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

by Stafford, Myles

  I studied the man in the moonlight, slowly, up and down, sizing up his weapons, his gear and his soul in a way that he eventually would come to know, to understand - and to respect. He could easily have taken advantage of and disarmed me in my incapacitated state, but he had not, which said a lot about his intentions.

  He was tall, well-built, and wore his hair long and straight. He did not appear to be heavily armed, and it seemed to me that his attire bespoke native American culture. His English was crisp and denoted advanced education, but his French, although smoothly spoken, was clearly spiced with a familiar accent. He was an enigma to me.

  I did not know it then, as I pondered his origins, but this brave, yet kind soul would grow to be my greatest friend and most loyal warrior brother.

  Then it hit me, suddenly and with barely suppressed fear, “Where’s my Ben? Ben! Here Ben!”

  “A dog? You were alone when I found you.”

  “Gotta find him...thanks and see ya.” I stood stiffly and started to move in the darkness, back toward the river, still holding the pistol at ready. There would be no shouting about.

  The man followed me. The air near him smelled thickly of gasoline.

  “Why French?” I inquired softly. No answer. “You spoke French; why?”

  “Creole, actually. From my mother. You said a few words while you were out...and you?”

  “From my mother, too, Québécois...” I replied.

  “Ah, classy. Well, pleased to meet you. I’m Brick Charbonneau; part New Orleans Creole, part Lakota Sioux on my father’s side, which you may know as Teton Sioux. And no ‘name’ jokes, please. Brick will be fine.”

  I considered his words, which explained part of the puzzle. “What’s the gas smell, Brick?”

  Brick replied: “Ehh, hmmm, well gasoline seems to disrupt the sniffing runners’ search, I think, so I poured some around us. Old Indian trick.” Another chuckle.

  “Hmmm....I’ll have to remember that.”

  In the gloom, on the other side of the river, I could just make out Ben, and he saw me, so I sat down to wait, as did Ben. Brick joined me, courteously loaning me a coat to cut the chill off of my wetness.

  Not a great place for chit chat, given the exposure, but I judged Brick to be a good guy, with no unpleasant motives. I sat there, hunched over in the cold, and dozed for a few hours. Brick never relaxed, sitting erect and maintaining a vigilant eye on our surroundings. Dawn couldn’t come soon enough.

  ~

  At first light, Ben and I headed down parallel sides of the river toward the nearest bridge, with Brick in tow. He was a good looking man, tall and lean, with long, shiny black hair worn Indian style, with one feather hanging down the side, as in the movies.

  He was probably in his mid-to-late thirties and rather fatherly looking... and he liked to talk, which was cool with me. The dialogue was always interesting, educational or humorous. “I was on holiday in Mexico with friends when it all went down. I’ve been making my way north ever since. How ‘bout you, Nicki?”

  I related my story, which seemed of great interest to Brick. “Oregon? I always wanted to see Oregon. I would visit my cousins, the tall braves of the Nez Perce tribe. They will welcome me. Yes! Why don’t you first come with me to my reservation, meet my wife and children...and my people. I can tell them you are my white captive. A great honor for me.” Brick chuckled at his own comedy.

  “That’s very funny Ghandi, but no can do...” I replied, “but you can come with me to Oregon, if you like.”

  “Ghandi? You’re joking...” Indeed, he knew that I was.

  “He was Indian, oui? And so are you, just taller, with more hair. Otherwise, indistinguishable.”

  “Okay, if you insist,” Brick surrendered in good cheer. “But just to confirm, I’m not Running Bear, or Sitting Bull, Kicking Bird, Hiawatha, Tonto, Brick Wall, Pontiac, Chevrolet, Black Hawk, Chief Joseph or any of that stuff. I’ve heard them all. Just Brick...or Ghandi.” Brick chuckled again at his own wit, which he often did. So did I, for that matter.

  “I’m with you...chief Smells-Like-Gas” I could not resist. I have been called deadly and labeled a killer, which was true I guess, but I was never rude This was tender humor and we both enjoyed the parley. A truly legendary friendship was in its infancy.

  “Ah, white people! You know, I’m pretty sure that’s the real reason we attacked Custer, some name like that! Smells-Like-Gas..Hah!”

  As we made progress, I could finally see Ben ahead, tugging on something. The canoe rope. Nice! I could tell that Ben had watched Brick for awhile out of genuine protective concern, but if I trusted him, then so did Ben. A few sniffs and it was all cool with him. Ben and I quickly grew fond of our new friend. He was clearly a brother in arms and someone to be trusted under all circumstances.

  The canoe was a wreck, but my pack and rifle were there, still tied to the cross beam. The pack had to be emptied and dried. The rifle was okay, but needed cleaning and oil. The rail was intact and in place, but the scope and light were gone. I hoped to find replacements somewhere on main street Dufton, where we were headed... and I really wanted to find a secure rooftop on which to rest, dry out, and get my bearings.

  ~

  Dufton town center was an enormous mess. Probably the worst I had seen up to that point. Brick surmised that the town may have been a central collection center for evacuation, which would have meant a vicious epidemic conversion once the high speed stuff hit.

  It was awful. Shredded skeletons were everywhere, an unusual number with partially intact hair on leathered scalps, which added a peculiar twist to this macabre scene of wrecked cars and smashed windows.

  A dike or dam must have broken nearby, since a fast running creek flowed through the town, removing much of the road and tearing off building fronts. I wanted to cross over, since it looked as though all ideal shopping was on the far side, but I needed the brilliance of my sister - an architect - to provide a secure means to do so. Dammit Scottie, I need you!!

  I made the announcement: “My twin, Scottie, would figure this out in seconds, Brick. She’s an architect, I’m proud to brag. Boom boom, and she’d have us on the other side, high and dry where all of the good stuff is. I really miss her.” I paused, “Ah well, time to put up for the night.”

  We soon found an appropriate, isolated building, climbed the exterior fire stairs, then secured the hatch and all other access to the rooftop. An awning provided some shelter, and there was enough clutter and loose wood to build a respectable little fire. Good conversation ensued, with each of us sharing provisions, along with tools and oil for cleaning weapons. Brick and Ben both enjoyed jerky that I always carried, while Brick shared a supply of sourdough bread and cheese, which Ben refused with a snort.

  “Bonne nuit, mon ami du Quebec; bonne nuit mon Ben.” I listened to Brick’s thick Creole French, making me smile and think of my mother.

  “Bonne nuit et dormez bien, oh great one-feathered hunter.” I replied, drifting off to another fitful, fist-clenching slumber.

  ~

  The sun came up peacefully, and most of my things were dry by mid-morning. I slipped into my gear, carefully checked and adjusted each item along with Ben’s saddlebags.

  I remember Brick eyeballing my methods, as I worked several repetitions of an action drill that I had developed. Every item on my person was gripped, removed, unloaded, reloaded, clipped, buttoned, and so on - at speed. I made certain that everything was in its place and that each would do exactly as I required; weapons and tools alike.

  “Huh, Cochise, him be careful not to piss off paleface French woman. Fiance, him must be tough guy!” Brick commented in mock Indian style.

  “Heh heh... ohhhh yeah...” I replied. “Kip is tough on the outside; a marshmallow inside. You will like him, Brick.”

  I reflected on Brick’s name. “Where does this name ‘Brick Charbonneau’ come from? Never heard it before. Not even in the movies.”

  “I’m not really sure,” Brick replied
, “and I’ve asked, believe me. Of course, ‘Charbonneau’ has been my family name for several generations now, but ‘Brick’? I’m sort of suspicious that it follows the old joke about how native Americans name their children after the first thing they see. If this is true, then I guess I’m lucky my parents didn’t see some dog marking his territory...HUH!” We had good laugh at that one.

  I continued the conversation, prompting Brick to tell me more about himself. “So BC, what do you do when you’re not on the warpath attacking wagon trains and stuff?”

  “Ah, kemosabe, I’m a high school history teacher at the George A. Custer prep-school for college bound kids...all scholarship enrollment.”

  “Really?” I was surprised. “History? Custer?!? Somehow I don’t see history coming from you, no offense intended. You seem more like the science type...biology maybe. And you work at a place named after a guy like Custer?”

  “Geek, huh? I guess I can see it.” Brick was amused, shaking his shiny black mane. “Custer wasn’t so bad, if you view him within the context of his culture. You have to read source material from both sides. He makes a great scapegoat for both the white and red man, but really, he was a preeminent civil war hero and was sometimes furious at the white man’s treatment of the ‘savages’. Of course, his hands were certainly not clean, and his ego eventually conquered him, but I look at the times and figure both sides did some awful things, including many admired Native American leaders. It is what it is. Comprenez-vous?”

  “Oui,” I replied.

  “Bored now?” Brick finished.

  “Oui.”

  It was time to find provisions, so we headed quietly down side roads, away from the river wash, looking into various broken storefronts and gathering little things along the way. Eventually, an enormous, two-story sporting goods store revealed itself, wherein I replaced filtration gear and found a decent scope for my rifle, plus a useable light that could be taped to the rifle rail. Very workable.

  As we moved to the back of the enormous store in dim light, there was a sudden, crashing noise. Ben growled, but before anyone could react, he was dragged up in a net, a snarling, raging mess. I whipped around and immediately found myself facing a shotgun. The man behind the gun was close and had obviously been waiting patiently for us.

  I looked over to Brick and saw him on the ground holding his head, bleeding. Someone, a man, stood over him, holding a small bat.

  Those were two nasty looking guys, eighteen or nineteen years old, but big, and high on something. One had amputated human fingers on a string around his neck.

  Then, in a dark corner behind a counter, I noticed a woman strung out with rope, naked. Blood all around her.

  The guy with the shotgun came up to me and pulled out plastic police cuffs, saying over his shoulder as he prepared to bind me, “Nice work Todd.” Todd grunted and threw out some vulgarities and racial epithets.

  I tell you now that my adrenalin was raging, and that always caused me to shake. As my captor approached, I looked at Brick. He knew me well enough now to recognize that I was sizing the guy up in my own, unique style...preparing myself.

  Wait for it my friend! I thought.

  The animal spoke to me, “Just relax little sister and no one gets hurt. Easy. Easy. That’s it...Hey, your woof woof will make nice snack later.”

  I could clearly hear my father’s words: “Never, ever surrender to a ruthless enemy.” And these dudes were about a ruthless as they get.

  As soon as the man’s hand was on me, I twisted swiftly and forcefully to one side, and with all of my wiry might slammed my heel into his knee, snapping it backwards. I ripped out a pistol, whipped around and put a bullet in Todd’s eye, killing him instantly.

  I turned back around to find the big guy next to me wailing on the ground, his shotgun out of reach, his lower leg bent upwards at a bizarre, broken angle.

  “Hey, girl, I’m sorry! Just kidding, you know? Drugs do crazy things. I’m a nice guy! I never hurt nobody, I swear! I’m just a farmer. Todd did the bad stuff!” So much sincere whimpering.

  Yeah, right. I fired one round and put him down.

  I simultaneously pulled out a second pistol and slowly backed up to the wall behind me, as I quickly surveyed everything - floor, ceiling, doors, cabinets - for any additional threats. I had foolishly walked into this one - never again.

  Once I satisfied myself that there had been only two opponents, I looked over at my friend, and spoke, “I will never leave anyone like them around to prey on others.,.I swear.” I spoke firmly and without remorse as I studied Brick’s reaction. He nodded in understanding and agreement.

  I then cut Ben down and moved to look over Brick’s injury. “Maybe a concussion; we’ll have to park somewhere for at least a day.”

  Sadly, the woman in the back of the store was dead. She was beautiful and calm in death. We untied her, then wrapped her in a blanket, moved her to a back room and placed her head on a pillow. It was the best that we could do. To this day, I sometimes ponder how she came to be there; where her family was and what kind of person she might have been. All questions that would remain forever unanswered; only one of many ghosts to haunt my unhappy dreams.

  We dragged the two dead predators out into the street for scavengers to desecrate as they desired.

  I always keep myself alert to hideouts, escape paths and secure places to spend a night. As a result, I had noticed an armored bank car half a block away, and, remembering the bank truck back in LA, decided to move there for the rest of the day. It made for tight quarters, and the engine would not even produce a click, but it was secure and provided good visibility.

  I had not sufficiently replenished my medical kit after leaving the abbey, so, placing Brick into the relative comfort of the armored car, I took Ben and searched nearby buildings for anything useful. There wasn’t much, but I returned with a few aspirins that would ease Brick’s discomfort.

  Ice was obviously out of the question, and I could find no chemical cold packs anywhere, so cool water on a cloth would have to suffice. I did find some spam and heat tabs in a hardware store, and then cooked us all a hot meal, tea included.

  “I better count my money...” Brick joked. The truck was loaded with stacks of it. The bills made useful fire tinder, but that was the extent of its value in the post-apocalypse universe.

  Night had fallen.

  Ben watched something through a gun port, pointed ears aimed in alert. I moved next to him, and through the thick glass, in the distant darkness, I could see dozens of runners converging on the carcasses of the two dead hoods. Wow... So many! They hunkered down quietly for the rest of the night, but later, I could hear that disgusting, croaking noise as the gorged creatures crouched like giant, shadowy toads along walls and down side streets.

  Before falling into my usual fitful sleep, I pondered having killed - executed, really - the two predators that day, and considered how little it bothered me.

  I could remember a time when seeing a killing in some murder-mystery movie would make me flinch and queasy. I would jump at the sound of a gun or a spooky scream. I smiled at the reminiscence. So laughable when compared to the nerve-tingling screams of a runner chasing blood and flesh. What a happy time it was before the end.

  Later, while working in Phoenix, as the runner virus epidemic became a real world threat, I witnessed a killing first hand in an otherwise very ordinary diner, when one man shot another crazed patron-turned-runner who tore into the neck of a hapless waitress. It took me days to get over that shocking, terrifying event.

  Then came my turn, in the hall of my hotel. The end of everything happened so fast. Runners were showing up everywhere, and at unbelievable speed. Television news, while it still existed, first sensationalized the transition from human to runner, as if it needed exploitation. That entertainment approach ended when it became apparent that this was not going away, and that every person on earth was in immediate danger. Conversation and debate ended; how to survive then became t
he only topic of discussion.

  A security guard friend of mine at the convention gave me a 9mm Glock with three full magazines, and a quick review of how to use it. If not for him, I would probably be dead now. He’s probably dead, too, I sometimes thought, rather grimly.

  The first time I used the gun was to kill another hotel guest who jumped me in the hallway. I was totally shocked by the assault, but not frozen to inaction.

  The black crud and stink on that guy was intensely horrific as he viciously attempted to bite into my face. I fired that gun into his chest at close range, and kept firing until the gun was empty, disabling, but not killing the homicidal man. It took a little longer for me to learn the techniques for stopping and killing a runner, but learn I did, with precise effect and without hesitation.

  I stayed in my room for a week after that, mostly in the closet, eating from the room’s mini-bar and drinking from a full bathtub of water. I was just too afraid to leave, even after the power was out - no lights, no phone, no television - nothing.

  I stayed quietly in that room, cringing in horror and shock at having shot the man, and further terrified at the sounds of death and fighting in the hallways and street.

  The killing of that first person-turned-runner required days to move into the background of my conscience. Over time, I learned what it took for my mind to recover from shock. Some events ceased to disturb me entirely, while others that hit me with significant or novel shock would sometimes take a few days to leave the forefront of my thoughts. Until they did, I pressed on, but those traumatic moments would weigh down my psyche, my mood, and to a degree, my energy. But I always recovered - always.

  One of my worst early shocks, however, was the first time that I felt compelled to shoot a “normal” person, a guy who was beating to death some little old man with a bag of groceries on the street. It was ultimately what brought me out of the seclusion of that hotel room sanctuary.

  As clearly as if it happened only yesterday, I remember watching from my balcony window as a large, leather wearing sadist took the elderly man’s goods, then - clearly for the pleasure of it - began beating, kicking and stomping on the defenseless target, over and over. The sight and sounds of that brutality caused my blood to boil over until the war god of courage and action that coursed through my veins finally took control, causing me to yell out in full-throated rage. Yes, I remember.