

  “He gets all the men gathered up . . . and teaches them to breathe.”

  Judging from the look on Michelle’s face, that wasn’t the answer she had been expecting. Thompson’s look of confusion said the same.

  Andy continued, “Breathe. You heard me right. Here was this big ol’ barrel-chested guy, could probably hammer nails into hickory with his forehead, and he starts teaching the guys how to control their stress by breathing. The next day’s lesson from Sergeant Barish was about stretching. You two may think I’m crazy, but after a few days of learning how to breathe and stretch, our unit had their act together again. So humor me. Stand up.”

  Michelle shifted her eyes to look at Thompson—he was already returning her questioning look—probably wondering the same thing that she was, Michelle guessed.

  “Come on, get up,” Andy said.

  With another quick glance at Thompson, Michelle shrugged her shoulders and stood up. A few seconds later Thompson followed suit.

  They spent the next hour with Andy walking them through several different methods for breathing and stretching. Much to Michelle’s relief, there was no mumbo jumbo . . . no chanting . . . just breathing and stretching. Most of the techniques seemed to focus on incorporating breathing and flexibility skills as a way to reduce stress and anxiety, and at the end of the hour they were all feeling pretty good.

  When Andy had finished, Michelle looked at her watch and swore. “Damn, it’s not even lunchtime yet.” She turned her eyes toward Andy and asked, “Was it only this morning that we left Bucky and Fred at Crossbow Lakes? It seems like I’ve been running at full speed for days now.”

  “I know what you mean,” Andy replied, “I feel like I want to crawl in my bed and pull the blankets over me . . . not for very long—a few weeks would do. Maybe when I emerged from my hibernation the world would be right again. Then again, maybe it would be gone.”

  Michelle sat back on the couch; closed her eyes and continued to breathe as Andy had shown. She let her mind wander; going over the day’s events and thinking about the future. Eventually it drifted to Eric. Lately it always drifted to Eric. She didn’t know what to do about him. Michelle knew what she wanted to do, but it always seemed like anytime he was in close proximity, she’d get all tongue twisted and end up not doing anything. Like when she was back in high school . . . or even grade school. Concentrate Michelle . . . focus on reality—not fantasy.

  The rain and wind picked up outside, and Michelle rubbed her eyes and yawned. She heard the faint ting-ting of the wind chimes that were hanging from an old plant hook on the porch. They were a present from Eric’s mom, Elizabeth, before she passed away. Eric. Eric-Eric-Eric-Eric . . . So much for her powers of concentration and focus. Well, if you can’t escape it, Michelle thought, run with it.

  Eric . . . If this storm gets worse and keeps moving east, he’s going to get caught in it. Michelle didn’t think that would bother him too much though. Eric always reminded her of a cat. Not a house cat . . . something bigger, wilder—like a leopard in the jungle. Untamed, and totally at ease with himself no matter what the situation . . . or weather. Her mind kept drifting backwards. Their senior class trip was to a small amusement park in Fargo. They had been anticipating it for months, but when they got there, the skies opened up and it poured all day long. None of the rides would open. The whole class just sat inside the hotel lobby and watched the downpour. After supper the lightning started. Of course the power went out and the girlie girls started freaking out and screaming every time thunder would boom . . . a few of the guys too. The teachers were running around trying to keep everybody calm, and probably trying to make sure that nobody got pregnant either. Somebody turned on one of those battery-operated boom boxes and started an impromptu DJ dance session. It was kind of lame. At least until Eric grabbed Michelle’s arm and hustled her down a side hallway. They went through the door that led to the stairs and climbed up all three flights. At the top there was an exit to the roof and another couple, Steven and Maggie, were already there.

  “What are we doing up here?” Michelle had laughed.

  “The music sucks downstairs, so we decided to have our own dance up on the roof . . . and I needed a date.”

  Well, that set Michelle’s heart a-fluttering.

  “How did you get this door unlocked?” she had asked him.

  He winked at her and said, “Always have another way out.” Then he took her elbow in his and escorted Michelle out into the storm. Steven and Maggie followed. Michelle remembered the rain slapping against her cheeks so hard it stung, and the bril
liant arcs of lightning flashing everything into electrical luminescence for a millisecond before plunging it back into darkness. That’s when the thunderclaps exploding all around them would literally jar her teeth. But mostly she remembered holding on to Eric for dear life as they slow danced on top of that roof in the storm. After what seemed like both forever, and nowhere near enough, Eric had walked her back into the hotel. Steven and Maggie had only stayed on the roof a few seconds and were already gone. Both she and Eric were dripping wet. Eric had taken her hand in his, and did a comical “high stepping, fake sneaking” walk all the way back to Michelle’s hotel room.

  “How did you know what room I’m in?” Michelle asked with a big smile.

  “Lucky guess,” he whispered. She didn’t buy it for a second.

  “You need to go and change into dry clothes so nobody suspects that you escaped the prison dance,” Eric said in a low voice while shifting his eyes left and right in an exaggerated “watching for danger” pattern.

  “I can’t . . . my roommate has the card key.”

  Eric’s left hand was still holding on to hers, but his right hand darted into his jeans pocket and pulled out a white plastic card. He slid it through the reader on the door and the tiny indicator light pulsed green. She watched as he pushed the latch down and opened the door, inclining his head toward the space beyond.

  “ . . . How . . . where did you get a key to my room?” Michelle almost couldn’t get that out because her heart was thumping so hard in her chest. Hoping . . . almost praying that he would pull her across the threshold and shut the door behind them. Even wondering if she should pull him across. She never got the chance to finish that thought, because Eric had given her hand a slight squeeze and then dropped it. With another quick scan down the hallway, he scooted across to the door opposite hers and slid his card through the lock—it opened as well. Somehow he had come up with a master card key.

  “Go change before they catch you standing there. I’ll meet you back out in the lobby in a few minutes.” With a mischievous smile and another wink he disappeared down the hall. Michelle let the memories of that dance fuel her dreams for quite some time. Especially when she realized that the girl he was dating at the time—Ann Farland—was in the lobby. But he hadn’t asked her, he had asked Michelle.