“Do you think we’ll be able to leave in the morning?” Emily asked.
“Assuming it doesn’t start raining again that’s my plan. We need to get back. Even if it is raining a little bit I may risk it,” I replied, my mind suddenly heavy with the weight of everything that I knew was going to crash around me when I returned.
Emily could read the concern on my face. We hadn’t really talked too much about what was going on in the world other than the first time I told her. She was silent, bathed in the dim electric blue illumination from the hanging clip light.
“So we leave tomorrow?” she asked.
I nodded, “Weather permitting.”
“And assuming we make it back, the world may be full of people that are sick . . . infected?”
I nodded again. “It’s a distinct possibility.”
She was silent again, unreadable. I waited. Finally she looked up at me, her elfin face showing an honest smile. “Well then, the way I see it our first time was all about you. Our second time was all about me. Our third time . . .” Her smiled turned mischievous and her eyebrows raised . . . “Should be all about us.”
Third time’s a charm. So was the fourth.
Well I think that’s enough for tonight. Emily is still snoring softly, and I’ve got to sneak out to go pee before bed. The rain has moved out, although the wind is still gusting. I can see a few stars above through the scattered cloud cover. I’m going to set up a quick line and hang Emily’s wet clothes out to start drying. It’s been a heck of a day. Goodnight.
April 24th, Eric part 1
*click*
How could a day that started off so well end so terrible? Doc seems very guarded about the prognosis; a lot of blood was lost. He won’t say much at all, just that I should try and be hopeful. All I can do is wait . . . and pray. I don’t even feel like talking. I keep wondering if I screwed up—analyzing and reanalyzing my actions. I’m so tired. No way I’m going to sleep though; every time I close my eyes I can smell the blood, I can see the tears, and I can hear the screams.
Chapter 17
April 21st, Michelle
“Wake up sleepy head.” The voice was accompanied by a soft knock on the door.
“I’m awake, be there in a minute,” Michelle replied.
Michelle rolled out of bed and stretched, intertwined her fingers and pushed her hands as far up as they would go. A few yawns later and she was up, dressed and headed out to the kitchen where Andy and Walter were already seated around the table. Bernice was over at the stove, busily scraping and flipping something that was giving off the aroma of steamed onions and cheese.
“Morning,” Andy and Walter both echoed.
Walter said, “Help yourself to some scrambled eggs here.”
Michelle took a few small spoonfuls of eggs, then, as was her custom, completely buried them in ketchup. Walter and Andy looked at her with amused expressions. She knew what was coming next.
“Want some eggs with your ketchup?” said Walter.
“Well heck,” Andy replied, “she must have known that you were the chef this morning. Probably would have dropped three cups of hot tar on them eggs just to cover the aroma of your cooking, ifn’ she had it.”
“Now boys, the two of you settle down and let me enjoy this fine breakfast. Walter, these eggs are just wonderful, and Andy—I’ve had your cooking too. Both of you are gonna make somebody a fine wife one day,” Michelle said.
Walter laughed and said, “This girl is a prize, why if I was twenty years younger . . .”
“If you was twenty years younger you’d still be an old fart,” Andy cut in. Michelle just smiled and shook her head at them. Here she was, sitting around the breakfast table in a house that she had only been to a few times before, and where recently a naked, infected stripper had been blown away just outside the sliding glass door to the kitchen. And yet it felt like home. She shook her head and chuckled to herself as they made small talk while finishing their meal. After the eggs she had an apple, two homemade corn bread biscuits covered with Bernice’s honey butter, and the final wedge of the last “cinnamon bun a la’ Sheldon” left over from the other day.
“You imagine that Eric has already left the cabin?” Walter asked.
“Nah, if I know that boy he either left in the middle of last night, or he’s still sleeping—waiting for the setting sun to shine into his eyes and wake his ass up,” Andy replied.
“How do we want to proceed today?” Michelle said. “There’s probably a lot of things that need done, and fetching the radios is just one of them,” she added.
Andy nodded and said, “Yep, we need to figure out the best plan for getting those radios, and getting back here safely. I’m thinking that we should also run over to the campground and make sure they’re all squared away as well.” Michelle and Walter both agreed.
Walter asked, “Where is your office, what’s the best way to get there from here, and what’s it like when we get there?”
Michelle thought about it for a second or two before answering. “Given what we’ve heard about traffic on the roads and people trying to get out of the cities, even out of the country, I think it’s best that we don’t take a direct route. At least up to a certain point. The field office that I work out of is located in the quaint little town of Fort Hammer.” Walter and Andy nodded their heads, indicating familiarity as she continued. “Fort Hammer is located about thirty-five miles south of the Canadian border, right off of highway 403. The quickest way to get there from here is to hop right on state road 704 out there.” Michelle pointed out toward the road that ran in front of Sheldon’s marina. “A little over sixty miles west you’ll hit the intersection of 704 and 403. Turn right, heading north on 403 and about twenty miles later you’ll drive right through Fort Hammer. Well, that’s not exactly true, I guess. Highway 403 does run straight up to the border, but it splits into 403 business at an off-ramp that takes you into Fort Hammer. Anyhow, I think the last census put us around 1700 people. Not much is there; we’ve got the farmer’s Co-op, three gas stations, one supermarket, a bunch of little mom and pop stores, some auto parts dealers and two little strip malls with a bunch of miscellaneous stores—barbershop, pharmacy, video rental—that sort of thing. There’s a little motel there as well. There’s a school, K-12, and a small bank branch also. Most of the people who live there don’t work right in Fort Hammer; they work up in Carson, the town right on the border. Ah, let me see, that’s really about it; we’ve got a volunteer fire rescue department and about a dozen churches . . . two part time cops also. Folks up there are pretty simple . . . nice people. My office is located on one end of the strip mall that has the barbershop in it. There’s also a little Chinese restaurant, a chiropractor and podiatrist who share a suite, a gift store, and two or three empty offices as well.”
Michelle stood up to stretch, eyeing the coffee maker and its liquid brown gold. “Anybody need a refill?” she asked.
Walter handed her his cup, accompanied by a “Thank you, darling,” and she filled them both up, returned to her seat, and continued.
“My first concern of course, is the drive there. 704 is a straight shot over to 403, but I think the real issue is going to be the traffic coming up out of the big cities. To our west, highway 83 runs straight north from Bismarck all the way up to the border. To our east we’ve got highway 281 which runs from Jamestown where Eric and I grew up, north past Devil’s Lake and through Richland before heading into Canada. Further east you’ve got I-29 which heads north out of Fargo, passes through Grand Forks and on into Canada. My thoughts are that if even half of the information and rumors we’ve been hearing are true, then it’s very likely that the border crossings have been closed. Heck, we close them all the time for everything from bad weather to Amber alerts. I could be wrong, but I don’t see how either Canada or the United States would leave the borders open for free passage. They might be allowing their own citizens access back, but I doubt much else, if even that. I’m not too worried ab
out I-29 out of Fargo, it’s pretty far to our east. However, if the main border crossings above Richland on 281 and north of Bismarck on 83 are closed, then the people are going to try and find another way. So, that brings me to state road 344. Which I’m sure you both know is the furthest north, straight crossover between 83 and 281. It’s about forty miles south of us. All of that traffic that we’re assuming is not going to be able to cross the border heading north on 83 from Bismarck, well, they’re gonna turn around and try the next available big road, which is 344. Therein lies the SNAFU for us. Because when they drive east off of 83, the next main road heading north to the border is 403.”
Andy and Walter had their chins in their hands, thinking. Walter finally said, “So there’s a good chance that 403 is going to have a ton of traffic on it.”
“Yes,” Michelle replied, “but remember, the crossing on 403, up at Carson where Sam Ironfeather was headed to, may also be closed . . . probably is. And that is going to send people looking for another route, and the road that they’re gonna take is right out there, state route 704. That’s why I think we’ve been seeing all of this traffic. I’ll bet the borders have been closed for several days now, and we’re seeing the people trying to find another way, or a gas station, someplace—anyplace else—besides the cities. Of course this is all speculation. For all we know the borders could be open, people could be staying in the cities, maybe the powers that be have already got a handle on this ‘flu’ that’s spreading. But I doubt it.”
“It sounds to me like we may not want to risk this trip just for some radios,” Andy said.
“If we have to ride this out for any length of time, reliable communication is going to be critical,” Michelle pointed out.
Walter agreed, noting that, “These Fish and Wildlife radios work off of solar powered repeater towers; if I understand it correctly, and they’re going to give us the best range by far of any other communication option we have.”
“So, you got any ideas, young lady?” Andy asked.
“Yep,” Michelle said. “About halfway between here and 403 there’s a gravel road that shoots north towards a series of small interconnected lakes—people call them the ‘Crossbow Lakes’ for some reason.”
“I’ve been there; it’s been years ago though,” said Walter.
“On the northwest side of those lakes there is a cut-through that we ran a backhoe and a few trucks across last fall, it was part of a federal grant funded project to increase oxygenation in inland waterways by creating a series of rifles on some feeder streams. Anyhow, that cut-through goes about a half mile before it dead ends on Smyrna Chapel Road. There is a locked gate, more of a cable really, on both ends of the cut-through. I have the keys. Smyrna Chapel Road turns into several other roads on its way west. It’s going to take us fifteen to twenty miles out of our way, but the good news is that it eventually turns into Sawmill Station Road, which ends up in a small little town called Fort Hammer.”
“I like the way the she thinks—reminds me of myself—which I know I like,” said Andy.
Andy continued, “What about that cut-through, is it passable?”
“It’s mostly flat, and a lot of the problem spots were filled in with gravel. We may have to kick it in four wheel drive but other than that it shouldn’t be a problem,” she said.
“OK, that sounds like the plan we should go with, route wise,” Andy said. “There are, however, other things we need to think about. I know the radios will come in real handy, but they’re not worth our lives. We have got to be spot on when it comes to watching each other’s back. We take no chances, OK? And if we find that it doesn’t look good—for whatever reason—then we bail out and come back here, right?”
Michelle nodded and said, “Right.”
“A couple more things also,” said Walter. “Make sure you fill up the main tank on your truck as well as the transfer tank. And Andy, that little 380 you carry on your hip needs to be replaced with something bigger, and I strongly suggest that both of you carry several weapons, especially a good shotgun. Eric’s should be fine for you Andy, but I’m gonna go dig up one for the young lady as well . . . and lots of ammo for both of you—which I hope you don’t need—but better safe than sorry.”
Walter disappeared and came back about twenty minutes later with another twelve gauge pump shotgun, a Remington 870 police style with a magazine tube extension. Very similar to what Michelle was trained with. He also brought another 40 caliber handgun; a Smith and Wesson M&P model with holster and four magazines. One hundred rounds of buckshot for the twelve gauges and 250 rounds of jacketed hollow point ammo for each of the 40’s were brought out as well.
“Can you spare all of this?” Michelle asked.
Walter just smiled and said, “Not a problem . . . plenty more where that came from too . . . be right back.”
A few minutes later he came back with two soft nylon bags. Opening one of them, he pulled out a Glock model 17, 9mm, two magazines for it, and an inside-the-waistband holster. There were several boxes of ammo in the bag as well.
“I want you to give this to Doc Collins, alright?” Michelle nodded.
“Now this here,” he said, “is a special little toy I’m sending with you.” He reached in the bag and pulled out a stainless steel, 22 semi-automatic, Ruger Mark III pistol. Mounted on top of the pistol was a small, lipstick sized object—a laser sight. Michelle noticed the end of the barrel was threaded and guessed what that was for. She was right. Reaching into the bag again, he pulled out a metal tube about the size of an empty toilet paper roll, threaded it onto the gun barrel, and then tapped a small pressure switch on the side of the gun’s grip. A small, red laser dot appeared on the ceiling.
“Suppressor and laser, never leave home without ‘em. Let’s go out to the deck.”
They spent the next twenty minutes shooting at targets. The laser dot was fairly easy to see except in very bright light. The noise from the gun was negligible, actually that’s incorrect, Michelle thought. A more accurate way of describing it would probably be to say that the noise from the ammunition was negligible. The louder sound actually came from the slide on the gun moving after each shot. It sounded kind of like a muted “che-whap.” Walter only had two magazines for the pistol; they held ten rounds each. There was plenty of ammo, though. It also came with a black nylon shoulder holster, although the gun wouldn’t fit when the suppressor was attached.
Bernice showed up a few minutes later with several baskets of folded laundry in her arms. She set the baskets down next to the couch and went back into the kitchen to finish assembling sandwiches for the trip. Michelle went in to help her while Walter and Andy gassed up the truck.
It took about another hour before they were ready to go. The truck was filled with gas and given a thorough “once over” for mechanical issues. There were two spare tires and several other pieces and parts that Michelle assumed Andy could install if needed. They also took two of the GMRS radios and some extra batteries. Michelle watched as Walter and Andy loaded a dozen five gallon buckets into the truck bed, whatever was in them was probably fairly heavy. Bernice came down to the truck and handed Michelle three coolers—one red, one blue, and one faded orange with several dents.
“The red one has stuff that don’t need refrigerated, the blue one and the orange one got ice in em’ and some stuff that needs to stay cold, so I’d eat them ones first. The old beat up one was brand new the last time I let Andy borrow it, so make sure if he’s going to drop one of em’ out of a moving truck at sixty miles per hour onto a gravel road, tell him to use that one. Again,” she added. Michelle thanked her and took the coolers, loaded them in the back, and then sat in the passenger seat of Andy’s truck while Walter and Andy went to call Doc on the marine radio, letting him know that they were on the way to see him. She looked to her left at the shotguns propped up on the seat beside her, noticed the silenced 22 in a bag by her feet, and felt the 40 caliber Glock on her hip. They were all reassuring, but try as she might, s
he couldn’t shake the feeling that they were getting in way over their heads.
Andy and Michelle drove over to Ravenwood, the rope across the entrance road with the “CAMPGROUND CLOSED” sign on it was down again. Broken this time. When they got to the campground they saw a group of five people out at the gate, all of them were armed. The only person whose name she could remember off the top of her head was the preacher “Dave” from Eric’s sweep team. Other faces looked familiar, but she couldn’t recall their names off hand.
“Problems?” she asked.
Dave nodded his head, saying, “We had some people who tried to ‘insist’ that they be let into the campground. If they wouldn’t have acted like such . . .” As he searched for the words, one of the other people standing nearby spoke up. “Assholes.” The preacher looked over at the speaker and nodded. “Yeah, God certainly gives some people an extra measure of . . . personality. Anyway, if they hadn’t acted that way, we might have let them, there’s plenty of room now. Guard team night told them about the medical check and quarantine—they refused. Things got a little ugly. Probably would have gotten worse if VW hadn’t sunk his axe into the hood of their RV. He said, ‘Next one’s going through your radiator, then your tires, then you.’ . . . I think they got the point.”
“Guard team night?” Andy asked.
“Yeah,” Dave said, “that lady, Amy, she’s a little fireball—always running around like some chipmunk on an IV drip of black coffee—anyhow, she’s been doing a lot of work here, a lot of good ideas. We’ve already got two teams of guards—guard team night and guard team day—easy to remember, huh? We’re working on a third team as well. Each team has five people on it. Two of them stay at the gate and the other three patrols the campground. Twelve hour shifts right now until we get the third team together. At least that’s the plan as far as I can figure.”
Fade to Grey (Book 1): Fade to Grey Page 23