“Don’t forget to turn your radios back up,” Eric said as he called on his.
“Thompson, Amy, Walter . . . we’re heading back over to the warehouse. Please maintain radio silence unless it’s an emergency. Walter, we may ask you to count again—we’ll let you know.”
Three replies came back in the affirmative.
They moved back over to the warehouse, and Michelle and Sam took up positions forty feet away from the door. Eric positioned Max off to the left, and then stalked up to the leather-wrapped grab handle of the big door. Another look at Sam and Michelle confirmed their readiness. Taking a firm grip, Eric pulled the door slightly backwards. Overhead, the series of metal suspension wheels rotated slightly as the door slid open six inches, revealing the inky blackness beyond. With his shoulder braced against the door, Eric peeked around the corner, flashlight leading the way. The echoing stillness of the vast storage area stared silently back as the beam from his light danced through the narrow opening. The long wall opposite the door was covered in a triple layer, wooden framed chessboard grid. Each rise in elevation corresponded with a reduction of the grid dimensions—the largest boats being stored at the bottom. Scanning the light to the left brought the partial silhouette of a propane powered forklift into view. To the right, the cement floor followed the grid and was lost into darkness with the limitation of Eric’s viewing angle. Eric pulled back and flattened his shoulders against the metal door. Miming the ‘I don’t know’ gesture, he pointed to his eyes and shook his head. Sam and Michelle both nodded, and then Sam pointed at the door, motioning for Eric to throw it open.
Eric grasped the door handle with the bottom three fingers of his left hand, maintaining a grip on the flashlight with the other two. The 10mm was welded in his right hand. With a low rumble, the door slid open as Eric walked backwards and pulled. After four heaving steps, he let go of the door—its momentum coasting it another yard before stopping—and backed away. The twin lights from Sam and Michelle poured through the twenty foot opening, casting long and shifting shadows into the void beyond.
Nothing came out.
“Moving up,” Sam uttered as he shifted forward and molded himself to the outside, right door edge.
Michelle skulked closer and crouched down—fifteen feet out and dead center in the door opening.
Eric trotted up and merged against the edge of the open door, angling his light into the recesses of the grid to the right of Sam. He saw nothing moving except Sam, who was walking his shotgun in a slow zigzag pattern, searching with the mounted light to Eric’s left.
“I don’t see anything,” Sam whispered.
Eric nodded and then dropped his elbow down, covering his radio’s speaker with the inside of his forearm. Sam followed suit.
Michelle picked up her radio, “Walter, please count to five slow and clear.” She muffled her own speaker and waited for the reply. Almost immediately it came, ringing out from the front side of the forklift.
“Cover my right,” Sam whispered as he sidestepped to the center of the opening.
Michelle moved up and positioned herself to Sam’s right, searching high and low with the 12 gauge.
Eric shifted around the door and smashed his back against the inside wall. Almost straight ahead was the back end of the yellow forklift. Countless scratches and dents spoke of the machine’s long service history before moving into the semi-retirement of an aquatic season that lasted barely two-thirds of the year at this latitude. The very top of the roll cage dipped into a shallow ‘V’ in memory of some ancient battle fought—and won—against the forces of mass and gravity, although judging from the missing windshield and innumerable other scarring, the victory may have been a hollow one.
Sam drilled his gun toward the forks as he stepped quietly forward. Halfway to his target he began alternating—one step forward, one step to the right. After two more steps he froze.
“Contact,” he hissed.
Eric watched as Sam bobbed and stretched his neck for a moment before creeping closer. Five steps away from the business end of the forklift he froze again.
“It’s Alton . . . I think.”
“You think?”
“He’s pretty tore up.”
A hollow, reverberating thump echoed from the recesses of the warehouse to Eric’s left, and Sam immediately raised his shotgun, jumping it back and forth searching for a target. Michelle sprinted up next to Sam, adding her light to the area momentarily before Sam yelled, “THERE IT IS!”
Eric scuttled around the back of the forklift and came up beside Michelle, gun and light following the direction of her shotgun barrel. It was pointed at a short row of blue metal drums that were lined up against some empty spaces in the storage grid down the left hand wall.
Crouching behind the metallic cylinders, the partly visible form of a scrawny teenage boy stared back at them. Angry yellow eyes blinked like a trapped barn cat in the glare of their flashlights.
“Don’t shoot those barrels.”
Any risk of that happening was immediately dispelled when the feral ghoul leapt straight upwards and clung to the grid section that separated the first and second rows, momentarily pausing before launching itself like a missile towards them. Twin blasts from the shotguns slammed into the aerial target and the creature crashed to the ground ten feet in front of them. With an unbelievable resilience, it flipped onto its side and tried to gather its legs underneath for another leap. Blood poured out of a horrendous neck wound as the boy scrambled and clutched at the cement floor of the warehouse. Another double blast from the shotguns tore into the ghoul’s head, shattering it in a cone of pink, red, and white fragments.
“Son of a gun—did you see that thing jump straight up?” Sam exclaimed.
“I’ll bet it cleared almost six feet vertically . . . what the hell is going on with these things?” Michelle answered.
“I don’t know, but that was some nice shooting—both of you.”
Eric turned and illuminated the area between the lifting arms of the forklift. Crumpled against the machine was a vaguely human form. Torn muscles and shredded flesh still steamed lightly with heat loss in the cool night air. Huge chunks of tissue had been ripped from the thigh area, and most of the left arm from shoulder to wrist was exposed to the bone. The missing radio was face down near the corpse. Eric whistled for Max, and the giant black canine trotted through the doorway—hackles raised and golden eyes staring—pissed that he’d been left out of the fight.
Eric moved his light back and forth between the feral and the remains by the forklift. As he did, an uneasy feeling began to settle in his gut.
Snapping around quickly, he looked down both stretches of the long warehouse before turning back towards the forklift. Max began to grumble and sniff the air.
“What is it?” Sam asked.
Pointing his flashlight at the ragged cadaver between the forks, he said, “There is no way that kid,” he indicated the practically headless ghoul, “ate thirty pounds of raw meat in the short time he’s been in here.” Focusing the beam on the outstretched arms of the boy brought a cold chill to Eric’s stomach, “Look at his hands . . . they’re clean—no blood. Whatever tore Alton to pieces, it wasn’t him.” Max began to bristle and stare into the shadows down the long warehouse as Eric finished, “You’d better reload . . . I don’t think we’re done here.”
The metallic sproing of shotgun shells compressing tubular magazine springs coincided with Max’s straight-tailed snarl.
“Tight Max . . . stay tight.”
“Loaded,” Sam yelled as he moved forward, passing by Eric and sliding a little to the left behind Max.
“Sam . . . STOP!”
Sam skidded to a halt just as Max turned and lunged—slamming his jaws shut with a bone shattering snap just inches from his face.
“MAX . . . NO!”
Eric leapt forward and wedged himself between Max’s teeth-bared, furrowed-eye crouch, and Sam’s perfectly still, wide-eyed, blood-drained face.
“Max . . . no.”
Eric turned to look at Sam, “Are you OK?”
“As soon as my heart starts beating again I’ll let you know.”
“Sorry, I should have told . . .”
Sam interrupted with a continual shake of his head, “No-no-no . . . it’s my fault—I know better than to get between a K-9 unit and its handler.”
“Multiply that by ten and you’ll come closer to what happens when you get between a wolf pack and its prey.”
“It won’t happen again . . . I can damn sure promise you that,” Sam exhaled slowly as he backed away several paces.
Eric reoriented Max forward and then took up the lead position of their small triangle as the warehouse settled once again into eerie silence, broken only by the low rumble from Max’s throat.
“Go get ‘em, Max,” Eric whispered.
Max took a half dozen stiff legged paces forward before freezing again—growling and sniffing the air towards the far left corner.
Three flashlight beams sliced through the darkness as their triangle moved closer to the shadowy recesses. When they had closed the gap enough, Max trotted ahead another twenty feet before halting—hackles raised and lips curled back in a teeth baring threat display.
The very back corner of the warehouse was occupied by a cornflake brown colored, semi-V hull, fish and ski boat that still rested on its trailer. The low topside, as well as the short, highly angled dual windshield had been decorated—badly—with attempts at hand painted cattails.
Eric leaned down and shined his light underneath the trailer.
“I don’t see anything,” he whispered.
“Maybe it’s inside the boat.”
Eric looked at Max’s shaggy black, snarling head. It was focused almost dead center toward the boat.
“Do either of you have an extra shotgun shell in your pocket?” Eric whispered.
“I do,” Michelle hissed.
“Toss it in the boat.”
Eric crept forward another half step before Michelle’s soft voice halted him.
“Get ready, I’m gonna throw it in three . . . two . . . one . . .”
The corner of his eye caught the rotating brass and red plastic shell as it arced skyward, cresting momentarily about twelve feet above the ground before tumbling down and thumping noisily on the fiberglass topside of the boat.
Immediately the boat thrummed and shook violently on its trailer. Max lowered his front quarters and snarled a warning as a huge figure seemed to flow and unfold from the shadowed recesses of the craft. Taller and taller it stood, towering into the arc-white illumination of the three flashlights. Burning red eyes gazed down at them with insatiable hunger. Corded muscles shifted and throbbed under the tattered remains of an expensive, long sleeve business shirt. Blood—some drying, some fresh—stained the figure’s mouth, throat, arms and hands. And axe. Welded in an iron grip, the tainted steel, razor edge of a woodsman’s felling axe glittered crimson against the glare. The gigantic ghoul that was formerly Victor Wayne Chapman howled an ear-spitting cry and vaulted out of the boat, landing half crouched with a thump in front of the three shocked figures.
“Oh shit,” Eric and Michelle echoed simultaneously as the figure stood fully upright, stretching well above their own considerable height.
BOOM . . . BOOM. The rapid double tap of Sam’s 12 gauge shattered the night as the two rounds slammed into the massive abomination’s chest. With a lunge belying its gigantic stature, the ghoul shot forward toward the trio, bare hand and axe hand leading the way.
Eric thrust the Delta towards the monstrous figure and managed to get off three quick shots before Max tore into the fight—slamming his iron jaws shut in a bone crushing bite around the ghoul’s axe wielding arm. With an almost nonchalant look, the huge ghoul stopped and lifted his arm—Max still attached—clear off the ground and up high before jerking him sideways and down, slamming Max into the ground and dislodging him momentarily. The impact sent Max rolling and skidding across the warehouse floor, but also cleared the field of fire. Sam, Michelle, and Eric poured round after round into the monster, each hit smashing into VW and making him jerk and spasm like a giant marionette controlled by an insane puppeteer. In a flash, Max charged back in and ripped the ghoul’s left ankle off the ground, teetering it momentarily before it fell like a giant oak. Snarling and growling with VW’s ankle locked in a death grip, Max dug in and pulled, moving the still writhing ghoul backwards. Another burst of gunfire from the trio finally shredded the head and neck, and at last colossal ghoul lay still.
The echoes of gunfire were still ringing in their ears as they illuminated the body lying in front of them. Max trotted over to Eric’s side and traded a few head scratches for a series of enthusiastic victory licks.
“I guess this is where it starts to become personal,” Michelle mumbled.
“What do you mean? Do you know this guy?” Sam asked.
“Not really, I mean not personally. He was from the campground, and he was on my team when we cleared the loops. He also saved Doc with that axe the very first night when everything started.”
“Who was he?” Sam focused his flashlight on the badly damaged head of the ghoul. “It’s hard to tell, but I almost want to say that I’ve seen him before.”
“VW . . . Victor Wayne Chapman . . . was the name he told us. I think he said he worked in real estate in Fargo or Bismarck. Amy thought there was more to his story, though. Why,” Michelle added, “do you know him?”
Sam shook his head and squinted, pausing for a moment in recollection before answering. “No, that name isn’t ringing any bells, and with all the damage we did to his head and face, I can’t be certain. It almost seemed—at least when he first came out of that boat—that I had seen him before. I just don’t remember where, or when . . . or even if.”
Eric lifted his hand away from Max’s heavy tongue and pointed at the blood splattered axe still locked in the corpse’s death grip. “Did you catch what he did with that—or rather, what he didn’t do with that?”
“Yeah, it was just in his hands, almost as an afterthought. Like he wasn’t even aware of what it was or how it was used. In any event, he didn’t try and chop us.”
The silence that permeated the warehouse lasted a full minute as each of them pondered unspoken thoughts.
“Eric,” Michelle called out softly.
Shaking out the cobwebs of heavy contemplation, Eric turned.
“You should wash that. Right now.”
Following Michelle’s gaze, he locked his own on the hand that had been scratching Max. It was covered with sticky traces of saliva and blood.
“Crap.”
“There’s a sink against the wall near the forklift, let’s get you over there and cleaned up.”
Eric nodded, “Keep an eye out; there may be more of those things in here.”
The trip to the sink was uneventful, and Eric spent several minutes scrubbing the drying blood from his skin. Only the cold water faucet worked. Next to the sink was a half gallon pump dispenser of hand sanitizer, and Michelle practically bathed his hand and forearm with the liquid.
“I don’t see any cuts. It looks like your skin is intact.”
“Yeah . . . um, I guess we should still let Doc know that I might have been . . . contaminated.”
Michelle and Sam both had their faces frozen in neutral as Eric continued. “Do we have any information, or a guess as to whether this contagion is zoonotic?”
“What’s that mean?” Sam asked.
“It means,” Michelle answered, “can whatever bacteria or virus that’s causing this sickness jump to a different species.”
In unison, three flashlights swiveled towards the dark silhouette of Max who was crouched near the forklift. Almost on cue, his huge, pink tongue scalloped against his furry muzzle, making several passes through the blood drenched hair before disappearing back in his mouth.
Chapter 16
Stiff springs bounced over
yet another obstacle—pothole, speed bump . . . he couldn’t tell from inside the cargo area of the box truck. It didn’t matter. All that he cared about was his girls. All three of them. Two daughters and a wife. They were all asleep—somehow—in this frigid, jarring nightmare. Perhaps for the ten thousandth time since he had traded their Escalade for a promised safe transport back to the United States, the man had asked himself the same questions. Did I do the right thing? Will they keep their end of the bargain? Are any of the other people in here sick? The truck had stopped a half dozen times since they had boarded. On four of those occasions more people were loaded into the back with them. The first was a group of three frightened looking Spanish ladies. Two of them were older, with graying hair and shaking hands. The third one, younger, but not young—maybe in her forties—escorted her companions one at a time up the metal ramp that pulled out just below the truck’s rear bumper. All three of them wore similar khaki colored long skirts emblazoned with a hem of tiny dark airplanes. Some logo was stitched above the hemline, but the darkness of the late night combined with the swishing motion as they passed made it impossible to read.
Fade to Grey (Book 2): Darkness Ascending Page 18