Fade to Grey (Book 2): Darkness Ascending

by Brian Stewart

  “Yep.”

  “But, before you’ll ask me to marry you, I have to pass some mysterious test that involves me hearing something about you that might, in fact, change my mind about marrying you.”

  “That’s pretty much correct.”

  “And,” her body spun on tiptoes completely through a double 360 on the flat rocks, “your uncle is the one who knows this story?”

  “Yes, one of the few.”

  She vaulted into the air and kicked one heel behind her, contacting it with an outstretched hand before sticking the landing.

  “So, knowing that there are probably a thousand stories that would keep any sane woman from marrying you . . . which particular one would a lady ask your uncle to tell if she were, in fact, interested.”

  “Are you implying that you’re interested?”

  “I am,” she smiled like a Cheshire cat.

  “Ask him to tell you the story about the fox.”

  She sat back down on the bench and tilted my chin to look directly at her. “I will.” Another one of her toe tingling kisses followed. When we came up for air, she leaned back and laid across my thighs. “Not that I want to ruin this moment,” she said, “but finish your story.”

  “Where was I?”

  “Nuclear missiles.”

  “Yeah . . . anyhow, we sat on this bench just watching our bobbers frozen in place, and my uncle pointed towards the tree line above the dirt road again.

  “Seventy-five miles, give or take, to a very appealing, and non-mobile target for our enemies. Eric, if something ever happens to trigger the launch of those missiles, their flight time is roughly thirty-five minutes to their targets in the Soviet Union. The return volley, many of which are still targeted at our missile fields, will be here in roughly the same time.”

  “And then we’ll all get blown up?”

  “Probably not, although the Soviet’s targeting technology isn’t quite up to snuff with ours, it’ll be plenty accurate enough to turn Minot into a glowing mushroom cloud of radioactive waste, not to mention the rest of the United States.”

  Michelle stopped me again. “OK, wait a minute. Are you saying that your uncle filled your head with visions of Armageddon when he came back from wherever he’d gone?”

  “What I’m saying is that for years afterward, every time I sat on this bench, I kept looking toward the sky, half expecting to see the trails of missiles that would signify the end of the world.”

  “That’s kind of an eerie picture to paint in the head of a thirteen year old kid. Did he ever tell you what happened . . . you know, why he had to go away for a few days?”

  “Not really. I ask him about it, oh . . . I guess about eight years later, and all he would tell me is that something happened that triggered a series of events that could have ended badly.”

  “Do you think it had anything to do with what’s going on now . . . the sickness, I mean?”

  “No.”

  Her lips flat lined as she studied the loose rocks on the lakeshore. “You know, the 91st near Minot is still active.”

  “I know.”

  “So when did you stop worrying about the missiles?” Michelle asked.

  “When I was twenty years old, very drunk, and sitting right here proclaiming my wisdom to the world, or failing that, to anything that would listen. I decided that there wasn’t a damn thing I could do about it, so why worry.”

  She sprawled across my lap in silence for another moment, then got to her feet and extended a hand. I took it and stood alongside her.

  “Thank you for sharing.”

  I said nothing, but squeezed her hand lightly.

  “Are you ready to come up with a plan?” she asked.

  “Yeah.”

  “You know, I just remembered that I told your uncle I wouldn’t rat him out for spilling the beans about the picture.”

  I laughed out loud. “If I know my uncle, whatever he said to you, or however he phrased it, was specifically designed to get you to tell me about your conversation with him.”

  “He’s a pretty sneaky old man,” Michelle joined in my amusement.

  “Oh, you have no idea.”

  Chapter 37

  The panel truck shook with the impact of the lashing wind gusts, almost enough that he couldn’t feel the shivering vibrations that surged through the body of his daughter. Almost. Enclosed within, the thirty-odd passengers had waited in a silence that was broken only by the occasional sob or moan . . . sometimes both. Now, even the groans were smothered as the squall threw a mixture of driving rain and fast melting hail against the aluminum walls. Hours of rough transport had passed since the truck had turned off the pavement and bounced, rattled, and squeaked its way onward through the night. It had finally ended about ten minutes ago when the heavy vehicle completed a multi-point, passenger jarring series of maneuvers before coming to an idling rest. The faint, overhead freight light had come on, and the guard, still chain smoking on the stool, responded to a series of thumps on the cargo door. Crushing the stub of the unfiltered cancer stick under his heel, he turned to the huddled crowd.

  “You stay. Almost time for last ride, yes?”

  A series of metallic rattles signified the lock was being removed, and then the rolling door lifted partway. Several low voices—some Russian, some English—drifted in, but were lost in the wind and rain. The guard gripped a worn steel handle midway up the wall and pulled himself upright. A moment later he hopped out of the truck and disappeared. Across the cargo bed, one of the gray cloaked French ladies began to sing a subdued melody to the block of children pressed against her. He didn’t understand the words, but the tune was vaguely familiar. As his tired mind attempted to track down the song, he felt his wife’s hand slide across his coat sleeve before stopping with a gentle grasp at his wrist.

  “It will be OK . . . just a little while longer. I promise.” His attempt at reassurance fell on ears deafened by a decade’s worth of halfhearted attempts to salvage a marriage they both knew was doomed.

  Another series of shivers ran across his daughter’s face, and he pulled her tighter as the door was rolled fully upward. The two Russians stood there, flanked by three other men. Bright flashlights in their hands shocked his eyes to slits. A voice—English, but with a hint of French—crested at the literally captive audience.

  “I want you to know this right now. As far as I’m concerned, you’re cargo. Expendable cargo. At the first sign of trouble, I put you out . . . permanently. No questions ask, no questions answered. You know what’s happening in the world. Lots of people getting sick . . . bad sick. If any of you give me even the slightest hint that you might be contaminated, my boys will throw you out. We don’t care if we have to rip you out of the arms of your wife, or tear you away from your mommy and daddy. You’re gone. And another thing . . . this isn’t a luxury transport. Ain’t no room service or buffet line. If you’re hungry now, you’ll be hungry until we get to where we’re going.”

  The Russian’s voice cut in. “Time to go now. You get off truck and walk. No stop, or I shoot you in foot . . . maybe ass,” he added with a harsh laugh.

  The ramp was pulled out, and with the aid of bright flashlights and encouragement in the form of shotgun muzzles, the passengers stepped to the ground. They were directed down a short, rocky path that ended with the sound of wind driven, slapping waves banging against an aged concrete loading dock. Butting up against massive, creosote soaked timbers was the squat silhouette of a rusty barge, it’s chocolate iron hull shielded from the repetitive impacts by a line of automobile tires that hung suspended from the deck. They were marched up a broad wooden incline tacked with remnants of non-skid, traction enhancing material that had probably lost its effectiveness at least a decade ago, until their entire group was huddled on the lightly rolling ship. Incomplete sections of thick, steel railing bordered the weathered planks that made up the barge’s topside, and rows of bulky cargo anchor points were bolted to, or recessed into, the deck. The only rais
ed structures were the boxy form of the ship’s wheelhouse situated near the bow, and a large boom pole draped with pulleys and hydraulic lines. The beam of a flashlight illuminated a metal trapdoor. A tall, skinny form, artificially made thicker with layers of insulated rain gear, joined his light with the one already on the floor behind him. Water droplets mixed with hail cascaded through his solid beard as he spoke.

  “All of you will be down below with the others. It ain’t heated, but there’s enough of you to stay warm. You’re the last load, so you might have to squeeze in. Keep your hands to yourself, you hear me. If you got to go, there’s a toilet down there. No paper though . . . and you can forget about privacy—no walls either.”

  “How soon until we get to the rescue station?” The question had come from a ski jacket wrapped man at the edge of the group. Immediately, flashlights and gun barrels were pointed his way.

  The skinny, bearded man took a step forward and pointed a silent finger at the crowd. “Maybe you didn’t hear me. No questions, no answers. I mean that. I don’t want to know you, because I don’t care about you. You . . . are . . . cargo. Nothing more.” He paused and looked over the shivering group, his eyes lingering slightly longer on the children. “Don’t test me, understand?”

  Callous laughter echoed between the Russians, and the bearded man looked their way briefly before turning back to the crowd. “This one is free. Any more and you’re off of my ship.” He shined his light back at the trapdoor. “You’ll be down below the whole time. As soon as my pilot gets here, we leave. He might be here in ten minutes, or he may not show up for two days. Either way, you’re down below. Once he gets here and the ship’s starts moving, it’ll take about seven hours of slow going until we reach . . . your destination. Once there, you get out, and get off my ship.” He reached under the overhang of his rain jacket and drew out a large black revolver, thumbed the hammer back with a click, and pointed it at the crowd. “Now, are there any more questions?”

  They were led through the trap door and down the metal stairs to a short hallway. Two doors stood on opposite ends, and they were directed toward the far one. The other, labeled “Engine Room” in hand painted, grease splattered letters, was chained shut. Standing in front of the unmarked door was a portly man with long gray hair that protruded from underneath a loose fitting, knitted wool cap. The solid wooden stock of a military surplus rifle, complete with bayonet, was held in his hands. With a nod toward the bearded captain, he banged the metal butt plate of his rifle against the door.

  “Stand back . . . we got the last load coming in . . . make room!” His shout accompanied the removal of a key from his pocket. A moment later the door swung open and they were moved inside. The large hold beyond was almost sixty feet long and filled a sea of faces. The air reeked of sweat, diesel fuel, and urine, and several members of his group made heaving sounds as the stench hit them full force. Illumination in the large room was provided by a pair of wire-enshrouded bulbs on opposite corners near the ceiling, and their weak light showed that most of the hold’s occupants were already huddled together in groups for warmth. The child in his arms shivered again, and he found a place to sit down. His wife and other daughter joined a moment later, along with the trio of Spanish ladies. Behind them, the cargo hold door shut with the sound of a coffin nail under the weight of a blacksmith’s hammer. In the echoing stillness that followed, he reached out his arms to encircle his family. Intense tremors continued to shake through his daughter, and a wet, raspy cough now emerged from his wife's lips. The gloomy darkness of the hold only served to amplify the low moaning that began to reach his ears.

  Back on the loading dock, beads of rain pooled in the dense beard of the captain. He turned his narrow set, dark eyes toward another man, equally protected against the weather with layers of heavy PVC. “That makes 377 passengers. When is Lew going to get here?”

  “I don’t know, boss. He said he’d be here. Maybe he’s trying to hold out for a bigger cut.”

  The captain grunted, muttering a series of low curses under his breath before replying. “The only thing more he’ll get from me is a bullet in the back of his head.” He lifted the sleeve of the yellow rain jacket and studied the glowing points on his wristwatch. “He’s got two hours. If he doesn’t show, we go without him.”

  In front of the men, the headlights of the departing moving truck slashed across the barge, illuminating for a split second the faded white lettering on the side of the wheelhouse. It read,

  A & J Logging Company

  You Saw It, We Haul It

  Ghost Echo Lake Transportation

  United States and Canada

  Chapter 38

  We walked around the lake, circling the west side to complete the loop, and then headed toward the cabin. Inside, I added rice to the now boiling water, covered it, and set it off the heat. A call to Walter on the radio gave us an “all clear” from the marina. I told him that we’d be back sometime later this evening. Most of the bleach smell had dissipated, and Michelle shut the windows as I descended the steps to get a fire going in the cast iron burner in the basement below. The ancient black heater had been constructed in a long ago era that prided itself on craftsmanship and quality, but apparently could care less about weight. After the giant stone slab on the bench by the lake, this was the second heaviest thing I’d ever attempted to move manually. The main firebox—brick lining not included—weighed 512 pounds. The only detachable parts were the four iron legs, each cast in a heavy ‘L’ shape for stability. They weighed an additional 49 pounds each. I tilted my eyes to the ceiling above the stove and noted the much newer subfloor that was visible from the basement. Because of the weight and bulkiness of the iron monster, we couldn’t even begin to think about taking it down the stairs. A hole had been cut in the floor, and we used a set of block and tackle to lower the unit through. Once in the basement, it had to be shifted by hand to the proper position so it matched up with the thick stainless steel liner in the chimney. Like I said, it was heavy. Anyhow, I started the fire and added enough wood for a short burn, then headed back upstairs.

  “Do you want something to drink?” Michelle asked when I got back to the kitchen.

  “Water, please.”

  “I thought you only drank Dr. Pepper, beer, and hot chocolate.”

  “Actually,” I said, “I’ve changed my mind. I’m going to have a cup of hot tea instead.”

  “That sounds good. Two cups of tea coming up.”

  She put water on to boil, and then join me back at the kitchen table. A touch of the mouse pad took away the screensaver, and the pop-eyed badger stared back at us. A few clicks later, my North Dakota satellite mapping program launched. While it was loading up, we located a tablet and some pencils, and I turned on the power to Uncle Andy’s computer system. I couldn’t remember his password, but all I needed was access to his printer. Previous experience had shown me that I could connect to that wirelessly.

  Back at the table, my laptop showed an aerial view of North Dakota. The scale on the upper left indicated a relative viewpoint distance of fifty-one miles above ground level. From that height, the map encompassed the entire state. I hit the zoom button, taking us down to twenty miles elevation. A few more click and drags centered the map on the Devils Lake area. From there I zoomed it down to five miles of relative altitude and studied the map. Devils Lake Recreation Area is not a single body of water. Rather, it’s a conglomeration of lakes that total over 200,000 acres of water. They’re all interconnected through various rivers, overflows, and canals. The northern section is made up of Lake Irvine, Lake Alice, Dry Lake, and Mikes Lake. Those lakes are connected to the southerly reaches by a large channel that flows underneath U.S. Highway 2 NW. The major southern lakes are Pelican Lake, the main section of Devils Lake, and East Devils Lake.

  “OK, the first thing we need to know is where your dad’s cabin is.”

  Her face shadowed at my question. “I’m . . . I’m not exactly sure.”

  �
�What?”

  “I’ve been there,” she said, “but only twice, and my mother was driving both times. I have his mailing address, but that won’t help us because it’s a post office box in the actual town of Devils Lake.”

  I leaned back in my chair and closed my eyes. Devils Lake was familiar to me because, as part of my job, I patrolled the waters during the busiest parts of the summer. My main area of operations though, was further south around Arrowood Lake and the wildlife refuge that surrounds it, but during the tourist season, I often pulled double duty.

  “Would you recognize his house if you saw it?”

  She hesitated for a second before answering, “Probably.”

  “How about if you saw it from the water?”

  “You’re thinking about traveling by boat?” I could see the wheels turning in her head when she asked.

  I nodded. “At least, my idea was to travel by water as much as possible. We’re still gonna have to get to the water, but I’m pretty sure that we can do that.”