After too long of a wait, (and THANK YOU for your patience ) Darkness Ascending is finally available. Kindle and NOOK versions should both be online and RTG. For those of you on a PC....tablet....iPad....phone, etc, both Kindle and NOOK (Amazon & Barnes & Noble) have a free app that lets you read books on your device/computer.

Enjoy, let me know what you think...and please share with others on your facebook/twitter/etc...!

Brian


Kindle


NOOK










OK all my ARFCOM friends...at long last, DARKNESS ASCENDING, book 2 of the FADE to GREY series is almost ready to be released.  DA picks up immediately after the events in FTG, and as I promised long ago, ARFCOM gets the first preview.  I'll try to post some more next week if the time frame and final editing works out. Thanks to all who have encouraged me to continue this project, your words and support have meant a lot!

Brian

Darkness Ascending

Tap . . . tap . . . tap. The measured staccato drumming was cold and hard against the crystalline safety glass. Once flawless and free of imperfections, its surface was now spider webbed with a bewildering jigsaw puzzle of fractures and fissures that radiated from the central impact zone. A magnified example of what could happen if you didn’t heed the ‘stay back 100 feet—not responsible for road objects’ sign so often found barely legible yet plastered to the dump gate of heavy trucks. Only the impact on this windshield didn’t come from the exterior. Embedded in the heavily damaged center core of the spider web was a haze of mostly coagulated blood. More than a few strands of hair remained wedged as well, along with innumerable flecks, some microscopic, others definitely larger, of human skin. Eric’s skin.

Tap . . . tap . . . tap. The hollow pulsation repeated. His eyes seemed welded shut, either by swelling or dried blood, probably both. There was no pain. No blinding white streaks of agony thundering through his head. No grating of splintered bones that jockeyed for their position in the new order of things. No searing flesh or torn muscles. There was nothing. Tap . . . tap . . . tap. Except that. Whatever had happened hadn’t affected his hearing.

What had happened? Eric called a temporary truce in the battle he was fighting to open his eyes and tried to recall. Something about a scouting mission to . . . somewhere. Where? Was he alone? No, someone was with him. It was . . . Michelle? Maybe.

TAP . . . . . TAP . . . . . TAP. The rhythmic pulse intensified and slowed, momentarily scattering the threads of memory he had been grasping for. A brief, sharp odor of gasoline burned in his nostrils and caused an involuntary wince. Something was wrong. His face felt . . . nothing. No, that wasn’t right. His face felt . . . numb, like the time in grade school when he had been pummeled by two sucker punch snowballs that were thrown by junior high school bullies. He hated bullies. They were immature life forms that got their daily nutritional needs met, along with some form of macabre enjoyment, out of tormenting the smaller, younger, or weaker kids at school. True to character, the ammunition employed against him that day wasn’t your typical fresh packed and recently hand molded snowball. He had been pelted with globs of translucent slush scooped from the already compact pile where the plow had thrown it that morning. The ammunition in question often contained bits of gravel and road debris, and would be further compressed and left to freeze solid until it was needed, usually right after school let out. Hard . . . cold . . . frozen. Numb. That was the feeling that mimicked the semi-nothingness he felt.

Another acrid whiff of gasoline kicked his sense of smell into high gear, and the resulting mental jolt released enough adrenaline to force his eyelids partway open. Iridescent, swirling lights leapt at the opportunity and shot through the gateway, sending ragged bolts of white hot pain roaring into Eric’s brain. That fragile system, already damaged and in shock, mercifully shut down and sent him into blackness.

Tap . . . tap . . . tap. He stirred groggily, still trapped momentarily in the thickening ooze between oblivion and perception. Slowly, like a great whale rising from the darken depths of a primal ocean, awareness began to return.

And with the awareness, a small, dull cherry ember of a growing terror.

What had happened? It was . . . on the way to the campground? Yes, that was it . . . the campground. Michelle? Yes, she had been with him. She had been driving his truck for some reason. Why? He couldn’t remember. There had been hands reaching for them through the open windows. Grasping, tugging, tearing. The thunder of gunfire and the jarring acceleration and heavy braking as Michelle had sought a way out of the swarm.

The ember blazed incandescent.

He recalled with now unwelcome clarity the vivid, red eyes of the ghoul that latched one corded arm onto the steering wheel as the other tried to pull Michelle’s head through the open window. But there was more. Something . . . terrible. His gun. He had lost his . . . no wait, it wasn’t lost, the slide was locked back. He had been out of ammo but still blindly pulling the trigger as Michelle screamed for help. Hungry, rabid snarls accompanied heavy thumps as more and more of the infected piled on, trying to slow the hard-skinned truck enough to get at the meat inside.

A momentary flash of a child in pajamas seated on the floor in front of a television broke through. His view was directly behind the child, and the supernaturally bright screen flickered the scene into a photo negative. Indistinct, animated stick figures sang and danced in the penumbra of illumination as the child leisurely swayed in time with the music. “Crunchy on the outside, soft and chewy on the inside . . . crunchy on the outside, soft and chewy on the inside . . .”

The ember burst into flames.

His truck was now rocketing blindly, locked in an unchanging course by the ghoul’s grip. Eric remembered dropping his gun on the floorboard and reaching, scrambling for Michelle’s Glock that was still secured in her holster. He had managed to jerk it free as the accelerating vehicle hit a series of large objects. Rocks, holes, infected; he couldn’t tell. Michelle was thrusting her right shoulder towards him as the wheel-gripping menace seized her ponytail with his other hand and yanked. Eric watched the nightmare unfold and replay as Michelle’s head was wrenched sideways. The red-eyed ghoul leaned backwards like a sailboarder counterbalancing a strong wind as Eric fought to bring the gun on target. Crimson eyes locked with his own, and the ghoul’s lips crested in a bloody, knowing smile. Daring.

“SHOOT,” Michelle had screamed as she thrashed against the beast latched onto her hair.

The wildly careening truck bounced and slammed blindly over the terrain as his finger tightened on the trigger.

“SHOOOOOOOT,” Michelle yelled, drawing it out with the effort of resisting.

With terrible, inhuman strength, the grinning monster began to drag itself through the open window towards Michelle.

“ERIC!” Her strength finally fading, Michelle’s green eyes briefly met with his and pleaded for deliverance.

At that moment the truck ricocheted over a large, unyielding object, jerking Eric’s aim down and sideways as the muzzle blast silently exploded. Salty tears welled up and ghosted down his unfeeling face as he relived the terrifying vision. One hundred and fifty-five grains of 40 caliber jacketed hollow point had slammed into Michelle’s rib cage. In slow motion, both her and the ghoul had somehow rotated and stared into his eyes. Michelle’s expression was one of incredible disbelief, disappointment, and fear. The ghoul’s was a horribly accusing “I told you so.”

And then, with a quick and effortless tug, Michelle was pulled through the open window of the speeding vehicle. Not quite two seconds later, 3500 pounds of metal collided with twenty times that weight of solid, immovable oak. Blackness descended upon Eric again.

Tap . . . tap . . . tap. Slowly, with the vaguely distant memory of the last attempts blinding pain, he creaked his eyelids open to slits. Dull, ocher light unhurriedly crept into his vision—slowly dissolving into a filmy, awkward angled view.

His chin was resting on his chest, and he could see one of his legs crammed beneath the center console of his truck. It looked odd, like someone had thrown an old pair of blue jeans at the floorboard following a hard day’s work. He tried to wiggle his toe, but there was nothing. No connection, no communication. Nothing. Panic beginning to rise, he slowly dropped his eyes toward the seat. In the filtered, tawny glow that trickled through the shattered windshield, Eric saw his left arm resting, or maybe wedged, in the slight hollow between the seat and backrest. It looked OK, but another moment’s unsuccessful attempt to move it brought failure. And fear.

“Please God, don’t let me paralyzed…” he whispered through dry, cracked lips.

Tap . . . tap . . . tap. The drumming clatter rang softly again. It was accompanied by the metallic, vinegary scent of cold, wet campfire ashes. The sound was coming from his right, out of his vision range with his head at this angle. Forcing down the mounting panic, he began to test his extremities. Legs . . . no. The icy cold, gnawing spark of dread appeared in his stomach. Left arm again . . . still nothing. Sending out tendrils of alarm, the spark grew and reached. Right arm . . . empty, void, nothing. There was nothing. He couldn’t even connect with them. The frozen horror of his condition took hold and rooted around his now racing heart.

TAP . . . . TAP . . . . TAP. Louder, slower—that sound again. His eyes shifted right, but the source of the taping was beyond the angle of his peripheral vision. Choking against the fear, he tried to move his neck. Contact. The momentary flash of relief with the connection was rapidly washed away by the heavy, vague pressure he now felt in his head. Worse was the muted “feel-sound” of gravel crunching underwater as his neck slowly turned. Sluggishly responding to his command, his head began to rotate against the pull of injury and gravity. Approaching the pinnacle of its arc, the forces began to shift. Push became pull, resistance became acceleration—and with a slow, grating twist, his head came to rest against his right shoulder.

Eyes looking downward, Eric almost laughed at the unreal sight. In college, his vertebrate zoology professor had posed a question to the class on day one. “What would a chair look like if your knees bent the other way?”

Well now he knew. His right leg was folded in half. Backwards. The dim light magnified his mental haziness, and with a slight lift of his eyes, he almost casually noted the severe, compound fracture in his right forearm.

TAP . . . . TAP . . . . TAP. The thuds against the glass shook his awareness again. He could hear his own irregular, agonal gasping as his body struggled to function. He could taste the sharp, coppery flavor of blood in his mouth. And with each ragged, involuntary muscle contraction that signified another breath, he could feel the terrifying, malevolent specter of decades that would now be spent trapped in a useless body.

Tap . . . . . . . . . . tap . . . . . . . . . . tap. The drumming slowed; focused . . . became almost sinister. Another salty tear gathered traces of dried blood and sweat as it descended through the maze of stubble on his unshaved face.

Tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap. Bursting with rapid-fire quickness, the tapping rang out again, this time just above where his head now hung limp. Eric closed his eyes and focused. With a monumental effort, still accompanied by the shocking awareness of shifting bones, his head began to rise. Up, up . . . and up. The feeling was not unlike trying to balance a basketball on a pencil, and his head finally came to a slow, unsteady stop in a vaguely upright position.

Tap . . .

Lubricating tears settled in the creases of his swollen, gritty eyes.

Tap . . .

Tiny muscles and nerves searched for missed connections, finally reaching a tentative agreement as Eric’s eyelids began to rise.

Tap . . .

Eyelids now up, he peered unsteadily through the fractured lines of the passenger side window. Michelle stood there. Beautiful, strawberry blonde hair silhouetted by the final golden-violet rays of the setting sun. Her head was tilted slightly down, veiling her face in the deepening shadows. Her fingers rested near the juncture of a lightning bolt shaped crack in the glass.

Tap . . .

A single cardinal red, manicured and filed fingernail descended with the authority of an iron gavel.

“You left me Eric. I loved you and you left me.”

Each word she spoke testified, rang true, and was admitted.

Bang . . .

The iron gavel slammed again.

“I trusted you. You let them take me. You let them have me. YOU LET THEM CHANGE ME!”

Eric’s very soul screamed under the weight of her words. They were true, and each one she spoke tightened the noose of judgment around his neck.

BANG . . .

Michelle lifted her head, revealing her angelic face, emerald eyes now corrupted into glossy, obsidian orbs.

“I loved you Eric,” she hissed, “and you left me to die.”

With a casual, almost nonchalant toss of her head, she lowered her perfectly white teeth to her own shoulder and tore off a patch of flesh.  He watched in horror as Michelle snapped her neck skyward and then down, like a crocodile pulling a newborn zebra from the muddy bank into the watery depths.

BA-BANG . . .

The window shattered with the guilty verdict, and Michelle’s hand—once soft and holding his—shot through with serpentine quickness. Long, delicate fingers that should have been wearing a ring . . . Eric’s ring . . . now descended and crushed with vice-like strength around his already damaged neck.

“I . . . loved . . . you,” Michelle spit each word out with venom as she thrust his head backwards, opening his mouth, “and . . . you . . . left . . . me . . . to . . . die.”

Utterly helpless with undiluted terror, Eric watched as Michelle brought her left arm through the window, and almost reverently placed it in his open mouth. Glistening eyes the deep, deep black of a starless night leaned in close.

“Eat,” she whispered as she forced his jaw shut, tearing off a small, ragged bit of her flesh.

“Eat,” she said again as her powerful fingers forced him to chew, “and pay for your crimes.”

“Eat,” Michelle gave a vicious, victorious howl as he swallowed, “and serve me.”

The fibrous, fleshy chunk left a vibrantly sizzling trail as it descended into his stomach. Almost with a detached awareness, Eric began to note the hordes of gray-skinned figures closing in on the truck as the final sliver of light, of hope, slipped below the horizon.

His eyes now closed, and with a strange, tingling warmth on his lips, he began to hear the whispers.

Crunchy on the outside, soft and chewy on the inside. . .

Not to sound like a douche but it is about time. The wait is killing me. I looked on Amazon yesterday to see if the 2nd book had came out yet. I really enjoyed the first story and I cant wait until the second, your a good author with a good story.

Interesting beginning, more please................

I just bought FADE to GREY on Amazon, when will the sequel be up?

shooting for early july...if not sooner

Yes!!!! I've been waiting for this for a long time

Just finished Fade to Grey; liked it a lot.  Can't wait for Darkness!

Thank you ElizabethJ..... and now a little taste of some more.....however...





There are spoilers ahead..... if you haven't read Fade to Grey, go do it now before continuing......
















Tap . . . tap . . . tap. A spasmodic tremor jerked Eric awake. Eyes wide with the vivid recollection of the nightmare, he took gasping, shallow breaths as his pounding heart raced. He was on his side, still in bed with Michelle. Almost in the exact position he fell asleep in—foreheads almost touching. Light was trickling through a partially opened blind above the dresser, and in the unseen recesses of the floor beside the bed he could hear Max softly snoring.

The pillow underneath his face was damp with hot, sour sweat, and he could feel his hair plastered against his skull. Forcing his breathing to slow down, Eric felt the razor edge of adrenaline-induced panic dulling as it slowly receded.

With an apprehensive shadow of fear creeping into his throat, he delicately issued the mental command for the toes on his left foot to slowly wiggle. They did. Reassured, he checked off his other limbs. All were present and accounted for. A deep, slow breath followed, and then another, and then a third as his heart descended into double digits.

Casting his eyes slightly upwards, Eric studied Michelle’s sleeping face. The fine, delicately chiseled features displayed both beauty and toughness . . . vulnerability and determination. A light, almost invisible scattering of freckles decorated her cheeks, now partially covered by a swirling descent of her long reddish blond hair. He could see her eyes shifting underneath their lids as she dreamed.

With another shiver of memory, he said a quick prayer that her dream was better than his. It had to be. Another deep breath followed . . . and again. Finally, Eric began to relax as he came fully awake. His nose caught the distant, almost negligible scent of perfume. Michelle’s perfume. It was a light, flowery-musky combination that she wore like no one else. It was her scent. Never overpowering, even on the occasions where she had applied it in his presence, the fragrance always sent him tumbling back through time.

He had watched the face so close in front of him change through the years. From a gawky, bright red-haired tomboy to somebody else’s stunningly beautiful prom date. From the ponytailed junior high school archery champion to the amazingly attractive woman accepting her commission into Federal law enforcement. And with each memory he kicked himself for not having the guts to tell her the truth. With a sigh and slow blink, he managed to push those thoughts away for the millionth time.

And for the millionth time, they didn’t stay gone. It was their friendship. The one thing that Eric refused to sacrifice was the relationship with his best friend, even at the ongoing cost of his heart. Or maybe he was just afraid. He had been shot at by poachers, charged by bears, threatened by drug dealers and organized crime smugglers, and he had taken it all with a grain of salt. But the thought of somehow losing Michelle’s friendship, and the dream of more that was intricately locked to it, always sent the migration of butterflies straight to his stomach.

And yet, the memories of the past few days were skewing his long held sense of reality. From hearing Michelle’s voice at Walter’s store just a few days ago, to the yellow-eyed feral charging out of the Gulfstream . . . and onward through Emily’s rescue and the battle at the cabin. The world was changing right around him. Maybe it was time that he changed as well. Maybe it was time to stop being afraid. Maybe this one moment, right here—right now, was the last chance he would ever get to tell Michelle that he loved her . . . that he always had.

Quietly sliding his left arm from underneath the light covers, he slowly brought it up to her face. With a gentle touch, he gathered the wavy tangles of hair that had fallen across her cheek, twirling them in slow ringlets as his fingertips softly caressed her temple. Michelle’s lips parted with a deep inhalation as she ascended from the heavy fog of sleep.

It was now or never, Eric thought.

“I love you.”

He had barely said it. The whisper of a whisper. A single flap of a sparrow’s wing amid the onslaught of a hurricane. But he had said it. And she had heard.

Her porcelain face, eyes still closed and dotted with grains of sleep sand, broke loose and smiled with his words.

“I know,” she said as her right hand slid underneath the covers and across his face, finally settling in a loose grip on the short, damp hair at the back of his neck, “and I love you too, but you left me to die.” She had breathed out the last words in a smoky, resonating voice. Sleepy eyes snapped open to reveal polished ebony mirrors that reflected back a fisheye caricature of his own terror. Fingers became inescapable bands of steel locked onto his hair . . . drawing him the final few inches to her piranha-like teeth.

Eric screamed.

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Tap . . . tap . . . tap. “Eric, are you awake?”

Eric froze, rigid and disoriented as the twin nightmares—unwilling to depart –locked in a conflict with his slowly waking consciousness. Like ancient enemies battling for possession of his soul, they swirled and whirled in a vortex of scintillating colors. Dark violet sparking with angry, jagged shards of metallic green lightning struggled against a forest of blue-gray fog. The cyclone twisted and tore with vivid flashes of shattered bones and sharp teeth, but the growing, enveloping mist would not, could not, be denied. With a final blaze of white-hot embers and black eyes, the spinning whirlwind slowed, became still, and then dissipated in the rapidly brightening haze.

Tap . . . tap . . . tap.

“Eric, it’s Amy. Are you OK?”

“Yeah . . . just . . . waking up. Give me a minute, OK?”

“OK. We just wanted to check on you. You’ve been sleeping for quite awhile and we wanted to make sure that everything was alright. And nobody wanted to open the door with Max in there.”

As if that was his cue, a low rumble emanated from the floor beside the bed.

Eric rolled over and sat up, sleepy eyes blinking in the fading glare of what he guessed was the late afternoon sun.  It was shining in a single, wide beam directly through the room’s lone window, striking his face as it slowly transitioned to a watery orange postscript near the ceiling. Silent, but softly telling, as if it were a last chance echo warning that darkness followed in its wake.

Squinting, Eric gradually shifted his head left and right, shrugged his shoulders and filled his lungs to capacity—holding it momentarily as he stretched.

Thump-thump-thump.

“What?” He snapped out with sleepy annoyance as the last vestiges of his restless slumber evaporated. Max apparently shared the sentiment and growled, almost snarling, at the disturbance.

A gruff voice, partially muted by the interfering barrier, spoke. “Eric, it’s Walter. Do you mind holding Max while I come in?”

Eric blinked his eyes and rubbed his forehead, still trying to transition into the waking world as he answered. “Give me a sec.”

With another quick series of stretches and rolls, he became keenly aware that his body felt like it had been dragged a few miles down a rough cut logging road. And he was hungry. Starving, actually. A quick flip of his wrist to check the time resulted in a cascade of memories. No watch. Damn, he had busted it on the Gator. And then there was the cabin, the cowboy . . . Michelle and Uncle Andy. Shit . . . Uncle Andy! Wave after wave of memories crashed to the surface as Eric flipped the covers off, rotated and stood up. Immediately, a sharp, burning throb exploded from his ankle. A few not so mumbled choice words escaped.

“You okay, boy?”

Eric ignored him for second and called Max up to the bed. Max yawned, stretching his paws far forward as his massive black frame slowly rose.

“Come here, buddy.” Eric thumped his hand on the still warm mattress. Max, after another stretch and shake, obliged and hopped up.

A quick look around confirmed that he had no clothes except the underwear he had on. Grabbing one of the loose sheets, he twisted it around kilt-like before settling back on the bed.

“Come on in.”

Walter clicked the door partially open and peeked in, confirming that Max was under control before entering. He was carrying a large silver “hot bag” in one hand and a small, vaguely familiar duffel in the other. Extending the silver bag, Walter said, “Bernice washed up the clothes you was wearin’ when ya got here last night. There’s a few small rips and whatnot, and some of the . . . stains . . . didn’t all come out, but they’re good to go. I also . . . hope you don’t mind . . . but I borrowed your keys and got some clothes from behind the seat in your truck.”

Eric accepted both packages, holding Walter’s eyes as he did. After a hesitant pause, he cleared his throat and said, “Tell me.”

Walter nodded. “Your uncle is alive. Anything more than that is going to have to come from Doc. He’s waiting outside right now, him and Rebecca. Go on and get dressed.”

He nodded mutely as he stood, wincing again with the pain in his ankle as he emptied the contents of both bags onto the bed beside Max. Black sweats and a ratty but comfortable Pittsburgh Steelers long sleeve top, both from the duffel, fit the ticket. He had two sets of socks, but no shoes.

“Ain’t no sense in putting on socks ‘till Doc takes a look at your foot.”

Eric sat back on the corner of the bed, sliding his hand onto Max’s muscular haunch for a moment of balance before nodding.

Walter opened the door, and with a mumbled “C’mon in,” admitted Doc, Preacher Dave’s wife Rebecca, and another lady that Eric didn’t recognize. All of them were carrying various bags, plastic tubs and containers. The lady he didn’t know was toting a five gallon bucket. Doc, although still haggard and worn down, appeared to have at least gotten some rest. The nurse Rebecca—her slim, almost angular face carrying the same reassuring half-smile—looked exhausted.

Several folding chairs seemed to miraculously appear and the trio sat down. Two more identical chairs were handed through the doorway by unseen accomplices. One of the chairs went to Walter, and the other was unfolded and placed at the edge of the bed.

“Put your leg upon this chair and let me take a look at your ankle,” Doc said.

Without moving a muscle, Eric bored his eyes straight at Doc Collins. “Tell me about my uncle first.”

Doc nodded as he replied, “I will, but while I’m doing that were going to need to soak your ankle so I can clean it out, and in order for me to soak it, we need to cut off your duct tape and gauze bandage.” He patted the seat of the chair again.

Eric held his position momentarily, considering. He was naturally stubborn and resistant when it came to being pushed in a direction that wasn’t his choosing. This seemed like one of those times. Max was picking up on his tension as well, and Eric felt, or rather sensed his annoyance with the crowd beginning to surface.

Biting down the frustration and impatience he felt, Eric forced a few deep, steady breaths out as he raised his leg to the chair. With his left hand, he leaned slightly over and rubbed Max on the muscular, padded area at the front of his chest.

“Easy Max, it’s OK.”

For his part, Max seemed to settle down to a watchful, if not quite wary observation of the procedure.

In less than two minutes, his homemade band aid had been removed with the help of flat-tipped scissors that came out of Doc’s medical bag. Some poking and prodding of the wound, accompanied by several “mmmm’s” and “hmmm’s” preceded a pair of injections.

“I’ve given you something to numb the area, just a local, for when we clean and re-stitch it. The second shot was some antibiotics, although I’m going to want you to take some more orally for a while.”

Doc looked over at the new girl and Eric followed his gaze. She was tall, dark haired and athletically built. Probably college age or just out, he guessed. She was wearing khakis and a faded tan Hard Rock Café sweatshirt. Medium sized golden hoop earrings dangled and bounced against her cheekbones as she brought the almost full bucket over. The chair was removed and replaced with the bucket, and the girl knelt down and carefully supported Eric’s leg as his foot was lowered into the warm, frothy liquid.

Her eyes were large and friendly, and she shifted them between Eric and the container as she submerged his wound. “It’s going to sting a bit, but we need to leave it in there for at least ten minutes.” Her voice was both firm and comforting at the same time.

She stood, checked a small walkie talkie clipped at her waist, and then addressed Doc. “I’m on channel seven. Just call me when you’re ready and I’ll come back.” A minor shift of her head directed her attention at Rebecca. “Ms. Rebecca, you really need to get some sleep. I can handle things here and in the sickroom, and Amy is getting another girl for backup, OK?”

Rebecca dipped her nose slightly. “I’ll go in a minute.”

The dark haired lady shook her head slightly, and with a low, musical giggle, she replied, “I hope so.” A moment later the door clicked behind her.

“Who was that?” Eric asked.

“A lucky find.” Rebecca yawned her answer. “Her name is Callie. She’s a physical therapy assistant. She was also an EMT for a few years. So I guess that makes her my backup nurse.”

“What about Sally?” Eric asked as he looked back at Doc.

His peripheral vision caught the quick turn down of Walter and Rebecca’s faces. Doc gave a barely perceptible shake of his head before mumbling, “She’s gone.” A long, silent gap filled the space between them before he added, “At least we think she’s gone.”

The tepid water in the bucket released a briny aroma as he digested Doc’s words.

Doc Collins exchanged glances with Walter before continuing. “But that’s a topic for later . . .” he looked again at Walter, “but not too much later.”

Turning back to Eric he said, “Andy is alive, and although it’s too early to tell, he might be one of the luckiest SOB’s in the world.”

Eric waited. There was more, there was always more. In his experience, first came the give—immediately followed by the take.

“Your wife and child made it through the seventeen hour surgery Mr. Jones.”

“That’s great.”

“However, both of them passed on immediately afterwards due to unforeseen and unrelated complications.”

“Tell me . . . everything.”

Doc nodded his head and began. “The good news, well, great news is that the bullet did not penetrate Andy’s skull.” Using his index finger and his own head as a visual aid, Doc traced a line that started above his right ear and traveled slightly upwards as it progressed forward.

“The bullet struck the parietal bone at a complementing angle, as opposed to a conflicting one. It would be very similar to shooting a bullet in a close, angular plane to the surface of a lake.”

“Like skimming rocks,” Walter chimed.

“Yes,” Doc replied, “very similar. Because of the angle of impact, the bullet followed the contour of the resisting surface, which in this case was your uncle’s skull. It exited the skin approximately four inches later, about two inches above the temporal line.” His index finger indicated the position of the exit. “The bony structure was not visibly damaged anywhere that I could tell along the wound channel. Blood loss was substantial, although we often see that in similar injuries. Head wounds tend to bleed a lot. Our impromptu transfusion, although maybe not necessary, definitely helped.”

Eric waited, slowly counting to five . . . uneasiness evident on his face with the approach of the take.

“When a traumatic event happens to a body, it is often the unseen damage that determines the outcome.” Doc pointed his finger casually at Eric’s face.

“That shiner you got started off as, relatively speaking, a slow moving blunt force trauma. Although I doubt it felt slow moving at the time.”

Eric forced down the memory of his fight with the cowboy. He could tell that it wouldn’t be alone, but traveling with an incredible number of footnotes, to do lists, and responsibilities that were even now assembling and brawling to be number one.

Doc continued. “Immediately after the impact, your face probably hurt quite a bit. However the damage was not just on the surface. Cellular walls, skin tissue, capillaries and other parts of the localized anatomy surrounding the point of impact were also damaged. Even hard tissue like the zygomatic bone below your eye absorbed some of the impact. The combined results of which are going to be swelling, tenderness, and the discoloration evident with the hematoma.”

“Yeah, I got it. I have a black eye.”

“Yes,” Doc answered, “it’s fairly easy to visually inspect your injury and draw a conclusion as to what happened, and what realistic prognosis for recovery can be expected. Your uncle’s injury, because of its location and the complexities involved therein, present another matter. I gather you’ve field dressed enough deer to know that the typically small entry wound often doesn’t correspond to what you find inside the body cavity.”

“Doc, I haven’t had years of medical school, but I do work in a profession that requires a fairly in-depth understanding of ballistics.”

“Then you understand what I mean when I say ‘temporal cavity’?”

“Yeah, it’s a shock wave effect that displaces tissue, organs—and whatever else is in the way—very rapidly. It can cause anything from minor complications to serious damage, and even complete liquefaction of vital areas.”

“Mmmm-hmm,” Doc nodded, “but the problem is that without highly advanced medical imaging—and to be honest, a lot of times even with it—we have no way to really tell what, if any, additional damage Andy has sustained. He could wake up in an hour with nothing more than a bad headache.”

Eric shook his head, already chasing the worst case scenario down the wide path he seemed to travel frequently. “Or, he could never wake up. Or he could wake up and be brain dead. Or he could . . .”

Walter cut in abruptly. “Eric, there’s only one thing we can do right now, and that’s keep on praying. Your uncle is a tough old bird, and I don’t think the Lord is done with him just yet. Or rather, I don’t think the Man upstairs is done tormenting me with Andy’s continued presence.”

Eric gave a weak smile at Walter’s comment. “So it’s basically a ‘hurry up and wait’ situation?”

“And keep praying,” Rebecca added.

“Yes,” Doc answered, “to both of you.”

“How’s Emily?”

“Very lucky to be alive. I’d really like to know what happened? I mean, don’t get me wrong, I’m glad she’s alive, but her injuries came very close to being fatal. Not precisely how I envisioned you bringing her back to me.”

A split second flash of memories surfaced in Eric’s mind. The helplessness he had felt, along with his indignant rage during Michelle’s captivity. The stunned incomprehension at the personal sacrifice Emily had been willing to risk. The aftermath.

“Your granddaughter risked her life to save Michelle.” The words, spoken as he held Doc’s eyes, somehow didn’t seem enough.

A soft, double knock on the door perked Max’s ears up. Without waiting for a reply, Michelle quietly slid into the room. She was dressed in jeans and a tee shirt, with a light blue, long sleeve hooded sweatshirt folded across one shoulder. Her duty belt was clearly visible, and judging from the number of magazine pouches Eric could see, she was loaded for bear. A brief moment’s eye contact brought a smile to her face, and much to Eric’s surprise, a quick wink. She stood silent as Walter spoke.

“Listen, I know there are a lot of things that we need to go over . . . to figure out. I’ve been able to hear some of the stories of what happened, but there’s a lot more we need to find out about, and a lot of decisions that need to be made. Quickly. For right now, Andy and Emily are alive and hopefully healing. Other lives, ours included, are still at risk.”

“How about the other girl we brought back?” Eric asked cautiously.

“Her name was Samantha,” Michelle interjected softly, “and she didn’t make it.”

Doc shook his head. “There was way too much trauma and blood loss. I tried, but I couldn’t do anything. I’m sorry. Who was she?”

“Someone who should have stayed at the campground.” Michelle leaned against the wall and bowed her head as she spoke quietly. “Andy and I are responsible for her being at the cabin. And for everything that happened to her there. She should’ve stayed at the campground, she would have been safer.”

Doc immediately shook his head. “No, she wouldn’t have . . . those things . . . they came out of nowhere—everywhere. . .”

Walter cleared his throat. “Listen, we need to hear about this, and a lot more as well. But not right here, and not right now. I’ve already got Amy working on a guest list, so to speak, for our meeting. She’s coordinating with Sam on that, and some other stuff as well. Rebecca, go get some sleep, Callie’s got it covered.” Walter continued barking orders. “Doc, stitch the boy up, change his oil and get him running like new, or at least walking.” Standing up and turning to face Michelle, he finished with, “And you get the pleasure of being with me.”

Five minutes later, his foot was once again resting on the towel covered folding chair. Doc had used the radio to summon Callie, and the two of them began to poke and prod at the gash on Eric’s ankle. The numbness from the anesthetic brought an uncomfortable reminder of his dream.

I cannot wait for this book to come out on kindle!

Yeah, definitely.

I read a lot of Kindle zompoc fiction and this is one of the better ones.

I remember reading it when it was here for free, but I still bought it and re-read it.

Just finished re-reading Fade to Grey and can't wait for book two.

Hmmmmmm....my calendar says it's early July.  

Hmmmmmm....my calendar says it's early July.  

Well then....I'll just have to post a bit more....







****************
Michelle followed Andy down the hall and into the kitchen where Bernice was hefting a large stainless steel pot off of the burner. The steam escaping from two equally large pots still simmering on the stove puffed and spurted, filling the kitchen with the twin aromas of cooking meat and stewing vegetables. Michelle’s stomach gave an involuntary rumble.

“Hey Bern, I’m taking the young lady down to the marina for a minute. I want to show her that . . . thing. Are you good to go here?”

“I imagine the world will keep turning without your direct involvement Wally, and that includes me. Supper will be in about an hour. Don’t be early, don’t be late, and don’t complain about it either.”

“Why Bernice, you know I always speak kindly ‘bout your cookin’. That is, with the possible exception of the time you tried to poison me with your grandmother’s meatloaf recipe.” Walter shot a sideways grin at Michelle.

“I should have listened to my mammy when she warned me about you. Maybe then I wouldn’t be stuck cooking three meals a day for almost fifty people. Keep them numbers in mind before you figure on loading up your plate.”

“Awww now honey, you know we all appreciate it, and ain’t no one a better cook then you,” Walter said as he snuck over and lifted the lid on one of the steaming pots, earning him a lightning fast smack on the wrist with a wooden spoon.

“Get your hairy mitts off of my kettle,” Bernice bellowed. Walter scooted away with a double tap of raised eyebrows and a smile that would make the Cheshire cat proud.

With a motion toward the sliding door, Walter tilted his head and bowed like a jester. “Your ladyship, the chariot awaits.”

Michelle and Walter walked onto the wraparound porch, stopping briefly to slide the door shut behind them. The lightly stained, pressure treated deck boards in front of the entrance still showed a residual tinge of darker color where the blond stripper had bled out.

Weaving their way through a scattering of patio furniture brought them to the top of the wooden stairs. Twenty-one steps and they were on the ground at the edge of Walter’s driveway. They angled further right toward the split level garage entrance, passing by two men and a lady who were standing in a tight circle next to an idling Mitsubishi sedan. Just on the other side of the small group was their target, Walter’s Mule ATV. As they took a seat in the small vehicle, the three chatters came over. The lady was the first one to speak.

“Mr. Sheldon . . .”

“Ma’am, that was my dad, please call me Walter.”

She replied with a nervous smile, “Walter, then.”

Michelle watched her exchange an uneasy glance with one of the men before she turned again towards Walter, leaning down slightly to be more at his seated eye level. “Walter, my husband and I are very grateful for all that you have done for us, and for everybody. Now I know that you suggested that we stay down by the shop. . .”

Walter’s curt reply was unvarnished, “It wasn’t a suggestion.”

The lady froze momentarily, but then quickly regained her composure.  “Well, I felt that what I—what we—had to say was important. And I’m sorry to have to put you on the spot like this, but we know that you have a whole room full of food. We’ve seen it. And we know you have gasoline,” she tilted her head in the vague direction of the two men, “my brother watched you fill your generator.”

“And guns, we know that you have guns too,” one of the men added briskly.

Michelle sat quietly as the ATV idled roughly. Walter, still looking at the lady, hadn’t made a sound. A few more moments of silence passed as the utility vehicle’s engine finally warmed up and evened out.

Finally, Walter tipped his hat slightly downward and said, “And . . .”

The lady, with a growing spark of irritation on her face, straightened up and crossed her arms. “And . . . we’ve been talking with some of the others. Most everybody thinks that you should divide up all of the food equally, and make sure that everybody has a way to defend themselves against those horrible monsters.”

“I see. So you and,” Walter nosed towards the two men, “a couple others think that’s the way to go, huh?”

One of the men stepped forward, resting his hand on the lady’s stiff shoulder. “It’s not just us. We’ve talked to a lot of the other people here. Most of them feel the same.”

Ignoring the man, Walter looked up at the lady and said, “I’ll tell you what . . .,” he paused for a moment, tapping his finger in the air toward her, “tell me your name again.”

“Diane.”

“That’s right . . . Diane. I remember now. We’ve got Diane, and husband . . . William?”

Before she could nod in the affirmative Walter continued. “Yes, I remember now, your husband’s name is William and your brother is Colton.”

The trio bobbed their heads in unison as Walter depressed the brake pedal and shifted the ATV into gear. “That is a very interesting idea you have. And you say others share it as well, huh? Well how about we do this . . . once we get a few more things taken care of, we’re going to try and have a nice little ‘sit down and chat’ session with everybody. Probably gonna happen tonight or tomorrow morning. Make sure you bring that up, as well as any other ideas you can think of, and we’ll see what we can work out. In the meantime, there’s about two cords of firewood out there past the chicken coop that need splitting, so if you’re looking for something to do, it would be mighty appreciated.” Walter’s sugarcoated words trailed off behind him as he accelerated the Mule down the driveway.

Thick layers of crush and run gravel crunched underneath the aggressive tread of the ATV’s off-road tires as Walter piloted the vehicle through the switchback. Another quick series of braking and weaving brought them to the long flat stretch that paralleled the lakeside. Ahead of them they both noticed a figure walking slowly toward the shop.

“Do you recognize the clothing?” Michelle asked.

Walter shrugged and shook his head as he replied, “No, and that’s part of the problem. We’ve just been so chaotic the last few days that I can’t keep track of nothin’. Heck, I don’t even remember what I wore yesterday. ”

“Do you mean that you haven’t memorized the jackets that fifty refugees brought with them when they crashed your gate and demanded that you put them up, feed them, and protect them from homicidal monsters?”

Michelle looked away so Walter wouldn’t see her grin as he replied, “No, I can’t say that I have. Smart ass.”

“Well,” Michelle said as she thumbed the release of her holster, “let’s go see who it is.”

Closing the gap took only a few seconds, and the figure, apparently hearing the sound of the approaching vehicle, turned to face them. It was Amy. Walter coasted to a stop about twenty feet away, but kept the ATV in gear as Michelle slid off the seat and stood, her hand still glued to her belt line.

“Amy, is everything all right?” From this distance Michelle easily noted the hastily wiped tracks of tears on Amy’s face.

Amy nodded briskly, wiping her mitten-covered hands across her cheeks as she answered. “I’m fine. I just thought that I would get some fresh air and walk to the shop. Sam’s up there, and we’re still trying to work out some things, schedule wise.”

“You really shouldn’t be walking alone, you know.” Walter indicated with a quick glance up and down the road.

“I know . . . I know, I just needed a little time to myself. Besides,” she said as she patted the left side of her puffy jacket, “I still have this contraption you’re making me carry.”

“Don’t leave home without it.”

“I won’t . . . I promise.”

Michelle inclined her head toward the second bench seat on the Mule. “We’d be happy to give you a ride.”

Amy shook her head slowly, deliberately . . . and then turned her gaze across the reflective surface of the lake. The setting sun was painting fiery ribbons of orange on the choppy water, and barely visible in the fading light was the faint curve of the peninsula where Ravenwood campground sat.

“OK, but don’t be too long, it’s going to get dark soon. We’ll make sure that we give you a ride back though . . . OK?”

Still gazing out over the countless white-tipped swells that decorated the lake’s sunset, Amy replied, “I won’t be long, and a ride back would definitely be appreciated.”

Michelle scooted back into copilot position, and Walter accelerated down the gravel. The headlights on the ATV were just beginning to brighten the road in front of them as they pulled up to the improvised barrier made from an old cattle gate and a set of homemade ‘steel pipe and cement-filled tire’ volleyball net posts. On both the left and right side of the gate, RV’s sat idling.

“Why are they running?” Michelle asked with raised eyebrows.

Walter frowned as answered, “Not supposed to be. Dang it, I told them people not to waste gas . . . that there wouldn’t be any way to replace it.”

“That’s what I said too.” A voice from the left startled Walter and Michelle. Standing up from a reclining position in a camouflaged tangle of dried cattails and reeds, Crowbar Mike approached the vehicle. “But they basically told me to mind my own business, and besides, it ain’t my gas they’re burning trying to stay warm.”

“What the hey,” Walter mumbled as he fished a flashlight out of the glove box recess. Shining the light into the edge of shadows where Mike had come from revealed a well cloaked oblong object.

“That’s a damn good idea, Mike. Warm?”

“Too warm, especially with these coveralls.”

Michelle stood and followed the beam of Walter’s light. Concealed a few steps off of the driveway in the winter-browned and dried remains of high weeds was a waterfowl ground blind. Essentially an insulated coffin-like cloth box, the roof could be quickly popped open to allow a duck hunter to sit up and fire.

The door on one of the RV’s creaked open, and two men stepped out. One of them, a middle aged man with a head full of prematurely gray hair, elegantly styled and moussed to the point where it looked plastic, walked straight over to Walter and thumped his hand on the hood of the Mule.

“Just the man I was looking for,” he said with a curt nod.

“Simpson, right?” Walter said.

“Thomas Simpson, yes . . . and that’s Mr. Lancaster . . . Howard,” he indicated with a toss of his head toward the second man who stood by the RV. A rather large-ish band aid was plastered across his nose.

Michelle moved around the ATV and stood next to Walter, positioning herself as the ‘monkey in the middle’ of the line that stretched between Walter and Mike.

“Tom, what can I do . . .”

“Thomas please,” the man interrupted and corrected Walter.

Walter stood silently for a moment, and Michelle could sense his rising impatience. Hers was beginning to reach its limit as well.

Ignoring the request, Walter replied, “What can I do for you?”

“Several things actually. Why don’t you come in to the Northstar where it’s warmer and we can talk about it in a more civilized environment.”

“Nah, I’m good right here, but I also got to tell you that I ain’t got a lot of time right now, so make it fast. Please.” Walter had paused for the space of two heartbeats before he added the ‘please,’ an obvious assessment of where he felt the priority of this conversation stood. The gesture wasn’t lost on anybody.

“Fine then, right here and right now. Howard and I, and several others have been discussing certain options that may have been overlooked since we evacuated the campground. Our assessment is that the security . . . policy . . . that is being implemented is severely lacking.”

“I agree,” Walter chipped. Michelle caught the quick flash of surprise pass over the face of the gray haired man.

“Well then,” the man continued, “we feel that, as a precaution against another incursion of the . . . sick people . . . there should be at least a dozen heavily armed and capable men on patrol at all times. In addition to that, since Howard and I have volunteered the use of our campers for gate duty, we should receive another stipend of gasoline. Fifteen to twenty gallons per vehicle should get us through the rest of the night, possibly even through lunch time tomorrow.”

Michelle’s proximity to Walter was enough to note his sudden, sharp intake of breath, and the subsequent clack of his teeth as he bit down his words. Before he could reply though, Mr. Lancaster chimed in.

“Speaking of food, we were told to expect dinner soon, and as I’ve already mentioned to one of those girls, neither my wife nor myself prefer rice. And the meat that was served at lunch, which I feel I should also mention was nothing more than the reheated leftovers of breakfast, was both tough and gamy.”

Michelle flushed with disbelief and anger at the man’s words, but Walter, apparently sensing her irritation rising, took a sliding sidestep and positioned himself in front of her.

“Mr. Simpson, Mr. Lancaster, I appreciate your information about the security situation here, as well as the problem with fuel and food. And while I sympathize with your issues, for right now we’re doing the best that we can with the limited, very limited . . . resources we have.”

A soft chirp emanated from Crowbar Mike’s coveralls.

Mike fished out the Fish and Wildlife radio and mashed down a button, illuminating the display a pale yellowish-green. “Battery meter is down to one bar. It started chirping about an hour ago.”

“We need to get you a new set then,” Walter said.

“And that is another issue,” Mr. Simpson began, “the batteries for our radios are down to about fifty percent. With all the kids talking back and forth it’s going to wear that down pretty fast. In addition, my lantern uses six of the “D” sized batteries, and I have generously lent it to the main group up at the store. I’d like to see about getting some spares for that as well.”

“What radios are you talking about?” Walter asked.

“I brought four of the little outdoor walkie talkies with me when I left the city. Again, I have generously donated those so the children and the women up at the store can keep in contact with me . . . and each other.”

Mr. Lancaster stepped forward, and with a brief, uneasy look at Mike, addressed Walter. “There is another ‘security’ matter that needs to be dealt with. How are we supposed to see at night? I realize it’s currently clear, and the Moon will provide some residual light, but I think we should leave the headlights of both of our RV’s on all night, hence another reason for additional fuel.”

Mike’s gruff monotone cut in, “We’ve had this talk. You turn them on before they’re needed, and I bust em’ out.”

“And I told you that if you take one swing at my vehicle with that crowbar I’ll shoot you down,” Mr. Lancaster huffed.

“You turn on those headlights, and anything . . . any ‘THING’ . . . within a mile is going to come straight towards it,” Mike replied, a slight edge now in his voice.

“The campground is miles . . .”

Walter cut him off with a step forward. “Hold up a minute gentleman, we have enough problems without fighting each other. Now supper is supposed to be here in less than an hour, and after supper we’ll try and get some of these things squared away. In the meantime, let’s leave the headlights off and keep the attitudes in check, OK?”

A moment of silence passed before Mike spoke, “Yeah, that works for me.”

Another hushed pause slipped by before Mr. Simpson replied, “Fine, after supper then.” Without another word he turned and reentered the camper, Mr. Lancaster hot on his heels.

The last rays of sunlight were slipping behind the horizon as Amy walked up. “Problems?”

Walter nodded at her, and then stepped close to Mike, speaking soft enough so that anybody inside the RV’s couldn’t hear. “We’ll get you some batteries in a minute. In the meantime try and ignore the ’Ken doll’ and his buddy.”

“They’re both . . .”

He was cut off by Amy who whispered, “Spineless assholes.”

Mike broke into a smile at her choice of words. “Yeah, that about covers it.” Turning towards Walter and Michelle he added, “But they’re right about us needing some changes.”

Walter met briefly with each of their eyes before murmuring, “Oh, I think there’s going to be some changes around here. Very soon.” Turning towards Mike, he continued, “And I’d really like you to accompany us right now, but as much as I’d like that, I need you here even more. And just a heads up—I’d expect to see a sedan coming down from the house pretty shortly.”

“I got this . . . just don’t leave me hanging too long.” He turned and stepped off of the driveway into the weeds.

Without another word, Michelle walked forward, unhitched the gate and pulled it open. When Walter had driven through, she closed and latched it. Inside the left-hand RV there was a brief flash of a cigarette lighter, followed by the faint red glow of a drag.  Michelle could feel the unseen eyes upon her as she stepped towards the ATV.

They traveled the last twenty yards or so of driveway proper before entering the large gravel expanse of the marina’s lot. To the left Michelle could see the corner of Ghost Echo Lake, and the forty-five foot wide, double capacity boat ramp that sloped gently into the dark water. To the right, visible in the dim early evening light as well as her memory, was the marina itself. Not so much a marina in the true sense, it was more of a collection of five buildings that catered to the various functions of the business. Closest to the highway was the ‘L’ shaped, cement block building that held the combination general store, bait shop, and gas station all in one. Moving away from the highway around the store brought you to the building that Walter called his office. Also made out of cinder blocks, it was the location where they had shared that wonderful meal just a few days ago. Before everything went to hell.

Walter turned the wheel right and drove past the office. A rapid fire zigzag left, and then right put them between the huge boat storage warehouse and two smaller buildings. The warehouse, Michelle estimated, was almost 120 feet long, and maybe a third of that wide. Built ‘pole barn’ style and covered with prefabricated sheets of galvanized sheet metal, it was the newest building on the property. Of the two buildings on the left, Michelle knew that the one farthest away from the store held the large tank of propane. The other one she wasn’t sure about.

“This is crow’s nest to donkey, do you read?” The three Fish and Wildlife radios, one on each of the ATV’s occupant’s belts, crackled to life simultaneously.

Walter pulled the radio off his waist, keyed the button and replied, “It’s mule, not donkey, Thompson.”

The mirth in Thompson’s voice was evident as he transmitted back, “Yeah whatever. I’m just makin’ sure that it’s you down there. Can you . . . uh, hold on a second . . .” Thompson kept the button depressed, and the faint sound of paper shuffling could be heard. “Yeah, um, can you 10-61 at this time?”

Walter looked at Michelle for help. “I didn’t bring my cheat sheet, what’s he asking?”

“He’s asking if it’s OK to talk, in other words, he wants to know if you’re surrounded by people you trust to hear whatever’s going to come over the radio next.”

“What’s the correct jargon for telling him that I’m with two suspicious females?” The millisecond of dead silence was interrupted when Amy kicked a shoe-full of gravel at his shins.

Walter danced, dodging the shrapnel and waving his hands. “I was kidding, I was kidding,” he laughed.

Michelle bit down her own amusement as she pulled the radio off her belt. “Thompson, this is Michelle, Amy and I are with Walter, but go ahead and switch to PC four.”

“Roger that, switching to priority channel four.”

Walter keyed the access code, and then pushed the channel select arrow until it stopped on four. A moment later Thompson’s voice came across.

“Old mule, do you copy?”

Even in the dim light Michelle could see Walter grinning as he shook his head. “It’s just ‘mule,’ Mr. Thompson, not old mule, stubborn donkey, or ill tempered ass—all of which you’ve called me in the last twenty-four hours over this radio.”

“Yes sir, I’ll try and remember,” Thompson replied with an amused snort. “Anyhow, just a couple of quick things. First thing is my radio’s been chirping—think the batteries are shot. Second thing is about five minutes ago I think I saw some headlights down the highway to the east. By the time I got my binoculars up they was gone, though.”

Walter, Michelle, and Amy exchanged a quick look as Thompson finished. “Last thing is that it’s cold up here on this roof. Whoever you got comin’ up next needs to dress for the occasion.”

Michelle glanced at the roof of the store where Thompson was positioned as their primary scout, but she couldn’t see him.

“OK,” Walter replied, “we’ll change out the batteries in all the radios at supper time . . . should be in less than an hour. Keep an eye out for any more headlights—or anything else—that might be coming down the road.”

“Will do.” Another open-aired pause came across before Thompson spoke again. “Hey, somethin’ else. I know I ain’t sitting on the roof of a building full of ghosts, but someone should probably tell ‘em that if they keep making as much noise as they have been, they might just become ghosts.”

Michelle watched as Walter rubbed his temple for a moment before replying in a tired voice, “I know, I’ll see what we can do. Mule out.”

With another slow shake of his head, Walter changed the radio frequency back to the main channel, hooked it on his belt and looked up at Amy. “You got any suggestions?”

“I could give you about a hundred reasons—physiologically, psychologically, and emotionally—why they’re acting that way, but it won’t change anything right now.” Amy gently reached out a hand and set it on Walter’s shoulder. “Remember, everybody here has experienced a radical shift in their reality. Everybody here has experienced violence, tragedy, and loss.” With a sympathetic nudge of Walter’s shoulder, she re-emphasized, “Everybody.”

Walter frowned, “I know, I ain’t saying that anybody has got off Scot free, but it sure feels like the sheep are greatly outnumberin’ the wolves we have available, and my gut is telling me that very soon we’re going to need a lot of wolves.”

“I’m not saying that you’re wrong, Walter, and I can certainly understand, given the mantle of responsibility that’s been placed on you, but maybe it’s not wolves that we need.”

“What do you mean?”

“Maybe . . . instead of wolves, we need sheepdogs.”

Michelle stood silent as Walter paused, considering Amy’s words. Finally, with a shake of his head and the straightening of his shoulders, Walter said, “I wouldn’t mind having a few sheep dogs either . . . but I’ve got a bad feeling that if we don’t find some more wolves, we’re not going to have any sheep left.”

With a quick glance at the luminous numbers on his watch, Walter cleared his throat and said, “We need to get moving.” He turned and walked toward the back side of the propane storage building. Michelle and Amy followed.

Stopping at a sliding metal door, Walter reached into his pocket and withdrew a diminutive flashlight, clamped it between his teeth and illuminated a large ring of keys. Shifting through the jingling mass with rapid-fire familiarity, he finally chose a burnished bronze key that fit the disk lock on the door.

“What is this ‘surprise’ that you want me to see?” Michelle asked to his back.

A few soft, metallic clangs sounded as the lock was removed and the door slid to the left. Walter clicked a button on the small flashlight several times, and the illumination doubled, and then tripled. Handing the light to Michelle, he indicated for her to step inside the building, accompanying her with three cryptic words.

“You tell me.”
***************************

Just an update...book 2 IS FINISHED....just putting the final touches on some editing....soon...soon......

Let me know what you think so far

interesting so far, keep going.

Tagged for reading later.  Can't wait for the 2nd book to come out!

WHen is it going to be avail to buy?  Bought Fade to Grey this weekend and finished it.  Great read.

Listen dude. I'm throwing money at you. Gimme the book already

Yeah, release the book already!

OK guys (and gals ) ...sorry for the delays.... final proofing has taken a little longer than expected, and with each pass through, we find a few more typos.  Frustrating, but worth it in the end.  So now the news...DARKNESS ASCENDING SHOULD HAVE AN  OCTOBER 30TH -ish release to Kindle & Nook platforms.  I appreciate all of your positive comments and encouragement, as well as your patience. Read on for another little sliver of DA....

Leafinthewind







The bluish-white beam from the tiny flashlight cut a wide-angled swath through the darkness inside. Immediately obvious to Michelle was the large tank of propane that occupied the front half of the building. Various hoses and adapters were hanging on the wall next to the tank, and some type of electrical pump system was mounted on an elevated shelf above the adapters. Spaced evenly at ground level, a series of basketball-sized vent holes had been cut through the wall, each of them covered with a metal lattice rodent barrier. Shifting the light upwards, Michelle noted an identical series near the roofline. Moving the flashlight down again brought the cement floor into focus. An indeterminable hodgepodge of boot tracks carpeted every available square inch, giving Michelle the impression that a muddy, midnight square dance had recently been held in the building. The tracks, however, sheltered from the weather as they were, could have been here for years. It was not the serrated, lug-soled prints that kept her attention though, it was the flattened swell of the bright blue tarp that crinkled ever so slightly with the breeze coming through the vents.  

“What is it? What’s under the tarp?”

Walter stepped inside the building and slid toward the wall on the right, making room for Amy to squeeze through behind him. Leaning in the corner near the door was a five foot length of PVC water pipe. Walter grabbed the narrow, white tube and approached the tarp. Flipping the first layer of the plastic-like fabric up and over revealed another level of the blue material. The thin shaft flexed into a weak ‘C’ shape as Walter uncovered the second layer.

At first, Michelle wasn’t sure what she was looking at. An oblong . . . ‘blot’ . . . of dirty grease mixed with semi-solid chunks of . . . something else. She shifted her eyes briefly toward Walter, a questioning look on her face. A silent nod of his head redirected her to take another look at the substance on the tarp.

Angling the flashlight slightly to the left and down brought a three dimensional cast to the object. Silent moments of edgy curiosity surfaced as her brain tried to reconstruct the odd pattern into something she could process.

Another space of tired, over-caffeinated indecision flew by. Finally, Michelle stepped back and rubbed her eyes, shaking her head slightly. “I don’t know, did somebody burn something, maybe plastic or fiberglass . . . and then throw the ashes in the tarp?”

Walter shook his head. “Uh-uh, nobody burned nothin’. Look again ‘Chelle, do you see it?”

Michelle shined the light towards the tarp again, impatience beginning to settle on her face. Another scan up and down triggered a vague spark of something, but no answers. She was just about to ask Walter for the answer when Amy blurt out, “Is that a . . . body?”

With Amy’s words leading the charge, Michelle’s tired eyes were able to complete the puzzle. The dark, chunky-thin blob of residue now took on the hazy, indistinct outline of a human body. The not-distant-enough memory of a search warrant her agency had served a few years ago sprang to mind. They had come up empty in their investigation of the private hunting preserve that had been implicated in the deaths, and subsequent resell of protected raptors, but a further search of the grounds had revealed something else—the burnt out husk of their confidential informant’s vehicle. Occupied. It was her first, and so far, last, flame-blackened cadaver that she had seen. Michelle could still recall the gaunt, open mouthed visage, seared charcoal black and reclining in a permanent scream. But this was different. Before she could comment, Walter stepped forward and used the pipe to flip the last fold at the upper edge of the tarp.

“Kind of like opening a giant, blue burrito,” Walter said with a cough.

“That’s disgusting.”

“Yeah, well . . . now for the ‘piece De resistance,’ which is French for ‘the stuff that will make you shoot the snails you just swallowed out of your nose and back onto your plate.”

The final over-fold of the plastic sheeting revealed a mass of platinum blond hair.

“It’s the bimbo that Bernice shot that first night when all this started happening . . . just a few days ago, really.” Walter voiced to no one in particular.

When no one volunteered an immediate answer, he continued. “What happened to her? I mean, I’ve seen a lot of dead things, but nothing I’ve ever seen ended up like this, at least not in such a short time and without a lot of help from maggots and buzzards.”

Michelle, a strange suspicion beginning to form in the back of her head, spoke, “Could anybody have gotten in here and tampered with the body?”

“Don’t think so,” said Walter, “place has been locked up since Andy and I moved her here. Besides, that gal may have been a looker when she was a live stripper, but I can’t think of anybody who’d be sick enough to want to mess with a dead body that’s had half of its head blown off.”

The suspicion transcended upwards and became a slightly anxious flare of insight. “Let me see that pipe,” Michelle mumbled.

Walter silently passed it forward, making sure she grasped the same end he had been holding.

Michelle scooted closer, disregarding the quiet words of warning about getting too close from Walter. Prodding gently where her mind’s eye had reconstructed the form revealed an oddly colored, slightly curved item.

“Hmmm . . .”

“What is it?” Walter asked.

“Wait a minute, let me check something else,” Michelle voiced as she crouch-walked forward, stopping near the upper-left side of the tarp. Wielding the length of PVC like a lone, giant chopstick, she probed the general area of her hypothesis, feeling for the evidence. Scraping aside the loose, fragmented excess exposed several hard chunks. Thrusting the flashlight as close as she could get without contacting the surrounding substance brought the diminutive chunks into focus. They were teeth.

The long, lean muscles in her thighs flexed stubbornly as she stood up, briefly reminding Michelle that she had skipped too many days at the gym.

“Well?” Walter asked.

“When did you notice this?”

“I came down here today—this morning ‘bout an hour before lunch—just to check and make sure everything was still secured. When I opened the door, the first thing I noticed was that the tarp that we had put the stripper in looked . . . flat.  Why? What are you thinking?”

“I’m not sure,” Michelle answered slowly, “but a couple of things are coming to mind. As cold as it’s been outside—and with all the vents it’s going to be the same temperature in here—there’s no way the body should have decayed at the rate it has. It’s almost like it was submerged in a vat of acid. But then, if there were some outside caustic force that was at work here, why are we seeing hair? My first thought is that hair is one of the hardest things to digest. That’s why you always find it when you examine animal scat.” Michelle used the flashlight and pipe to indicate the tangle of whitish-blond hair.

Walter and Amy craned their necks for an attempt at a better view without approaching closer.

Michelle continued, “But look at the hair, it’s practically untouched. As a matter of fact, it looks like it’s been freshly washed. Walter, you and I both saw the body. Half of her head was blown away, and her hair was soaked with blood and brains. When you and Andy carried her down here, she was a pretty much in the same condition, right?”

“Yep.”

“So we’ve got a dead stripper who goes in to a tarp in basically one piece, covered with blood. The body then gets stored in what, for all intents and purposes in a meat locker. And yet, a few days later all we can find,” Michelle used the pipe to indicate the first area she had looked at, “is purple manicured toenails,” she moved the pointer upwards as she talked, “pearly white teeth . . . and bleach blond hair that looks like it’s just been shampooed.”

Walter looked back and forth between Amy, Michelle, and the tarp. Shaking his head, he shrugged his shoulders and said, “You got any ideas?”

Michelle mimicked his shrug. “Nothing firm, we’d have to talk to Dr. Collins I’d imagine, but biologically speaking, hair, nails and teeth all share one thing in common.”

When nobody spoke, Michelle finished, “It’s all dead tissue. Even when you’re alive, the keratin, which is the basic structure of your hair and nails, is nothing more than a dead protein. Your teeth,” she smiled and clicked her own, “are covered in an extremely hard organic compound called enamel, which is also dead. So whatever happened to the body somehow altered—chemically or otherwise, I’m not sure—all of the tissue that had been living at the time of her . . . death . . . if that makes sense.”

The three of them stood quietly for a moment, pondering Michelle’s conclusion. When no one spoke, Michelle sighed and turned towards Amy. “What are you thinking about, Amy?”

Amy let out a deep breath, and then slowly sank to her knees, folding her calves underneath her as she sat on the cold, boot print marked cement. “Honestly,” she began in a hollow, cheerless voice, “I’ve been hearing the words ‘body, stripper, bimbo, blond’ . . .” she forced in a sniffle as she stared at the remains scattered on the cheap, blue plastic, “but no matter which way we cut the pie, and no matter which words we choose to say, that girl there had a name . . . she was somebody’s daughter—maybe somebody’s mother.”

Michelle thought back to the first night when they had found the old van idling up at the store. The hippie stoner, what was his name . . . Bruce something . . . he had told them her name when he was being questioned. She closed her eyes and fought hard to remember.

“Celeste. Her name was Celeste.”

Amy looked up at Michelle questioningly.

Michelle squatted down on one knee and put her arm around Amy. “It was Celeste, I’m sure of it.”

Nice!

Still on for a 30ish release?

My money needs to be spent.

Working as fast as I can.....

10-6-15    OK all, ..... I tried to hit the end of sept. release date, but due to life and work constraints, it didn't happen.  I could bitch and moan about all the things I had to do to get DA ready to go and in your hands, but that doesn't help me, you, or anybody else.  The bottom line is that I honestly felt there were a few changes that needed to happen to make it a better end product, and I dropped the ball on my time management.  That dog won't hunt anymore, and I'm not going to spend my life looking backwards.  Today, I am here to announce that come heck or high aqua, DARKNESS ASCENDING will hit the amazon & B&N ebook shelves by OCT 31 at the latest.  I seriously want to thank all my readers for their patience and understanding, .....it will be worth it

I need moar!!!!!

Looking forward to it!

I see that no year was mentioned.........just kidding.

I read the first and I'm looking forward to the second.

My calendar says it's October 31st!! I hope it's going good I can't wait to get the book!

Good News...finally!... Darkness Ascending has been uploaded to Amazon.  You can't buy it just yet, as I still have to run a few platform tests and link checks, but that should only take a few more days. After that it will be RTG...nook platform will follow as well a few days later. Thanks for your patience   ! I'll post when it's available to let you know!

Awesome can't wait to read it!

Waiting Patiently for the Nook version!

As am I

What gives?

Why, I do.... and it's finally ready for ya'...update in OP.

Almost done with the book and all I have  to say is WELL DONE

Edit: Finished it Wow what a fantastic read I didn't want to put it down now I'm not so patiently awaiting the third installment!!

Just bought, although ouch @ 8 bucks

Both books were an outstanding read - WELL DONE!!!!!  I'm waiting with bated breath for the last book!!

Mil-Spec

I just finished it.  Liked it very much and I'll be keeping an eye out for the third book.

Sequel!

Sequel!

Sequel!!