Free Fade to Grey (Book 2): Darkness Ascending by Brian Stewart

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.”

Chapter 6
    They closed and locked the propane building, and then
walked over to the Mule for the short journey to the store. From the outside, a
myriad of voices could be heard—mumbled talking, a few elevated shouts, and the
soft but unmistakable noise of sobbing.
     
    Faint illumination was leaking through the black
plastic garbage bags that had been hastily stapled over the windows, and
Michelle watched as Walter studied the dim light with a slow tilt of his neck.
     
    “Not perfect, but I guess it will have to do.” A
short, quick yawn escaped his lips as he pulled the radio off of his belt.
     
    “ Sam, it’s Walter. We’re outside right now .”
     
    “ 10-4. I’ll be there in the second .”
     
    True to the prediction, keys could be heard a scant
moment later, followed by a hard click as the security bolt was
withdrawn
     
    Sam opened the door and they were immediately ambushed
with dozens of questions, some asked quietly . . . others with impatience,
anger, or tears.
     
    It was, quite frankly Michelle thought, overwhelming.
Two steps inside and they were surrounded by people asking for, or demanding
help. As quick as a fox, Amy weaved through to the front of the crowd—ground
zero for their attention.
     
    In a calm, even voice, Amy addressed a
“thirty-something” brunette who was loudly repeating “It’s about time,” over
and over again. Michelle couldn’t really make out Amy’s words, but a few
seconds later the brunette began directing her screeching voice toward the
crowd, asking for silence. Within the space of a few heartbeats, the clatter
had diminished to a low murmur, and a small ocean of faces were staring
expectantly towards them.
     
    It was the first time Michelle had been back in the
store since the day they had boarded up the front door and put out the “no gas”
sign. The section she was standing in was the bottom of the “L” shape of the
building, and formerly contained shelves full of groceries and whatnot. It was
now radically different. Several eight foot serving tables were pushed against
the long wall, and the remainder of the floor was filled with a few folding
chairs, three-legged stools, and a mishmash of other furniture—lawn chairs and
un-split firewood included. The dividing line between the upper and lower
sections of the “L” were marked with another set of the homemade volleyball net
anchors. Someone had stretched a rope between the top of the poles, and a few
sheets had been hastily placed over the rope. A crude, but effective divider to
separate the sleeping area from the common area.
     
    Walter stepped out into the room, directing his gaze
at the assembly. Before he could speak, Sam leaned over and whispered a few
sentences in his ear, to which Walter nodded slowly. Turning his attention back
to the crowd, Walter cleared his throat and began talking.
     
    “Evenin’ . . . as most of you know, I’m Walter
Sheldon, owner and operator of Sheldon’s Marina. I’m not a man given to long
winded speeches,