Maybe talking will help. At least maybe it will help me recall things . . . things that I might have missed. Worth a try maybe. There’s a lot of “maybes” there. That’s what my life has boiled down to, nothing is certain anymore, everything’s a maybe. Did I make the right call? Maybe. Did I screw up? Maybe. Will they die? . . . Maybe.
It had started so well. The storm had blown out overnight, and today promised blue skies and sunshine. Emily woke me up with an awesome neck rub—I didn’t realize how tight I was there. I remember just laying inside the sleeping bag feeling my muscles turn to Jello as her fingers worked their magic. For such a small girl she had amazing finger strength. When I ask her about it she laughed and said, “It’s from pushing the buttons on cameras.”
She let that sink in for a minute before giggling again and saying, “I’m just kidding. I was actually kind of a ‘non-athlete’ when I was growing up. However, once I hit high school and started getting into photography, I also took up hiking. Not like the Appalachian Trail or anything, just a way to get from point A to point B. It’s been my experience that very few prizewinning photographs were taken out the window of a car. So the best way to get ‘off the beaten path’ is to get off the beaten path. Turn over.”
I rolled onto my back and she lifted my arm toward her. She began rubbing the palm of my hand with her thumbs. It felt really good.
“So, once I went to college I started going to the YMCA to swim. I’d always liked the water, but I really wanted to try something different. My roommate was into all kinds of cardio stuff—aerobics, kickboxing, dancersize—everything. Robyn—that was my roommate, finally convinced me to take some classes with her, and I really enjoyed the cardio kickboxing. Don’t get me wrong, I couldn’t fight my way out of a wet paper bag before the classes, and I certainly can’t now either. But it was great conditioning. Does this feel good?”
I had my eyes closed, but I nodded my head and said, “Wonderful.”
“We stink,” she said.
I opened my eyes, saw the amusement reflected in hers and said, “Well in our defense, we did spend half of the night getting sweaty.” I winked at her.
“Do you have enough of those baby wipes for both of us?” she asked.
“Plenty.”
She drifted down to lay beside me, giving me a series of small kisses along the way. “Let’s make them earn their money then,” she whispered as she pulled me closer . . .
By 8:00 AM we were dressed, cleaned, and packed. And smiling. I stowed the equipment that I had brought over from the National Geographic tent after using the propane stove to cook us each some Mountain House lasagna. Lasagna for breakfast, I’ve had worse. Max was looking at me, waiting for his food, but I was out.
“Don’t worry buddy, we’ll see if we can find you a squirrel or rabbit on the way back,” I said, giving him a big hug and ear rub at the same time. His return look was both appreciative of the petting and doubtful that I’d score him breakfast. Emily had her mostly dry clothes on, and I gave her my Under Armour top to wear as a jacket. She still floated in it . . . kinda looked like one of those wrinkly dogs once we had all the sleeves pushed up so they wouldn’t drag. But it was keeping her warm. I took a few minutes to refill my water containers from the lake, and then we divided her camera equipment up between her backpack and mine. After a final check to make sure we didn’t leave anything important, we were on the way. I took her back the trail that I had originally followed from the helicopter clearing to where I had set up my tent. It was still soupy from all the rain, but we made good time. Once at the clearing we stopped, adjusted our packs, and took a quick drink. She watched as I pulled out my compass.
“Going primitive, are we?” she asked.
I explained to her about the GPS accuracy being way off. She answered, “I was with a photography team on a cruise ship one time. One of the passengers, um . . . Mr. Inglefield I think his name was, anyhow I remember him telling me that he used to work with something in the GPS system. He was a nice old fellow . . . he even shared our table a few nights at dinner. I think that his wife had recently died. I don’t know that for sure but I remember getting the impression. He was actually still very handsome for somebody in their seventies . . . where was I going with this?”
“GPS,” I said as I shouldered my pack again.
“Right, well I remember him saying that up until—I think he said the 1990s—that GPS signals were purposely skewed so they weren’t as accurate as they could be unless you had some kind of decoder . . . I’d guess like military people would use. Then in the 1990s, the signal was descrambled and civilian models became as accurate as the military ones.”
“It’s true,” I said, “which makes me wonder why they’ve scrambled the signal again, especially to this degree. Are we at war?” I let that thought hang there between us, unanswered by either. “Let’s go,” I said, whistling for Max as we headed east into the thick brush.
April 22nd, Michelle part 3
The overcast sky seemed to hold in the ocean of smoke over Fort Hammer. Andy followed Michelle’s instructions and stayed off the larger streets on the way to her office. The area they drove through was mostly residential—apartment buildings and a few older houses. Several walkers were moving on the street in front of them, but other than that they saw no immediate movement.
“Take a left at the next intersection.”
He did—immediately jumping on the gas to push through a cluster of three infected.
“Just up there . . . Do you see the sign for the Atkins Laundromat on the right?”
“Yeah.”
“Immediately after that sign, take a right. That’s going to put you in a small alley that will spill out into the back of the strip mall where my office is.”
Andy turned where Michelle had indicated, and followed the short, slightly curving alley until it emptied into the rear access lot of the strip mall. A long series of small dumpsters stood against the block wall on the back of the building.
“Each of the offices and stores has a steel door at the back that gives them access to the dumpsters. The door that leads to my office is the last one on the left,” Michelle said.
“Figures. Couldn’t have been the first one, huh?”
As Andy drove slowly past the garbage bins, waves of thick, acrid smoke propelled by the occasional gust of wind intermittently reduced their vision.
“What’s on fire?” he asked.
“I don’t know . . . maybe some of the stores on the other side of the highway.”
Andy slowed down as the nose of the truck edged in line with the back door to Michelle’s office. “Do you want to go in the back, or should we drive around to the front?” he asked.
“Definitely the back door. It would just tickle me pink if we’re able to get in and out unnoticed by anyone . . . or anything. Also, remember this strip mall is right on the main road, we just can’t see it from here. If we drive around front and any . . . thing . . . is out there, it’ll see us from a mile away—it’s all open out there.”
A quick, three-point turn later, and Andy had the big pickup facing back the way they had come from.
Blam-Blam-Blam. The sound of gunfire reverberated through the air, echoing and bouncing off the back of the strip mall. Andy and Michelle were both ducking and rising; peeking up over the dash and looking all around.
“I feel like one of those targets in the ‘whack-a-mole’ game at the county fairs,” Andy said.
“Could you tell where they came from?”
“No . . . they weren’t right next to us, but they weren’t too awful far either.”
More shots rang out— they sounded further away than the first group—but they were answered with a long series of small crack-crack-crack-cracks close by. The acoustics of being next to a large block wall was throwing Michelle and Andy’s triangulation skills off.
“This truck isn’t very bulletproof,” Andy pointed out.
“Don’t forget where we parked,” Mi
chelle said as she grabbed her shotgun and headed out of the truck towards the steel door. Andy shut off the engine and followed.
Each metal door along the back wall was elevated a few feet off the ground; a small flight of concrete stairs led up to them. Michelle sprinted around the back of the truck and up to the stairs, pressing her back against the wall and looking both ways. A few seconds later Andy was beside her.
“I’m going to open the door, get ready,” she whispered. With another quick look to the left and right, Michelle moved up to the top of the landing and used her keys to unlock the door. She grabbed the metal handle and gave a slight tug—the door began to open with a loud screech.
“Shit,” Michelle mumbled to herself. She had forgotten that the back door squeaked when you opened it. It was one of those jobs that were always on her list of things to get around to . . . eventually. That thought was going through her mind when from inside of the office a voice shouted, “Rollins . . . Sanderson . . . that you?”
Michelle let go of the door and backed away down the steps, exchanging confused looks with Andy while shrugging her shoulders and mouthing the words, “I don’t know.”
A smoky breeze caught the semi-open door. It gave a harsh metallic squeal before slamming shut with a hollow BOOM.
Michelle heard some muted shouting from somewhere behind the door, followed quickly by a series of gunshots. Several small holes appeared in the steel door. They were right where she had been standing a few seconds earlier.
Andy nudged her shoulder and asked, “Can that door be opened from the inside without a key?”
“Yes. It has a metal push bar, kind of like an emergency fire escape door. There’s also a . . .”
She never got to finish. The door flew open with a loud clang and the explosions of gunfire quickly followed. Michelle caught a glimpse of a camouflaged, gloved arm holding the fore grip of a rifle. Andy and Michelle smashed themselves against the block wall, flattening as much as they could to reduce their visibility to the shooter. The gunman was cursing a stream of profanities, shouting out, “You dead son of a bitches . . . you ain’t gonna get me! . . . No way I’m letting your pasty gray-ass take me down . . . no way . . . no way!” Another burst of intense cursing followed by rifle fire blasted out of the gun as the shooter stepped out onto the little cement landing. Turning to the right, he found himself staring down the barrel of Michelle’s twelve gauge. His eyes went wide with shock.
“DON’T MOVE ASSHOLE,” Michelle shouted.
Andy slid out from behind Michelle; his shotgun joining hers on target.
“I’m sorry . . . I’m sorry ma’am, sir, I thought you were some of . . . them.” He was a soldier, dressed in full BDU’s—desert phase digital pattern. His skin was dark black and covered with beads of sweat. On his face was what appeared to be smears of hastily applied camo.
“Lower your weapon soldier,” Michelle said, her gun never wavering from his face. She saw him hesitate—a glimpse of doubt crossing onto his countenance. Andy must’ve seen it as well.
“Don’t be dumb private,” Andy said, “we’re not infected, but that doesn’t mean we won’t kill you just as dead if you don’t lower your weapon.”
With a sigh of resignation, the soldier lowered his weapon to the ground. “Doesn’t matter anyhow, that last burst burned all the rest of my ammo.”
Michelle skewed her neck over the camo-clad young man. The name patch sewn into his uniform read “Thompson.”
“Private Thompson, I’m Officer Owens, U.S. Fish & Wildlife . . . this is . . . Andy. You’re in my office, and you just shot at me.” He started to stammer another apology but Michelle silenced him with an upraised hand.
“Stop. With all that’s been happening I can kind of understand why you fired, what I don’t understand is why you’re in my office, and more importantly, is there anybody else in there who’s going to take a shot at me?”
He shook his head no, saying, “It’s just me and CC, and he’s been out of ammo for while.” He started to say more, but then stopped, looking at Andy and Michelle with a mixture of fear and worry. “He’s bit . . . happened about an hour ago.”
“Who’s CC?”
“He’s our lieutenant ma’am—Lieutenant Christopher Calhoun—we call him ‘CC.’ He’s a good guy, but he’s gonna be pissed though.”
“Why?” Andy asked.
“Because I was supposed to save our last bullet to do him,” Private Thompson barked it like he was repeating an order.
Michelle let that sink in a little bit. The world was getting a little too real, a little too fast. After a deep breath Michelle said, “Lead the way private.”
“Yes ma’am,” he replied, turning toward the doorway and walking through. Andy and Michelle followed.
Chapter 23
The familiar smell of her workplace brought a sense of comfort to Michelle. It also brought back the recent memory of when they were finalizing the details of their trip at Walter’s house. Andy had asked for a quick rundown on the layout of her office.
“What do you want to know about it?” she had asked.
“I don’t know . . . just give me the highlights—the basic floor plan, other people who work there—that kind of thing.”
“OK . . . Well, my office is considered a field office in the hierarchy of the federal government, which basically means that considering its remote location, they didn’t want to put a lot of money into the rental and/or upkeep of said office. If you were to stand in the parking lot facing the front of my office, you’d see a glass fronted space, similar to every other strip mall division. The logo for Fish and Wildlife is emblazoned on the glass to the left of the doorway. The door itself has nothing but our street address. The glass to the right of the door has our local and 800 number, as well as a hand painted nature scene that was done by the local Boy Scout troop as a ‘thank you’ for our support in their jamboree last year. When you walk through the door, you’ll find yourself in a small reception area about fifteen feet wide and twenty feet deep. There’s a counter that divides that area in two, and behind the counter is the reception area where my office manager/secretary sits. Francine Evans, or “Miss Fran” as she’s been called for years and years. I inherited her with the office and I am much better off for it.”
“Why’s that?” Walter had asked.
“Because Miss Fran is something of a legend in the Fish and Wildlife community. She’s been working at the agency for thirty-nine years, and she can tell you who’s who and what’s what in just about any region across the country. I’m sure she has an intricate network of ‘secretary spies’ that reported to her any relevant information—especially gossip—that goes on in their offices. Want to know who was sleeping with who in the Dallas, Texas district office, she’d know. Want to find out who got passed over for promotion because they pissed off somebody above them in the Buffalo, New York office, she’d be able to tell you.”
“Sounds like someone good to know,” Andy commented.
“I can’t prove it, but I’m sure she’s used her connections to shift a couple of grants my way. Anyway, if you manage to get past Miss Fran, there is a door that leads to a short hallway. Go through that door and my office is the first one on the left. The next door down the hallway is on the right side—it leads to a small conference room. If you continue down the hallway you’ll find another door on the left. That one goes to the storage room. It’s mostly filled with boxes of old, filed paperwork, but that’s also where the radios are. The last door in the hallway is on the right side. It’s the bathroom. Nothing special about it, other than it’s the most modern part of the entire office. Federal regulations finally caught up with us last year, and they made us expand and update it to comply with handicap accessibility requirements. A few steps down the hallway past the restroom and you’ll dead end at a metal door.”
That door, Michelle realized, now had several bullet holes in it. The sobering thought brought her back to reality and she asked, “Where
is Lieutenant Calhoun?”
“Ma’am, second door on the left—the one with a big table.”
“Is there anybody else in here, any more of your squad . . . anybody?” Andy said.
“No sir, just CC and myself are alive.”
“What do you mean ‘alive’?” Andy and Michelle echoed at the same time.
Private Thompson swiveled to look at both of them. Michelle could see that he was trying to decide who was the “senior officer” between her and Andy. Apparently her badge won out. Thompson squared away towards Michelle and said, “Yes ma’am, what I mean is that me and CC have been holed up in this place since he got tagged by the old lady. Since then we’ve put down five or six more that were coming through the front.”
A lot of questions started popping into Michelle’s head all at once. Chief among those were the ones that went along with her gut feeling. “What old lady?”
Thompson inclined his head toward the front part of the office. “Ma’am, out there. Me and CC got separated from the rest of our squad during a firefight out on the highway. We busted ass and took cover behind a flipped over station wagon. Then the smoke started getting in the way, and we couldn’t see where the rest of our guys went. Anyhow, CC grabbed me by the shoulder and pulled me towards the strip mall. It wasn’t very far, but about halfway there one of them fu. . .” Thompson cut off his choice of words almost too late. “Umm, I mean . . . sick people, just appeared out of the smoke—scared the piss out of both of us. CC plugged it with his M4—just dumped the whole mag on the rat bastard . . . I mean the infected person ma’am. But besides whacking the zombie, he also took out your window. Three more infected people came out of the smoke towards us and we took them down. Then we beat feet and jumped through the busted window into this office. Somebody started shooting pretty close by and we tried to raise our squad on the radio but it wouldn’t work . . . I don’t know why, it was just dead. Anyhow ma’am, we were just catching our breath when we saw two more guys from our squad—Remmy and Carney I think, not sure though. Anyhow we saw them about one hundred meters away. They were kneeling down firing towards something we couldn’t see. But they couldn’t see a group of those things that was moving up the street towards them. Me and CC started shooting at that group, we took down two or three, and the noise of us firing alerted our squad mates. They turned around in time to finish off the group. A bunch of smoke blew across the street and when it cleared they were gone. CC asked me for a fresh mag—he was out, and I spun around to grab one from my pack. I was trying to dig one out when I heard him say, ‘We’ve got to get the hell out of here.’ Then he started screaming. I twisted back around and saw that some old lady had her arms wrapped around his throat . . . riding him piggyback style. She was trying to chew through his vest and he was yelling and swearing, backing up and smashing her into walls. I couldn’t shoot so I dropped my gun and grabbed her by the hair and yanked hard. Damn old broad was wearing a wig. When I pulled it came right off, and I threw myself so far off balance that I tripped over a chair and went down. I got back up and saw that CC had managed to get her off of him. I grabbed the chair that I had tripped over and smashed her in the face. CC jumped for his gun and finished the bitch off . . . ma’am.”
Fade to Grey (Book 1): Fade to Grey Page 31