The howl of gusting winds brought Michelle part way out of her thoughts of Eric. She cracked her eyes open and looked around the room. Thompson was lying on the floor underneath the window—already asleep, and Andy was sitting in the recliner, reading a back issue of one of her outdoor magazines. She quietly kicked off her boots and stuffed a small pillow underneath her neck, drawing a glance from Andy as she did.
“Get some rest,” he said in a low voice.
Michelle nodded, and then closed her eyes. Immediately, thoughts of Eric jumped back into the forefront of her weary mind. Maybe the stretching and breathing had released something from the depths of her subconscious. She had known Eric since they were both in grade school, and she’d had a crush on him from day one. And then, in the true irony of life, they had become friends. It was almost like their friendship was the invisible barrier that kept her romantic aspirations in check. True, he always seemed to be dating someone else, and that caused Michelle no end of jealousy. She had kept it well hidden though. But Eric was always there for her. There was this one time when they were juniors . . . Michelle had a date with a guy named Brody—turns out he was a real asshole. Rich kid—his dad was a lawyer and his mom was the vice president of a local bank. Brody had taken her out to dinner in his brand new Porsche . . . one that his parents had customized for him at some specialty shop in Texas, and delivered to the school parking lot on his eighteenth birthday. There was a big red ribbon around it, balloons . . . the whole nine yards. After dinner they went to a movie where he tried to paw her the entire time. Before the movie even ended, Michelle had had enough and asked him to take her home, but instead he took off down the highway about one hundred miles an hour, swerving back and forth trying to scare her. Brody finally stopped the car at an abandoned service station, where Michelle proceeded to chew him out with every cuss word she could think of, and she knew a lot of them. He had just laughed at her, and then grabbed Michelle by the hair, trying to pull her towards his crotch. She ended up raking her nails across his face and jamming her thumb in his eye until he let go. He wasn’t laughing anymore. Michelle got out of the car and started walking back toward town. A minute or two later he pulled up beside her; called her all kinds of names and flipped her off before squealing tires on his way back to whatever rock he crawled out from under. The next day at school the word was all over that he “did her” twice in his new Porsche. She was pissed. And embarrassed. A little hurt too. Eric must have heard the rumors, and why not, everybody in school had. But he was one of the few who knew her better. He also knew her well enough to know that she could take care of herself. Instead of coming up to Michelle and asking, “Is there anything I can do?,” he just put his arm around her and walked down the hall—past the smirking faces of all the people who were enjoying the lies at her expense, past the leers and sneers, past everything—even the front door of the school. They ended up ditching school and walking straight out to the parking lot; getting in his old Jeep Cherokee and driving forty miles away to a state park where they spent the day hiking and talking. Of course the real story of what had happened the night before came out. Eric didn’t say much, he just let her talk about it. It felt really good to know he was there to just listen. By the end of the day, Michelle was one hundred and ten percent improved . . . thanks to Eric. Although she did have to loan him twenty bucks for gas so they could get back. Eric was so embarrassed. Over the next few weeks Michelle had gradually forgotten about Brody. Michelle ran track, and the girls had made it to states, so the team chartered a bus for Bismarck. They had left on a Friday, competed all day Saturday, and then returned late Sunday night. On Monday morning at school, the big story wasn’t that the girls track team had placed second at states; it was that somebody had put three half grown pigs into Brody’s Porsche on Saturday night. They spent the whole night chewing up, shitting on, and destroying everything inside his custom car. To the tune of over thirty thousand dollars worth of damage. And Michelle was in Bismarck. Perfect alibi. Eric never admitted to being the culprit, either to her, or the police when they questioned him. But she knew it was him, well, at least she thought it was.
That memory flashed through Michelle’s mind, bringing a smile to her closed-eye face as she shifted onto her left side. The smell of pig shit and leather . . . her smile widened. Michelle’s mind shifted gears again, taking her back to that conference a few years ago when they finally . . . MICHELLE STOP! She shook her head to clear it. If she started thinking about that again, she’d never go to sleep. Michelle forced the smile off of her face and took a deep breath. Where had she started this? Oh yeah, the weather. Anyhow, she hoped that Eric was able to find Doc’s granddaughter. That was the last thought Michelle remembered having before she drifted off to sleep.
“Hey . . . ‘Chelle . . . wake up dear.” Something was lightly tapping her on the shoulder.
“C’mon, wake up Michelle, time for lunch . . . or rather supper.” The voice was soft but insistent. She groggily opened her eyes one at a time to find that she was sprawled out on the couch, covered by several blankets. Andy was kneeling down next to her, waving a cup of soup under her nose. The aroma of chicken broth and black pepper spiked Michelle’s senses into a higher gear, and she sat up and took the cup from Andy—rolled her neck in a few small circles to loosen up—and took a small sip. It was hot; not scalding . . . just right. She was still sleepy, and it took her a few moments to realize how dark it was in the house. Somebody, she assumed Andy, had found and lit two small candles. Michelle glanced over to get the time from the digital atomic clock—a housewarming gift from her mom—but she couldn’t see it from her angle. Weird. Her sleep addled brain finally got up to speed and realized that the power must be out. She balanced her soup cup on the arm of the couch and mashed the button on her watch that would backlight the face. It was almost 9:00 PM. She had slept for over eight hours. Shifting her eyes, she located Thompson in the darkened room; his camouflage blended in with the shadows pretty efficiently. He also had a cup in his hand, more soup she guessed. Andy walked out of the door that led to the kitchen . . . he was carrying another candle in one hand and the apparent required cup of soup in the other.
“This is just our appetizer. The chef is still preparing the entrée. On tonight’s menu is a specialty of the house—layers of meat and cheese sandwiched between fresh pasta, and smothered in a thick and hearty sauce made of the finest Roma tomatoes, and garnished with an impressive zest of imported parmesan cheese. It will be served with lightly toasted, fresh baked bread and accompanied by the finest stock the vineyards have available.” The way that Andy had his arm held out carrying the candle, accompanied of course by his ridiculous combination of French and Italian accents brought a smile to Michelle’s face. A much needed smile.
“So, I’m guessing our chef is Chef Boyardee, and the entrée is raviolis with a couple pieces of Sunbeam bread. No doubt the ‘vineyards finest’ comes from the wonderful grapes in Golden, Colorado, and is cleverly hidden in a Coors Light bottle,” she giggled.
“That’ll work for me,” Thompson grunted.
“Me too,” Michelle added.
“Enjoy your naps?” Andy asked.
Thompson grunted an affirmative as he slurped the soup. Michelle, still groggy, nodded toward Andy and said, “Yeah, I guess I was tired. I still am. You’ve got to be running on fumes yourself, letting me and Thompson sleep while you stood watch.”
Andy hesitated before he replied. “I imagine that would be correct if I had stayed awake, but the truth is I slept almost as long as you two did. Thompson had drifted off a few minutes before you start snoring, and after I dug up some blankets and covered you, I sat back in the recliner and was out like a light before my eyes closed. I just woke up about a half hour ago.”
Michelle let that sink in for a second. She guessed that they were pretty safe this far out, but then again, maybe not. There was no denying that they had all needed sleep . . . that their bodies needed time to reset and process what
they’d been through, but was it a tactical error that they didn’t post a guard? Probably. Was it a fatal error? Not this time. Could it have been? Yes. Her eyes had adjusted to the dim candlelight and she could clearly see Andy thinking along the same lines. Knowing him, he’d probably already kicked his own ass several times, and nothing Michelle could say or do would make him feel worse than he already did. So she went with plan B. Change the subject.
“I recognize the delicate aroma of sage and rosemary. Could it be that this soup I’m enjoying, the one with bite-sized portions of avian delight surrounded by bow tie pasta also comes from the chef’s personal recipe book?”
Andy paused for a second, shook his head a little and said, “Michelle . . . Thompson . . . I should’ve stayed awake. It was a mistake and I’m . . .”
Michelle cut him off with “Hey Andy, the last time I checked you weren’t wearing blue spandex leotards with a big ‘S’ on them. And I think I would’ve noticed your cape by now as well. However . . .” she stood up and continued, “if the stress of the situation is getting to you, maybe I can spend a few moments teaching you how to breathe.”
Thompson started chuckling as she walked over and gave Andy a big hug. “No worries.” Andy sighed, relaxed a little and then said, “OK.”
After finishing her soup, Michelle grabbed one of the candles and walked out to the kitchen. Andy had opened a family sized can of ravioli and it was slowly bubbling on the stovetop. She knew from experience that she could eat an entire can of that size herself, and she imagined Thompson could out-eat her without even breaking a sweat. She took stock of what she had—a few assorted canned food, several boxes of macaroni, some soup, tuna, and not much else was in the pantry. Michelle opened the refrigerator. Mistake. The power must have been off for several days, because the odor of assorted spoiled food wafted out towards her. With a nose wrinkling in revolt, she quickly shut the door. Thompson came in, noticed the look on her face and did the math.
“Food went bad, huh?”
“I guess so. I wonder how long the power’s been out?”
“Don’t know for sure, there was power at the school this morning when I left, and I remember that some parts of town had lights on last night. Maybe there’s a line down somewhere on the way out here. If so I don’t expect it’ll get fixed anytime soon.”
“Me either. Oh well, we’re not staying here anyhow.”
“Yeah, we should talk about that. But how about I help you empty the fridge. There’s probably some stuff we can still use in there, and at the very least you can throw out whatever is causing the stink.”
They ended up salvaging a half-full bottle of soy sauce, several bottles of water, some mustard and ketchup, and a few unopened jars of jelly—part of a gift set from Miss Fran this past Christmas. Everything else went in a garbage can and then outside. Michelle noticed that Andy had set the lone six-pack of Coors Light outside to chill.
Working together, Thompson and Michelle scrounged together a fairly impressive feast. They used the last of the refrigerated stuff from Bernice’s cooler—some fried chicken, lunch meat and some type of CDA. Cooked dead animal. Could be deer, could be cow, heck . . . knowing Walter it could also be possum or beaver. They decided to wait and let Andy try it first. Dessert was saltine crackers and jelly. She passed on the Coors Light . . . even though it was almost 10:00 PM, her body clock was reporting that it was still early in the morning. Michelle decided to go with water. Grabbing a glass from the cupboard, she held it under the faucet in the kitchen sink and turned on the cold tap. It came out, but only at about half of the normal pressure. Setting her glass aside, she grabbed four of her largest pots, filled them with water, and put them on the stove to heat up. The stove ran off propane, but her water heater was electric, and she was not in the mood for cold bath.
They ate by candlelight in the living room, exchanging a few pleasantries more out of habit than need. Andy spun a few tales of his adventures when he was younger, and Thompson told us a little about his family. After that, they piled the dishes on the kitchen countertop and returned to the living room. Michelle absent-mindedly grabbed the remote and tried to turn the TV on. Thompson watched her with a grin that said, “Are you really a blond?” but she felt vindicated at the same time because they both caught Andy turning toward the TV, waiting to see what came on. A few minutes of laughter ensued before everybody settled and got down to business.
“OK,” Michelle started, “first on the agenda is baths. Being that I thought of it, I’m going first. I’ve got a washing machine, but with no power that’s not going to help either of you. I’d be more than willing to loan you some towels to wear while we washed your clothes in the sink, but that means you’d be stuck wearing towels and blankets until your clothes dry.”
“I’m good to go with what I’ve got on,” Thompson said.
“Yeah, me too,” Andy added, “besides, I hear they won’t let you into Heaven if you get killed by a zombie with your dork hanging out of a towel.”
It ended up taking until after midnight to get the baths out of the way. Most of that was due to the length of time it took the water to heat up on the stove. By 12:30 AM, they were once again seated in the living room. A cup of tea was in Michelle’s hand—the boys each had a beer.
April 23rd, Michelle part 1
“What’s the plan?” Thompson asked.
“Well, Michelle and I need to get back east with the radios sooner rather than later, but we can’t cross the bridge until it’s daylight,” Andy said.
“What do you mean you can’t cross a bridge until daylight?” Thompson replied.
Andy looked at Michelle and said, “I think an exchange of information is called for.” She nodded her agreement as he continued. “Thompson, let me bring you up to date with what we’ve been through in the last, oh . . . week or so. And then if you don’t mind we’d kind of like a heads up with what’s going on here, OK?”
“OK.”
It took Andy about ten minutes to give Thompson a “Readers Digest” version. He kept it pretty straightforward—not going into any “need to know” information, but rather a general overview of everything from the run on Sheldon’s store to the blond stripper. Michelle took over from there and told him about Ravenwood campground, and their journey here . . . including the bridge blocked by railroad ties. Thompson asked a few questions, mostly for clarification on what they had already told him. After they were done, he finished the last of his beer and stood up—slowly pacing back and forth across the room.
“Yeah, that kinda makes sense. Wow, the world really is turning to shit. Um . . . Let’s see . . . hey—before I forget, thanks for getting me out of that office. I’m pretty sure I’d have been smoked if you two hadn’t shown up. And sorry again about shootn’ at you through the door. Where was I? Oh yeah . . . I guess about a week ago I was underneath a Camaro in the garage where I worked, and my boss leans down and hands me the phone. So I wiped the grease off my fingers and grabbed it from him. It was some captain in the guard; I can’t remember who it was. Anyhow, she starts telling me that my unit is being activated by the DES, that’s North Dakota’s Department of Emergency Services. I had twenty-four hours to report to base with all my gear. My boss was pissed. My unit had been deployed for several months last year during all those floods we had, and he had to hold my position open until I got back. Man, I was getting a little tired of all this full time bullshit too. You know it was supposed to be one weekend a month and one month a year, but in the two years I’ve been in its . . .” Thompson stopped and looked at Andy and Michelle . . . “Sorry, didn’t mean to bitch. So anyhow I reported in. But by the end of the twenty-four hours, less than half of my unit was there.”
Thompson paced back and forth as he continued. “The next day was the typical ‘hurry up and wait’ crap. It didn’t seem like anybody knew what was going on, or what our detail was going to be. Scuttlebutt was flipping between security and crowd control, or medical evacuations. The word finally
came down that we were going to assist the governor’s task force on medical quarantine zones. My unit was out of Bismarck, and the city was starting to go ape shit by then. Stores were being looted, half the people were trying to get out of the city and half the people who lived outside of the city were trying to get in. I got shot at twice within the first hour we were stationed at the checkpoint. Some prick in command decided not to issue us any ammo either. I don’t know, maybe that was a good call . . . I’d probably have shot back. Anyhow, our checkpoints were a joke. People just drove right through them . . . didn’t even slow down. Nothing we could really do other than use harsh language. They kept us there for two days. Day three was when I saw my first red eye. It was this tall skinny kid . . . still holding a skateboard under his arm as he walked up to us. He gets closer and Carney—he was my second at our checkpoint—anyhow Carney goes through the usual ‘this is a quarantine zone’ speech but the dude keeps walking towards us. No surprise there, everybody else did. Then some guy pulls up in a car, cuts right between the dude with a skateboard and us and starts asking us where our commander is, like we should feel personally obligated to escort his fat ass anywhere he wanted to go. Carney looks at me and I can see he’s getting ready to unload some choice vocabulary on the driver when the dude with a skateboard leans his head through the window and starts going to town on the guy’s face. I heard a bunch of screaming and the guy must have mashed his foot on the accelerator because his car shot forward. He didn’t make it too far though . . . ended up smashing into the concrete barrier after about fifty feet. The other guy, the kid with the skateboard, he got thrown about twenty feet after the car smashed into the barrier. Carney and I are picking ourselves up off the ground from where we jumped when the car took off . . . just kinda stunned I guess. Anyhow, we start walking over there, but before we take five steps here comes another car—stereo blasting with the base thumping so loud you could actually see the windshield vibrate. Anyhow this new car pulls right up to us and the driver cuts the music down enough for us to hear him and says, ‘Yo, you see that shit? Punk ass skateboard hippie gotta pay.’ Then he takes off down the road, cuts a one-eighty after a few hundred meters and punches it. The skateboard dude had landed in the grass median and had gotten up . . . just kinda standing there when the guy with a stereo rams him like he was a three dollar whore. I swear it must have launched him at least fifteen feet in the air. Then the car beeps its horn twice like it was saying ‘Bye’ to us before it heads down the road back into Bismarck. So me and Carney are walking to our hummer to call in and I hear Carney say, “Hey Thompson, you ain’t gonna believe this . . .” I turned to look where he was pointing, and I see the skateboard dude getting up again. He was a freaking bloody mess, looked to me like both legs were broke too—one of them with the thigh bone sticking right through his jeans—and the dude is walking. Toward us. Ten feet away I got a look at his eyes. Just then our radio came alive with a bunch of chatter. All of our units had been ordered back to the staging area. They didn’t have to ask me twice. So anyhow, me and Carney hopped in the Hummer and RTB’d.”
Fade to Grey (Book 1): Fade to Grey Page 34
