Fade to Grey (Book 2): Darkness Ascending (52 page)

“Good, then find me in the morning, OK?”

I nodded and headed upstairs. The smell of hot spiced
cider permeated the kitchen, and the low hum of several conversations
reverberated in the air. Michelle was in a triangle with Bucky and Fred at the
kitchen table. CJ, his wife Nancy, Doc Collins, Leah, and Mr. Lee were seated
around the coffee table playing cards. The three boys—BB and Noah Bishop, and
the one we had rescued from the campground, Logan Winters—were scrunched in the
corner with Thompson and Scott playing some type of game that involved hundreds
of thin, wooden sticks and plastic cogs. The only people my mind could
immediately identify as missing were Sam and Rebecca. I put that thought aside
and sank into the reassuring depth of a recliner that practically oozed the scent
of pipe smoke. My eyes closed briefly before Bernice’s clunky-soft footsteps
edged them open. She was holding a mug in her hand and directed it toward me.

“Try this.”

I took the mug and dabbed my finger in the liquid. It
was warm, but not so much that I would be in danger of scalding the tip of my
tongue again. I could smell the heady aroma of a multitude of spices, and they
were mingling with another odd, yet curiously pleasant scent. A sip, followed
by another longer one produced a smile on my face, but gave no clue to the
unidentified ingredient. My upturned eyes met with a secretive smile on
Bernice’s face.

She held a finger to her lips. “Shhhh,” she whispered,
“I might have accidentally dropped a few shots of brandy in the cider.”

“Nice touch,” I whispered back. She returned to the
stove and I raised the foot rest on the recliner. A tidal wave of long ignored
thoughts crashed against the inside of my eyelids immediately after I shut
them, and I could tell from their intensity that I wouldn’t be getting any rest—real
rest—in the short down time that I had. I took another sip of the spiced cider
and tried to sort through the jumble in my head. Of the entire chorus of voices
presenting their case to be heard first, I managed to whittle away all but two.
The remaining cider was drained in several large gulps, and then I pushed myself
deeper into the cushions and focused on the two winners.

“Ready for the lights?” Sam announced with his hand on
the pull cord of a battery powered, stick-on light that was attached to the
wall above the stairway threshold.

“Almost,” Amy replied.

I looked around the room at the expectant faces of the
crowd. We were all loosely packed into the downstairs living room where
Samantha’s laptop had been attached to a projector. A home movie screen four
feet wide, and almost that tall had been positioned against the far wall.
Everyone was here with the exception of Bernice and Leah who were up in the
sewing room monitoring the video feeds. The three young boys were also
absent—supposedly asleep in a spare bedroom upstairs. Doc had even given
permission for Emily to attend. She sat on the opposite side of the room from
me on the soft couch. Fred sat next to her. From my angle, it looked like they
were chatting up a storm. Michelle was crouched on the floor in the back
corner, still working on her iPad, the power cord of which was plugged into one
of the generator linked outlets. A few moments ago, Walter had given the
rundown of the additional supplies, but for some reason, or reasons, unknown to
me at the time, he wasn’t as forthcoming as I thought he’d be. In any event,
everybody now knew that we had additional gasoline, food, and weapons, although
the exact amounts and locations of each were not announced. The cabin itself
was only mentioned in passing as a “supply cache” where some of the additional
items were stored. Doc had also filled them in about what Callie had discovered
regarding blood types.

“OK people, give me your attention up here,” my uncle
announced.

The conversations died away almost immediately, and he
continued. “Some of you know that Samantha, the girl that Eric and Michelle
brought here on the same night that I came in,” he nodded towards the couch,
“Emily too . . ., well, she was working on a little project to try and get us
some information about what’s really going on in the world.” He stopped and
looked down, his lips firm, tight, and straight for a few moments. When his
gaze shifted up, I could tell that he was still struggling with her loss, and
his sense of responsibility for what had happened. I stood up and cleared my
throat.

“Samantha,” I started, “lost her life trying to get us
that information. Some of you may have noticed that Michelle and I were gone
for a day or two.” I paused and let that sink in for a minute. “We were able to
recover her laptop.” I looked at my uncle, catching the barely visible nod of
gratitude at the slight delay that enabled him to regroup.

He took over as I returned to my chair. “Samantha
worked with computers for a living. Using some materials we had lying around at
our supply cache, she was able to connect with some satellite feeds.” He
pointed at the laptop, “There’s not a whole lot, and most of it is in French,
but I think what you’re about to see is going to lead you to the same
conclusion that I came to.” He powered up the laptop, and it booted to the same
password request screen that Michelle and I had seen earlier, only this time it
was in giant green letters displayed on the movie screen. My uncle’s fingers
jabbed at the laptop’s keyboard, and a series of asterisks appeared in the
password box. I made a mental note to ask him about how he hacked into her
system. A moment later, the screen changed from empty black to the vibrant
turquoise, tans, and greens of a tropical beach setting. Multiple icons were
arranged in neat rows across the water and sand, and their placement left a
large gap in the center of the display. Situated in the middle of the picture
was an empty beach chair that looked out over the water. The cup holder
attached to the chair held a tall glass, beaded with sweat and topped with a
miniature green umbrella. Directly above the umbrella was the icon of a beer
bottle. The label flagged across the bottle spelled out my uncle’s name.

Walter chuckled and pointed, “I guess she figured that
the first thing you’d find would be a beer.” Several people in the room laughed
at his comment, including my uncle.

“Yeah . . . anyhow . . . Samantha managed to get us a
little view into the world outside of North Dakota before she was . . .” He
trailed off again and shook his head. After a few seconds and several deep
sighs, he pointed at the screen. “Just watch it through the first time, and
then we’ll replay it and let Amy try to translate.” He moved the cursor over
top of the beer bottle double clicked.

The webcam image of a thin girl with mousey brown hair
decorated with blue beads appeared. In the background, I saw the torso and
swinging, tattooed arm of the man Max had killed behind the cabin. It was
Garrett—Samantha’s boyfriend . . . obviously before he became infected.
Samantha reached toward her laptop and the image angle adjusted. When she was
apparently satisfied, she leaned forward and spoke.

“Hey Andy, it’s Samantha. Obviously you figured out my
clue to the encryption or you wouldn’t be looking at this right now.” The image
of Samantha paused, the point of her chin resting on her thumb and knuckle as
she looked upwards. “But I guess,” she continued, “if you’re watching this,
that means that something happened to me.” She smiled and shook her head before
a slight grimace took over. “OK, that’s kind of weird. I mean recording
something that somebody else would only see if you’re dead . . . I mean if I’m
dead.” Her grimace shifted again into a broad smile and her face lit up with
laughter. “It’s kind of cool, though.” She sat back and froze in a museum
quality façade. “Samantha Poe, immortalized forever in the digital memory of a
circuit board that was assembled by the lowest bidder.” Her voice was an
attempt at a radio announcer, but it was almost lost to me with the realization
that I now knew her last name. Somehow, it made her even more human . . . her
loss even greater. I rubbed my eyes, missing the next few seconds of video
before turning back to the screen.

“Anyhow,” Samantha spoke, “I’ve managed . . .”

“We’ve managed, you mean.” Garrett’s voice tunneled in
from the background. The image of Samantha revealed a huge eye roll, but it was
paired with a smile.

She corrected herself, “
We’ve
managed to get a
dish set up and calibrated with my computer. I’ve located a functioning
satellite from CanTelCom, and I’m working on accessing their data streams. A
lot of it is encrypted, but I’m pretty sure I found a way in through the
maintenance system. I’ll keep you informed about the progress. One thing I can
already tell you is that the Internet is definitely AWOL. It’s like the
protocols have been rewritten, and nothing can communicate with anything else.
Anyhow, I’ll check back in when I have something.”

The screen blipped for a split second and then
Samantha reappeared. She was wearing her coat and held a ceramic mug in a
gloved hand. “OK Andy, I guess we should have paid more attention when you
showed us how to light the fire. Anyhow, it’s update time. Like I mentioned
earlier, I was able to gain access to the satellite by worming in through the
maintenance system. You would think that a billion dollar company could afford
to lay out a little bit of cash and update all of their critical access points
with cutting edge firewalls. Their loss, our gain. So anyhow, I’m in to their
satellite feed, although it’s weird . . .” Her lips scrunched up in thought for
a moment. “All I can pick up is a single data stream that loops over and over
again. If I had to guess, I’d say that somewhere in Canada is a still
functioning, ground based uplink that is trying to broadcast this signal.
Unfortunately, there seems to be a multitude of problems.” She scooted her nose
closer to the webcam lens until her head filled the entire screen. “Keep in
mind I’m just guessing here, but these are fairly educated guesses. The first
problem is that the transmission has nowhere to go. In other words, once it
hits the satellite, it’s not being rebroadcast into a million igloos in the
Arctic Circle. Basically, I’m telling you that the satellite is offline—whether
it was intentional or otherwise I can’t really say. The second problem is that
the signal fades in and out. There could be a lot of reasons for this. It could
be the equipment on our end, or at the broadcast point, or the satellite itself
might be tracking off its geostationary orbit. I have no way to tell for sure.
The third problem is the broadcast that’s just spinning in limbo up in the
satellite is in French, so I hope you can understand it. We’ve watched it a
couple times here, and all I can say is that I’m glad I’m not where this was
taken. There’s nothing more that I think I can get from this satellite, so
tomorrow morning Garrett and I are going to try and locate another one that
hopefully will give us a bit more. Wish us luck.” Her face disappeared and was
replaced by a black screen. Almost immediately, scuffling sounds and muffled
voices erupted from the laptop’s speakers. The black screen fuzzed into
blue-gray, and then materialized into the frightened face of a woman with disheveled
black hair. She was holding a microphone and glancing nervously to the left and
right. Whoever was working the camera was obviously not using a tripod, and the
image bounced and jiggled.

My uncle paused the playback for a moment. “Just a
little clarification . . . what you’re about to see is the reporter and her cameraman
shooting a video
of
another video. There’s a television or monitor in
the background, and that’s what they’re filming. Not that I should have to
remind you, but this movie doesn’t have a kid friendly rating. He took it off
pause and the image rolled onward.

The camera zoomed to the television, and a chaotic
scene of burning buildings appeared. The view was from what appeared to be the
roof of a hotel in a congested urban setting. As the image zoomed down, a mob
of running figures could be seen at street level. Several were being dragged
down to the ground and pummeled. Others were zigzagging like ants on hot sand
viewed from above with a magnifying glass. The picture retreated, shifted
angles, and zoomed back in. The disembodied hand of the reporter edged into
view and indicated a series of skyscrapers that were engulfed in heavy flames.
Chunks of fallen debris peeled off the buildings and crashed to the streets below
as her voiceover babbled frantically. The image shifted again as dozens of
distant
pops
came through the speakers. When it stabilized, it was
focused on a gridlocked intersection swarming with moving shapes. Tiny flashes
of light indicated gunfire, but the image couldn’t zoom enough to provide any
details. Her rapid fire French continued as the rooftop camera was repositioned.
When it steadied, it swept in a slow arc across a broad downtown thoroughfare.
What looked to be a six or eight lane major artery was gripped in a logjam of
stalled or abandoned vehicles. Some still had faint glimmers from their
headlights, and the dim round and square globes flickered as fast moving
shadows crossed in front. The entire scene was backlit with shimmering orange
firelight, and further obscured by billowing clouds of smoke. The French
reporter squealed in alarm as a series of heavy bangs echoed from the laptop’s speakers,
and her cameraman shifted from the television to a maroon set of double doors
that had been braced with a makeshift barricade of office furniture. Her voice
kicked up in both speed and intensity and the camera moved back to the
television. The nighttime rooftop view was now panning across the horizon of a
city, and dozens of buildings burned like sputtering roman candles. The image
shook and blackened again as the rooftop camera was moved another time. When it
cleared, it was looking straight down the side of the building at a massive
riot of people. Smashed glass from storefront windows reflected the flames of
the inferno across the street, and as the picture zoomed downward like a slowly
falling balloon, individual figures began to appear. Maximum magnification
stopped short of the clarity needed to pick out single faces, but the French
correspondent’s trembling finger jabbed several times at the image of the crowd
below, and her voice—also trembling—continued to narrate. Even from the
elevated viewing height, it was obvious that people were being torn apart. A
jarring impact crashed through the speakers, and the cameraman twisted rapidly
toward the maroon doors. Another slam sounded, and this time the double doors visibly
buckled. Yelling in French could be heard, and then the camera hit the ground
with a bang. Still rolling, it caught the ankles, then legs, then full figure
of a denim-clad man running towards the barricade. A pair of charcoal colored
leather pumps danced nervously in the foreground as another shock battered the
doors. With a tremendous series of crunches, the barricade collapsed and the
doors flew open in a sea of gray faces. Hysterical screams shot from the
journalist as the horde of infected swarmed over the man and poured into the
room. Her screams sounded again and again as the wave crashed over her with the
sound of grunting breaths and gnashing teeth. The camera, still rolling but now
kicked to the side showed only blackness. The audio remained functioning,
however, and my uncle let it play for about twenty seconds. The snapping,
tearing, and chewing that issued forth required no video to convey the scene.