Fade to Grey (Book 2): Darkness Ascending (39 page)

Eric strained his lips together to keep from laughing,
and was almost successful until Callie added, “By the way Sam, remind me to
never let you borrow my car. You suck at driving.”

It was too much even for the state trooper, and his
deadpan presentation cracked—slowly at first with widely spaced out, low
chuckles—but then rapidly descending into uncontrolled, side splitting
hilarity. Eric and Michelle helplessly followed him down, spurred on even
further when Callie had innocently asked, “What did I say?”

It took several minutes for their merriment to settle,
and then a distant tinny voice crackled out of their headphones that had been
scattered on the floor under the tarp. Eric reached to his waist and grabbed at
the radio, unplugging the microphone cord by feel before he detached the belt
clip.

“It’s probably a good thing these are waterproof,” he
grinned as he held up the Fish and Wildlife radio.

“We should still dry them out when we get back.
They’re supposed to be submersible to three feet for a half hour or so, but I’d
rather not take any chances,”
Michelle added—still giggling at Sam.

Eric raised the radio to his lips and keyed the
button.
“Say again, we didn’t copy your last transmission.”

Walters’s voice, now freed from the confines of the
headset speakers, came through loud and clear.
“Goodness gracious, it’s
about time. What in the world has been going on over there? It sounded like a
war zone coming through our radios. Is everybody OK . . . repeat . . . is
everybody OK?”

“10-4, we are all present and accounted for. We’re
heading back by water—plus one passenger—a young boy about twelve years old.”

“Roger that.”

“Be advised that we’ll need dry clothes immediately
upon our arrival—Sam, Michelle, the boy, and me.”
The clacking of Eric’s teeth accompanied his message.

“Understood. What’s your ETA?”

He hesitated for a second from underneath the tarp,
and Callie’s musical tone jumped in to fill the gap.
“Mr. Sheldon, we’ll be
there in about ten minutes.”

“10-4. I’ll see you at the boat launch in about ten .
. . and we’re glad to hear that you’re all in one piece—you had us worried for
a bit. By the way, Eric, somebody wants to say ‘hi’ to you.”
The channel stayed open, and the sound of shuffling
and shifting came through before being replaced with a weak, but unmistakably
welcome gruffness.

“Give me back my watch you thief.”

Twin bursts of excitement and relief flooded Eric’s
gut at the sound of Uncle Andy’s voice, and he hung his head in a silent prayer
of thanks before responding.
“I think that can be arranged.”

Smoke blackened faces bobbled in harmony with the
jarring movement of the deuce and a half transport as it limped down the edge
of the road. It was a late model
M35—the A3 version—similar in
appearance to the thousands of other two and a half ton cargo vehicles in
service with the United States and other countries’ military forces throughout
the world. The main difference that separated the A3 version was an upgrade to
an automatic transmission. The newly improved gearbox was linked to a
Caterpillar diesel engine, and they worked in unison to push the M35 forward,
despite the shredded remains of the front left tire. Estes gazed at the
scattering of camouflaged uniforms that rode with him. Bones—Corporal Matthew
Henry—was there, as well as other members of Alpha squad. PFC’s Dennis
Spurlock, Ross Morgan, and Calvin Rook. The rest of his squad was gone . . .
lost in the explosion when the Black Hawk crashed into the school, or the
resulting detonation of the fuel bladders that had been stored nearby. Those
that hadn’t perished in the inferno had been torn apart before his very eyes,
or swallowed underneath a festering pile of infected during their escape
attempt. They had held out for as long as they could to give others a chance to
make it to the vehicles . . . some had, most had not. Seated across from him was
Sergeant Rita Thorn from the medical team.  To her right was a civilian
contractor, Nora Veil, also from medical. Next to them was Airman First Class
Eli Horton, the Black Hawk mechanic that had been stationed at the school.
Rounding out the diminished sea of occupants was Charlotte Pope, a lieutenant
with the small military police unit that had been dropped off a few days before
everything went to hell. The last person, seated next to Lieutenant Pope, was a
thin man with wire framed glasses and a perpetual look of bewilderment on his
face—Specialist Jacob Oakley. Supposedly from the 10
^th
Mountain
Division at Fort Drum, he’d been the last one that had been brought coughing
and gagging on to the transport before the fence had collapsed and the wave of
snarling gray monsters had surged toward the trucks. In the front, driving the
hobbled transport, was Specialist Glenn Perkins. Scouting ahead for the M35 was
Sergeant Alex Keene, driving the only Humvee that had survived the catastrophe.

“Everybody
still OK?” Estes announced for perhaps the fifth time in the last hour.

“Still good, Captain,”
Bones nodded back, starting the chain of “thumbs up” that went around the
truck.

Nine others
had made it out with them. The most senior officer—Major Sullivan—a recently
redrafted physician, had been severely burned when the fuel bladders had
ruptured. Estes, Keene, and Perkins would have been toasted along with him if
they hadn’t dove into the APC a split second before. In any event, the major
had survived long enough to escape the schoolyard, and the reaching, grabbing
claws that had shredded so many others. He had died from his injuries less than
an hour later, however.

The other
eight, a mixture of soldiers and civilians, had perished one by one in the last
twelve hours. Some of them from the damage they had received during the evacuation—lacerations,
burns, and in two cases, friendly fire gunshot wounds. Others had succumbed to
the sickness that had developed after they’d been attacked by the swarms. One
of them, a portly civilian somehow attached to the logistics team, had gone
from awake, alive, and coherent, to a rabid, drooling fiend less than twenty
minutes after he’d been bitten multiple times while trying to board the truck.
His surprise attack had taken down two other soldiers as well. Since then,
they’d been calling out “feel good” checks every fifteen minutes or so.
Everybody remaining from their whittled down numbers had not been visibly
injured by any of the infected, but Estes had ordered Sergeant Thorn to conduct
a quick “extremities” inspection just to be sure. Hands, forearms, and necks
were all examined, as was any area of the body located underneath ripped or
torn clothing. She had found nothing, but as a precaution recommended a
temperature check every hour, as well as the more frequent verbal queries for
at least the next twenty-four.

“Spurlock, where are we with ammo and supplies after
that last encounter?” Estes asked with a grimace, knowing the answer would be
bleak. Since their forced exit from the school at Fort Hammer, they’d had
several clashes with patches of the infected. Some of them had been sporadic
loners that were easily avoided; others were pairs, triples or small mobs
numbering upwards of twenty. His standing order had been to avoid conflict if
at all possible, and if not, they were supposed to use the vehicles to pound
their way through the attacking crowd, hence the tire damage that now
drastically reduced their speed and mobility. He could still remember the
stunned disbelief on his own face when they had found the splintered shard of
human rib bone protruding through the thick rubber. They had a spare, but no
tools . . . of course. The CTIS system, designed to keep all tires
automatically at the correct inflation level, couldn’t even begin to keep up
with the loss through the gaping hole. Since that time, they’d been forced to
use up the majority of their ammunition in small, but violent meetings with the
gray-skinned horrors.

“Not too good, sir. I’ve got a full mag, and maybe six
or eight rounds in a partial. Henry, Morgan, and Rook only have one
twenty-rounder apiece.”

Lieutenant Pope spoke up. “I’m out of 5.56, but I’ve
still got two full magazines for the M9,” she patted the Beretta pistol on her
belt as she spoke.

Estes leaned down and keyed the microphone at the end
of the spiral cord that led to the radio.
“Perkins, Keene, wha’cha got left
for the bad guys?”

Both replies came back with similar, yet different
military smart ass answers that referenced their good looks, or various parts
of their anatomy, but neither came through with any ammunition.

“Sergeant Keene, find us a spot to pull over and
stretch. Preferably one that’s not crawling with those freaks.”

“Well, we can stop right here, but it looks like we’ve
got an intersection about a half a click up ahead. I can see a lot of vehicles
blocking the highway. We might be able to scoot around them, but I just can’t
tell from here. I’d feel a lot more comfortable if I knew what was up there
before we decided on this spot, though.”

“Let’s pull off for a minute, and then you can take
Bones with you to scout it out. What’s your fuel status?”

“Copy that about Bones. The Hummer is showing a little
over a quarter tank.”

“Copy.”

The truck crunched across the berm, slowing from a
fast crawl to a complete stop in less than fifty feet. Perkins kept the diesel
engine idling as Bones clambered down to the ground.

“Bones,” Estes thumped the canvas cover of the truck
bed for emphasis, “scouting only. No heroics, and no firing if at all possible.
Just get close enough to glass the area, OK?”

“You got it, sir.” With that he disappeared around the
side and out of view. A few seconds later, the sound of the Hummer accelerating
carried through the weather shield.

Looking around at the somber faces did nothing for his
own feelings of helplessness, so Estes stood, arched his back, stretched, and
went through a quick series of in-place calisthenics before returning to his
spot on the truck bed. His MOLLE backpack occupied the space to his left, and
he reached in one of the side pouches to sort through the remains of an MRE
that he had forced down earlier. The first thing his fingers encountered was
the semi-squishy Mylar pack of peanut butter. He wasn’t a fan, which is why it
had several identical companions to keep it company in the same side pouch.

“Anybody want some PB without the J?”

Nobody’s hand leapt skyward in enthusiasm at his
offer, and he was about to drop it back in the pocket when Specialist Oakley slowly
raised a finger.

Estes nodded, “I’ve got several . . . how many do you
want?”

“Just one would be fine.” The thin, almost baby faced
specialist with the wire glasses had a deep, easy to listen to tone that seemed
to carry without the need for amplification.

A flick of Este’s fingers sent the silver foil packet
accurately on its way, and Oakley picked it up from his lap and tore it open.

“You’re something of a mystery, Mr. Oakley,” Estes
observed as the man scissored his fingers and shucked the sticky contents into
his mouth. “Do you want to shed some light on why you were up at the school?”

“I already told your sergeant, I was there waiting for
Major Larrabee.”

“Why?”

“I’m sorry,
sir, but I’m not allowed to say.”

“You realize
that Major Larrabee is a crispy critter, don’t you? He was on that helicopter
that got shot down and smashed into the school.”

The dismal look
on the specialist’s face showed that he knew, and he turned away and dropped
his forehead into his palms.

Estes pressed.
“Why were you there?”

A bare shake
of his head accompanied his answer. “I’m . . . sorry. I know that Major
Larrabee was on that helo when it went down,” he raised his eyes and looked at
the captain, “but I don’t think that changes anything.”

“Well, we’ll
come back to that in a minute. For now, let’s start with your MOS.”

After brief glance out the back of the vehicle, he put
his head back in his hands and mumbled, “65X.”

“What the hell is that? Something in medical, right?”

Sergeant Thorn interjected before Oakley could answer,
“You’re full of shit.”

Estes turned to look at Thorn, “What’s going on, Sergeant?”

Thorn turned to look at the specialist, still seated
and holding his head as she addressed the captain. “Sir, have you ever heard that
joke, ‘what do you call an upside down blonde?’”

PFC Morgan immediately shot back the answer with a
laugh. “A brunette.”

Estes got the joke and smiled, but the confusion in
his eyes over the connection must have been evident.

Thorn swiveled back to face the captain, and very
nonchalantly said, “What I’m saying is that the carpet doesn’t match the
drapes, so to speak.”

Estes wasn’t stupid, but he was tired to the point of
numbness. “Explain.”

“The 65’s are the medical specialists—things like
physical therapists and dietitians. I’m not exactly sure what 65X is, but I can
tell you that they’re all supposed to be officers.”

Estes turned to look at Oakley, who was now rubbing
his eyebrows in concentration. “So it seems the mystery deepens. And to be honest,
I have absolutely no desire to spend any time wasting what few mental resources
I have left trying to figure out, so here is what’s going to happen. I’m going
to ask you some questions, and you’re going to answer. The first time you give
me a reason to even suspect that you’re being less than truthful with me,” he
reached into his belt sheath and drew out a thick bladed, drop point knife, “I
will cut your Achilles tendon and kick you out the back. Is that understood
with absolute clarity, Oakley?”

“I’m not allowed to answer any questions, Captain, and
besides, I don’t currently have any of the answers you’ll probably want.”

“We’ll see about that. Let’s start simple—what’s your
name, for real?”

“Jacob Oakley.”

“Rank?”

“First lieutenant.”

“Why are you wearing the uniform of an E-4 instead of
an officer?”

“I was told to, sir.”

“By who?”

Oakley paused before answering, “Sir, I’m not sure
that I can answer that without violating my oath.”

Private Rook spoke up, “Maybe if you let me kick him a
few times in the face, he’ll feel more like talking, sir.”

“Let’s hold off on the face kicking, at least for a
minute or two.” Turning back to Oakley, he said, “We’ll come back to that
question. What’s your real MOS?”

“I told you already, it’s
65X.”

“And that is .
. .?”