Still breathing hard and sweating, we dumped the heavy carnage over the side and cleaned up as I continued to operate the flame, trying to get the hang of it.
We were floating high above the trees; well above any dangers below. What a view! I marveled. I poured water for myself and Ben, offering a little to Gena. Using some moisture, available cloth, and a small supply of wet-wipes, I was able to effectively cleanse myself and Ben of gore. The tarry sputum would harden like a wax within an hour or so, then the basket itself could be scrapped free of the nastiness with a knife.
Exhausted silence prevailed...for awhile.
Eventually, I asked Gena, “What’s your story?”
“You killed Leslie...” came the emotionless reply.
I nodded calmly, “Yes. What choice did I have? You saw her turn.” A sensitive moment. I felt sincere sympathy for her loss, but no regret. I did not survive while others perished by allowing emotion to interrupt sound, unhesitating action. I would process Leslie’s death in my own way, but it would not slow me down. I had been forced to be the executioner for others in the past... and some of them had been friends.
More silence. I wondered if she would carry a grudge for the force of my foot on her chest. Again, I felt no regret, but I meant no insult by the forceful move.
Then, rather surprisingly and completely out of context, “You’re Nicki Redstone.”
I smiled slightly in reply, “True. Pleased to meet you.”
“Leslie and I were big fans....” and then she wept.
“I’m so very sorry Gena,”...and I was. One more innocent life lost to the be-damned in this hellish existence.
~
Chapter Four
“Flight”
~
THE THREE of us floated along in the quiet air, chatting occasionally, sometimes dropping things from the balloon just to watch them fall. Below, we could see deer in rolling hills, undisturbed; cows, sheep and horses, too. Pastoral views were comforting. The occasional farm houses and barns; from above looking very normal and mostly clean, reminders of a more pleasant time. There was plenty of wildlife, actually, which was encouraging. No people, although the occasional runner was in evidence. Always ugly, always scary, and never uniform, as they displayed all manner of disfigurement, denoting sad deaths and an equally sad after-death.
Unfortunately, our ride traveled east, although I could not determine at what speed, but it seemed fast. In any event, it was better than being lunch.
After a long silence, I noticed Gena fingering a crucifix neck charm. She finally queried, “Aren’t you gay?”
Although I displayed no reaction, I was slightly taken aback. Good grief, how old is this girl, twelve? She may have been twenty years old and as tall as Kip, but evidence of maturity was severely lacking.
“Does it matter?” I replied.
Gena shook her head with an attempt at sincerity, “I guess not, no, definitely not. I’m not sure why I asked. Duh...”
Eventually, she might learn the truth about my beloved Kip and my family, but not yet.
Again, another display of conversational brilliance from my new companion: “How old are you, Nicki? You’re so successful, so young....”
“Twenty-seven.” I knew where this was going...
“Oh my god!” Gena exclaimed. “I thought you were like, eighteen! I mean, you look eighteen, but act much older, more serious. No wonder you were kicking so much ass back there!”
I brushed off the unintentional cut about my looks, which I had heard many times before. “Hey, these are tough times; can’t be a kid forever. Besides, if I could get my hands on a Barbie movie, a working DVD player, and a pile of nachos, you wouldn’t see me for days. Seriously. So I guess you could say that I’m actually eleven years old when I’m most relaxed. ‘Not ashamed to admit it, either.”
Gena would have to reevaluate her understanding of “cool”... if she lived long enough. The girl was talkative, which was fine, but sometimes I felt the conversation became excessively yakaty yak; not only with Gena, but with many would-be friends. Maybe Gena was a Trappist monk in another life, I remember thinking, fondly remembering my dear friends at the abbey. On the plus side, it was clear that the young woman did not bear any ill will towards me for my necessary actions - neither for having ended Leslie’s brief existence as a runner, nor for having forcefully pressed her down into the balloon basket with my heel. Two points in Gena’s favor.
As our rambling conversations waned, I noticed that the gauge on the last gas canister was getting low. We had been in the air a long time, moving fast. Fuel was depleted and dusk would be upon us soon, so I determined that it was time to put our easy ride on the ground.
During descent it quickly became apparent that the basket dropped rapidly when the heat was off for awhile, but I was getting the hang of it. A crash landing would not be a pleasant ending to this fine journey, so, with ranch-land below, I felt that it should be an easy thing to put us down softly, hopefully near a road.
As it turned out, landing was not so easy, as there was more of a breeze than I had anticipated, and large trees seemed to rise out of nowhere. One spectacular oak reached up and snagged our transport, my efforts to steer clear being entirely in vain. However, as it turned out, being hung up among the birds and squirrels was not so bad.
The colorful bag above us slowly deflated in the breeze as we relaxed and inhaled a snack from my pack. I determined that, given the late hour, sleeping in that swinging basket would be best, then in the morning we could climb down via a rope and re-start the trek north.
A cool, comfortable darkness allowed soft conversation, followed by an exhausted slumber. It was a pleasant end to an eventful day.
~
Up high in the trees that morning was damp, as a drizzle had started during the night, which helped wash off more of the previous day’s stink. The ropes and basket pleasantly creaked and groaned in the breeze over the sounds of our crunching breakfast. Shortly after, I lowered Ben to the ground via his harness, then Gena and I followed.
My plan was to head to a nearby country village that we had spotted while aloft, an easy, brisk walk away. We needed supplies of food, medicine, bullets...and weapons for Gena. A new map, too.
Gena. Her story was stupidly simple. She and Leslie had long ago hiked to her family cabin near the small airport, which was well stocked and undisturbed. There they stayed safely for a long time, mostly indoors, until boredom and lack of experience led them to hike around and ride their bikes, with little caution and few weapons. An insulated lifestyle was their undoing. As might have been predicted, the girls were eventually jumped and only through the intervention of fate did they find me and avoid a total loss.
~
“Greaseburn, that’s a hell-of-a name for a town”, I muttered. ‘Must have been real country people.
I found a high spot just off of the old town square and studied the place. Looking for signs of the living and the dead. There was no movement. No runners milling around. No pets. No laundry hanging to dry. No cooking smoke. No cleared gardens. Nothing. No food smells. No clues at all. It was dead. Really dead.
Then... eventually... something...
A slightly chubby, gray haired lady with a blue checkered dress and a white apron walked outside of a two-story home to rake a little side garden that I had missed. She seemed harmless enough.
Then, grandpa stepped out, smoking a pipe, no less. I smiled at the image. The two of them were a most welcome sight.
I motioned to Gena, “They look nice. Let’s head on in and have a chat.”
Walking boldly and with calm so as not to cause alarm, we hailed the couple from a distance, with a wave and a hello. They were clearly stressed at first, but then relaxed at the sight of two young, smiling ladies and a dog. My obvious and abundant weaponry provoked some visible and understandable nervousness, but the kindly pair soon seemed to resign themselves to the ubiquity of armaments, especially among travelers.
&nb
sp; The old man spoke, “Howdy ladies! We don’t get too many visitors here...Welcome!”
I replied, “Good morning, sir. Sorry to bother you. We’re heading to Oregon and need resupply. Can you point to where we might pick up a few things? Bullets, a map, food and medicine. And what is the runner situation around here? It seems very quiet.”
The older gent replied: “We can give you a few things, including a map, but you will need to move on to Marysville for most of those things. Our little place has been pretty much cleaned out, and the general store burned down long ago. No fire department to stop it. No people either. Most of our little village was evacuated early, and we managed to clear out the few ‘dead’ folks with the help of my son and his wife. They are in Marysville now, doing the same as you. They should return today sometime...”
Then the aproned lady, who must have judged us to be good people, finally spoke up with a warm smile and a wave: “Come on in here my sweet ladies and have a nice meal! We don’t get polite company anymore. Come on in!”
John and Lucy O’Conklin were just what you would expect. Hospitable and kind, with an inner toughness and courage that belied their gentle demeanor and easy country courtesy. Good folks, was my immediate judgment; and I was not disappointed.
The O’Conklins presented a nice, hearty meal, followed by an invitation to spend the night, which we gladly accepted. First, though, I wanted to explore Greaseburn. Accompanied by the O’Conklins, the afternoon was pleasant and even somewhat successful, as we acquired food and maps. The medicine and ammo would have to remain pending until Marysville.
Returning to the O’Conklins’ home, we enjoyed an evening of oil lamps, hot tea, stories and laughter. My kind of family; we fit together so well. I thought. Maybe I would be able to return one day. I sent silent thoughts to my own guardians to extend their protection to these beautiful people.
The doors and windows were barricaded, of course, but it was nevertheless a homey place. No music. No cars. No planes overhead. No neighbors.
Gena was silent and introspective, preoccupied with other matters, it seemed, as she declined deep conversation and mostly kept to herself. For the rest of us, the evening was wiled away in pleasant discourse as I cleaned and oiled my small arsenal. Then it was off to a dreamless, cozy slumber, with faithful Ben ever vigilant and powerful, never leaving my side.
~
Up at first light, Mrs. O’Conklin had breakfast ready. Hot biscuits, maple syrup and eggs...wow. There had been no sign of the younger O’Conklin’s, which worried Lucy some; but it was still early and delays were common.
For myself, I felt great, and full of zeal for the adventure ahead; I was ready to hit the road. No apprehension; no fear. Nothing but pure, youthful energy and thrill.
After breakfast, Gena pulled me aside, nervously: “I want to stay here, Nicki. I know where you are headed, and it scares me. I’m not a fighter like you. I just can’t do it. I know I wouldn’t make it, even with you.” Can’t really argue with that, I remember thinking. She was a truly sweet girl, and I admired her realistic self-analysis.
I replied with a sincere smile: “No worries at all Gena; I agree, to stay would be good for you, if the O’Conklins don’t mind. Let’s see what these nice folks have to say about it...” Of course, I preferred to move on alone, although I would not say so to Gena.
The O’Conklins were more than happy with this small turn of events. Gena was a spunky, pretty girl, and would no doubt make a nice addition to this little homestead.
I actually envied Gena somewhat. Her journey was over, whereas I still had an awful, deadly road to travel. But, I thought, better get moving; this easy living was making me soft and sentimental. No sense turning into a wimp now.
“Your path will run you by one of the blasted cities,” John offered the revelation in a serious tone. “There won’t be anything for you in it, but at least you know.”
I understood. Nukes were used as a last, desperate resort, and they actually seemed to work for awhile. But it was only a stall. The blasts permanently terminated millions of marauding runners, making it possible for some of the un-bitten - like me - to survive. I had actually seen one of those smashed hubs of civilization in a video, but nothing real and up close.
In the mid-morning, I said farewell to my friends, and trooped into the new day with Ben uncharacteristically holding back a little, a pleading look in his beautiful eyes. Poor guy, he wanted to stay with the O’Conklins, too. Ah well, I turned to softly hold his furry cheeks...“Let’s go my little man.” Then, at an easy trot we were off, day pack and weapons vest held snugly to my frame; my rifle gripped firmly, ready for the unexpected, as always.
Not long on our way, I spotted a snake happily sunning on an old, gray sofa near the roadside - it looked like a rattler. I trotted by calmly as the serpent waved his tail ever so slightly. Two years ago I would have been in a small panic over the encounter. We’re on the same team now, my little friend. I thought at the time, without slowing my pace; somehow, it seemed to me that the reptile understood - and agreed.
Eventually, a few hours down the road, I ran into the O’Conklins’ son and daughter-in-law. As described, their ancient Ford pickup was just a-chugging along, smoking and coughing its displeasure with the poor quality fuel it had been fed.
After a little tentative back and forth, the younger O’Conklins and I enjoyed a pleasant lunch together. They advised me to avoid Marysville, as there was trouble there, brought on by a nasty little pack of hoodlums in the vicinity. These were disgusting creatures to me; worse than runners - these guys knew better. They were the real predators in the apocalypse, the most evil kind. Early on, I had learned how to deal with such deviants wherever I found them. I did not hesitate to act with force, and I asked for no quarter - nor did I offer any. In this age when the weak and innocent often had no defense against the strong and ruthless, there could be no second chance for those who chose the wrong side. I would see to it, this I swore.
Demons and heroes; what a world.
The O’Conklins pointed in the direction of a nearby northwest bound river and suggested using it for passage. Good idea, I thought, and with a wave I was off. Two miles and less than thirty minutes later, I was standing on the river bank, breathing easily as I relaxed and took in the view.
I continued hiking along the waterfront and soon found a serviceable, very clean canoe that only required a slight tilt to empty its belly of accumulated rainwater and some small trash.
I was not the least hesitant, as I was a competent paddler..thanks again papa. With plenty of daylight left, Ben and I climbed in to the aluminum shell. I secured my pack and rifle to the crossbeams, checked my other gear and compass, then moved out. It was great way to travel!
There were no problems passing under the old steel Marysville bridge, but I had to be constantly mindful of debris in the river, even though the current was slow. It would not take much to capsize this little craft.
Sometimes I had the acute feeling that eyes were following us, but when I looked about and then to Ben for any alert, he was completely calm. Totally knocked out much of the time; legs jerking in his own dreamworld. Maybe he had PTSD, too, poor guy.
It might have been only my imagination, but I always trusted my instincts and remained keenly vigilant.
As night eventually fell that first day on the river, I decided to sleep in the canoe, tying up to a log that jutted up out of the water. Very nice...
After we shared a light snack and some purified river water, I rolled out a thin foam mat and fluffed up my compact sleeping bag; reclining only partially into it provided a modicum of comfort, yet still permitted rapid, unfettered movement in an emergency.
Emergency...that was funny. I spoke to Ben, “In the likely event of a a water emergency, your seat cushion may be used for flotation, but swimming is preferred, the dog-paddle, if you prefer. Watch for piranha, you look delicious.” I smiled and lay back into my shallow cocoon.
No bad dr
eams tonight...please... but that pleading rarely availed any peace.
~
Chapter Five
“Brick”
~
CLICKING AND chirping birds provided an early wake up service, and before the sun broke the skyline, I untied my canoe and paddled silently through the misty air, leaving rings in the water’s nearly glassy surface. Ah, beautiful. It reminded me of wonderful family camping holidays in Florida, and of canoeing on crystal clear, slow moving rivers with my sisters. We would argue constantly over the smallest things in those innocent days. Such fun. I would give anything to return there now...
By noon the river flow had picked up considerably, but not enough to cause alarm. I was shooting for a town on the map called Dufton to re-provision my kit. As I approached the first indications of the little city, the hull of my canoe pushed into something under the surface, twisting the nose hard and tilting the side with a jarring noise. Water rushed in and in seconds the little metal craft had capsized, dumping Ben and me into the icy flow.
I was no slouch in water, but it was a powerful current, with an energy sapping chill. I had to make it to shore - fast.
“Ben! Ben!” I shouted. The effort was taking too long; I should have been clear of the water, but a vertical concrete wall blocked my escape and I was dragged along the edge. My muscles stiffened in the cold, my fingers became nearly useless as they grasped in futility for any grip on that hard, flat, unforgiving surface. I passed out.
~
Nighttime... Darkness... Where was I?The river!
Someone’s said softly: “Hello! Comment ça va? “
French? Mom?? No! A man’s voice!
I rolled over, kicked back and whipped a pistol from my vest, trembling just a little. “Ça va bien.” I coolly replied in my most precise Parisian French.
“Hey, hey, it’s okay!” The voice said, “You’ve been out for hours. I found you half in the water, napping.”
I slowly relaxed and whispered, “I wasn’t napping.”
“I know, I know.” Came the reply with a chuckle.
THE KILLER ANGEL: Book One Hard Player (THE KILLER ANGEL TRILOGY 1) Page 4
