Fade to Grey (Book 2): Darkness Ascending (76 page)

The glowing green letters on the digital display of my
truck’s dashboard indicated 1:31 PM, and for the hundredth time in the last
hour, I wished that I would have bought the extended cab version of my pickup.
Shawn and I were sitting in the bed of the truck, and Faith was rolling around
between our feet encapsulated in not one, but two of the pickle bags. Her
giggles as she steamrolled back and forth made my own heart lighter, and I
tried to focus on the road ahead as we pulled out of the farmhouse driveway.
Tater, Mia, and her dark haired children were waving goodbye to us from the
front porch. We returned their wave as all six tires from the truck and boat
trailer bounced through another set of potholes in the gravel drive.

“Tell Michelle to turn around and go back,” Shawn
said, “I think there’s only one pothole left that she didn’t hit.”

I chuckled and waved one final time as we accelerated
down the country road. My belly wasn’t stuffed full, but it was pleasantly
occupied by about eight chicken strip-sized portions of fried beaver. Mia had
sprinkled some type of red powder over the food, and it gave the chunks of meat
a sweet, peppery taste that gradually magnified in heat until the cumulative
effects began to hit around strip five. The bright side is that I drank a lot
of water after my meal. We still had five cans of unopened ravioli, and we left
it for them along with the small bass boat. The fuel gauge on my truck was
showing over three quarters of a tank, so we emptied our spare gas cans into
Tater’s vehicle. The stash that I had buried in the barn was dug up, and as a
final token of goodwill, Shawn, Mack, and I took turns with the filter and
topped off all three of Tater’s water buckets. When we were finally loaded and
ready to go, Lynn and Mack rode up front with Michelle, and Shawn and I stayed
in the back and froze our tails off. We followed the same route on our return.
Aside from the distant sighting of a large swarm of ghouls, our trip back was
uneventful. At least until we closed in on the marina. From 500 yards out, the
sound of rifle fire ramped up over the wind rushing past my ears, and I knocked
on the roof of the cab. Michelle dropped her speed as we cut the distance in
half, slowing even further as I began to pull up my pair of binoculars. The
cold chills that gripped at my insides had nothing to do with the temperature,
and as the distant scene began to come into focus, bullets began
cracking
through the air all around us.

The M35 bounced twice after the jack’s hydraulic
release was turned, and the big vehicle—now fully roadworthy—idled roughly in
apparent impatience as the camouflaged figures stowed the toolkit that had been
recovered from the tow truck. When it was secured, they jockeyed the transport
into position and began winching.

Estes wiped a combination of dark grease, silver
anti-seize compound, and multicolored—but mostly black—road grime from his
hands. The smudges that transferred to his uniform quickly became lost in the
kaleidoscope of stains already present; stains that included the blood of four
more people that had fallen under his watch. Their stop at the intersection had
been a necessary, but costly setback, and Estes frowned as his gaze lingered on
the line of bodies next to the Humvee. The only way forward or through the
logjam of vehicles had required the use of the winch on the M35, but the blown
front tire needed replaced before that could happen. Unfortunately, with the
jack missing from the transport, they had to deal with a pack of infected that
were ambling through the snarl of stopped vehicles. What started off with
Sergeant Keene operating as a sniper quickly degenerated into a full scale
fight for their lives as several dozen more of the gray people materialized
from the wreckage. By the time it was over, Corporal Matthew “Bones” Henry, and
PFC Dennis Spurlock—both members of Alpha squad—had lost their lives. Airman
Eli Horton, and the civilian contractor Nora Veil had also been killed in the
attack. If that wasn’t bad enough, the sergeant from the medical team, Rita
Thorn, had broken her arm trying to escape the grasping claws of one of the
red-eyed monsters, and Specialist Glenn Perkins had torn a huge gash in his
forearm on a jagged shard of metal while trying to pull PFC Spurlock away from
a pair of infected. Perkins’ normally dark Mediterranean skin tone was pale by
the time they had gotten the bleeding stopped. Since then, they had worked
quickly to winch a path deep enough to allow them to turn on the highway that
branched to the left. It was almost clear, and only one more vehicle—maybe two
at the most—would need to be pulled away.

“Keene, status update,”
Estes called.

The scrappy attitude and Brooklyn laced accent of Sergeant
Alex Keene came back immediately.
“The situation sucks, and it’s going to
suck even more really soon if we don’t get the hell out of here.”

“How many . . . and how long?”
Estes sighed.

“I’ve got a group of four moving through the line of
traffic and heading our way. ETA at their current speed is probably three
minutes. There’s another group—larger—about two minutes behind them.”

“Give us a two minute warning, and then meet me at the
Humvee.”

“Roger that.”

Estes turned to face Ross Morgan and Calvin Rook, the
two remaining privates from Alpha squad. “Morgan, rewind the winch and get
everybody loaded in the A3 right now . . . we’ve got incoming. Rook, you’re
driving.”

PFC Morgan took off on task with the speed born of
desperation, but Rook paused and looked at the narrow path they had created.

“We’ve still got two more cars to pull out of the way,
captain.”

“What’s the matter Rook . . . you never played bumper
cars before?” Estes said.

The private grinned and nodded. “Yes sir!”

“You’re leading the way, Sergeant Keene and I will
follow in the Hummer. We’ve got a grand total of three rounds of ammunition, so
don’t lead us into a firefight, got it?”

Rook’s affirmative salute coincided with the
sergeant’s warning, and Estes slapped Rook on the back. “Let’s go Calvin.”

The winch finished spooling, and Estes trotted over to
the Humvee and hopped in the driver’s seat. Crammed would be a better word for
it, and he mentally cursed the designers that didn’t take into account anything
but compact body frames. Behind him, Specialist Oakley coughed lightly.

“Hold on Oakley,” Estes muttered, “we’re getting ready
to move out, but there might be a few bumps on the way.”

“OK.”

Keene’s wiry form vaulted around the bed of a stalled
pickup before hood sliding across an old Buick. He landed next to the Hummer,
and in the space of two seconds, slid through the doorless entry of the vehicle
and shifted sideways, aiming his rifle toward the logjam of vehicles.

“Now would be a good time to leave, captain.”

Estes picked up the microphone.
“Make a hole Calvin
. . . go-go-go!”

The M35 idled up and lumbered ahead, gaining momentum
with each second until it crashed into the quarter panel of the blue Ford
sedan, crumpling the metal and screeching it forward against the front bumper
of an ivory colored work van stenciled on the sides with a mosaic of scrolling
flowers. The low gear ratio of the M35’s transmission kept churning the wheels,
and with the squeal of tires and the shriek of tearing metal, the last two
vehicles preventing their escape were shoved aside. Rook turned the big
transport hard left onto the highway, and Estes followed in the Humvee just a
few yards behind. When they had cleared the wreckage, Estes picked up the
microphone again.

“Calvin, give me about a mile of clearance from the
intersection, and then if everything looks good, pull over and we’ll reassess.”

"10-4."

"Captain," Oakley's voice carried over the
rumble of the Hummer’s diesel engine, "when we stop up ahead, do you mind
if I ride in the transport?"

"What's the matter Oakley," Sergeant Keene
puffed out after a wink towards Estes, "don't you like the company?"

"The company is fine, but why does it stink so
bad in here? It smells like a pile of moldy canvas in a locker room full of
jock straps.”

Keene and Estes traded knowing smiles. The “funk”
smell was widely believed to be a factory installed extra in every Humvee ever
made, and—like the sulfur and rotten egg smell of the
mercaptan
that was added to natural gas for its distinctive odor—once exposed,
you would never forget it.

“What are you talking about Oakley? I don’t smell
nothing,” Keene said.

“Me neither,” Estes added, “maybe it’s you.”

“Do you think the information he gave you is
accurate?” Doc Collins asked.

Andy nodded. “Yeah, I can pretty much guarantee that
he wasn’t holding anything back, at least anything that he was aware of.”

“That he was aware of?” Bucky’s gravelly voice
questioned.

“Well, what I’m trying to say is that I’m pretty sure
that ‘we’ know what ‘he’ knew, but with that comes the understanding that he
might not be up to speed on the whole plan. Although, I will add that he was
pretty thorough in his explanation.”

Silence descended across the room, with only the
occasional sputter or pop from the wood burning stove breaking through. Rebecca
finally dissolved the stillness by rehashing a similar question to the one that
started the meeting almost an hour ago. “I was checking on Francis when you
came back from talking to that guy, so can you tell me what he said?”

Andy picked up the radio.
“Mr. Lee, you already
heard the situation, correct?”

“Yeah, Scott and I know what’s going on.”

“OK, I’m gonna turn the radio off of monitor. That’ll
make it nice and quiet on your end. Remember . . . observe and report only.
Don’t start a war. Don’t even fire unless your life is on the line.”

“Got it,”
Mr.
Lee replied.

Calloused fingers held down a button and the radio
chirped, changing it from monitor to standby mode.

“Are they on the roof of the office?” Rebecca asked, concern
for her son showing through.

“No,” Sam answered, “after what we learned, that’s way
too risky of a position to be in, so they’re across the road behind a mound of
dirt in the RV parking area.”

“OK,” she breathed with a sigh of relief.

Andy stood and looked around the room. Everybody was
here except for Choon Lee and Scott, who had volunteered for first watch. Also
still missing were Eric and Michelle. Their continual absence brought pangs of
concern to Andy every time he thought about them, which was frequently. He
cleared his throat and walked over to the kettle of tea warming at the edge of
the stove. The spiral bound, metal handle dissipated the heat, and he picked it
up with an ungloved hand. A moment later his mug was topped off, and he turned
to face Rebecca.

“In a nutshell, we’re going to get a visit from the
‘acquisition’ team at shelter Yellow. Most likely early tomorrow morning. The
sniper—Jimmy Sterling is the name on his driver’s license, although he
apparently goes by the name of Little Jimmy for obvious reasons—is supposed to
take out our roof guards if we showed any signs of resistance. He also has
orders to fire on specific targets of opportunity as they present themselves,
namely Eric, Sam, and Walter.”

“But why? We haven’t done anything except provide
food, shelter, and medical care to the people that came here from the
campground. How could they even think about attacking us?”

Amy shook her head and chimed in. “Actually, it’s not
everybody at the shelter. The guy we met the other day, Ray Ingram, has
apparently been putting together his own faction. Either by threats, or maybe
bribes—we’re not entirely sure, and it really doesn’t make any difference at
this point—he’s now the head honcho at shelter Yellow. According to the sniper,
our favorite little tattletale has been filling Ray’s head with stories about
warehouses full of food, fuel, and guns.”

“Diane?” Rebecca asked incredulously.

Andy lifted his cup and took a sip as he replied.
“Yep, and not only her, but most of the troublemakers and ringleaders that
supported her . . . they’re all part of Ray’s little club now.”

“Are you seriously telling me,” Rebecca’s exasperated
countenance blushed in anger, “that with everything else going wrong in the
world, we’re going to have to deal with an attack from this egomaniacal
paramedic and his band of merry men?”

“That’s the info we got from Little Jimmy. Ray is
going to be sending his team with an offer to combine all of our personnel and
supplies with theirs at shelter Yellow. If we refuse, well then, the ‘offer’
becomes mandatory. Oh, and by the way, Ray gave the sniper specific
instructions to not shoot at the tall, dark haired lady.” Andy turned to face
Callie.

“If Ray even looks at me wrong, I’ll pull his sack so
hard that his eyebrows will blink over his nipples,” Callie spat.

“Well there’s a visual that I didn’t need,” Thompson
chuckled.

“Anyhow,” Andy continued, “we don’t have a long time
to decide on a response and get our assets into position.”

Preacher Dave waved a hand and drew everybody’s
attention. “You know me and what I stand for. If we can somehow solve this
without bloodshed, well then that’s the path I think we should take . . .”

“Yeah but . . .” Sam began to interrupt, but Dave
stood and cut him off.

“Hold on a minute Sam . . . let me finish. The bible
is very clear about loving your enemies and turning the other cheek, but it
also speaks in
Ecclesiastes 3:8 that there is
‘
a time to love, and a time to hate; a
time for war, and a time for peace.’ Now I’m not suggesting that we just lay
down our guns and hand over the keys to the kingdom to Ray, but just remember
that the same verse that tells us that there is a time for war, also tells us that
there is a time for peace.”

“English preacher . . . speak in English,” Bucky said.

Dave searched the faces of the small assembly. “What
I’m saying is that a lot of people can get caught up in the frenzy of the
moment. If they find a leader who is charismatic enough, many people will
follow blindly down whatever dark path is set before them, oftentimes without
even seeing the path to destruction they’re on, and it’s our job as Christians
to show them a way back toward the path of salvation. As far as it’s in our
power, we need,” he looked around the room again, “to make sure that everybody
who comes against us understands that our first choice is not to battle.”

“And what if they don’t give us any other option?”
Crowbar Mike asked.

“Well then, Judges chapter 15, verse 16 reminds us
that Samson ‘killed a thousand men with the jaw bone of an ass.’”

“That’s great,” Andy began to laugh, “but do you think
Walter will let us borrow his jaw bone?”

The first person to burst out with laughter was
Bernice, and the small crowd quickly degenerated into a teasing mirth that
lasted for several minutes. When they finally settled, Dave raised his hand
again and spoke. “I think it’s great that even with the way things are in the
world, we can still share a moment of joy, even at the expense of some good
natured ribbing among friends like Walter and Andy.” He directed his gaze
straight towards Bucky. “Now you know, they say it’s almost impossible to get a
preacher to speak plain English, but here it is. We need to do our best to
settle this situation peacefully, but if we’re not given that opportunity, or
if violence is being forced against us or those in our charge, then we need to
fight with every bit of courage and strength the Lord has given us.”

“Amen to that,” Walter said.

“I’ve got a question.” It was Emily—her shoulder was still
wrapped in bandages, but she was now able to sit upright on the couch.

“Go ahead young lady,” Andy said.

“Well, I wasn’t at the meeting down at the store when
the people from Richland showed up, but I’ve heard about it from several of the
folks that were there, and I’m just wondering about something.”

Another wave of silence eased across the room as they
waited for her to finish. Emily glanced to the left and then swiveled her head
over every occupied chair, couch cushion and rocker in the room. “If I heard
right, doesn’t Ray have some kind of armored car, and if he brings that, do we
have something that can stop it?”

Walter and Andy exchange smiles, and then Sam fielded
the question. “Emily, let’s just say with some helpful information from our
chubby friend Little Jimmy, that shouldn’t be a problem.”

“Besides,” Andy added, “there’s nothing more
satisfying than sending a bully running home to mom with his tail between his
legs.”

“Is that going to be possible? What if they bring
twenty-five guys with guns?” Doc Collins asked.

“That shouldn’t be a problem either,” Walter added,
“because we’re about to bait our trap with 400 pounds of Little Jimmy cheese.