Fade to Grey (Book 1): Fade to Grey

by Brian Stewart

  Andy exploded with laughter, pounding the steering wheel and trying to suck in enough air to fuel even more laughter, and Michelle was crunched over, holding her gut and fighting to breathe. After a solid minute of gut-wrenching, dash-slapping chortling, the two of them settled into a few rounds of catching their breath and shaking their heads.

  “Oh my, that must have been something else,” Andy said.

  “Yeah, I wish I would have been there,” Michelle added as Andy once again moved the truck onward. “I’ll bet Eric and Walter are sitting in front of a fire right now, sipping a couple of beers and playing cards.”

  “I imagine,” said Andy. “Why don’t you try them on the radio?” he added.

  “Good idea.”

  Michelle keyed the transmit button and spoke. “Fish and Wildlife one to game warden one, do you copy?” When no reply came she repeated her hail.

  “Fish and Wildlife one to game warden one, do you copy?”

  After a brief pause Thompson’s somewhat broken voice came over the radio. “Ah, this is Mad Indian transport, we read you.”

  “Mad Indian?” Michelle shot back quickly.

  “Affirmative,” Thompson’s deep laughter filtered through the radio as he went on. “About thirty seconds after we split up, your truck blew a tire. Normally it would be a no brainer, but a certain Indian started to get a little testy when we had to unload EVERYTHING in the truck just to find the compartment where the jack was. Plus he’s still wet and cranky from his scouting mission by the blockade. And then he discovered that your doughnut was flat,” Thompson cackled again before continuing. “So we are currently still about a mile from our destination, limping slowly down the road.”

  “10-4, we’re almost at the cabin . . . just thought we’d try and get a hold of Eric and Walter.”

  “Roger that. See you when you get here. Out.”

  Chapter 42

  Andy followed the road straight for another 100 yards before it turned to the right, breaking out of the forest on its way down slope toward the couple of cleared acres around his cabin.

  "Ah, home again, home again, jiggity-jog. I was beginning to wonder if I'd ever see . . ." He cut off his words in midsentence and slowed the truck to a stop, squinting his eyes at the scene before him. The broad scalloped valley stretched out before them, and the cabin appeared as they left it. Something else was also as they left it. Eric's truck was still there. Parked a short distance away from Eric's pickup, however, was something that was most definitely not as they left it. Slightly angled toward the front porch, a bright yellow pickup with dark tinted windows and big tires sat.

  “What the hell . . . .” Andy’s voice trailed off as he stared.

  “Isn’t that the truck with the two guys in it that we saw when we were gassing up the minivan?” Michelle asked, already sure of the answer herself.

  Andy grabbed the binoculars and raised them to his eyes. “It’s got to be. Same tires, same matching cap.”

  “And why is Eric still here? Do you suppose he hasn’t found Doc’s granddaughter yet? Or do you think something’s happened to him?” Michelle asked with an edge of concern in her voice.

  Andy scanned the yellow truck and cabin again before answering. “I’m not worried about Eric. He’s really good in the woods, but there’s a lot of area she could be in. I’m much more concerned about those two guys, and for that matter . . . Samantha and Garrett. I don’t like this,” he put down the binoculars and turned towards Michelle. “Keep a sharp eye out.”

  Michelle pulled her Glock out of its holster on her duty belt, dropping the magazine into her left hand with a quick press of the release button. Verifying it was full, she slammed it home and reholstered her pistol. Her shotgun was on the seat next to her, and she checked that as well. “Let’s go have a word with the rednecks.” Andy nodded and shifted the truck into drive.

  They pulled up slightly behind Eric’s parked truck and got out. Michelle had the shotgun across her chest in a two handed grip, and Andy had his 40 caliber Smith and Wesson held low in both hands. Moving up to the driver’s door of Eric’s truck, Michelle peaked in through the window.

  “Nobody . . . it’s clear,” she told Andy softly.

  A dull thump-thump came from the yellow truck and Michelle raised the shotgun. Meeting Andy’s eyes, she nodded in that direction and they both approached with the guns pointed. At the rear of the yellow Ford, the sound intensified.

  Whumppp-thump.

  It was definitely coming from the bed of the pickup, and Michelle readied the shotgun as Andy grabbed the handle. Turning it slowly ninety degrees, the truck cap’s rear window sprang upward, propelled by small hydraulic lift cylinders. Andy let go and it ssssiiiisssssss’d open. The height of the tires and closed tailgate still kept them from seeing into the bed, so Andy reached up and pulled the latch, dropping the tailgate and exposing the interior. Michelle sprang upward, thrusting the muzzle of the shotgun ahead of her. The bed was filled with a scattering of assorted items. Rope, tarps, tools, and whatnot competed for space with gas cans, boxes and a hodgepodge of a dozen different containers of various shapes and sizes. All of that was secondary as their eyes focused in on the source of the noise. Trussed up with layers of rope and flat nylon webbing was a small child, a girl no more than three or four years old. She was mummified so completely by her bonds that all she could do in her struggles was something akin to the worm dance. Only her face was uncovered, and her sickly, blood-red eyes were immediately apparent. Michelle instantly felt a mixture of horror and pity at the sight, and got ready to pull the trigger.

  “Careful, she bites,” came the voice to their left.

  Michelle and Andy both spun around at the same time. Two men were standing there, each of them held a gun. Both were pointed directly at them.

  The one on the left, a scruffy-faced broad shouldered man with stringy brown hair that hung to his mid-back said, “William, it seems to me we found a couple of trespassers.”

  The one addressed as William, slightly taller in height but equally broad, chuckled darkly. “What do you suppose we should do with them, Kurt?”

  Andy spoke up. “I believe that of the four of us, it’s you two that are the trespassers. Now I suggest that you get your ass back in your truck and get the hell off of my property. Right now!”

  William shook his head and said, “What we got here is a Mexican standoff. Everybody pointing guns at everybody else. Why don’t we all just calm down and talk about this.”

  Michelle jabbed the shotgun six inches closer as she hissed, “Why would we want to talk to somebody who keeps infected babies in their truck.”

  Kurt and William looked at each other briefly, then William said, “Now missy, you just wait a minute. We saved that baby from one of them zombies back on the road. We were trying to find a hospital to get some help when it turned.”

  “Drop your guns and we can talk this out,” Andy said.

  “Uh-huh,” Kurt grinned and said, “No dice. Why don’t you drop your guns and then maybe we’ll talk.”

  “Not a chance,” Andy replied. “You’re the same two guys that were eyeballing us a few days back, and I’d be willing to bet that you had something to do with that blockade we came through.

  A slowly forming but wide smile crept onto William’s face as he answered. “Well old man, you’re half right. We did set up that roadblock, but it ain’t two of us . . .”

  The heavy touch of a cold metallic barrel pressed into the back of Michelle’s neck.

  “Move and die bitch,” a nasally, raspy voice breathed into her ear and sent chills of terror racing through her. She felt a fist reach up and clench a handful of her hair, pulling her tighter against the gun at her neck. “Now . . . ever so slowly, lower that scattergun.”

  Michelle arced her eyes to the left, catching a brief glimpse of Andy. She caught a flash of indecision etched upon his face before a kick to the back of her legs dropped her to her knees. The hand tightened on her hair as the
voice said, “Go ahead, old man. Shoot. And then you can watch as I fertilize the grass with the redhead’s brain. It’s your call. Hell, the world’s already ending, so I guess I don’t really give a rat’s asshole what you do.”

  Michelle jerked her head left and right and she started to say, “Don’t . . .“ A heavy thud crashed into the side of her temple, splitting the skin open and stunning her momentarily. When her vision cleared she saw Andy with his hands at his side. A smoldering fire burned in his eyes as he looked at the men. The look changed to one of deep sorrow as he met Michelle’s eyes. The man called Kurt moved up and jerked the gun out of Andy’s grasp.

  Stuffing the gun in his waistband, Kurt said, “Hey Pinto, what do you say we feed the geezer to the little monster?”

  William came up and slid the shotgun from Michelle’s grasp, leaning it against the yellow truck before coming forward again and removing the Glock from her holster. The voice behind her answered. “No. I don’t want any more of them things around here.” Michelle was jerked to her feet and spun around. A meaty hand tightened around her windpipe and slammed her against the truck. She felt William pull the handcuffs out of their pouch on her belt, and then her wrists were roughly grabbed and cuffed in front of her. The man holding her throat was short and stocky. Greasy black hair protruding from underneath a rumpled cowboy hat framed a face that looked like it had seen many bar fights. Or prison. With a quick twist and pull, he once again held Michelle facing away from him by her hair.

  “You there . . . old guy. Today’s your lucky day. I’m going to let you go. So you just turn around and start walking . . . and don’t come back. You understand? Pinto’s voice was even and firm, almost believable. When Andy didn’t move, Pinto barked a short laugh and said, “I guess you’re hard of hearing. I said start walking, grandpa. Head toward the lake and don’t stop until your hat floats. Three . . . two . . .”

  Andy turned around and started taking measured steps away from the trucks toward the lake. Michelle’s gut was screaming inside, fearful of what she knew was coming. At twenty paces, Kurt looked over at Pinto, who said, “Do it.”

  Michelle saw the man called Kurt draw Andy’s pistol from his waistband and raise it.

  “NO!!!!” she screamed, but not in time. The loud gun blast shattered the stillness of the fading sunlight, and Andy dropped like a stone.

  Michelle struggled, kicking and biting at anything she could reach before several blows to her midsection knocked the wind out of her. She dry heaved on the ground for several seconds before she was yanked to her feet again. Kurt and William each had her by an elbow, and she was lifted up and turned to face Pinto. Sucking in a lung full of air, she cut loose with a threatening string of profanity and curses.

  The man in the cowboy hat broke out into an evil smile and said, “Mmm hmm . . . a dirty mouth and a hot body. Boys . . . we gonna have a good time breaking this filly.”

  Michelle struggled as she felt Kurt’s hand close across her mouth. Vice-like arms gripped her and she was dragged toward the cabin.

  Chapter 43

  April 24th, Eric part 6

  The middle of the logging road was still spongy from the recent weather, so Emily and I walked along the edge where the regrowth of brambles seemed to be the thinnest. The tall trees along the border of the road blocked most of the remaining afternoon light, and I kicked up my pace another notch. I wanted to get back. As long as I kept my strides within the realm of a leisurely walk my ankle didn’t bother me too much, outside of the expected throbbing. On the few occasions that I tried to put more weight or pressure on it, I found myself wincing in discomfort. Emily was mostly silent, taking pictures here and there as we walked, and Max was trotting about seven feet to my left. I could tell that he was picking up on my mood by the way his ears shifted and locked on various sounds from the woods, as if he was examining each one with an intense scrutiny for possible threats. We had gone about 500 yards from the Gator when I called a halt.

  “Emily,” I said, “we’re going to take a little side trail. Just through there.” I indicated a line of spruce trees on the right, “we can hook up with the ridge trail I jog on. It will save us about a quarter mile, and that should put us back at the cabin just before dark.”

  “That’s fine with me.”

  “The trail is pretty narrow in a couple spots, so be careful OK.”

  “Lead the way,” she smiled, “and don’t worry about me.”

  I pushed my way through a small cluster of saplings, lightly warning her to stay back in order to avoid getting tree-slapped. After that we crossed through a serpentine assembly of mature blue spruce before intersecting the ridge trail. I followed the path as it wound down through another stand of spruce before breaking out into a large stretch of mixed aspen and oak. Even in late afternoon, enough of the sky was visible through the missing leaves for me to easily stay on the trail. Max had moved up in front of me and quickened his pace, occasionally stopping to let me catch up and put him back within the acceptable ‘tight‘ radius. Another three minutes of walking and the trail broke out of the forest and spilled onto a rocky hillside exactly 177 yards from the front porch of the cabin. I knew the number because I had stepped it off after making an amazing freehand shot at an eleven point buck several years ago. Max immediately froze up and I heard a barely audible rumble from his chest as he sniffed the air. Coming up even with him, I got down on one knee and draped my left hand over his shoulder. I could feel the deep vibrations intensify as we stared at the scene below. The fading light and distance hindered my vision, so I unstrapped my rifle and double checked to make sure the safety was on before peering through the scope. Uncle Andy’s truck was parked behind mine, and there was a big yellow pickup in the grass between my truck and the cabin. The magnification on the scope I was peering through was enough for me to see Michelle and my uncle, and three people I didn’t recognize. Emily squatted next to me and switched the stubby black lens on her camera with a long, cream colored telephoto one. A thin red ring near the front of the zoom lens indicated that it was one of her top quality, professional grade lenses.

  “Who are they?” she asked as she peered through the camera, twisting and rotating the focus ring.

  I raised the scope again and said, “My uncle is on the far right. The girl with the red hair and plaid shirt is Michelle. I don’t know the other three.” I scanned a bit to the left and right, dictating as I went. “I don’t see anybody else. The green truck is mine . . . the old white pickup is Uncle Andy’s, so I guess the yellow monster belongs to those other guys.”

  As we watched, Uncle Andy turned slowly and started walking away. A growing, hollow sensation in my gut magnified and became talons of ice clutching at my throat as the scene unfolded. Almost in slow motion, I looked on as my uncle took a dozen or so more steps before one of the three people I didn’t know made a motion like they were drawing a gun. I saw a flash of light, and watched as my uncle slammed to the ground. A few milliseconds later the reverberating KRA-BOOM of the gunshot reached us, followed by a faint “Nooo . . .“ Momentarily frozen with shock, my heart pounded as the three distant figures pulled a struggling Michelle toward the cabin.

  “No . . .” I echoed softly in disbelief as my stomach flip-flopped and jaws clenched tightly. I vaguely recalled Emily saying, “Oh no . . . please God . . . no.” And then I was moving. Fast. A dozen steps into my sprint I both felt and heard the stitches in my ankle tear and pop. I didn’t care. Max was easily loping right next to me as I raced down the hill heading for the cabin. I was still 150 yards out when they pulled Michelle through the front door. Another shot of freezing cold gripped my heart as I watched the cabin door slam shut. My breath came in rasps as I plunged faster down the slope, and as I ran the bitter cold fear that blasted through me began to be replaced by a white hot fury. The wind whipped through my hair as I covered the remaining distance, and I slowed my race down only when I was a few steps away from the side wall. I flattened myself there, sucking in w
ind as I clicked off the safety. Max was by my side, looking toward the back of the cabin and growling.

  “Easy Max,” I whispered as I patted him, “easy boy.”

  My breathing was slowing down as my mind rapidly tried to sort out priorities. Michelle or Uncle Andy? Where to go first, and what to do when I got there. In the space of a few heartbeats later, Emily coasted up beside me, huffing and wheezing with exertion.

  “Holy crap, you’re fast!” she puffed out.

  I held a finger up to my lip to quiet her as I forced myself to calm down and focus. Uncle Andy or Michelle first . . .? A muffled scream from inside the cabin made my decision for me. “Save the living, the dead will take care of themselves,” I heard my uncle’s voice in my head as I gripped the rifle tightly.

  “Max, wait,” I said, reinforcing it with a firm hand on his chest. He was still angled toward the back of the cabin, his heavy muscles tensed up and ready to spring. In the semi-darkness I could see his lips curling and teeth beginning to bare. The rumble in his chest expanded and spread to his throat.

  “Max . . . wait,” I commanded again in a hissed whisper. He cocked his head briefly towards me before crouching to the ground, flattening himself out and winding up . . . the perfect picture of a monstrous canine doomsday clock, momentarily frozen in time at one second ‘till midnight.