Fade to Grey (Book 2): Darkness Ascending

by Brian Stewart

  “The data that we have for after that event is pretty thin, because a short time later the entire project was shut down and classified above top secret with the code name GREEN TEARDROP.”

  “And what’s that?” Bucky asked.

  “We know very little about GREEN TEARDROP, but what we do know isn’t very encouraging. GREEN TEARDROP is the code name for a plan of action that deals with the eventual escape of the FALCON prion. Let me say it another way—it’s not a plan that’s supposed to be put into effect if FALCON ever escaped. What it is, quite simply, is a pre-positioning of assets, intelligence, and contingencies for when FALCON escaped. In other words, they knew that it was just a matter of time before their corrupt child came back and paid them a visit, so a strategy was developed to safeguard the critical infrastructures of our government and our society. Billions . . . yes, with a ‘B’ . . . of dollars have been covertly poured into GREEN TEARDROP since the FALCON project was shut down.”

  The lieutenant refilled his cup with water and then turned back to face us. “In a nutshell, that’s the relevant information that we’ve obtained from the data drive. I plan on taking another look through the files that we’ve been able to photograph, and there’s a good chance that more information will be forthcoming. For now, I’ll be happy to try and answer some questions.”

  I caught the motion of Glenda raising her hand from the corner.

  “Yes ma’am?” Oakley nodded towards her.

  “That seven hour time frame—does it mean that if you don’t become one of those things in less than seven hours you’ll be OK?”

  “Great question,” Oakley answered. “Unfortunately, the answer is no. The data indicates that approximately seven hours is the maximum time frame that FALCON has to take hold on your system. Depending on the circumstances surrounding your potential exposure, that event could happen in just minutes—for example if you get a massive dose of infected saliva into your circulatory system. Now, once FALCON is locked on, it migrates to your brain and salivary glands and begins to make biochemical changes to your system. That process can take as long as seventy-two hours, although depending on a myriad of factors, it can—and usually does—happen much more quickly. About thirty percent of infected people don’t survive the transformation process, and for those who do, the data seems to indicate that the average length of time from infection to active transformation is roughly thirteen hours. For some people it’s longer . . . others jump from exposure to active transformation relatively quickly. A lot of that has to do with the amount of pathogen that’s been introduced to your body.” Oakley’s eyebrows arched as he looked out over the crowd. “Blood type O victims can go from a non-infected status to full blown, active transformation in less than four minutes.”

  Doc Collins raised a finger. “Lieutenant, tell them about the children.”

  Oakley nodded. “As some of you have observed, there seems to be a skewed ratio between the number of adults who are infected vs. the number of adolescents or children who succumb to FALCON. This is correlated directly to the time frame of their vaccination against measles. Simply put, younger people with recent vaccinations respond to the infection more rapidly, and are more likely to make the jump to infected status.”

  I raised my hand and Oakley nodded in my direction. “Two questions,” I said, “the first is about mosquitoes. Do we have any data to indicate how long mosquitoes remain infectious after they feed on the ghoul saliva?”

  “Excellent question Officer Coleman. Mosquitoes are only a carrier agent for the FALCON prion. They don’t actually become infected themselves. The data we have seems to indicate a post feeding infectious window that falls within a relatively narrow band, with the average being about twelve hours. That time frame can be much shorter if the mosquitoes are exposed to UV light.”

  “OK, good to know. My second question has to do with cross species infection. Most of you know about Max, so my question relates to the possibility of him becoming infected and potentially spreading it to one of us.”

  Oakley shook his head. “No, FALCON was engineered to be infectious to humans only. Other species cannot naturally harbor or become infected with the pathogen, but don’t forget about short term contamination. If Max tears out the throat of an infected ghoul, I probably wouldn’t let him lick my eyeballs right away.”

  C.J. stood and ran his hand down the long gray beard that hung from his chin. “I want to know who the hell is responsible for creating this little monster. Was it us? . . . Russia? . . . China? Who do we have to thank for screwing the world over?”

  Oakley shrugged. “It’s ours.”

  The room went silent at Oakley’s two words. In the stillness that followed, the shrieking laughter of the children playing downstairs carried faintly into the living room. My uncle stood up, balancing on the crutches for stability as he scanned the crowd. “Do you hear that? Those children, and hopefully others as time passes, are both our future and our legacy. We—each and every one of us—have one job left to do. We have to survive.”

  The beginnings of yeasty aromas trickled out from the kitchen, but even that welcome smell did little to alter the mood in the room. I felt Michelle’s hand stiffen against my ribs as she edged closer, and I squeezed her tight as my eyes sought out Uncle Andy. From across the room his steely gaze marched straight towards me. In the brief glance that we traded the message was crystal clear—there was something else. Something that they weren’t sharing. I gave a bare nod, and then turned to whisper in Michelle’s ear. A deep exhale accompanied the sag of her shoulders.

  Amy broke the silence by clearing her throat as she stood. “We all have a lot of thinking to do. Part of those thoughts should be about how we can bravely step towards tomorrow without losing sight of who we are today . . . and yesterday . . . and the day before that. What I’m saying is that everybody here is valuable. Everybody has skills, talents, and areas of knowledge that are priceless—not only to you personally, but to everybody in this room—and we’re going to be counting on you to contribute those abilities to our merry little band of survivors.” She made a small circle through the crowded floor as she continued. “I’m not a soldier like Captain Estes or Private Thompson. I don’t have the medical knowledge that Doctor Collins or Callie possess. Heck, if you stuffed me in the kitchen with unlimited ingredients and a library of cookbooks, I might eventually come out with something semi-edible, but it sure wouldn’t be with the efficiency or taste of Bernice’s culinary skills. Now, with that said, it doesn’t mean that I’ll never be standing guard somewhere with a rifle in my hands, or stirring a big pot of stew, or changing bandages the next time Andy gets shot.” A string of quiet laughter began to loop the room.

  “Hey now . . .” Uncle Andy cut in.

  “We’re just kidding Andy,” Amy teased.

  “Yeah,” Walter added, “the next time it’ll probably be a stab wound.”

  A few more chuckles added their strength to the mental ice picks chipping away at the heavy, frozen gloom from Oakley’s report, and I even managed to add my own grin to the effort.

  “What you need to walk away from this meeting with,” Amy finished as she returned to her seat, “is the assurance that today and in the days to come, you are not alone.” She turned towards Preacher Dave. “I’m not the authority on religious matters either,” Amy said, “but somewhere in the bible it says that ‘a cord of three strands is not easily broken.’ That was good advice then, and it’s still true today.”

  “Amen,” Dave echoed from somewhere to my left.

  “Oh,” Amy added as she half stood, “I almost forgot. By the time the bread comes out of the oven, all of your cell phones should be fully charged. We’ll hand them out with the butter.”

  Several cheers accompanied her announcement, and then Walter stood and waved the audience to silence one final time. “Bernice has just informed me that supper is going to be a little bit earlier today. Probably around 4:00 PM. We’ve got some beautiful weather, and sinc
e the mosquitoes in North Dakota don’t usually show up for another few weeks, we’re going to grill out on the deck.”

  This time the applause was sincere, and I added my own in an attempt to cover up the growing apprehension that I was feeling. With the meeting now adjourned, the crowd began to stand and mingle as Amy read job assignments for the rest of the day. I barely registered her voice through the dense fuzz of my own thoughts, and I’d probably still be sitting there if Sam hadn’t nudged me with his boot.

  “Eric, can you and Michelle take a quick trip up to the tractor shed? There something I’d like you to take a look at.”

  “Yeah . . . when?” I asked.

  “Now is good if you’ve got the time.”

  I got to my feet and offered a hand to Michelle. She took it and I pulled her up. “Let’s go.”

  Chapter 103

  The familiar scent of hay bales offered a slight counterbalance of comfort to the unease that permeated the gathering. In addition to Michelle and I, Sam, Estes, and Uncle Andy were seated around the circle. Nobody spoke. After a few more seconds of impatient waiting, I flipped my palms upside down. “What?”

  Sam nodded my way. “Do you remember Wayne King, the fire chief from Richland?”

  “Yeah . . . why?”

  “Last night, Walter and Rebecca were in the sewing room fiddling with the different radios and watching the security camera video. About 10:00 PM, Scott and Mr. Lee—they were on the roof of the store—called in a contact. It was the fire chief. He was riding an old motorcycle down the highway.”

  “Did we add another mouth to feed? Is that what you want to tell me?” I asked.

  “No,” Sam chuckled. “Walter, Mike, and Shawn took the Mule down to the marina to chat with Wayne, but he wasn’t in a very good mood.”

  “Why . . . because of the people who lost their lives when they attacked us?”

  “No.”

  My eyes narrowed and I waited. I didn’t have to wait long before Sam replied.

  “Shelter Yellow was overrun. It’s gone.”

  “What? . . . How? . . . I thought there were heavy steel doors at the shelter,” I asked.

  My uncle shrugged. “It happened yesterday just before evening. The fire chief was about a quarter mile away from the shelter on a scouting trip. He had climbed up a low antenna tower to get a better view of the terrain and he noticed three different lines of ghouls weaving their way through the city and heading for the shelter.”

  “Did he call it in on his radio?” I asked.

  “He said he tried but didn’t get any response.”

  “How many ghouls were there?” Michelle asked.

  Estes spoke. “According to what the fire chief said, each of the lines had several thousand in it.”

  “Thousand?” I asked.

  “Yeah, ‘thousand.’”

  “There’s no way we’re going to Richland on a rescue mission.” My interruption was cold and hard and honest.

  Sam held up a hand. “Hold on Eric, that’s not what we’re saying.”

  My eyes narrowed with annoyance. I hated guessing games, especially because lately it seemed like every one of them resulted in my ass being dropped in the fire. I pressed my lips together and waited.

  “Wayne took the bike up the narrow trail at the back of the shelter, and by the time he got there it was over. The entire swath—the wide roadway that led through the quarry and down into the shelter—was nothing but a sea of ghouls, and the blast door was hanging wide open.”

  I tried to recall the number of people that Ray Ingram had said were at the shelter. It was around 250 I thought. The loss of that many lives a few months ago would have circled the global news services in just seconds. Right now, it was just another muted slap against our already numbed cheeks. I was about to comment when I caught a shifting of eyes between my uncle and Sam. My mood was rapidly dropping to somewhere between foul and grim, and I sat up straight and stared at my uncle. “What the hell are you not telling me?”

  Uncle Andy motioned to the laptop computer sitting on the hay table that used to serve as my bed. A screensaver of three dimensional bubbles bouncing from edge to edge was playing, and he pointed a finger at the computer. “The fire chief had a camera with him. I guess it was one of those expensive jobbers with a big telephoto lens. Anyhow, he snapped a few pictures of the swarm. Before he took off down the road last night, he pulled out the memory card and gave it to Walter.”

  Michelle and I both stood and walked toward my uncle for a better view of the screen.

  “Before we show you the pictures he took, we’d like you to meet somebody,” Sam interjected.

  My patience was very nearly expired, and I bit back an angry comment and pressed my lips together as my uncle entered the laptop’s password.

  “This is one of the personnel files from the FALCON project. Dr. Kenneth North,” the image of a wispy haired man with a graying goatee popped onto the screen, “was the chief pathologist and second in command of the FALCON program. The next one you’re going to see is Dr. Susan Andrews-Wickham. She was the lead developer for the FALCON research team, and also the chief of operations for the entire project. Her specialty is nano-biology.”

  The image that took the place of the goateed Dr. North gapped my mouth like a carp too long out of water. If you took away the lab coat and frameless half glasses, and then unrolled the clump of dark hair pinned in a swirling bun, the beautiful face that would be revealed was one that I had seen before. With the exception of hazel eyes, it was identical to the drawing in my pocket.

  “What the . . .” I trailed off confusion.

  “Yeah, that’s what I said too,” Sam added, “but just wait a minute . . . it gets better.”

  My uncle’s fingertips danced across the touchpad and a series of picture icons appeared. “These are the pictures that Wayne took from the gravel hill behind the shelter.” He double clicked on the first one, and thousands of gray faces filled almost every square inch of the slope that led down to the entrance of shelter Yellow. Several more wide angle shots followed the first, and each one added another chill to my gut as I contemplated facing that many infected.

  “Do you see anything odd about these pictures . . . specifically the ghouls?” Uncle Andy asked.

  “Show me again,” I said, and the images were replayed slowly.

  Michelle's long finger darted towards the screen at the same time that I saw it. “It looks like there’s a space—a gap here and here—that separates the mob of infected. Like an invisible wall that’s dividing the ghouls into thirds.”

  Uncle Andy cleared his throat and zoomed in on the image. “You’re correct ‘Chelle. There is a narrow but definite ‘no contact’ line dividing the three groups, although it’s not equally balanced. The center group has about twice as many as the two side groups. The point is, we’re talking over 5000 people—I mean infected people—crowded in to a relatively constricted area, and yet somehow their entire mob is able to divide and maintain itself into three separate . . . ‘hordes.’”

  The question that popped to my mind was echoed by Michelle as soon as it erupted from my mouth. “And what is at the front of those hordes?”

  I noticed Estes clench slightly at my words, and the edge of tension in the room was substantial as my uncle replied.

  “Not at the front. It’s the back of the horde we need to focus on.” He returned to the thumbnail pictures and scrolled several rows down before highlighting one. “This is near the rear of the central—the largest—group of infected.” A double click of his finger brought the image of a beautiful, naked woman with ebony black eyes standing at the center of an oblong ring of ferals. She was covered with bite marks, but she was unmistakable. Dr. Susan Andrews-Wickham . . . the black-eyed lady from that night in the barn . . . the dark angel.

  “Look familiar?” Sam asked.

  “Yeah.”

  “To me too,” he added.

  “Now take a look at the back of the left hand s
ection of the horde,” my uncle continued.

  I nosed closer to the screen as he brought up the next image. The picture that was now displayed on the laptop triggered a hesitant, halting shift of my neck towards Sam and my uncle, as well as a burst of disbelieving half curses from Michelle. It showed another ring of ferals surrounding a partly clothed beautiful woman with long, dark hair and obsidian eyes. Her facial features were identical to the one behind the central section.

  “Wait a minute . . .” I began.

  “Hold on, there’s something else.” My uncle held up a finger towards me while he used his other hand on the touchpad. “This,” his voice was low and curiously intense, “is at the back of the right hand section.” The picture was remarkably clear, and the circle of guards were easily recognizable as amber-eyed feral ghouls. It was the central figure they were surrounding that grabbed—and held—my attention. Dread black eyes dripping with malice looked straight into the camera, and my skin began to crawl as I focused on the unmistakable image staring back.