Fade to Grey (Book 1): Fade to Grey (35 page)

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.

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 worked 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 brilliant 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.