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

and quite frankly I don’t have all the answers, but I’ll do
what I can to fill you in on what we know.” Walter looked at his watch before
continuing, “It’s almost time for supper. What I suggest is this—let’s go ahead
and get everybody awake and ready to eat. I’m going to take a quick trip back
to the house and fetch the food. When I come back we’ll eat, and then after
that we’ll all sit down here and try and figure out what to do next.”
     
    Before giving them a chance to object, Amy shot
forward again and raised her hand. “I need some volunteers to hand out plates
and napkins over here, and we’ll need some food servers over there . . .” The
rest was lost in the din as the assembly, their attention momentarily diverted
from its previous path, turned they’re interest towards her.
     
    Michelle, Walter and Sam scooted outside, stopping
only to mime a “door locking” gesture to Amy, who nodded in acknowledgement.
     
    Walter fired up the Mule at the same time he keyed his
radio. “ Mule calling driveway gate, do you copy ?”
     
    A momentary space of dead air came through before Mike
replied. “ This is driveway gate, I hear you .” His transmission, although
clear in pitch and tone, was broken up with multiple gaps.
     
    “His batteries are almost gone,” Michelle noted.
     
    Walter nodded his head toward Michelle as he spoke
into the radio. “ Mike, we need to borrow your muscle to help us deliver
supper, we’ll pick you up in about thirty seconds .”
     
    A short blip came across the radio in reply.
     
    Michelle sent a curious, raised eyebrow look at Walter,
but said nothing as the little four wheel drive vehicle accelerated toward the
gate. This time it was Sam that hopped off and unlatched the chain, allowing
them to pass through before shutting it again. Mike was standing just ahead of
them, and managed to hop onto the coasting Mule with three seconds to spare
before Walter stomped on the gas.

Chapter 7
     
    With a soft click , the door latched behind Doc
and Callie, leaving Eric momentarily alone with Max. The wound on his ankle had
been cleaned, sutured, and bandaged before being rewrapped with sterile gauze
and several layers of athletic tape. Doc had argued ineffectively for a loose
covering that would necessitate Eric staying off of his feet as much as
possible for a week or more, but he had refused. In the end, a concession had
been reached with Eric agreeing to have his ankle checked and rebandaged at
least once a day—more so if it became infected or otherwise compromised.
     
    The wrapping job Callie had done was amazingly more
flexible, and yet more supportive than his own duct tape handiwork. Perhaps it
was the anesthetic skewing his perception, but aside from the stiffness caused
by the compression, his ankle felt good enough to walk—even jog on—without
pain. He made a mental note to watch her more closely the next time it was
done. Another knock on the door brought him back to the present.
     
    He stretched his hand over to Max’s collar, gripping
the thick, fluorescent orange nylon webbing before he answered. “Come on in.”
     
    With a clang and several thumps, the door was jolted
open by Bernice, her arms laden with several foil covered plates, bowls and
bottles. A largish, loosely woven chartreuse knitting bag was slung over one of
her shoulders—its contents bulging the weave into semi-transparency.
     
    “I figured you’d be hungry.”
     
    “Starving . . . let me give you a hand,” Eric said as
he stepped forward, grabbing some of the miraculously balanced plates. The
aroma of fried eggs, herbs, and steamed vegetables surrounded Bernice as she
shifted some of the containers into his hands.
     
    “Sit . . . eat. There’s no tellin’ when you’re gonna
have another chance with the way things have been, and you’re already looking
too skinny.”
     
    The flopping and gurgling in his stomach jumped at the
opportunity to remind him of the last