Barely ten feet long, the wood paneled length of the hallway dead ended at an oil painting hung on the wall. The painting depicted a field of pastel wildflowers, and Eric knew that the artist of the work was Walter’s oldest daughter, Zoe. The door on the right at the end of the hall led to the room with Walter’s handmade picnic table. The door opposite it opened into the old mechanical shop where Walter tinkered with everything from trolling motors, to large, fuel injected V8 engines from ski boats.
“Left or right?”
“Left,” Sam said from the back.
“OK, right it is,” Eric chuckled back.
“What the hell . . . don’t you trust my Native American instincts?”
“I’ve seen the bruises all over your face—I’m not sure if your instincts are functioning at their peak levels.”
Sam directed his flashlight beam at Eric’s feet. “I don’t suppose your own instincts are going to win you any prizes either, hopalong,” he remarked with a snicker.
Eric returned the laugh, “Good point . . . Michelle, pick a door.”
“Right.”
“Brown-noser,” Sam whispered with a sneer.
“Max, let’s go.” Eric softly padded up to the right-hand door, and with a nod back toward Sam and Michelle, turned the knob. The room beyond was as he remembered it. A large, roughhewn picnic table sanded smooth on all the contact points sat on a deep layer of wood chips. In the corner, a laundry sink was bolted to the wall just below a ceiling mounted heater. The far wall of the room was made up of a metal garage door. The room was empty of anything else.
“Watch the hallway for a second,” Eric said as he walked back to the garage door and tested it.
“This seems pretty secure. I doubt if anything larger than a rat could get in this way.”
Sam and Michelle nodded, but said nothing as Eric and Max wormed past them. Pausing at the door to the motor bay to verify they were all ready took only a second, and then Eric turned the knob. The door opened with a squeak, and Max immediately began to sound a throaty growl. The growl mutated into a thick rumble as he bounded into the room and froze—shoulders locked and head low to the ground.
Muscles tensed in preparation for conflict, Eric leapt after Max and spun in a quick half circle—shocking the room into brilliance as he searched for the source of Max’s growl. The long rectangular partition occupied almost the same square footage as the rooms with the picnic table and Walter’s desk combined. An assortment of pulleys, hoists and stands were in use, suspending outboard motors at varying heights across the area. To Eric’s eyes, it looked like a surreal underwater snapshot of old, world war one ship mines floating on cables that descended into the depths. The smell of oil, grease, and gasoline was present. And shit. Michelle and Sam came in behind him—guns pointed and lights blazing—but they found nothing except the faint odor. A thorough search confirmed the room was empty, and also revealed that the garage door entrance was so loose in its tracks that the door itself could be moved almost eighteen inches. They located some lengths of chain and load binders, and sealed the door shut.
“It was in here.”
“Well that should keep it from getting back in.”
“One place left to look,” Eric said.
“Yeah, save the worst for last,” Michelle whispered harshly.
“Why? . . . What do you mean ‘the worst?’” Sam asked.
“I take it you haven’t been inside the warehouse?”
“Not yet.”
“There’s a lot of places to hide in there. It has three levels of boat racks on the long walls. They use a forklift with extended . . . uh, ‘forks’ I guess, to lift the boats and slide them in the rack. If we have to search every boat in there, we’ll be there all night,” Eric answered.
“I take it you have a plan?”
“It’s more of an idea, but it’s going to depend on what we find inside.”
Sam looked down at his watch, “It’s a little after 9:00 PM, so whatever we’re gonna do, let’s do it.”
Eric reflexively gazed at his still bare wrist, grimacing with the reminder that he was still ‘watchless.’
“Let’s go.”
They backtracked through the hallway into Walter’s office, pausing momentarily as Eric opened the ancient green Frigidaire.
“We have diet soda—generic. Regular soda in about twenty different flavors—also generic. Dr. Pepper—not generic and reserved exclusively for the brave lunatic walking point with his dog . . . and we have beer . . . not the cheap stuff either. In any event, no matter what you pick, it’s all warm . . . well, room temperature anyhow.”
“It’s probably about forty five degrees outside, and not much warmer in here,” Michelle commented.
“Yeah, I’ve been thinking about that,” Eric said, “remind me to bring it up later.”
“Any water in there?” Sam asked
“Water? Why? Are you planning on taking a bath?”
“Smart ass . . . bottled water to drink,” Sam answered.
“You drink that stuff?” Eric chuckled as he continued, “Water should only be used for three things—to fish in, to fill a hot tub with, and to make Dr. Pepper and beer with.”
“Which probably explains why you stink almost as bad as those things do,” Sam rebutted with a grin.
“Holy crap,” Michelle exclaimed, “what are you guys—back in third grade?”
“Sorry ma’am,” Eric whined, “me and Sammy, we was just foolin’ around. Please don’t send us to the office.”
“Besides,” Sam echoed in a juvenile voice, “he started it.”
Michelle stood there, rolling her eyes as Eric and Sam ruptured with barely restrained laughter. After a moment as a spectator, it became too much and Michelle joined them in the mirth.
When things settled down, they finished their drinks and rechecked their weapons. Eric switched out the batteries on the shotgun mounted Quark, and then locked eyes with Sam and Michelle. “Thanks, I needed that.”
“We all did,” Sam replied, still grinning.
“Weapons hot and safeties off?” Eric asked.
Michelle nodded and Sam said, “Loaded for bear.”
“Let’s get this over with.”
They left the office, locking it behind them as they moved out to the gravel lot. Another scan with their flashlights showed no change that they could tell, and a brief radio contact with Thompson also came up clear. With Max again walking point, Eric, Michelle, and Sam moved into a triangle formation and followed. The long, rectangular metal building stretched both up and away in the darkness of the cool night, and a short look skyward confirmed that the hazy cloud cover had finally developed enough momentum to conceal the stars.
They crept down the wide pathway between the boat warehouse and Walter’s office, finally halting about fifty feet away from the huge sliding door. Max continued to pace slowly as Eric keyed his radio.
“Thompson, you got your eyes on us?”
Two bright flashes from the roofline of the store accompanied his response. “I see you.”
“We’re getting ready to go in the warehouse.”
Max halted and cocked his head toward the warehouse, and then looked back toward Eric before trotting toward the large door.
“Max . . . wait.”
“10-4, I’ll keep a watch for anything that comes out that ain’t you.”
Max’s giant black head swayed back and forth as he froze his feet in place. His ears stood stiff and upright, shifting faintly from side to side as he stared at the metal door.
Walter’s voice cut over, “You need to be careful where you aim inside the warehouse. Same problem as before . . . understand?”
Eric watched as Max’s ears shifted and jerked with unusual speed. Max turned again to face Eric and gave an excited whine, pawing briefly at the gravel before turning back to face the warehouse.
“Understood,” Eric replied almost absent mindedly as he watched Max’s odd behavior.
; “What is it?” Michelle whispered.
“I’m not sure. Max is acting strange.” After a momentary pause, he added, “Get ready.”
As quietly as he could, Eric snuck over to Max’s side. Thumping the broad muscular chest brought an additional burst of confidence, and he stood and crept toward the door. A silent hand motion was enough to bring Max next to him. Five feet from the door Max began to rumble.
“What is it, buddy?” Eric reached down and rested his palm on Max’s thickly furred neck. Dense vibrations quivered through the coarse coat of hair, and he could feel the powerful cords winding up and tensing as Max picked up on . . . something.
Michelle and Sam glided past them and took up positions against the metal-skinned, sliding bay door. Over Max’s low growl, Sam whispered, “What’s wrong?”
“I’m not sure. He’s definitely sensing something, but it’s odd.”
“Odd how?”
“How much time do you want me to spend right now giving you a lesson in wolf psychology?”
“None . . . just tell us what you want to do.”
“Let’s pull back a little bit and reevaluate.”
Sam nodded. “OK.”
Eric pulled the radio off his belt and talked softly, “Thompson, we’re going to step back for a minute and reconsider our plan of entry. Keep a sharp eye out.”
“Eric wai . . .” Michelle started to whisper but was cut off as their radios broadcast Thompson’s reply.
“I got it. Your team is pulling away from the warehouse to reevaluate.”
Max’s ears twisted and shifted again as he continued to focus on the warehouse and growl.
From the corner of his eye, Eric caught Michelle leaning flush against the sliding door.
Their radios blared again as Walter’s voice sounded. “Eric, is everything OK? Do you want me to send Dave or Mike down there to help out?”
Both Max and Michelle tried to get his attention simultaneously. Max by increasing his growl to a lip curling snarl, and Michelle by flapping her hand to draw his eyes.
“Easy, Max . . . wait,” Eric whispered as he turned to focus on Michelle, “What?”
Michelle held a finger up to her lips for silence, and then sent a hushed whisper back at them.
“Turn your radios all the way down.”
“Off?”
“No, just all the way down.”
They reached down and rotated the knobs. Michelle followed suit, and then brought her radio up to her lips.
“Walter, I have a strange request for you . . . as soon as I stop transmitting this message, I want you to reply on the radio by counting to ten slowly and clearly.”
A leaden silence followed for the space of three heartbeats, and then from somewhere behind the sliding door, Walter’s faint voice could be heard.
“One . . . two . . . three . . . four . . .”
Chapter 15
The three of them exchanged looks as they listened to the ghostly count piercing through the metal door. When it ended, Eric motioned them back toward the office.
“It’s got to be Alton’s,” Michelle said.
“How many of the Fish and Wildlife radios do we have—total—and where are they?”
“I brought back six of them from my office, plus the two portables that I’d already had—one of those I already gave to you—and the base unit in my Tahoe . . . so that’s eight, plus the base.”
“Minus the one you gave me. It’s still sitting in the back of the broken down Gator on the logging road above Uncle Andy’s cabin. And . . . I, uh . . . kinda broke it.”
Michelle frowned. “OK, seven then, plus the base.”
“They’re all out,” Sam added. “Us three, Walter, Amy, the roof guard, and the gate guard. The only one were not using right now is the base unit in Michelle’s truck.”
“So if they’re all accounted for, the one we’re hearing in the warehouse has to be Alton’s.”
“Yep.”
“He could still be alive in there,” Sam suggested.
Eric reached a weary hand up and pinched the bridge of his nose in concentration. “That had to be why Max was acting squirrelly—he was hearing the radio from inside the warehouse.”
“Yeah, but he was also growling, wasn’t he?” Michelle asked.
Eric nodded.
“So how do we want to do this . . . didn’t you say you had some kind of an idea?”
“To be honest, I was toying with the idea of using Walter’s tractor to seal the warehouse from the outside. It wouldn’t be too difficult to push some dirt around any openings or gaps in the wall, and then park the tractor out front against the sliding door to keep it wedged shut. I figured we’d be better off tackling the warehouse in the daytime.”
Sam frowned and shook his head, “I don’t think that’s going to be a great option for us. Logistically anyhow.”
Eric nodded, “Yeah, I came to the same conclusion pretty quick. Too few people, too many places to watch, too much noise, and too much time.”
“So what then?”
“Let me think about this for a second,” Eric sighed.
After a long minute’s silence, Eric turned to Michelle, “How do you access the private channels on these things?”
She gave him the code and showed him how to punch it in.
Eric turned his volume back to normal and brought the radio up to his lips, holding it there for a few seconds as the last few baggage cars were attached to his train of thought.
Dropping the radio slightly, he looked at Sam and Michelle, “Does everybody know how to switch to a private channel on these?”
“No, only the people that have them right now—or the people that had them already—like Crowbar Mike and Preacher Dave. Why?”
“But Alton would know how to do it, right?”
“Yeah, why?”
“I’m just wondering . . .”
“What?”
Eric paused again, a frown of concentration evident on his face before he answered, “Do we have any reason to think, or suspect, that these things—the infected I mean—act with any sort of thought process higher than a base level . . . ‘drive’ . . . I guess would be the word?”
“We know practically zilch about them, other than the fact that we’re apparently their favorite food source. What are you getting at?”
“Well, I’m just thinking out loud here, but if I call Walter on the radio and ask him to switch to a private channel, and Alton is one of ‘them’ . . . well, is there any reason to suspect that he’d change the channel to listen in?”
They exchanged glances, but nobody spoke for a moment. Finally Sam broke the silence, “Eric, I think the honest answer to your question is that we don’t know. We’re not sure if Alton is inside the warehouse, or if somehow it’s just his radio. If he is inside, we don’t know if he’s dead, alive, or one of them. We’re also missing the original target of this little expedition, and we’re ‘assuming’ that he-she-it is inside the warehouse . . . but we really don’t know. Does that answer your question?”
“Not at all.”
Sam grinned, “Disorder, anarchy, and chaos—my job here is done.”
Eric and Michelle chuckled. “You’re still on the clock until after we clear the warehouse.”
“Well let’s do it, then.”
Eric nodded, “That huge metal door slides on a track. From a closed position, it only slides to the left. It’s not a powered door, either, which is good since there’s no power. But even for its size, one person can move it pretty easily—it’s not that heavy—just sheet metal over a tubular frame. Since we don’t have any other brilliant ideas, I’d say we go with what has worked in the past. One of us will open the door, and the other ones will handle potential contact.”
“What if we slide it open just a few inches and shine our lights through? I mean, it would really suck if we fling the door wide open and there’s another pile of infected just waiting for us,” Michelle questioned.
“
We’d lose any chance of surprise that way.”
“I don’t think surprise is much of an option at this point.”
Eric nodded, “I agree. Let’s get this over with. You two have the heavy artillery, so I guess that means I get to be the doorman. Are you ready?”
They nodded.
Fade to Grey (Book 2): Darkness Ascending Page 17