Fade to Grey (Book 1): Fade to Grey

by Brian Stewart

  “Emily, I said cocoon. Slugs don’t make cocoons, caterpillars do. And caterpillar’s turn into some of the most beautiful creatures in the world. And you are most definitely not a slug.” I hugged her tighter, felt her return the embrace as she sniffled.

  “I feel like such a slut. I’ve never . . . you’re probably going to think I’m lying to you, but I’ve never had a one night stand before. I feel so dirty . . . like I’m just some tramp in a bar at spring break that gets passed around to every guy that buys her drink and . . .”

  I interrupted with, “Whoa . . . whoa . . . just wait a minute, Emily. You are most definitely not a slut . . . or a tramp . . . or anything even remotely similar. You’re just the opposite as a matter of fact. In the short time that I’ve spent with you, if there’s one thing I’ve learned is that you have class . . . and integrity . . . and focus . . . and that one there is not a camera joke. Just because two people spent some time with each other in the heat of the moment doesn’t make either one of them less than human. In different circumstances things may or may not have played out like they did, but let me tell you this—if I get eaten by a zombie on the way back to civilization, I am absolutely not going to regret spending the past few days in the arms of a beautiful woman. You.”

  Her eyes darted away for a moment, then locked on to mine and she said, “I want to believe you, but really, for all I know you could just be some guy that my grandfather hired to find me. And when we get back I’m going to see that the world is just the same as when I left. No infected people, no epidemic. And just to complete my picture I’ll probably find out that you’re married and have a bunch of kids.”

  I smiled and shook my head. “No, I’m not married. I have no children. Well, except Max.”

  My smile must have disappeared because she a reached a hand up and placed it along the side of my face and asked, “What’s wrong?”

  I hesitated a moment before answering. “As to the infection, Emily . . . it’s real. And it’s dangerous. And I’m leading you right back into it.”

  It was her turn to squeeze me tightly. We stayed like that, silently rocking back and forth for a few minutes until a distant “ke-iii” tilted our heads skyward. Far up in the azure sky a pair of red tail hawks circled.

  I held onto Emily for a few more minutes as we watched the hawks riding the thermals. Eventually they drifted beyond our view. “Don’t they mate for life?” Emily asked.

  “Some birds do, but I’m not sure about red tails. Ornithology wasn’t my specialty in college.”

  She was silent for a bit, and then in a low, soft voice she said, “I’ve only been with one other guy. We dated for about eight months in college. He cheated on me with his roommate’s sister. Anyhow, I just wanted you to know.”

  There was nothing much I could, or should, say to that, so I took her hand again in mine and held it. Max came over and laid down near the log, giving me a look that said, “Hey dad, remember me? Of the three of us here, do you remember who didn’t have breakfast? Any chance we’re going to go look for some?”

  Emily took a deep breath and in a surprisingly lighthearted tone asked, “So you said you weren’t married, right?”

  “Never.”

  “Do you have a girlfriend or a significant other?”

  “I do not have a current girlfriend or significant other,” I replied almost like I was answering on a witness stand.

  “So you didn’t cheat on anybody by being with me these past few days?” She was fishing, and I knew where this was going to be headed, but I was OK with it. Honesty is the best policy. Although I think a comedian once said that if honesty is the best policy, then by default dishonesty is the second best policy.

  I let her stew for a second before answering. “Nope, I didn’t cheat on anybody. Nor am I engaged, divorced, secretly married to twenty-three different wives, or in love with my neighbor’s second cousin twice removed sister in law. And just to be clear, I’ve never been on the Jerry Springer show and I’m not gay.”

  Without skipping a beat she rounded third base and headed for home with the only possible question left unasked. “Is there anybody you’re interested in, or is anybody interested in you . . . that you know of?”

  “Scoping out the competition, are we?” I teased.

  “Maybe.”

  “There is a girl named Michelle, I went to high school with her. We’ve never officially dated, but we’ve always been good friends. A few times it’s been . . .”

  Emily interrupted me with a giggle. “Friends with benefits?”

  “Yeah. The last time I saw her before all this mess started was about a year ago, and then it was just as friends. To be honest, I was seeing another girl at that time though. Anyhow, through whatever circumstance or coincidence, she is now part of our . . . I don’t know what to call it, our ‘group’ maybe. And we’re fortunate to have her.”

  “She’s the Fish and Wildlife officer that helped you and your uncle clear the campground?”

  “That’s her.”

  I started counting the seconds. That giant, hollow sounding “guy clock” was ticking . . . TOCK . . . TOCK . . . Waiting for the inevitable question . . . “Here it comes,” I thought.

  “Can you teach me how to shoot?” Emily asked.

  That question caught me off guard. It was definitely not the one I thought was coming. I recovered quickly however, answering, “I’d be happy to teach you how to shoot.”

  “OK, good,” Emily replied.

  I gave her another quick squeeze before I stood up, glad that I had ducked the bullet of the most dangerous question, or at least one of them, that a girl can ask you.

  “Is she prettier than me?” Emily added.

  Shit.

  As much as any guy hates answering that question, I had actually given it some thought in the tent while Emily slept. And like I said, honesty is the high road. “You’re both beautiful. Physically and in other ways. For me to answer any differently would be a lie. However, you and Michelle are polar opposites in a lot of ways. So the answer to your question is ‘no,’ she is not prettier than you, nor are you prettier than her. You’re both stunningly beautiful. It’s like comparing a morning glory to a sunflower.”

  “Which one am I?” she asked me, her face neutral and unreadable.

  “Morning glory, without a doubt,” I answered.

  She pondered that for a moment, then broke into a slight smile and chimed, “Good.”

  I arched my eyebrows in an unspoken question, waiting for an explanation.

  Her mischievous smirk came back and she said, “Because sunflowers only last for a short time before they get all ugly and fall over, whereas morning glories bloom for a long, long time.”

  I laughed and shook my head . . . “Women.”

  “Well, are you going to teach me how to shoot or not?” Emily was all smiles now.

  “As soon as me and Max take a quick gander around for a rabbit or squirrel,” I said.

  “Gander . . . you actually said, ‘gander.’ What are you, some Louisiana Cajun redneck hick?”

  “That’s me,” I said as I grabbed the gun and whistled for Max. Forty-five minutes later my buddy was finishing the last of his late breakfast just as Emily scored her first bull’s eye.

  Thirty miles south of Winnipeg, Canada.

  The short, dark haired man was nervous, fidgeting constantly with the gold wedding band on his left hand. Beside him a woman slept uneasily in the passenger seat of their Escalade. A glance in the rear view mirror showed that both of his daughters were still snoozing, practically smothered under multiple layers of sheets, blankets, and quite a few towels they had removed from their hotel three days ago. It wasn’t like anyone was going to miss them, most of the hotel staff had already left a few days before that. Why stay when there’s no electricity, and in all likelihood no pay. A gust of wind buffeted the luxury SUV, costing the man another gray hair, another spike in blood pressure. “This has got to be the place,” he muttered un
der his breath, “where are they?” His wife shifted in her sleep, unconsciously pulling the coat he had laid over top of her a little tighter. His coat. He shivered in the damp chill, hoping they’d be here soon. They’d promised, swore that there would be room for him and his family. Another twenty minutes of waiting passed. He’d reached for the key several times, almost turned it twice. “Just five minutes of heat, that’s all I need, five minutes of heat,” he thought. He couldn’t do it though, couldn’t risk it. That was part of the deal he’d made. They were very specific in their demands. At least a quarter tank of gas, that’s how much had to be in the Escalade when he signed it over to them. Any less, even a hair less, and the deal was off. It was dead on the mark right now. Lights. He saw headlights approaching, watched them drift through the darkness slowly before cutting across the median and entering the parking lot. They approached his Cadillac from behind, swinging a wide arc and passing him as they used the headlights to scan the recesses of the dark lot. Once the glare of the headlights passed, he could tell what kind of vehicle it was. Box van, twenty-four foot . . . like they use to deliver large furniture. His company owned at least a dozen of them. And now here he was, trading a $50,000 SUV for a ride in one. Well, more specifically a ride in one across the border to safety in the United States. The van parked about fifty feet away, headlights still on and pointed directly at him. He saw the cab light go on as the passenger door opened. A man climbed down the high step to the ground, turned on a flashlight and walked over to him. It wasn’t the man he had made the deal with; he had been told it may not be. The man walked straight past the driver’s side door and went around back, shining his flashlight at the license plate. He gently nudged his wife on the shoulder. Her weary eyes slowly opened in response. “They’re here, go ahead and wake the kids,” he said. A few seconds later there was a tap on his window. The man with the flashlight was standing there.

  “Start car,” the heavily accented voice said.

  He reached down with his right hand and twisted the ignition forward, grateful that the big V8 fired to life immediately.

  “Unlock door and step out, keep hands were I see them,” the voice commanded in broken English.

  He grabbed the door latch with his left hand and pulled it, knowing the lock would pop up as he did. A blast of what felt like arctic air rushed into the vehicle as his door opened. He hated the cold, preferring the hot, humid temperatures of Louisiana where they had driven from. When he got back there he’d swear that never again would he cross north of the Mason Dixon line. But he had to get there first.

  “Turn around, put hands against top of car. Keep there while I search. Did they tell you rules?” The accent was thick, Russian maybe?

  He kept his hands against the vehicle as ordered while he answered. “Yes, they told us the rules several times. No guns, no knives or weapons of any kind. No luggage allowed, only what you wear. Dress warm and don’t ask any questions.”

  “Good, you followed instructions so far. Have wife come out.”

  He motioned to her and she exited the passenger door, walked around their Cadillac, and stood next to him. She was searched as well.

  “Not sick, yes?” the man asked.

  His wife replied before he did. “We’re not sick, none of us are. We just want to get home, back to the United States. You’re sure you can do that, right?” The apprehension in her voice was still clear. She had been against this idea since its inception, and all the way up until one of the maids at their hotel told them that her cousin’s entire family was shot trying to cross the border. She had finally acquiesced, reluctantly even then.

  “Yes, cross border at secret place, then on to refugee camp, you be safe there.” He paused for a second, scanned both of them with his flashlight and said, “But first you pay.”

  “The keys are in the truck, and I’ve already signed the title.”

  “Turn around,” the voice ordered. They did.

  “Give me rings.”

  “What?” his wife answered, echoing his thoughts.

  “Rings. Give them to me if want to go on truck,” the accented man said.

  “That wasn’t part of the deal. You can’t change what we already agreed on with your boss.”

  The man didn’t reply immediately, but rather took a moment, reached into his coat pocket and withdrew a small box. Folding open the clamshell design revealed a row of neat, hand rolled cigarettes. He removed one, lit it and blew the smoke directly into the couple’s face.

  “You listen. No rings, no ride in truck. Goodbye,” he turned and walked away.

  “Wait . . . just wait a minute OK . . . we’ll give you the rings, alright.” He turned to meet his wife’s gaze; it was a combination of bitterness, sadness, and fear. “Honey . . .” He let the plea stand on its own, waited for her response. Her eyes shifted through several more emotions before settling on anger as she removed her ring.

  “You better be right about this,” she said to her husband before turning to get the kids ready.

  April 23rd, Michelle part 2

  Michelle looked at Andy, then exhaled and leaned forward, resting her forehead in her hands.

  “What?” Thompson asked.

  Andy sighed, closing his eyes and rubbing them in small circles before answering. “This cop, the Indian, was his hair all black?”

  Michelle looked up and said, “Come on Andy, how many cops named Sam Ironfeather could there be up here?”

  There was silence in the room . . . tension while Andy and Michelle exchanged unspoken fears. Finally Thompson spoke. “To answer your question, he had silver along the sides of his temples. I guess that’s how he got his name. Is he that cop that you were telling me about earlier, the one who ran out of gas at the marina?

  For some reason Sam’s name had never come up when they were filling Thompson in. They had just referred to him as the “state trooper.”

  Andy nodded but said nothing. Michelle stood up and swore, walking a few laps along the path that Thompson had paced into the floor. “Why can’t we get a freakin’ break? Why is it that every time we start to see our road get a little easier, some force of nature conspires against us and drops us back into the meat grinder?”

  Andy was still and silent as Michelle continued to rant. “This sucks. We should have been back at Walter’s by now . . . hell, we should’ve been back hours and hours ago. And now . . . what? Are we supposed to take on Colonel Douche Bag and all of his cronies? Should we even be considering this? I’ve just about shit my britches enough in the past week, and that’s just dealing with infected people who, oh, I don’t know . . . wanted to eat me! Now we’re supposed to go and take on a pair of tanks? But let’s not stop there; don’t forget they also have helicopters, and a lot of guys with automatic weapons. Horseshit. Asshole Murphy. Somebody should cap that bastard and save us all from his ‘laws,’ I’m just so sick and tired of feeling like I’m right behind the eight ball every second of every day, just waiting for some dickwad to chalk up his stick and smack me in another direction.”

  Thompson was trying to hide a smile when Michelle looked at him. “Something funny?” Michelle hissed.

  “Nah,” Thompson replied still smiling, “I was just thinking that you remind me of a girl I knew in the guard. Her daddy had been a mechanic in the navy. The way she told the story was that the first three words she ever learned to speak were ‘shit, piss and damn it.’”

  “Yeah well, my dad was a marine, so I learned from the best,” Michelle answered.

  Thompson continued, “And they’re not tanks, they’re APC’s. No giant canon, just a machine gun and armor plating . . . piece of cake for a marine’s daughter with a Glock.”

  Michelle stood there, balanced on the knife edge between smacking the grin off of Thompson’s face or joining him in the mirth. She was still undecided when Andy chimed in. “And besides ‘Chelle, you hit the cue ball first, not the eight ball.”

  Thompson started chuckling, quickly followed by Andy. It
was inevitable, and she soon joined them. “Well, no matter whether they’re tanks or not, I don’t imagine they’ll just let us walk right up to the front door and hand them a note from our teacher,” Michelle said.

  “Actually,” Andy said, “that just might work.”

  Chapter 26

  April 23rd, Michelle part 3

  “What do you mean?” Michelle asked Andy.

  “Look at it like this. It would really be our only option anyhow, unless you have an armored division parked out back that I don’t know about,” Andy replied.

  Something in his statement triggered that elusive feeling in Michelle’s head. That same reaction that she’d had when she was upstairs getting the Rock and Rye. Michelle froze, trying to lock in on it. Thompson and Andy both noticed her hesitation.

  “What’s wrong?” Andy asked.

  Michelle could feel that vague thread slipping from her hands as she tried to focus on it. Something was wrong . . . maybe. Different perhaps. She couldn’t put her finger on it.

  Andy repeated his inquiry. “What’s wrong Michelle?”

  She held up her hand, fingers spread, palm outward like she was a traffic cop stopping a line of cars. A few seconds of silence passed while she thought, grasped . . . searched.

  “Say that to me again, what you just said,” Michelle stated.

  Andy hesitated before answering. “Um, I just asked you what was wrong.”

  “No-no-no . . . before that,” Michelle said hastily.

  “You mean when I asked you if you had an armored division out back?” Andy replied.

  Michelle froze again, eyes closed in concentration. A few seconds of stillness passed before she began twisting her head back and forth like she was trying to hear a distant sound. All of a sudden her eyes snapped open, accompanied by, “Son of a bitch.”