“Talk to me, Michelle.”
“I’ve got nothing so far.”
The light trailer squeaked over the double speed bumps by the check in kiosk, and then quieted as Sam guided the SUV onto the smooth pavement towards Blue Heron Loop.
“There are a few tents that are still standing. There’s also several cars.” Her voice was even and methodical as she spoke. “We’re veering to the left and heading down the one way loop. Still nothing.”
Several moments ticked by in silence before she broadcast again. “We have a body. It’s pretty torn up . . . looks to be an adult male. The body is lying half inside a small dome tent. The skin color looks normal. Human, I mean. We’re passing it by right now. There’s a lot of debris and garbage scattered everywhere.” Her voice stopped for a few seconds, then picked back up. “OK, we’re at the bottom of the loop.”
“We can see you from the boat,” Callie answered.
“We’ve got eyes on you as well.” Michelle paused, and then Sam came over. “Hey Eric, do you want us to take a quick drive through the group camp field while we’re down here?”
“No. Stay with the plan.”
“10-4.”
“OK, we’re heading back up the loop. There’s a tangle of vehicles—four of them—near a cluster of pine trees. It looks like . . . um . . . like somebody played bumper cars. Wait . . ., hold up a minute, Sam,” her voice cut off momentarily. “Yuck. We have a . . . partial . . . body on the ground at the upper side of this tangle. The torso is separate from the legs. It looks like something—maybe an animal—has been chewing on the body. One of the arms is almost torn off near the shoulder. I can’t tell if it’s from the wreck . . . or something else. Go ahead, Sam.”
Citrine eyes glared from underneath the wreckage as the noisy moving box pulled away. Distant visions bubbled beneath the surface of its memories. It had been inside one of those boxes. Long ago when it was soft. Long ago when its skin didn’t burn. Long ago when the hunger didn’t tear at its insides. The box moved up the hill, toward the others . . . the mindless. Perhaps they would feed. It saw the food rising from the top of the box. Swaying, enticing, offering. There would be time. Time for the hunt. Soon. Soon, but not yet. Right now it would wait. It had to wait. It could hear the distant call. Every fiber of its body vibrated in anticipation. She was coming . . . the master was coming.
Across the narrow road, perched thirty feet above the ground in a lightning scarred elm tree, the keen eyes of a red bellied woodpecker stared downward. The dark blue noisy creature with round legs crawled up the hill, leaving its hot breath to float in the wind. This tree was a favorite, and the beautiful black and gray striped bird had often climbed its surface searching for insects. The wide, scarlet swath that ran from its beak to the nape of its neck jerked and bobbled as the woodpecker studied its surroundings. This land by the water was often filled with two legs, but the forest here had an abundance of food. Only now it felt different. Unsafe. Movement on the ground caught its attention, and the ten inch long bird froze in position. From underneath the pile of round legs, an iron gray hand reached out. It grasped at the dead two legs and pulled. The slapping, springing twang as tendons and muscles ripped and tore sent another warning spike of danger into the bird. Plentiful food or not, there were better, safer places to hunt, and with a series of quick wing flips, the woodpecker sped away.
“OK, we’re coming up out of the loop.”
“I got you. Circle around the kiosk and hold position. Once you’re there and watching, I’ll head to location three.”
“Roger.”
Location three for Eric would be on top of the campground office. Doc had assured him that the corrugated metal roof would hold, and that the fifteen foot aluminum extension ladder was still in place behind the building. Once he made it up there, the increase in elevation would allow him visual access to a large part of Golden Eagle Loop. Cranking the magnification to full, he confirmed that the ladder was indeed resting in the grass at the back of the wooden, lap sided structure.
The unloaded utility trailer’s stiff springs rattled as Sam guided the Explorer around the kiosk, crossing both sets of double speed bumps in the process.
“Callie, give us another set of announcements.” A moment later her voice began to repeat the message about heading towards the fishing pier or waving a flag.
When she finished, Sam called over the radio. “We’re in position, but I imagine you can probably see that. We can’t see you, though.”
“Camouflage. Look it up next time you’re around a dictionary.”
“Smart ass.”
Eric pushed himself to a crouched position and gave a slow wave of his hand. “Do you see me now?”
“Yep, we got you.”
“OK, keep a sharp eye out, I’m getting ready to move.”
“10-4.”
He stood up partway, feeling his muscles stretch and unwind from their enforced stillness. The wind was picking up slightly, and the spent heads of rye grass that had survived the North Dakota winter began to drift over as the gusts quartered away from him. After a final look around, he trotted forward. The campground office was almost 200 yards away, but he wasn’t heading straight there. Shifting his angle of approach somewhat to the right put the breeze directly at his back, and put him on a vector toward the playground at the edge of the soccer field. It wasn’t much concealment, especially with its design geared towards small children, but it was the only structure that was remotely on his course toward location three. His ankle, wrapped again by Callie this morning, still felt solid as he jogged the remaining distance.
“OK Eric, we’ve got you at our four o’clock—about sixty yards away and crouching behind the sliding board.”
“Copy that.” Eric removed his binoculars and searched the area, concentrating most of his effort toward the wooden sided modular home that served as the campground’s office. A low deck—a covered porch really—had been added at some point in the not so recent history and sprawled outwards toward the split rail fence that corralled the front yard. Or would have, if it hadn’t been in such disrepair. The porch was occupied by two weathered rocking chairs and a much newer cedar glider. One of the chairs was on its side, and the glider, suspended from the rafters by four plastic covered green cables, stirred in the now stiff breeze. At the far side of the tin roof covering the porch stood a mature burr oak tree. Its lowest limb was a good eight feet above the roof, but from there it towered another seventy feet, spreading out into a huge canopy that both provided shade for the office, as well as a guaranteed gutter clogging leaf fall every autumn. Its thick trunk, almost two feet in diameter, was carved with dozens of initials—some encased in a rough heart shape, others without any adornment.
The corner where the fence met the porch was his next stop, and after glassing the area yet another time, he stood and darted forward. As his footsteps carried him closer and closer toward the fence line barely fifty yards away, the wind began to drop. He slowed his pace to walk, and then stopped—lowering himself into a crouch and morphing onto a tan, black, and brown lump growing from the short grass at the edge of the athletic field.
“What are you doing?” Michelle’s voice cut through his headphones, immediately re-emphasized by Sam.
“Wait . . .,” Eric trailed off as his senses flared, “something’s not right.”
“What do you mean . . . do you see something?”
“No, I don’t see anything. But something feels . . . off.”
“Can you be more specific?” Sam asked.
“Eric,” Michelle’s familiar voice came across, “I’ve got you covered from here, but I can’t see anything else.”
The breeze dropped even further, now barely a whisper, as the little tickle in Eric’s stomach spread to the back of his neck. As he tried to focus, Walters’s stern voice cut in. “Go with your gut, boy. What’s it telling you?”
Keeping his eyes forward, Eric thumbed the safety of the M2 into the off position.
“It’s like when you’re a kid and you’re walking down a road, kicking a rock in front of you as you go. Only sometimes your pace doesn’t line up with the rock’s position for the next kick, and you have to take that little stutter step. And the more you kick that rock, the further away you can feel when you’re not going to be lined up. That crinkled in your gut. That’s what I’m feeling. Something is not lining up. Michelle, how many RVs can you see down Golden Eagle Loop?”
“Um, I’ve got six . . ., no, wait . . . eight that I can see from here.”
“Can you see any movement, or any doors hanging open . . . any flags?”
“The only one that I’ve got a clear view of is Doc’s RV sitting in the campground host slot. The other ones I’ve only got a partial view because of the distance and angle. No flags or movement. If we pull forward to about where you are, I’ll be able to see a lot more.”
“No, wait until I’m in position.”
“Are you sure?”
After a moment’s hesitation, accompanied by several more chills of warning, Eric replied, “No, I’m not sure. Hold on.”
As he studied the panorama in front of him, Eric thought back to a long ago summer when he was thirteen years old. He’d already spent over half of his month-long vacation hanging out and kicking around the wilderness at Uncle Andy’s cabin. Every morning was made up of what his uncle called ‘mountain man sports.’ Some days it would be fishing, or target shooting, or canoeing. Other mornings would find them hiking up to the ridge at first light to watch the sunrise over Ghost Echo Lake. Afternoons were built around a never ending list of ‘man chores,’ like plowing the garden, or splitting firewood. Evenings were his favorite though. Normally it was a campfire by his uncle’s lake where he’d hear stories about Indians and bears and Uncle Andy’s youth—sometimes all three mixed in the same tale. The final day he’d spent with his uncle that summer had started with both of them choosing seasoned limbs from the pile destined to be kindling, and then whittling, carving, and sanding them into walking sticks. They fire-hardened the tips in a blaze that Eric had started with a bow drill he’d made earlier that week, and then decorated the shafts with animals, stars, and other nature symbols using crushed berries for paint. At sunset, they had hiked several miles into the forest and built a lean-to against the trunk of a fallen aspen. There was no fire that night. No stories, either. Just two men in the wilderness—surrounded by things with giant claws and sharp fangs. The lesson that night had been simple, but lasting.
“Can you see anything?” his uncle had asked.
“Not really. It’s pretty dark and there’s no moon tonight.”
“So learn to see another way.”
“Like with a flashlight?”
“What if you didn’t have a flashlight?”
“I guess I could move to an area where the trees weren’t so thick. Maybe the stars would be bright enough for me to see.”
“You’ve got eyes like a cat, Eric. That’s a gift from God that will serve you well the rest of your life. But for now, let’s say that you’ve got no flashlight, no starlight, no fire, and nothing else besides what’s here right now. How can you see?
He’d thought for a minute or two, and then replied, “If I can’t use my eyes, I guess I’ll have to use my other senses.”
“How?”
“Well, if I’m quiet I should be able to hear the sound of animals moving through the forest. If the wind is right, I might be able to smell something, like a bear.”
“If you’re close enough to smell a bear, you might have some other problems besides being stuck in the woods at night . . ., but you’re right—your other four senses can give you a pretty complete picture of your environment. And the really amazing thing is that if you practice . . . if you ‘tune’ yourself to listen to those other senses, they kind of knit together into a sixth sense.”
“Like magic?”
“Call it what you will, boy, but that sixth sense has saved many a man’s life. So learn to listen to it.”
“Did you bring a gun?”
“No, I brought the same thing that you did—a walking stick—which I’m about to use on my way back to the cabin.”
“WHAT?”
His uncle had hunkered down next to Eric and put a hand on his shoulder. “You’ll be fine. There’s a saying that goes something like this . . . ‘never fear in the darkness what your heart knows to be true in the light.’ What that means is that the same squirrels that are out here in the daytime—the same trees, the same bears and deer and moose—are the same ones that are out here at night. Nature didn’t make any monsters, Eric.”
Eric scrutinized the campground as a swirling gust shifted the wind to his left. “No monsters, huh,” he thought. “Until now,” he mumbled.
“What did you say?” Michelle asked.
“Nothing. Just thinking out loud,” he sighed. “Alright, move the truck until you’re about where the road forks. That should put you about forty yards from Doc’s camper. Once you’re there and providing cover, I’m going to hit the roof.”
“Got it.”
From his crouched position, he watched as Sam piloted the SUV toward the split of the pavement. Michelle had her rifle shouldered, peering down the barrel as she scanned for targets. In short order her voice came through. “I’ve got nothing. Still no deliberate movement . . . although the wind is making it a bit confusing.”
“Mike, how are things down at your end?”
Callie answered, “Hey Eric, Mike is getting the other boat started, but I’m looking through the binoculars and everything looks the same.”
“OK, thanks. Michelle . . . Sam . . ., I’m getting ready to move.”
“We’re ready.”
Eric stood and scampered forward until he came to the fence, then slid to the right, moving along the edge of the office building until he reached the back corner. The ladder was resting on its side, tilted forty-five degrees to lean against the block foundation of the office. He moved the shotgun over his shoulder and cinched up the weapon’s sling, snugging it against his back. As quietly as he could, he reached down and grabbed the ladder, and then returned to the side of the building near the porch where the roof was lower. So far, so good. The wind shifted again and blew against his back as he brought the ladder into an upright position, carefully angling it against the faded white length of aluminum gutter that ran around the perimeter of the porch roof. His right foot was reaching for the second rung when an abrupt shift in the breeze charged toward his face, bringing with it the unmistakable scent of raw meat and feces. He froze.
“What is it?” Michelle asked almost immediately.
Ever so carefully, he stepped down off the ladder and loosened the M2’s sling. Michelle repeated her question.
There were no windows on the front of the office, only a wooden door that looked mostly shut, but not latched. Staring down the barrel through the ghost ring sights on the shotgun, Eric noted the protruding length of a crowbar near the threshold that was preventing the door from shutting all the way.
“Michelle, I’ve got a smell coming from the office. At least I think it’s from the office.”
He stepped around the ladder, and carefully over a section of fence where the top runner was missing. Three more delicate paces brought him even with the cedar glider. The wind jogged and danced again, swirling a dust devil of last year’s leaves into a miniature cyclone near the base of the carved oak tree as Eric crept forward on the planking.
His next stride produced a loud squeak, and he gritted his teeth as the sharp noise disappeared in the shifting breeze . . . the same breeze that now ricocheted and whirled underneath the tin roof of the porch, bringing with it the fetid stench of decay and human waste. Four more deliberate half steps positioned him with his back against the wall just outside of the office door. Silent bells of alarm were ringing nonstop in his head as he steadied his breathing. There were no windows on the front . . . no windows on the sides either, and he racked his
brain trying to remember if he had seen a window on the back when he had scooped up the ladder. He drew a blank.
“Doc,” Eric’s bare whisper sounded thunderously loud, and he half expected the door to fly open under the weight of charging ghouls at the sound, “can you hear me?”
Fade to Grey (Book 2): Darkness Ascending Page 30