Fade to Grey (Book 2): Darkness Ascending

by Brian Stewart

  She squinted, gritting her teeth to smile through the discomfort as she angled the camera. “I thought,” . . . her giggles started again, but she bit them down with a giant smile, “that the picture of you and Max would turn out pretty cool, but now that I zoom in on it, it looks like . . .” Her chest started heaving and she couldn’t continue as she fought back against the agony-ecstasy. She thrust the camera toward me and I grabbed her hand to steady it. As soon as I saw the picture, I understood what had triggered her reaction. I was behind the broadside angle shot of Max, and all you could see was my head and neck twisting toward the camera with a strained look on my face. Max’s expression was in mid-snarl with his eyes wide and rolled back, looking at his flank. Instead of a mythological creature with two heads, the image more closely resembled Max straining to take a giant dump. I was the “dump.”

  I joined with her laughter at the picture, adding, “I’ll take it.”

  When we settled down, she took the camera back and turned it off. “I’ll make sure that you get a framed copy for your house. And besides,” she added, “you still owe me, and as I recall, you were going to tell me the story about your house.”

  “I’ll always owe you for what you did.”

  “Tell me about your house and we’ll call it even.”

  “I’d be happy to.” My smile faded a little as I sighed, “Can you wait for a day or so to hear the story?”

  “You mean when you come back from Devils Lake?”

  “So much for keeping it a secret.”

  “Sorry,” she laughed quietly, “I overheard Walter talking to my grandfather and Andy when I was still in the basement. I guess they thought I was sleeping.” Her dark eyes glittered with tiny vertical lines of reflected green light as she continued, “But to answer your question . . . yes, just wait until you get back to tell me.”

  I stood and stretched—arms, shoulders, and neck all rolling in slow arcs. “I’m glad you’re feeling better, but like your grandfather said, take it easy, OK?”

  “I will . . . and thanks for getting my camera.”

  I headed to the door and opened it; the hallway beyond was faintly visible in the dim illumination from the strand of Christmas lights in the kitchen. As I stepped out of the bedroom, Emily’s voice followed me.

  “She loves you, Eric.”

  I paused, my hand on the doorknob as I nodded, “I know.”

  “Keep her safe,” Emily whispered.

  “I will.”

  I went downstairs and spent a few minutes comparing notes about gear with Michelle, and then back out to the truck to double, or in some cases, triple check our packs. Everything checked out, so I took Max for a walk partway down the driveway. We waved at the switchback camera as we passed. I could tell that my ankle wrapping needed redone, but more importantly, I knew that Max needed to spend some quality one on one time with me, so we kept going until we reached the edge of the lake. I pulled up a rock and sat down a few yards from the lapping waves as Max’s silhouette walked the shoreline. After a few minutes of nosy exploration, he came and sat down next to me. We let the lake enjoy our company for about a half an hour before walking back up the driveway. I took Max to the tractor shed and put him inside before returning to the house. It took a few soft knocks on the basement door to get a response, but after peering through the viewfinder, Amy let me inside.

  In the downstairs living room, a bustle of activity was happening all at once. Walter and Mike were setting up some type of projector and screen—the kind you’d use to watch a boring presentation at a company meeting. Preacher Dave was lining up folding chairs in rows. Michelle was nowhere to be seen, but Callie was there, and for the moment at least, looked unoccupied.

  “Hey Callie,” I said, “do you have time to wrap my ankle?”

  “Actually,” she replied, “I think it would be better to take off your bandage and let your ankle breathe a bit tonight. We can rewrap it in the morning. Unless . . .,” she smiled and dipped her nose expectantly, “you plan on running a marathon tonight, in which case it would be better to wrap it.”

  “I have no marathon plans for tonight.”

  “Good, then find me in the morning, OK?”

  I nodded and headed upstairs. The smell of hot spiced cider permeated the kitchen, and the low hum of several conversations reverberated in the air. Michelle was in a triangle with Bucky and Fred at the kitchen table. CJ, his wife Nancy, Doc Collins, Leah, and Mr. Lee were seated around the coffee table playing cards. The three boys—BB and Noah Bishop, and the one we had rescued from the campground, Logan Winters—were scrunched in the corner with Thompson and Scott playing some type of game that involved hundreds of thin, wooden sticks and plastic cogs. The only people my mind could immediately identify as missing were Sam and Rebecca. I put that thought aside and sank into the reassuring depth of a recliner that practically oozed the scent of pipe smoke. My eyes closed briefly before Bernice’s clunky-soft footsteps edged them open. She was holding a mug in her hand and directed it toward me.

  “Try this.”

  I took the mug and dabbed my finger in the liquid. It was warm, but not so much that I would be in danger of scalding the tip of my tongue again. I could smell the heady aroma of a multitude of spices, and they were mingling with another odd, yet curiously pleasant scent. A sip, followed by another longer one produced a smile on my face, but gave no clue to the unidentified ingredient. My upturned eyes met with a secretive smile on Bernice’s face.

  She held a finger to her lips. “Shhhh,” she whispered, “I might have accidentally dropped a few shots of brandy in the cider.”

  “Nice touch,” I whispered back. She returned to the stove and I raised the foot rest on the recliner. A tidal wave of long ignored thoughts crashed against the inside of my eyelids immediately after I shut them, and I could tell from their intensity that I wouldn’t be getting any rest—real rest—in the short down time that I had. I took another sip of the spiced cider and tried to sort through the jumble in my head. Of the entire chorus of voices presenting their case to be heard first, I managed to whittle away all but two. The remaining cider was drained in several large gulps, and then I pushed myself deeper into the cushions and focused on the two winners.

  Chapter 40

  “Ready for the lights?” Sam announced with his hand on the pull cord of a battery powered, stick-on light that was attached to the wall above the stairway threshold.

  “Almost,” Amy replied.

  I looked around the room at the expectant faces of the crowd. We were all loosely packed into the downstairs living room where Samantha’s laptop had been attached to a projector. A home movie screen four feet wide, and almost that tall had been positioned against the far wall. Everyone was here with the exception of Bernice and Leah who were up in the sewing room monitoring the video feeds. The three young boys were also absent—supposedly asleep in a spare bedroom upstairs. Doc had even given permission for Emily to attend. She sat on the opposite side of the room from me on the soft couch. Fred sat next to her. From my angle, it looked like they were chatting up a storm. Michelle was crouched on the floor in the back corner, still working on her iPad, the power cord of which was plugged into one of the generator linked outlets. A few moments ago, Walter had given the rundown of the additional supplies, but for some reason, or reasons, unknown to me at the time, he wasn’t as forthcoming as I thought he’d be. In any event, everybody now knew that we had additional gasoline, food, and weapons, although the exact amounts and locations of each were not announced. The cabin itself was only mentioned in passing as a “supply cache” where some of the additional items were stored. Doc had also filled them in about what Callie had discovered regarding blood types.

  “OK people, give me your attention up here,” my uncle announced.

  The conversations died away almost immediately, and he continued. “Some of you know that Samantha, the girl that Eric and Michelle brought here on the same night that I came in,” he nodded towards the cou
ch, “Emily too . . ., well, she was working on a little project to try and get us some information about what’s really going on in the world.” He stopped and looked down, his lips firm, tight, and straight for a few moments. When his gaze shifted up, I could tell that he was still struggling with her loss, and his sense of responsibility for what had happened. I stood up and cleared my throat.

  “Samantha,” I started, “lost her life trying to get us that information. Some of you may have noticed that Michelle and I were gone for a day or two.” I paused and let that sink in for a minute. “We were able to recover her laptop.” I looked at my uncle, catching the barely visible nod of gratitude at the slight delay that enabled him to regroup.

  He took over as I returned to my chair. “Samantha worked with computers for a living. Using some materials we had lying around at our supply cache, she was able to connect with some satellite feeds.” He pointed at the laptop, “There’s not a whole lot, and most of it is in French, but I think what you’re about to see is going to lead you to the same conclusion that I came to.” He powered up the laptop, and it booted to the same password request screen that Michelle and I had seen earlier, only this time it was in giant green letters displayed on the movie screen. My uncle’s fingers jabbed at the laptop’s keyboard, and a series of asterisks appeared in the password box. I made a mental note to ask him about how he hacked into her system. A moment later, the screen changed from empty black to the vibrant turquoise, tans, and greens of a tropical beach setting. Multiple icons were arranged in neat rows across the water and sand, and their placement left a large gap in the center of the display. Situated in the middle of the picture was an empty beach chair that looked out over the water. The cup holder attached to the chair held a tall glass, beaded with sweat and topped with a miniature green umbrella. Directly above the umbrella was the icon of a beer bottle. The label flagged across the bottle spelled out my uncle’s name.

  Walter chuckled and pointed, “I guess she figured that the first thing you’d find would be a beer.” Several people in the room laughed at his comment, including my uncle.

  “Yeah . . . anyhow . . . Samantha managed to get us a little view into the world outside of North Dakota before she was . . .” He trailed off again and shook his head. After a few seconds and several deep sighs, he pointed at the screen. “Just watch it through the first time, and then we’ll replay it and let Amy try to translate.” He moved the cursor over top of the beer bottle double clicked.

  The webcam image of a thin girl with mousey brown hair decorated with blue beads appeared. In the background, I saw the torso and swinging, tattooed arm of the man Max had killed behind the cabin. It was Garrett—Samantha’s boyfriend . . . obviously before he became infected. Samantha reached toward her laptop and the image angle adjusted. When she was apparently satisfied, she leaned forward and spoke.

  “Hey Andy, it’s Samantha. Obviously you figured out my clue to the encryption or you wouldn’t be looking at this right now.” The image of Samantha paused, the point of her chin resting on her thumb and knuckle as she looked upwards. “But I guess,” she continued, “if you’re watching this, that means that something happened to me.” She smiled and shook her head before a slight grimace took over. “OK, that’s kind of weird. I mean recording something that somebody else would only see if you’re dead . . . I mean if I’m dead.” Her grimace shifted again into a broad smile and her face lit up with laughter. “It’s kind of cool, though.” She sat back and froze in a museum quality façade. “Samantha Poe, immortalized forever in the digital memory of a circuit board that was assembled by the lowest bidder.” Her voice was an attempt at a radio announcer, but it was almost lost to me with the realization that I now knew her last name. Somehow, it made her even more human . . . her loss even greater. I rubbed my eyes, missing the next few seconds of video before turning back to the screen.

  “Anyhow,” Samantha spoke, “I’ve managed . . .”

  “We’ve managed, you mean.” Garrett’s voice tunneled in from the background. The image of Samantha revealed a huge eye roll, but it was paired with a smile.

  She corrected herself, “We’ve managed to get a dish set up and calibrated with my computer. I’ve located a functioning satellite from CanTelCom, and I’m working on accessing their data streams. A lot of it is encrypted, but I’m pretty sure I found a way in through the maintenance system. I’ll keep you informed about the progress. One thing I can already tell you is that the Internet is definitely AWOL. It’s like the protocols have been rewritten, and nothing can communicate with anything else. Anyhow, I’ll check back in when I have something.”

  The screen blipped for a split second and then Samantha reappeared. She was wearing her coat and held a ceramic mug in a gloved hand. “OK Andy, I guess we should have paid more attention when you showed us how to light the fire. Anyhow, it’s update time. Like I mentioned earlier, I was able to gain access to the satellite by worming in through the maintenance system. You would think that a billion dollar company could afford to lay out a little bit of cash and update all of their critical access points with cutting edge firewalls. Their loss, our gain. So anyhow, I’m in to their satellite feed, although it’s weird . . .” Her lips scrunched up in thought for a moment. “All I can pick up is a single data stream that loops over and over again. If I had to guess, I’d say that somewhere in Canada is a still functioning, ground based uplink that is trying to broadcast this signal. Unfortunately, there seems to be a multitude of problems.” She scooted her nose closer to the webcam lens until her head filled the entire screen. “Keep in mind I’m just guessing here, but these are fairly educated guesses. The first problem is that the transmission has nowhere to go. In other words, once it hits the satellite, it’s not being rebroadcast into a million igloos in the Arctic Circle. Basically, I’m telling you that the satellite is offline—whether it was intentional or otherwise I can’t really say. The second problem is that the signal fades in and out. There could be a lot of reasons for this. It could be the equipment on our end, or at the broadcast point, or the satellite itself might be tracking off its geostationary orbit. I have no way to tell for sure. The third problem is the broadcast that’s just spinning in limbo up in the satellite is in French, so I hope you can understand it. We’ve watched it a couple times here, and all I can say is that I’m glad I’m not where this was taken. There’s nothing more that I think I can get from this satellite, so tomorrow morning Garrett and I are going to try and locate another one that hopefully will give us a bit more. Wish us luck.” Her face disappeared and was replaced by a black screen. Almost immediately, scuffling sounds and muffled voices erupted from the laptop’s speakers. The black screen fuzzed into blue-gray, and then materialized into the frightened face of a woman with disheveled black hair. She was holding a microphone and glancing nervously to the left and right. Whoever was working the camera was obviously not using a tripod, and the image bounced and jiggled.

  My uncle paused the playback for a moment. “Just a little clarification . . . what you’re about to see is the reporter and her cameraman shooting a video of another video. There’s a television or monitor in the background, and that’s what they’re filming. Not that I should have to remind you, but this movie doesn’t have a kid friendly rating. He took it off pause and the image rolled onward.

  The camera zoomed to the television, and a chaotic scene of burning buildings appeared. The view was from what appeared to be the roof of a hotel in a congested urban setting. As the image zoomed down, a mob of running figures could be seen at street level. Several were being dragged down to the ground and pummeled. Others were zigzagging like ants on hot sand viewed from above with a magnifying glass. The picture retreated, shifted angles, and zoomed back in. The disembodied hand of the reporter edged into view and indicated a series of skyscrapers that were engulfed in heavy flames. Chunks of fallen debris peeled off the buildings and crashed to the streets below as her voiceover babbled frantically. The image shifted agai
n as dozens of distant pops came through the speakers. When it stabilized, it was focused on a gridlocked intersection swarming with moving shapes. Tiny flashes of light indicated gunfire, but the image couldn’t zoom enough to provide any details. Her rapid fire French continued as the rooftop camera was repositioned. When it steadied, it swept in a slow arc across a broad downtown thoroughfare. What looked to be a six or eight lane major artery was gripped in a logjam of stalled or abandoned vehicles. Some still had faint glimmers from their headlights, and the dim round and square globes flickered as fast moving shadows crossed in front. The entire scene was backlit with shimmering orange firelight, and further obscured by billowing clouds of smoke. The French reporter squealed in alarm as a series of heavy bangs echoed from the laptop’s speakers, and her cameraman shifted from the television to a maroon set of double doors that had been braced with a makeshift barricade of office furniture. Her voice kicked up in both speed and intensity and the camera moved back to the television. The nighttime rooftop view was now panning across the horizon of a city, and dozens of buildings burned like sputtering roman candles. The image shook and blackened again as the rooftop camera was moved another time. When it cleared, it was looking straight down the side of the building at a massive riot of people. Smashed glass from storefront windows reflected the flames of the inferno across the street, and as the picture zoomed downward like a slowly falling balloon, individual figures began to appear. Maximum magnification stopped short of the clarity needed to pick out single faces, but the French correspondent’s trembling finger jabbed several times at the image of the crowd below, and her voice—also trembling—continued to narrate. Even from the elevated viewing height, it was obvious that people were being torn apart. A jarring impact crashed through the speakers, and the cameraman twisted rapidly toward the maroon doors. Another slam sounded, and this time the double doors visibly buckled. Yelling in French could be heard, and then the camera hit the ground with a bang. Still rolling, it caught the ankles, then legs, then full figure of a denim-clad man running towards the barricade. A pair of charcoal colored leather pumps danced nervously in the foreground as another shock battered the doors. With a tremendous series of crunches, the barricade collapsed and the doors flew open in a sea of gray faces. Hysterical screams shot from the journalist as the horde of infected swarmed over the man and poured into the room. Her screams sounded again and again as the wave crashed over her with the sound of grunting breaths and gnashing teeth. The camera, still rolling but now kicked to the side showed only blackness. The audio remained functioning, however, and my uncle let it play for about twenty seconds. The snapping, tearing, and chewing that issued forth required no video to convey the scene.