Fade to Grey (Book 2): Darkness Ascending (78 page)

Andy stood just inside the door that faced the lake,
staring through a section of the black plastic that covered the windows. It had
been slit with a razor knife, and now afforded him a viewing angle toward the
road.

“You don’t have to be in here with me, you know,” Andy
said.

Behind him, the blood, mud, and dirt stained digital
camouflage uniform of Estes finished loading a third magazine from the ammo box
at his feet. “Tell you what sir, after the last few days, I’m going to enjoy
letting somebody else be in charge.”

A glance up at the battery powered clock on the wall
of the now empty store showed 2:55 PM, and Andy yawned and stretched. The
encircling bandage around his head had been replaced by a much smaller and
neater series of butterfly closures, and with the addition of a hat they almost
disappeared. He closed his eyes in concentration, trying one more time to run
the possible scenarios through his mind. Nothing new revealed itself, so he
turned to face Estes for a final opinion.

“Kevin, you got any last words before I send the
signal?”

“You could always call down an air strike from the
Raptors,” Estes laughed.

The smile that creased Andy’s face brought with it a
memory of Michelle, and that automatically jumped to thoughts of Eric. His
smile descended to a tight lipped grimace, and then he sighed in resignation.
“They were running dry on fuel and had to return to base. You got anything else
helpful?”

Estes stood—his assault vest now fully stocked with
ammunition—and walked toward the window. “I have a feeling that you’ve already
been in a lot more firefights than I ever will, sir.”

“The answer to that one may surprise you, but go ahead
and give me your opinion anyhow.”

“It’s nothing new,” Estes offered, “and it ain’t like
in the movies. If this turns into a shooting match, the first three seconds of
action from your team is going to determine the outcome, because once the other
side starts shooting back, well then, let’s just say that reality takes a
sudden and interesting turn.”

Andy nodded. “I know. I’ve told everybody to make their
first shot count. I’m praying it doesn’t come to that, though.”

“As I recall, you can be pretty intimidating with just
words,” Estes bobbed his head at Andy.

“Well let’s just see about that.” Andy turned and
looked at Estes’ dark eyes. “OK captain, this is your last chance to bail out
and go hide with the womenfolk.”

With another snort of laughter, Estes stomped over to
Andy. “No offense sir, but I’ve met some of the women you hang out with. I
think I’d be safer down here.”

“That you may, Kevin . . . that you may.” Andy
adjusted the radio at his belt and then slid the throat microphone into
position.
“Attention all units, attention all units . . . I’m moving to
hands free communication mode. Remember your fields of fire . . . and listen
for commands on the PA system.”
With a final deep breath, he transmitted
again.
“Walter . . . send the signal.”

Leading the convoy, the 8.1 liter V8 engine underneath
the hood of the Richland plow truck whined like a thoroughbred horse being held
back by a pull of the reins. Its stout,
reinforced metal dump body
typically contained two and a half tons of salt, but today it carried a
different cargo. Attached to the front of the early 2000 model Chevrolet was an
eight foot wide, mostly bright yellow snow plow—its ‘mostly’ status earned by
the tarnishing of blood and entrails following an encounter with a small band
of creeps late last night. In line behind the plow truck was a pair of four
wheel drive pickups, and behind them the heavy diesel engine of the Richland
Fire Department pumper truck chugged slowly. Like a long metallic serpent, the column
of vehicles turned off the road and onto the gravel parking lot of the marina.
After a moment of idling silence, the fire truck cut loose with a double blast
of its air horn. A thick bodied man with a heavy brown beard and bulky mustache
stepped down from the bright red emergency vehicle. Following at his heels was
a taller man with gray hair that curled out from underneath the wide brim of a
cutter style western hat. Their boots scrunched on the gravel as they walked up
to the plow truck and stood shoulder to shoulder next to the angled blade.
Slung across the back of the tall, gray-haired man was a pump shotgun with a
pistol grip. In contrast, the bearded paramedic held the blocky frame of a
submachine gun that dangled from a two point sling. A lengthy stick magazine
extended from the bottom of the weapon, and protruding from the front was a
charcoal colored suppressor.

“Attention
all close support units . . . stay hidden until you hear otherwise. Distance
units, acquire targets now. Maintain radio silence if at all possible. I’m
heading out to the gravel . . . repeat, I’m heading out to the gravel.”

Andy stepped
outside and then turned, faking the motion of relocking the door he’d just come
out of. The black plastic prevented him from seeing inside, but he knew that
Estes was on the other side of the glass ready to rock and roll if necessary.
He turned and walked out toward the two men standing by the plow. Closing the
distance to seven feet, Andy stopped and gave a cursory glance at the two armed
men before sliding his eyes past them and to the truck.

“Little late
in the season to be plowing snow, don’t you think?”

Deep set brown
eyes studied Andy cautiously. After moment, the man’s cheeks twitched
underneath the volume of bushy hair, and he flicked a single finger off the gun
he cradled. Directing the finger towards Andy he spoke. “Who are you?”

“That depends
. . . who’s askin’?”

“I’m Ray
Ingram, director of the Richland protectorate zone.”

“The what?”
Andy asked.

“The zone of
control mandated by the federal government’s emergency protocols. Where is Mr.
Walter Sheldon?”

“He’s
unavailable right now.”

“Make him
available.” The frown underneath the shaggy beard was unmistakable.

“Why don’t you
tell me exactly what you want, and then I’ll decide if you need to speak to
Walter.”

The
paramedic’s eyes darted upward toward the rooftop of the gas station. The
mockup of Thompson had traded its binoculars for a very realistic looking BB
gun. Ignoring Andy for a moment, the bearded man reached to a radio at his
belt.
“Fireball calling lightning bolt, do you copy?”

“Lightning
bolt standing by.”
The reply was audible to all three of the men standing
near the snowplow.

“Lightning
bolt, prepare to carry out your mission on your primary target. Wait for my
signal.”

The response
came immediately.
“Lightning bolt is ready and waiting.”

With a scoff
of irritation, Ray focused once again on Andy. “Send Walter Sheldon out here
right now.”

Andy crossed
his arms. “Or what? I’m unarmed . . . Are you going to shoot me down right here
in the parking lot?”

Peering
through the blinds of his office, Walter both saw and heard his old friend send
the signal. There was no hesitation, and he keyed the microphone.
“Mike . .
. Callie . . . take it out.”

Callie’s
voice—almost rippling with excitement—replied two seconds later.
“We’re on
it. We’ll report in when it’s done.”

“10-4. Sam
and Thompson, pass the word and get ready.”
Walter set the walkie-talkie on
the edge of his desk and turned toward Little Jimmy; his bulk now filling the
couch. “I hope the information you told us about the armored truck is correct.”

“It is.”

Crowbar Mike
peered around the clump of willows that he and Callie were hiding behind.
Almost like they had designed the plan themselves, the half track vehicle had
stopped just out of sight from the marina. It sat there idling about seventy
yards in front of them, and when the call came through from Walter, they
clambered to their feet and prepared to move.

“Are you
ready?” Mike asked.

A bright white
smile accompanied the squeezing motion of the heavy duty wire cutters in
Callie’s hand. “Let’s do it.”

Hefting the
roll of two inch wide black duct tape in his own hand, Mike returned the smile
to the girl he seemed constantly paired up with. Not that he minded one bit.
“OK . . . let’s go.”

As silently as
they could, Mike and Callie trotted towards the rumbling APC.

“Last chance.
Send out Walter Sheldon right now and this will all go a lot smoother.”

“Ray, here’s
the thing. I’ve been elected to talk to you, and like it or not, that’s the way
things are right now. So why don’t you try and be civil and tell me exactly
what it is you want, because as far as I’m concerned, you and I don’t have a
problem yet.”

The paramedic
paused as he studied Andy’s steel-gray eyes for a solid thirty seconds. At his
shoulder, the tall man in the western hat gestured a thumb toward Andy. “G’head
Ray, tell ‘im.”

“Fine. Like I
said, my name is Ray Ingram. I’m in charge of the Richland protectorate zone,
which is a federally mandated zone of martial law around the city of Richland,
North Dakota. Our job is to consolidate personnel and resources at a central
location in order to more efficiently combat the plague infected victims in our
zone.”

“Richland is
pretty far away from here,” Andy said, “so what does all that have to do with
us?”

The tight
lipped smile that crossed onto Ray’s face was dripping with smugness. “Our zone
of control is a fifty mile radius from the central location at shelter Yellow.
That puts you, and everybody else here under our jurisdiction. Effective
immediately, all able bodied personnel, all supplies—including but not limited
to all weapons, ammunition, fuel, and food—are to be produced for immediate
incorporation. Failure to comply with this lawful order will result in the use
of deadly force.”

“Now we have a
problem,” Andy said.

“We’ve come a
long way to rescue everybody here at the marina, and I’ve had just about enough
of your stalling, old man.” Narrow eyes squinted towards Andy, and the
submachine gun shifted slightly upward.

“Ray, there’s
a couple things that you need to understand.” Andy stepped forward two paces
and stared into the dark eyes of the paramedic. “The first thing is that we
don’t need rescuing. We’re perfectly fine the way we are. The second thing you
need to understand is that a good leader doesn’t believe everything that he
hears, especially from little dark haired weasels like Diane. Do we have some
guns? . . . yep. Do we have a little bit of rice for food and a couple gallons
of gasoline for the generator? . . . yep. Are we going to hand it all over to
you and put a noose around our necks so you can fulfill your dreams of
lordship? Not a chance.”

“You don’t
have a choice, old man.” This time it was said with a reptilian smile.

“Oh, I think
we have a lot of choices, Ray.” Andy said.

With his eyes
still locked on Andy, the paramedic yelled out loud. “FIRST SQUAD . . . READY
AND UP.”

From the large
hopper on back of the plow truck, a group of six men wearing tactical vests and
armed with black rifles stood. Two of them trained their sights on the roof of
the gas station, and the other four spread their aim across the parking area.

Andy slid his
eyes past Ray and onto the group of armed men. “That’s not a very nice gesture,
Mr. Ingram.”

“It’s not
supposed to be nice, and I’m done talking to you. Send out everybody from the
gas station right now, or we’ll open fire and sort through the bodies.”

Andy took
another step forward; stopping only when the end of the dark suppressor poked
into his gut. “Ray, I’m trying to be nice, and I understand that you think you
have a job to do. But just so I’m crystal clear on this, you’re telling me that
you will murder innocent civilians if we don’t turn over our lives and
possessions to you. Is that right?”

The broad
shoulders of the paramedic scrunched forward, and his lips spat venomous words
directly at Andy’s face. “I’ll burn down the gas station with everybody in it
right now if you don’t have them come out and lay down their weapons.”

“OK Ray,
you’ve made your point . . .”

The machine
gun shoved forward, poking Andy hard in the stomach and thrusting him against
the blade of the plow. “No,” Ray hissed, “I don’t think I have.” He lifted the
muzzle of his weapon toward the sky and picked up his radio.
“Lightning bolt
. . . Take out your target, repeat, you are cleared to engage your primary
target.”

BOOM
.
The rolling thunder of a single gunshot followed immediately after Ray’s
broadcast, and a muscular arm reached out and pushed Andy to the ground. “Look
up at the roof, old man. Your guard just got his head blown off, so get on your
radio and tell everyone to come out right now.”

“I don’t have
to, Ray,” Andy said from the ground in front of the plow, “they already know,
and I think they’d like to say a few words to you and your crew.”