THE KILLER ANGEL: Book One Hard Player (THE KILLER ANGEL TRILOGY 1)

by Stafford, Myles

  THE

  KILLER ANGEL

  Book One

  “Hard Player”

  ~

  by Myles Stafford

  THE

  KILLER ANGEL

  Book One

  “Hard Player”

  by Myles Stafford

  © 2013, Myles P. Stafford. Portions previously published as “Nicki Redstone: Book One - Hard Player”. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

  © 2015, Myles P. Stafford. All rights reserved. First print edition. Revised.

  Also available in

  THE

  KILLER ANGEL

  trilogy:

  THE KILLER ANGEL:

  Book Two - “Legend”

  THE KILLER ANGEL:

  Book Three - “Journey”

  by

  Myles Stafford

  ~

  “I stand between the innocent and the hate-filled.

  I will protect the weak...always.

  I defend what is good, and destroy what is not.

  If I choose to help you, nothing will stop me.

  I have walked through the gates of hell many times.

  I fought and beat down its demons.

  This is my destiny.

  I will not hesitate.

  I will not fail.”

  Nicki Redstone

  ~

  INTRODUCTION

  I avoid interviews and public speaking. I do not seek attention or applause, preferring, rather, my privacy and and the joy of life with my loved ones. Yet, here I am, telling my story...

  Most survivors who know me understand and respect my wish to move without interference, although there is always furtive pointing and stares. I understand this. The occasional, “Thank you Nicki,” or “God bless you Ms. Redstone,” is okay and certainly not offensive. I have grown accustomed to the strangers who politely identify me as “the last Guardian Angel”; most often it is children who say it sweetly, as in a bedtime story. More rarely, I sometimes hear the words “Angel of Death” or “the Devil’s Reaper” - not always spoken kindly.

  Every survivor who lives today has a story of sorrow and terror; every one should be told; all are worthy. I understand that my story holds special interest to many, and contains important lessons for some, so - from the beginning - I was comfortable with Mr. Stafford’s concept, and I have not been disappointed by the end product. His biography is accurate, including the many highs and lows of my life - my failures and my successes. In particular, he captured my early lightheartedness and optimism; and then, during the darker periods of my journey, he stayed true to the realities of my own experience.

  There will always be those who would follow in my footsteps; maybe for sport, or adventure, or perhaps out of a very sincere desire to help others. For anyone who insists on this path, then perhaps lessons will be found herein that may offer safer choices and better outcomes, if indeed they are not altogether dissuaded in the first place.

  Even now, thirty years after the great epidemic, it seems that there will always be a need for great courage and selfless endeavor. In spite of many victories and advancements, dangers abound and life is not yet easy...but it is better than it was, and our new civilization, however small, grows stronger.

  May your own journey carry you into happiness...

  Nicki Redstone

  Supplement

  “Correcting the Record”

  Submitted by Dr. Jane Cott, M.D. - (First Recovery Period)

  I encountered Nicki Redstone on two occasions. I am no fan and found nothing in the woman to admire. During both incidents, she proved herself - unequivocally - the most overconfident and obnoxious person with whom I have ever had contact. I will not say that she was arrogant, since she is of course beloved by all, but my first and lasting impression of our bold Ms. Redstone was that she had somehow convinced herself that she could do anything and go anywhere with impunity, and that she would knock down anyone who stood in her path, no matter how important that person’s work might be. I found her attitude to be disrespectful, presumptuous, disruptive and irritating; however, these are insults that one must quietly suffer as there is no arguing when a gun is pointed at you - which she, in fact, did to me more than once. (It should be noted here that I am a published, board certified neurosurgeon with numerous peer accolades. I am unaccustomed to such appalling behavior.)

  I find it unfortunate that Ms. Redstone acquired a mistaken impression of me and my valuable research. To a degree, I can appreciate her unhappiness with my lab assistants, given their involvement in the accidental death of the young Chase girl. It is noteworthy that, for someone who is described in ridiculous exaggeration as “heroic” and “legendary”, Ms. Redstone seemed to be rather surprisingly disturbed by the loss. A weak and emotional display. I had anticipated her character to be made of sterner material. This is a difficult world in which we live today; learn to live with it.

  To conclude my thoughts, I was not overly impressed with Nicki Redstone - no, not at all. However, I do offer caution: The “legend” is dangerous, deadly, and prone to quick threats and violence. She’s a killer - an established fact. Her freedom to move at will should be permanently curtailed, as she is a clear menace to what remains of civilization and a hindrance to progress.

  Editor’s note: Prior to submitting this item, Dr. Cott had been removed from recently acquired duties at the Hedley medical facility, and her activities were pending review by the community council. It was later determined that she had indeed performed inappropriate and unethical medical procedures without required oversight or patient knowledge. Dr. Cott was permanently barred from independent medical activity of any kind, and it was ordered that her work would require supervision at all times. Dr. Cott subsequently departed Hedley with one aide for whereabouts unknown, declaring that the council and medical leadership were comprised of “ignorantfools” who were unable to comprehend the value of her work.”

  ~Table of Contents~

  Introduction

  Supplement: “Correcting the Record”

  Chapter One: “Nicki”

  Chapter Two: “On the Road”

  Chapter Three: “SheffieldAbbey”

  Chapter Four: “Flight”

  Chapter Five: “Brick”

  Chapter Six: “Camp Puller”

  Chapter Seven: “Monsters”

  Chapter Eight: “The Fifth”

  Chapter Nine: “Gus”

  Chapter Ten: “Swarm”

  Chapter Eleven: “Hedley”

  About the author

  Nicki Redstone concept art

  THE

  KILLER ANGEL

  Book One

  “Hard Player”

  by Myles Stafford

  ~

  Chapter One

  “Nicki”

  ~

  A runner will never hesitate;

  nor do I. - Nicki Redstone

  ~

  THAT WAS brilliant... I remember watching calmly from the peeling roof of an old two-story Burbank hardware store as a loudly chugging Brinks truck rushed by in a cloud of its own dirty smoke. The occupants looked young; teenagers maybe. Functioning engines were hard to come by, but useable fuel was even more scarce. The armor on that vehicle would easily keep the ra
ging rot eaters out, even as its noisy motor jolted their dull, filthy forms into a deadly explosion of movement with but one focus - rip into living, breathing human flesh. They are fast - and strong - but steel and bullet-proof glass are stronger.

  Those Brinks truck boys might be able to survive, but I doubted it - they were careless and wild; but they were not my concern. I wanted to go home, and at that time in my journey I preferred to survive alone and resisted diversion. All of my more recent companions were dead; and there was just too much drama, too much weakness, and far too many complications when traveling with others. On my own I was measured and tested each day, with only myself to judge success or failure. Nothing held me back.

  It was so long ago, yet I still remember a youthful feeling of invincibility, of speed and strength, as though I could handle any challenge, and overcome any barrier. Surviving as I had, already experienced and well trained, I was overconfident and bold - sometimes too bold, that is certain.

  My thoughts were indeed young and energetic; lighthearted in spite of the surrounding horrors. I had so much to learn. I can look back now and see that, although I was indeed skillful, I was also lucky. Nevertheless, I survived long enough to gain the physical and mental tools that would be essential to the great trials that lay ahead.

  I moved solo then by preference - except for Ben that is - my wickedly powerful and killer smart German Shepherd. With his bright, intelligent and emotional eyes, he seemed to read my mind, reacting instantly, in the moment, to the slightest movement on my part. I loved the way his smooth muscles rolled beneath his thick tan and black fur, a perfect athletic match for my endeavors. What a team we made. If not for Ben, I would be the ultimate loner, working a dangerous existence in complete solitude. Our relationship was one of unhesitating trust and mutual support, a willing, loving bond.

  I studied the horizon; it was so quiet, tranquil. Not as it was only a few months earlier, during the lasts gasps of a fallen civilization, as panic and fear dominated existence. Day and night there had been an abundance of sporadic gunfire popping in the distance, sirens wailing - sometimes the scary big ones that reminded me of air raid alarms in the movies. Bright explosions flashed incessantly in a dark sky at night, while raging fires spread across the skyline, forever damaging what once embodied the glamor of the movie industry. God it was horrible!

  A furtive movement below snapped me out of my thoughtful absorption and onto full alert as the truck noise aroused the attention of the running dead.

  “Runners” as they were commonly called later; wiry, high speed creatures transformed by the virus into nightmarish monsters, barely recognizable as previously human. Their noise is like absolutely nothing else on this insane planet. Witness their wheezing, screeching and black vomit only once and it will stay in the back of your mind forever.

  Dammit! I could see that the runners were after some poor, bearded black guy lugging a sack of goods on his back from a gas station.

  Oh my God! Is that my old acting coach? Nah, can’t be...can it? Damn it! Better drop the bag and run buddy. Three wailing creeps on your tail.

  What? Only a baseball bat? COME ON!!

  Early morning and this sucker was going to be shredded by these insane, hungry creeps.

  I could almost smell them from my overlook, that unforgettable rancid, diseased bile stench. God, how I hated that disgusting odor. Ben woofed a bit and whimpered with a pleading look in his gentle eyes. I calmed him, “It’s okay Ben, I have it.”

  I leaned over the edge, looked through my rifle scope, took an easy, slow breath, and then fired a five-five-six bullet into the lead runner. She was moving too fast. I couldn’t take her head off, but a nice center of mass shot blew out her hip and stopped her forward movement, buying the bearded fellow a chance. Next, I quickly re-aligned my sight and knocked a leg out from under the second creature, and a powerful swing from the man’s bat smashed the ugly, swollen head of the third chaser into a crunching, crimson black spray. Nice! My kind of survivor!

  A thankful wave and the man was gone. Another loner.

  I nodded. At your service, sir...

  Thus was life on planet Earth well over a year later. Take me to your leader, I sometimes thought, in humor. Earth would make an interesting place for an ET visitor.

  ~

  This was perhaps the strangest and most difficult time in human history, a time when one person - the ideal person - could make an enormous difference. When the survival of our species was far from assured, maybe that person would be the reason mankind avoided complete extinction on this world. I did not know it then, but I was developing into someone who could make that difference; a person who could have a positive influence on the lives and well-being of other survivors. I can only blush today when I hear on the radio that I am a “living legend; a heroic and noble figure” that other survivors needed; someone they could depend upon and stand behind. Truly, I am honored by those descriptions, and hope to always be worthy. Indeed, I can only chuckle at the epic hero descriptions that are attached to my story by our younger generations, but I also know that we need our heroes in this dark age, so it is okay... I understand.

  Those who knew me in the pre-apocalypse would probably say that I was always lean, sweet and tough. My Kip teased that my voice had a smooth, rough edge, which was what first grabbed his romantic attention. Then it was, “You’re five foot three, with light brown hair, steel cut muscles and movie star goddess looks...perfect!” Steel cut muscles? That’s all it took and we were a couple, in spite of the exaggeration. I had no tattoos or piercings, and generally despised vulgarity, which may be surprising to you, given the environment in which I worked before the end arrived.

  What a combination. I was 27 years old and trained to compete and win in a man’s world by my dad, and to fight with gusto by my ex-paratrooper fiance, Kip Kellogg. Kip enjoyed telling his friends that I had magician quick hands, and would then coax a small display from me, a little feat that always impressed his boxing friends. Usually, I did not mind obliging - it was all in good fun. My French was fair and improving - when I could practice - and I was proud to have inherited good manners and a natural noble bearing, gifts from my Québécoise mother.

  I did not know where they all were, but if they were alive, I would find them...and my beloved twin sister, Scottie, probably a very long three-thousand miles away...along with my older sister, with whom I always had a difficult relationship. I would find them all. It will just take time...and surviving. Some worries and lots of sweat...but I would find them!

  Runners. Those horrifying creatures who were once your everyday neighbors. Nothing will stop them except for major trauma to the brain. Take out their legs and they still keep coming on their hands, snarling and grasping. They will eat anything that moves, but they only infect people, and they especially crave living human flesh. Their bodies seem to go far on nothing, but they do eventually die without sustenance. When they do eat, they will gorge themselves until they cannot move, bellies bloated, sitting in dark spaces making inhuman, disgusting croaking sounds. I sometimes wondered if the creatures felt pain, or misery of any kind, although they seemed completely devoid of any detectable sensibilities whatsoever, even those basic instincts evident in most lifeforms, such as the will to survive or the avoidance of pain.

  Of those few people who lived through the initial epidemic, even fewer still could handle the raging insanity of the running dead, whose brains were mostly melted to a black goo by the disease. The screaming, bloody shock attack of those we once knew to be friends and family was too much to withstand mentally and physically for many. That and the black and bloody sputum oozing from their mouths and noses - plus that unholy stink - and, well, the ick factor alone was overwhelming.

  But I would tell myself that I handled my existence like a Spartan, learning to fight better and smarter as I made it through countless successive scrapes and too many near misses. Ben and I traveled almost always alone and with cautious, ever alert senses.
Clean, dark leather protected my skin and adventure gloves saved my hands from the occasional close contact with runners’ jaws. My shoes enabled swift travel; I could easily afford the best, as there was never a charge and inventory was plentiful.

  In addition to my rifle, each of my limbs had a weapon that could be independently fired or stabbed, or both. I trained myself to easily use my armaments without thinking about them; instinctively, through pure rote and constant rehearsal.

  Ammunition and pistols were essential to my kit so, in addition to my rifle, I carried four light guns in my custom-made vest and one on my backside. Acquiring weapons was easy, since every dead redneck, policeman, ex-marine and sporting goods store offered a nice selection. The same rule applied to ammunition - there were, quite simply, not enough living users to take advantage and deplete the supply, and there probably never would be. I definitely appreciated the selection... and enjoyed playing with the toys, although far more than entertainment, it was a life-saving pastime.

  For its utility, I kept my brown hair in a long braid, woven around a small, slender dagger. An excess of guns? Certainly. Explosives? Not yet, but a couple of hand grenades would be a nice addition. Someday maybe.

  Knives on my arms and legs could be kicked or pushed out with ease, something that regular practice made comfortably automatic. A high-end, light weight night vision monocular was tucked in my pack. I even kept a small can of pepper spray handy. Not everything and not everyone needed to die.

  There was always a day’s supply of water in my hydration pack, and water purification, too, although I would frequently grab bottled refreshment and snacks as I moved. Briefly, I carried a quick release machete strapped to my daypack, but found it to be burdensome and nearly useless in close quarters. Runners were just too fast.

  Food, also, was easy to find and plentiful, but I still always carried a few days of freeze dried packages, just in case. Fresh fruit and vegetables abounded in overgrown gardens and orchards.