Fade to Grey (Book 2): Darkness Ascending (17 page)

With one foot on the ground, and the other still on
the floorboard of his truck, Eric slammed a new magazine in the 10mm and
rotated left.  In the half light reflecting and diffusing from his truck, he
could see another group of four walkers coming up from the boat launch area. 
Only they weren’t walking.  Three of them were trotting with an awkward,
rolling combination of stiff-legged movements.  It looked deceptively slow to
the eyes, but they were covering the ground quickly and gaining speed with
every second.  Overlapping
cracks
of AR-15 fire rained from the store’s
roof into the trio as they approached.  The fourth walker moved different.  It
was small—less than five feet tall—and seemed to flow like quicksilver over and
around obstacles.  Immediately, Mike’s story about the little girl tearing the
face off of the man at the campground came to Eric’s mind. 

“Get in the truck and shut your door,” Michelle said
as she changed magazines.

Eric dropped back into the seat and pulled the door
shut.  Shifting the truck into reverse and backing away from the store at an
angle flooded the boat ramp with light.  The three stiff-legged walkers were
down, spread in an uneven line about fifteen feet apart.  Several twitches and
spasms still rocked their bodies, and somebody on the roof was slow firing into
their remains.  Three gunshots spaced five seconds apart—the last one verified
by an orange tracer—brought an end to the spasms.  Of the fourth ghoul, there
was no sign.

“
Sam . . .  Eric . . .  are you guys OK down there
?”
It was Walter.

Michelle picked up her radio and answered, “
Eric
and I are OK.  Amy, is everybody all right in the store
?”

“
We have no . . .  physical . . .  injuries at the
store.  A few very frazzled nerves, however
.”

“
We’re all in one piece up on the roof.  Getting’
low on five-five-six ammo though
,” Thompson’s deep voice resonated, “
and
we’re out for the shotgun.  The big light’s out of juice too.  We still got our
flashlights though
.”

“Ask them if they saw where the other one went,” Eric
said as he scanned the parking lot.

“
Thompson, do any of you have eyes on the fourth
one—the little, fast one
?

After a moment he replied, “
Ahhh, wait a sec
’ .
. .” Three flashlight beams shifted back and forth from the corner of the roof
as Thompson continued, “
negative, we don’t know where it went
.”

“
Keep looking
.”

Michelle turned to Eric, “Remember Pickle Barrel?”

“That’s what I was just thinking.” Eric’s memory
drifted back a dozen years or so.  He’d been invited to go on a boar hunt in
Florida by Michelle’s father, and the three of them, along with several other
of her dad’s friends stayed for a weekend at a hunting cabin located in the
swampy forest of a private game preserve close to the Everglades—and as it
turned out—apparently also positioned next to the world’s foremost mosquito
breeding facility.

The first night they were there, the owner of the
cabin—a gray-stubbled, shifty-eyed Cajun transplant—proceeded to fill them with
the legend of a huge, silverback monster hog that was rumored to haunt the local
swamps. His coarse voice crackled over the smoke from a charcoal-fired, cast
iron hibachi, and he pointed a gnarled finger in their direction as he spoke.

‘
Five hun’ert pounds ifn’ it’s n’ ounz,’ en’ as big
‘round as uh pikkl’ burrl’ at ‘is shulders
,’ ‘
Itz dun ben’ imp-la-kated
in ‘bout a duzen’ mur-durs round har’, but ain’t nobody been abl’ ta kill it. 
M’be yous yungin’s gonna git yur’ chance come mornin’ . . . jes’ you ‘amember
ta’ aim fer’ his ‘ed, cuz’ yur bullits jus gonna bounce offa ‘is hide
.’

Michelle and Eric had both looked at the corner of the
rickety shack that served as base camp.  Leaning against the wall on top of their
sleeping bags were two compound bows. The old man followed their eyes to the
corner, and then slowly lowered his chin and shook his head. ‘
Ya ain’t a-plannin’
ta go out wit’ ‘dem toad-stikkers af’er ol Pikkl’ Burrl, is ya
?’ They had,
but the look that Michelle and Eric exchanged upon hearing the grizzled man’s
words said that they were both having second thoughts.  When they didn’t
answer, he got up out of his creaky, cypress-peg rocking chair and stepped out
the door onto the porch, returning a moment later carrying an old, weather and
sun bleached shovel.

‘
I rekken’ I ought ta’ start a-diggin’ yur graves
ta’night, so as I ’ont havta’ do it in the’ mornin
.’

The cabin had exploded with laughter at the
open-mouthed expressions on their faces, and that probably would have been the
end of it, except it wasn’t. The next day, Eric had been positioned in a low
tree stand located at the busy intersection between warring mosquito clans, and
after spending all day drenched in sweat with nothing to show for it other than
a few million welts, he was ready to pack it in. That’s when the thick brush to
his right began to shake and part with the approach of a snuffling, grunting
shadow. Memories of the old-timer’s story, multiplied and magnified throughout
the hot day in Eric’s own mind, jumped to the surface as he drew back on the
bow. His shaking arm had held full draw for what seemed like hours before the
beast stepped out barely fifteen yards ahead of him. He was fully expecting the
broadhead-tipped shaft to ricochet off the monster as he let it fly, but
instead, it had hit too low and too far back—sinking in to the boar’s belly.
The animal had squealed and torn off into the dense underbrush alongside an
alligator infested canal, and Eric had waited another thirty minutes before
descending from the stand. The whole time, not so distant sounds of rending and
tearing vegetation had intermixed with spine tingling grunting and squealing.
It was almost dark when Eric made it back to the cabin. After telling his story
to the gathered group, the old man took down a well worn, double barrel shotgun
from its resting place atop two moth-eaten, wall-mounted deer heads, and after breaking
it open, reached into the pocket of his faded canvas vest and removed a pair of
high brass, 12 gauge rifle slugs.

‘
You’s gonna need dis.’ Watch out fur’ dem gators .
. . dey be drawn’ ta the smell o’ blood en’ whatnot. Now you’s only got two
shots, so as if’n the firs’ one don’t do it, I’d might ad-vize ya ta’ save that
there secon’ one for youself
.’

Eric had looked around the room at the amused faces of
the men as they waited for him to chicken out, and more than one set of
eyebrows went up when he grabbed the shotgun and shells from the old man.

‘
If’n I’z you, ahd be takkin’ sombod’ wit me out
der inna the ol’ by-yoo. Leas-wise dey cun’ tell us war’ yur body be layin
.’’

“I’ll go,” Michelle had said.

Forty-five minutes later, Eric and Michelle had been
transported via four wheeler to the area where he’d shot the boar. Several of
the other men, including the crusty Cajun but not Michelle’s father, had also
tagged along, ‘just in case.’ The old man had fired up an ancient carbide
lantern and handed it to Michelle with some words of advice.

‘
You-all go real slo’ . . . en’ be wachin’ fur dat
devl’ pig wit’ each step, ya hear. En’ the gaters too, dey be feedn’ ‘bout now
. . . en’ all da ‘nakes be jes ichn’ ta bite som’ dat Nort’ Deekota blood frem
ya too. Uder den thet’, I ‘magin you’s got no wurrees
.’

“Yes sir.” Eric had responded with much more bravado
in his voice then he felt in his gut.

‘
You wants’ dat I shud’ go in der wit’ ya? Er m’be
you’s want me n’ sum da’ boys ta go afer’ ol Pikkl’ Burrl ‘sted of you
?

“No, it was my bad shot that wounded him; it’s my job
to finish it.”

The Cajun had formed a tobacco-stained, jack-o-lantern
smile with all the speed of an August sunset as he digested Eric’s words.

‘
Mmm-hmm, I rekn’ it tis’ at dat
.’ He took two
half limping steps closer and leaned toward Eric. ‘
You got em’ made a’
brass, boy. Jes be curfl’ en’ lissn’ ta the’ sounds of theh swamp, caz dat ol’
pig gonna lay all qui-eht ‘till yeh gets right up on im,’ but ifn’ ya’ gots
good ears, ya can a-hear him huffn’ jus’ e’nuff ta’ git som warnin’ afore he
eats’ ya
.’

Then, much to Eric and Michelle’s surprise, the old
man had leaned even closer and whispered in a chewing tobacco scented breath,
‘Boy, you be careful out there. I’ll be right up here if you need me. Follow
the blood, but don’t keep your nose pointed at the ground. One step at a time,
and remember what I told you—use your ears. You can sometimes hear these big
old porkers breathing from ten yards away. When you see it, even if it looks
like it’s dead, you put another slug into it. You got it?’

Eric’s wide-eyed surprise at the sudden loss of the
Cajun’s accent lasted only a moment before Michelle tapped him on the shoulder.
“Are you ready?”

“I guess, what about you?”

“Let’s go before I change my mind or come to my
senses.”

What had followed was a thirty minute, ‘pucker factor
ten’ stalk through the dense underbrush following a blood trail that could
barely be seen. Every step forward seemed to cost them a few years of their life,
and enough adrenaline was coursing through Eric’s veins that the mosquitoes
probably exploded soon after biting him. After forty yards, they had found an
area of shredded vegetation and trampled earth. At the center of the torn up
area was a huge spray of blood mixed with clumps of bristly black hair. The
arc-white light cast by the lantern threw fingers of shadows into the already
eerie clearing, and the oppressive, humid silence seemed to squeeze them from
all directions . . .

“And that’s when the screech owl shrieked right above
us,” Michelle vocalized his thought from the truck seat next to him.

Eric couldn’t help but laugh. “I don’t know who jumped
higher—me when the owl screeched, or you when I fired off both barrels from the
air.”

When the dust had settled and their hearts had stopped
racing, they’d found the pig crumpled in the brush just outside of the
clearing. It was dead. Eric’s broadhead had struck further forward then he’d
thought and clipped a major artery near the pig’s heart. It also wasn’t the
legendary ‘Pickle Barrel’ of the Cajun’s story, but instead a rather diminutive
old sow that barely topped one hundred pounds—before being field dressed.

Their chuckling died away as they scanned through the
windows. After another moment of contemplation, Eric picked up the radio and
spoke, “
OK, everybody listen up please. Sam, give me a round count for the
AR’s
.”

Scott’s voice came back, “
Thompson says he has two
full magazines, thirty rounders, with a tracer every five, and Sam has one full
magazine, and one with about eight shots left—thirty rounders also, he’s
telling me
.”

“
OK, hold on . . . Walter, what kind of shotgun
ammo is loaded in the weapons at the store
?”

“
They’ve each got eight rounds of number four
buckshot
.”

“
Any reloads
?”

“
No
.”

“
OK, everybody hold on a moment
.”

Turning to Michelle, Eric said, “What do you think? On
one hand there may be more of them still coming from that direction,” he leaned
his head toward the campground, “in which case staying right here and providing
light for Sam and Thompson to shoot by sounds pretty good to me. On the other
hand, I really don’t like the idea of that fast one being out there and
unaccounted for.”

Michelle thought quietly as her eyes continued to scan
the surroundings. After a moment she answered, “Let’s sit here for another few
minutes. If nothing comes out, let’s drive around the lot in the truck and see
if we can find our missing . . . friend.”

“And if we can’t?”

“Well, I’m pretty sure I’m not going to sleep very
soundly if one of those ferals are loose around here, so I guess it will be
‘Pickle Barrel’ round two.”