I shook my head and queued up the map from the screensaver that had taken over. “No, you’re wrong.” I pointed to the map and zoomed in, focusing my attention on Michelle. “Do you remember the little road we crossed underneath by the ranger station?”
“Highway 19, right?”
“Yep. If you keep heading east on 19, it will run you straight into the town of Devils Lake, right where it merges with U.S. Route 2. However . . .,” I tapped at the map, “just before it gets into town, you’ll pass the small regional airport on the left. The next road that you come to on the right—maybe a quarter mile further—leads you south for a few hundred yards before it tees off to the lemna plant.”
“The what?”
“The lemna plant. It’s basically a whole bunch of interconnected waterways designed in a grid system. It uses natural plant life like duckweed to decontaminate wastewater before it’s released into the lake.”
“OK . . . so . . .?” I could see the frustration beginning to set in her eyes.
“So,” I continued, “if you go the other way at the tee, it will dump you almost immediately into the DLAC—the Devils Lake Animal Clinic. It’s a pretty big veterinary outfit. I think they have six doctors and at least twice that number of techs, because a most of their business is geared towards large animals like cattle and horses, and they do a lot of out calls at farms and ranches. But . . . they also work with dogs and cats.”
“How’d you find them . . . on that computer?” More smoke drifted up to join the thunderhead hovering just below the stained ceiling tiles.
“No. Last summer we rescued a baby moose whose mother had been hit by a coal truck. The cow had been dead for several days, but the calf was still hanging around and looked like it had an injured leg, so we tranq’d it and made a call to the state specialist. He recommended this place, and we were pretty close so we took it over.”
“And you think this vet office will have Lynn’s medicine?” Another dragon breath joined the cloud.
“Can I be one hundred percent? No. But I’m positive the same prescription that she’s on is the same one that they used for the Great Dane. Also, this place is kind of out of the way . . . it’s not in the middle of town like all the other pharmacies. There’s a sign up by the road, but it’s underneath the one that says ‘water treatment plant.’ As a matter of fact, I remember them telling me to look for the water treatment sign. The other thing to consider is that this place is pretty big, relatively speaking, and with so many vets working out of it, they probably have to stockpile a good amount of various medicines.”
“And how will you get there, Eric? I don’t have a car, and that wouldn’t be very safe anyhow.”
“That’s the beauty of this plan. I’d get there the same way I got here. I just need to backtrack about twenty miles and turn into Creel Bay. The lemna plant dumps in to the upper end of the bay. There’s not a dock there; it’s a restricted fishing area for a half mile out so they can monitor water quality, but I can beach the boat literally 300 yards from the vet office.”
Chapter 67
*click*
And that, dear listeners, is how I ended up here—trapped in the shampoo and grooming room at the veterinarian’s office with only two bullets left. I can still hear some scuttling from outside. They saw me. They know where I am. She knows where I am. And it’s only a matter of time before death is going to find me . . . . . . . . . . . only it won’t be wearing robes and caring a scythe. It will be in the form of that beautiful bitch with midnight black eyes. I should eat a bullet and save her the trouble. I’m signing off for now. Maybe forever. Bye.
*click*
OK, I’m not dead yet. And I found a light. Well, a cell phone with the battery about half charged. It was in the pocket of a dead girl crumpled in the back corner of the room. I just about crapped my pants when I stumbled into her body in the dark. Anyhow, her name was Austine, at least if the name tag on her lab coat was correct. The clock on the phone reads 4:15 AM, and if the increase in grunting and snarls from the outside are any indication, I’ll probably be dead before sunrise. The good news, if there is any, is that the room I stumbled into doesn’t have any windows to the outside. Just the door I came through from the hallway. I’ve got it partially blocked with some aluminum rolling tables, but they won’t really serve as an effective barricade. Heck, I can’t even remember if the door opens inward or outward. Wouldn’t that be just great? I’d get up to heaven and the angels would be laughing and pointing me, and underneath their breath I’d hear, “that’s the guy that piled up the tables in front of a door that opened the other direction.” I don’t care . . . OK, that’s a lie. I’m just so tired of fighting at every turn . . . and I wish Max was here. OK, that’s another lie, kind of. I mean, I miss my buddy and wish I could just bury my face in his stinky fur, but on the other hand, if he was here that would just be another death on my conscience. We’d put up a hell of a fight though. While I’m riding the wish train, I might as well ask for some blueberry muffins. I’ve probably got just about the same chance of getting those. Shit. I got to think of something.
*click*
OK, the clock now reads 4:24 AM, so it’s been what, nine minutes since my last update? I’m still alive. I heard a couple gunshots not too far away, but other than that it’s been quiet. Too quiet. I hope you can hear me, because I’m whispering pretty low. I guess I should tell you how I got here. There’s not a whole lot to it, actually . . .
Chapter 68
“You’re making me . . . no, let me change that . . . you’re forcing me to choose between you and my mother.”
I said nothing. There was nothing I could say. Michelle was, in her own way of justification, correct.
“And I don’t like either choice,” she finished.
“I don’t either,” I said quietly.
“Then don’t go.”
“Michelle, we’ve been down this road about a hundred times. Your mom is going to die without that medication. Maybe not today, but maybe tomorrow, or next week. She’s certainly not able to travel, and even if she was I highly doubt that my uncle, or Walter, or even Doc Collins has any of that medication handy. Don’t get me wrong, I think this whole thing sucks. But we have a window of opportunity here that won’t stay open for long.”
“Then take me with you.”
I shook my head again and looked at the mound underneath the sleeping bag. The macaroni and cheese had practically knocked her out, and she was snoring lightly, her tiny left arm tightly curled around a lifelike plush rabbit. Well, lifelike if you discounted the pastel yellow pajamas it wore. “You know why you can’t go.”
Michelle looked at Faith, and then sighed deeply. “She has your eyes, you know.”
“She has your hair . . . and smile,” I returned.
Michelle’s stunningly green eyes, made even brighter by the frequent baths of tears throughout the morning, turned towards me. “When are you leaving?” Her voice was muted and distant.
“In about an hour. I’m going to go ahead and switch to the night scope on the .22, and then I’ll sight it in from one of the upstairs windows. I’m leaving both AR’s here with you . . . I won’t need one.” I patted the pistol in my thigh rig. “I’ll have my CZ as backup.”
“What if you get there and the place is overrun by ghouls?”
“Then I don’t even land. I’ll just turn the boat around and come back.”
She was quiet at my answer, so I kept talking. “It’s going to be about twenty miles or so to the lemna station, and I want to do that just before dark so I won’t have to navigate anything but the final mile or so with night vision. In any event, without any repeaters functioning we won’t have radio contact, so don’t even try because I’ll be too far away. And that brings me to my last point. Your dad has a map of Devils Lake on the wall downstairs. If I don’t come back within about six hours or so, well then, you need to get Faith out of here. Wait for daylight and then take your dad’s jon boat—he said there’
s plenty of gas and it will run—and head over to the lemna station. Don’t land or try to come after me! Just switch into the patrol boat and try to make it back to my truck. Don’t forget to pick up the other bass boat . . . and be careful around that low bridge on 281.”
“You’re talking like you already know that you won’t be back.” It was said with the beginnings of a fresh tear.
“That’s not what I’m saying at all. I just want you to realize that if something does happen, you need to get back to the marina.”
Michelle rocked to her knees and slid over to me. Her arms wrapped around my shoulders and she pulled me tight, burying her face against my chest to muffle the quiet sobs. I returned the embrace and held on—lost in the whirlwind of emotions as the rhythm of our breathing began to slow, and then balance, and then become one. We stayed frozen against each other for at least fifteen minutes, and then Michelle wrapped her fingers around the back of my neck, pushing her lips to mine. The passion in her kiss was unmistakable, but it wasn’t alone. There was also sadness and hope . . . love and fear . . . . . . and goodbye. Her thumb moved to my cheek and wiped away a tear. I’m not sure whose it was.
“Eric,” she said, forcing a partial smile to emerge, “I love you. Come back to me soon, OK?”
“I will.”
“Be careful.”
I caught a halfhearted attempt at a wink with her ‘be careful.’ I leaned down and kissed her hard, pulling away after too short of a time before returning her wink. “Don’t worry,” I said.
Chapter 69
*click*
And so I left her dad’s cabin after bringing in all the remaining food we had—it wasn’t much. I also brought two of our three ammo boxes filled with the 5.56 ammunition. That gave her 840 additional rounds. I couldn’t imagine a realistic scenario where someone could burn through anywhere near that amount and still be alive. At Michelle’s suggestion, we transferred her mother to the upstairs bed. Everything else supply-wise that could be moved followed it. It took a lot of convincing for her dad to agree to be carried upstairs, but in the end we worked out a deal—he’d agree to go, and if I happened to find any cigarettes at the vet office, I’d bring them back for him. In any event, there was now only one avenue they’d have to defend if the house became compromised. Before I walked out the door, Michelle and Faith gave me a final hug. It was impossible to miss the mischievous smile that passed between them. My look of curiosity was rewarded a few seconds later when they handed me the flattened macaroni and cheese box. The top had been folded over and fastened with a scrap of masking tape, but it was the homemade bow that made me choke up. It was fashioned out of a pencil thick braided rope of long red hair.
“We made it for you so you’ll have luck,” Michelle said. “It was Faith’s idea, and we both contributed.”
I didn’t know what to say.
“Open it,” Faith chirped happily.
I removed the bow, zipping it into one of the interior pockets in my jacket for safekeeping, and then opened the flat box. Inside was the entire remaining two-thirds of our strawberry Pop-Tart.
Chapter 70
4:39 AM. Still alive. I’ve spent the last couple minutes trying to explore this room and find a weapon of some sort. I wish I had my small backpack with me. Why? OK, since you insist, I’ll tell you more. My backpack, you see, is about forty feet away, just outside the back door to the vet office. If I had my backpack, I’d have extra batteries for my flashlight. There’s also two more loaded magazines for my 9mm. Did I mention about the hundred rounds of subsonic ammunition for my .22? Not that it matters, because the rifle is lying on the ground near the backpack. Both of them I had to sacrifice to avoid becoming . . . well, dead. What’s that saying? Oh yeah . . . “and now for the rest of the story.” Where did I leave off? I think it was with . . . Pop-Tarts. I should probably mention that Pop-Tarts taste a lot better than the tiny brown chunks of dog treats that I’ve been munching on. At least I hope they’re treats. They’d probably taste better if I had some water to wash them down with. Guess where it’s at? Yep, the backpack. Deep breath . . . OK, Pop-Tarts.
I made it to the patrol boat, and it fired right up. The fuel status was showing at seventy-eight percent, so I backed it off the dock and headed northwest just as the cloud muted sunlight was beginning to fade. I passed through East Devils Lake and under the bridge of county road 0353. From there it was about eight miles—still northwest—until I angled off to the southwest. Four miles give or take, and then I was in Mission Bay. Another course change, again to the northwest, and I headed for the entry to Creel Bay about three and a half miles away. I was hearing sporadic gunfire, but nothing like the intensity of when we’d passed this point earlier today. Camp Grafton, the small National Guard outpost at the entrance to Creel Bay, was totally silent. I stayed in the middle of the channel as much as I could, cutting back the engines when I was about two miles from my anticipated landing point. The setting sun was still battling with the approach of dusk, so I shut off the engines and dropped anchor. I waited. At full dark, and with the taste of strawberry still on my lips, I started the motors and guided the patrol boat the rest of the way using the night scope. Do you remember when I told Michelle and her dad that the vet office was only about 300 yards from the lake? Yeah well, what I found out after I beached the boat near some willow scrub was that those 300 yards were occupied by several dozen bison. Also, the water off the side of the boat was slightly deeper than my boots. Roughly three feet deeper. Here’s a point of advice for anybody listening to this recording—traveling 300 yards with wet boots and wet pants through a field of agitated buffalo at night does not put you in the best mood. Anyhow, I guess I stumbled into a buffalo . . . or maybe beefalo . . . research project. They were stirred up and restless, and at first I figured it was because of the gunshots that had been blasting all day. Maybe that was part of it as well, but I didn’t find the real cause until I was at the other side of the pasture. I jogged over the field, hopped across the fence and crouched, scanning the area with the night scope. The veterinarian’s office itself was a simple rectangular building about ninety feet long and maybe half of that wide. I was looking at the back of it, and as far as I could see, the only feature was a single door located near the right corner. Across the parking lot from the main building were two smaller barns, both of them faced by a large set of traditional double doors. On one of the barns, the doors appeared to be shut and sealed. The other building had its doors hanging partially open. As I stared through the scope, I heard a faint sound to my right, like a heavy thump followed by something scuttling through dry grass on a hot day. I turned to look, half expecting a ghoul to be there and ready to pounce, but the sight that greeted me was so bizarre it took a moment to register. In the fenced in area, fourteen of the bison had arranged themselves in a half circle with their attention focused on a pair of prone figures crawling on the ground in front of them. One of the crawlers seemed almost immobile, but would occasionally slash its arms through the grass futilely. The other one, obviously a ghoul as well but with a shattered body, was lunging impotently at the facing herd. Every few seconds, one of the bison would trot in and stomp it with its hoof. I took another look around, and after once again coming up empty, I lined up and shot the crawlers. When they stopped moving, I swear one of the buffalo looked straight at me. Turning back to the vet office, I knelt down and said another prayer before taking off at a trot for the back door.
The office was only about seventy five feet from the fence, and I managed to cross the distance uneventfully. At the back door, I risked a little bit of light to see what I was up against. Emblazoned in a weather worn sticker was the alarm permit number for the current year, and a warning that the premises were protected by a local security company. Two other stickers, both substantially older than the alarm warning, advised that this was an employee’s only entrance, and that all deliveries should use the side door. None of the stickers applied to me, so I reached into my pack and found
the stiff metal pry bar that I had borrowed from Michelle’s father’s toolbox. It took less than five seconds to pop the door open. The room I found myself in was occupied with an eight foot folding table surrounded by a mishmash of various chairs. A counter against the left hand wall supported a microwave oven and a freestanding snack rack. It was loaded with an assortment of chips, all of them the “baked” variety. I made a mental note to stuff my face with them on the way out. Just past the rack was an old fashion, percolator-type coffee maker, as well as its high tech replacement—one of those newer gizmos that brewed your beverage from the little individual cups. I took an extra half second to open the cupboard below the coffee makers. Inside I found a pair of expensive looking, foil sealed coffee bags, each of them weighing in at a pound. I stuffed them in my pack for Michelle. The other side of the area had a pair of full size refrigerators. I left them alone and headed to the wooden door at the end of the room.
Max doesn’t like going to the vet. Which I suppose is only fair, because most veterinarians don’t like Max. Not that they don’t like “Max” per se, but rather that they have expressed a personal interest in returning to their homes at the end of the day with all of their limbs and most of their face still attached. The vet we see now, or I guess “used to see,” is a little bit different. He’s a transplant from somewhere in Australia, although if I remember correctly, he said he’s been in the states for almost thirty years. He likes Max. Sadly, Max doesn’t like him . . . or rather, Max doesn’t like any of the procedures he’s ever been through at the veterinarian. A thick, canvas and leather muzzle was required any time I had to take him in. Anyhow, from my time at the veterinarians, I’ve learned a few things about their basic operations. Exam rooms have carriers attached either to the door, or just to the side of the door, for patient clipboards. X-ray rooms are labeled as such—that’s probably a law. Most other rooms will also be labeled with their function, such as laboratory, surgical, or grooming for example. In general, the rooms that aren’t labeled are the ones that I would be looking for, although they might just be labeled as “storage.” The door to the break room opened into a long hallway, and directly across from me was a door labeled “grooming.” Yeah, I’m here now—I know that. But you don’t know how I got here. When I got to the hallway, the first sight that greeted me was a wide swath of dried blood interspaced by several pools—also dried—that trailed off to my left down the hallway. It was pitch black inside, and I froze and listened for at least five minutes. I heard nothing that would indicate I wasn’t alone, so I soft stepped down the hall. A series of doors on my right all displayed clipboard holders, so I concentrated on the ones on the left side. The first one I came to was labeled “radiology.” I passed it by. The second door had no markings, so I tried the knob. It was locked. It took almost three minutes to pry the heavy door open, and I gritted my teeth with each scrape and grunt that echoed down the hall. The door finally popped out of its frame and opened. Inside was a “T” shaped room with four compact desks and a medium size conference table. I spent a few moments quietly rummaging through each desk, but all I came up with were three packs of unfiltered cigarettes and two unopened cans of Copenhagen snuff. I took the cigarettes for Michelle’s dad, but left the chew. The next room was the lab, and the doors to it were similar to what you’d see on a saloon in the old cowboy movies. Kind of like spring loaded, double flap, half length . . . uh, doors. I’m guessing they’re designed like that so you can back into them to enter the lab if you’re carrying handfuls of specimens or test tubes. Although I could see several vials and bottles in the glass fronted cabinets, I left that room alone. I’d spent enough time in chemistry class to know those bottles would most likely be filled with testing and calibration reagents. Hold on a second, I thought I just heard something . . .
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