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

by Stafford, Myles

  I grabbed my pistol - even then, always loaded, always ready - and in a white hot fury I charged down the stairs, not giving a second’s thought to who or what might my stand in my way.

  Within seconds I confronted the abuser. I commanded him to stop. He laughed at my challenge and immediately moved towards me with a crowbar, laughing and cursing.

  As a few useless witnesses watched from windows above, I put the man down calmly with one bullet. Calm I was, but soon adrenalin raged through body, producing an uncontrollable trembling. It was not fear, I knew, it was body preparing for and demanding action.

  I now see that critical moment as my rebirth, as a new beginning. I saw the glimmer of my future as Nicki Redstone, and I began to understand.

  The death of that old man caused me great and unforgettable anguish, even though he was a stranger to me. I half carried, half dragged the him to my room, where he died that night, being able to talk only briefly. But it was that little bit of soft conversation that made me weep in sorrow, feeling him slowly die in my arms was more than my heart could bear. I never before even imagined such an event in my life.

  And what about the murderous criminal that I killed only a short while earlier? For him, I felt nothing...nothing at all. I solemnly vowed - then and there - that I would never allow any such predator to run free if I could help it. Yes... I was beginning to feel the future - my destiny.

  Kip...where are you? Tu me manque, mon amour...

  I dropped onto my bed, exhausted, and stared at the ceiling, the days’ events rolling through my thoughts, my body tensing with each explosive memory. What was happening to the world? What was happening to me?

  Slowly and finally, I unclenched my fists, relaxed my jaw, took a deep breath, and softly eased into the all too temporary respite of an uneasy repose.

  ~

  The next morning, the runners from the previous night were nowhere in evidence. Brick seemed as good as new and wanted to move on, since Dufton really had nothing to offer. We would continue in a northwesterly direction as a comfortable, increasingly bonded team. Brick would travel north with me to my grandparents home, then in the spring, he could head east to his family.

  In spite of the obvious dangers, we decided to try the river again, since it afforded many excellent advantages. On the water, more gear could be transported, all tied down and waterproofed. We procured good quality flotation vests for all three of us, along with a new, larger canoe.

  Gliding down the river was generally smooth going, but as it widened, slowed and angled to the southwest, it became clear that we would have to walk again. We had made good time over those three days on the water, always anchoring off-shore at night.

  On our final canoe-borne morning, we all took a dip in the river’s cleansing coolness, had breakfast bars with hot instant coffee, then we became pedestrian trekkers once again. I felt the energy in my legs and was glad to be again on foot.

  The map showed the city of Hawksville to be a fews hours due northwest. Didn’t they nuke Hawksville? I pondered.

  The municipality of Hawksville had reportedly experienced the first “runner” virus outbreak in the United States. Supposedly, the bug had been contained there, as was initially reported to the public, but that report was pure fiction, however hopeful.

  On a distant and high approach to the city from the hilly southeast, I could plainly see the mighty and unmistakeable damage that nothing engineered by man or nature has yet surpassed. “Oh my God, they really did nuke this place...” It was all I could say.

  Sure enough. The evidence was unmistakable. Twisted metal; fried trees and homes; everything blasted from a town center air burst. It was a terrible sight; but then, what wasn’t these days.

  “It should be safe to enter, if you want to.” Brick remarked without any emphasis. “The radiation would have subsided to a reasonably safe level by now, at least enough for a quick look-see.” Brick seemed to know everything, reminding me of my father.

  “I’ll pass on that, if you don’t mind.” I replied. “Let’s take the beltway around.” It proved to be a long road, with the blackened city darkening our moods, a somber reminder of horrors yet to come.

  The beltway was fairly clear, so on the long slopes we hopped on a car or truck and coasted downhill. It was nice to move so fast. Occasionally, we even manually started a stick shift vehicle and were able to sputter along until some blockage or broken road hindered forward movement. I remember thinking, rather wistfully, Ah, I miss my car - heat, air conditioning, and quiet, fast travel. One of the luxuries that I longed for the most.

  ~

  Chapter Six

  “Camp Puller”

  ~

  A WEEK later, Brick and I were still making our way along the interstate. Detouring to hamlets for supplies, always with great caution.

  With dusk two hours away, we chose the town of Pinebluff for our layover, and settled in for a night on the rooftop of a three story brick feed and farm supply building. There was a clear view in all directions, with a sturdy metal door securing access. Water collection barrels that some previous occupant had set up proved to be clean enough for cooking. A few planter pots contained a couple of small, ripe watermelons. Not too shabby.

  I was munching on fresh tomatoes from another open-air planter, and I had just started my nightly drill of checking, cleaning and oiling my various weapons, when distant shots alerted us to other survivors engaged in some conflict.

  In the twilight, we moved to the parapet wall and looked over...and waited as the firing continued, sporadically, at first.

  Brick dropped his half-eaten melon and remarked casually, “I was rather hoping for a quiet evening in the parlor; maybe do a little light reading.”

  I had to smile as I raised my rifle scope to my eye - Brick rarely missed a moment for a little humor.

  In the distance, a few blocks away, a mass of runners headed our way. Then I saw their quarry. Oh my god! The runners were after a small group of people! “They’re coming this way...”

  Brick had his scope up and could see the same thing. “Not good. They don’t have a chance.”

  Ben whimpered and moved back and forth in agitation. He understood those sounds. This was happening fast. Brick looked at me and I nodded. We both knew what had to be done.

  We quickly laid out ammunition and double-checked our gear, then rested our rifles on the ledge...and watched in anticipation of what we knew would surely follow. I pushed an earplug into my right ear, a small piece of protection that I seldom had time to effect.

  The valiant little crew had almost no hope of escaping the swarm, but they tried with great courage and in amazing order.

  Automatic rifles, pistols and a few grenades were in use; running, shooting, shouting orders and encouragement. Organized. Disciplined. Falling back in two squads of six. Buying time. Desperate. Heroic. Where could they go?

  The teams approached our building as their tracer rounds zipped precisely into quickly selected targets. Those little lines of orange light would have been beautiful if the situation weren’t so tragic.

  One hero fell, savaged by the mob; then another, then another. Good lord! Were these soldiers? Helmets, armor, night vision, gloves - they looked legit...but from where?

  Soon survivors were close enough for us to begin picking off some of the runners. As always, the first round caused my exposed ear to immediately muffle further noise and it begin a high-pitched ringing; I barely noticed.

  I thought of Scottie, my twin. Damn! I could sure use my sharpshooter sister right about now. The fight drew closer. A few of the soldiers detected our gunfire, pointed up at us, and then backed into our direction.

  We intensified our fire, pouring a fusillade into the mob, buying precious seconds for the fighters below. To me, although our firepower provided an extra breath of life, our effort seemed insufficient as the last few warriors moved directly underneath us, and ultimately out of sight.

  I looked up the road into the g
loom and could make out a trail of runner bodies; these guys were experienced, well-trained and effective. But there were still far too many screaming, snarling runners, clawing at the building, climbing on top of each other to get in. There were hundreds of them. That blind fury clearly had only one purpose - to savage and eat living, breathing, warm bodies, and they could smell it in quantity. The mayhem would not cease until one side or the other was eliminated.

  This was a bad situation; one of the worst I had yet seen. My neck hair was up and tingling. Ben’s fur was ridged up sharply, looking wonderfully intimidating, and his growling signaled his anxiety and fight-ready instinct.

  Brick and I limbered-up in preparation for what we knew was only seconds away. Safeties off; we were ready. Runners screeching and men yelling. It was getting close. The building was surrounded. No way out. Vicious pounding commenced on the heavy roof access door - not human.

  I had to yank on Brick at little; the notion for humor always hit me at the most dangerous moments in my life. “Brick, where’s that gas of yours? I need some.”

  “Oh, so now your a believer?” He replied.

  “Definitely. Hand it over rapide, s’il vous plaît.”

  “Hah, I will remember this the next time I think of it.” Brick, always a good sport. I smiled.

  It was a worst case predicament. There likely would be no next time, and we both knew it. A no way out, total loss situation, something I always feared and had always successfully prevented - until then. More shots from below; some there still resisted, but it had to be futile.

  “The corner!!” I shouted to Brick. That location was an immediately apparent logical last stand position, however weak it might be. “Stay with me Ben!”

  Danger and intensity were at maximum, but I was calm. I had been there many times before. I had the gift of keeping a clear head in the worst conditions, and the ability to take correct, decisive action when under extreme stress, all of which had saved me many times before. Panic cross-wired thinking and caused mistakes, often fatal. I was pleased to see that Brick appeared equally calm; the perfect comrade for a life-or-death fight.

  Knees bent, slightly hunched over my rifle - Brick had remarked that he would know me a mile away from my shooting stance; my “signature style” as he called it. It was effective. I was at peace and ready.

  Then, total chaos and burning hell spewed upon our little trio as the metal barrier finally caved and the horrifying dead vaulted from the opening.

  We spread destruction as though we were knocking down targets at an arcade. But it was not for amusement. Those creatures were fast and powerful, and lusted maniacally for our blood.

  Initially, the charging runners piled up quickly at the door, and we continued to knock them down with all the control of British infantry. Briefly, I had hope that the weight of the corpses would choke the opening, but I was quickly disappointed.

  The bodies piled up and then those piles were shoved and clawed over. We popped out clips and locked in full ones without error, like machines that were designed for that specific task. Over and over. Precise and effective fire.

  Rifle ammo was soon exhausted, and then it was all pistols, but it mattered little. Jumping over the dead heaps, the marauders were on us in large numbers, snapping, charging, and falling like dominoes. Even the broken and dismembered creatures would not relent, and dragged their disfigured bodies towards us. The cacophony of screaming runners mixed with the sound and flash of our guns was deafening and surreal.

  The end was near; it was obvious. My eyes began to water in sorrow - and anger. Faintly, through the din, I barely heard a click click and knew that Brick’s ammo was gone, a short barreled revolver being his last firearm.

  Almost simultaneously, I expended my last bullet and popped the head off the nearest beast as Ben ripped in and moved faster than any human athlete or undead runner could possibly manage, doing his best to defend us against hopeless numbers. The end would be a hand-to-hand struggle.

  I could see that Brick was down, bent backwards. It hurt so much to watch helplessly... I could see his end, unable to save him, his knees buckled underneath, like a lion conquered by an avalanche of hyenas. His left arm was limp, probably broken. Five, six, seven on him as he fought on, wielding a Bowie knife with amazing strength, his voice bellowing strange and powerful words of ancient assault... and still the monsters piled upon him. It would only be seconds now. Brick was no longer visible, only a heap of screeching, snarling, biting runners. His warrior ancestors would be proud. They would be oh so proud!!

  And then they were on me! Ripping into my leather, tearing at my legs, clawing each other aside in their frenzied rage as I stabbed and gouged. My guns were empty; my knives so wet with gore that I could not keep a grip, remaining embedded in grisly muscle and bone; my arms became weak. Ben was growling and snapping like God’s angriest angel, twisting and thrashing in the air, trying desperately to save his beloved friend. It was all but utterly useless.

  I grabbed the last, long dagger from my bloodied braid, then with two hands stabbed and stabbed and stabbed. The bodies were crushing the air and life out of me. I could feel myself fading...hot tears warmed my cheeks. I could see my twin sister, my beloved Kip, my papa, my mother, my grandparents. It was becoming peaceful and quiet amidst the carnage and chaos... I stopped resisting... floating... I had enjoyed a wonderful childhood... I missed it.

  Then something jolted the attention of that mass of evil for just a few seconds, shocking the creatures from their assault and snatching me from the edge of death. Nicki Redstone lives still!

  I shoved bodies off of me and broke free, panting and weak, yanked a snap-link from the top of my nearby pack, then with my last bit of strength, hooked it to a power line running steeply down from the building corner to a goose-neck pipe on the next roof.

  Grabbing the top of Ben’s saddle-bags, I hooked it to the link, then pushed him off. I jumped on, holding Ben, and we both slid down fast, with a dozen runners chasing us off the parapet wall, plunging to their own ugly deaths below. Ben and I slammed hard onto the lower roof’s surface, knocking me unconscious.

  ~

  When I awoke, Ben was nearby, still clipped to the power line, asleep. Nightfall. Silence. I was cut, bruised and bleeding...but not bitten. My leather had held. Still, given my injuries and the slime on my skin, why I hadn’t turned into a screeching terror was a mystery.

  I could barely move, but I still managed to reach up and unhook Ben. His eyes opened and he seemed okay, but he moved only enough to curl up next to me.

  Then I lay there...and wept. I wept as I had not since I was a child. The side of my face burned as salty tears mixed with the blood of a grievous gash, a painful reminder of combat in extremis only heartbeats past. I can never forget how my sobbing racked my exhausted body, adding to my already great discomfort, physical and mental.

  Brick, oh my dear Brick Charbonneau, your chiefs would be proud of you. I will one day tell your story to your family, I swear this to you, my brave, Sioux friend.

  Eventually, complete fatigue took me into a deep, peaceful slumber. There were no dreams that night.

  It was barely light, the morning sun not yet over the horizon, when I detected movement near the roof access. Ben noticed it too, but he remained silent.

  I had nothing - no weapons, no energy, absolutely nothing... but I never quit. Never. I stayed low, unmoving, noticing metal pipes within reach. I prepared to reach for one, to ready myself.

  Then I heard something...voices?

  They moved towards me. Someone called out, “Over here!”

  I reached for the pipe. “Hey, it’s okay...we’re here to help. United States Army, 101ST Airborne Division, at your service, ma’am.” Came a friendly, authoritative voice.

  Three soldiers came over and helped me up, as I was obviously in a state of physical and mental exhaustion. Even Ben was submissive, sensing safety. I noted other soldiers guarding the perimeter, some on one knee. “Let’
s go.” One said softly.

  The men were clean shaven, and crisply attired in the accoutrements of professional soldiers. Their communication was respectful and relaxed, but their tone nevertheless indicated an alert status. They moved down through the building, gathering additional troops as they ultimately moved outside. A few of the soldiers looked over at Ben me in some obvious amazement, but they politely said nothing.

  Two large, tough looking military vehicles were outside. Everyone was on board, and after a quick head count, we were off.

  “We’re taking you to Camp Puller where you can clean up, re-provision and have our doc check over you and your canine friend. I’m Captain Jack Carter.” A pause. “We did not expect to find any survivors, and definitely not a female. That was a hell of a fight you guys had. You and your partner saved the last of our patrol, and we are all very grateful.” It was all I could do to nod in acknowledgment.

  We rode on, mostly in silence. Ben and I munched on snacks and water supplied by the soldiers, while a medic, Tommy, began tending to my injuries. Even in my shocked blur, I noted that the vehicles ran smoothly and were well maintained.

  One of the notable things about the slime that oozed out of the runners was that it tended to dry like candle wax. It popped off of leather and skin in a similar manner, but stuck to hair and cloth.

  When our little convoy passed through the gates of Camp Puller - which was much more than a “camp”, I noticed - at my request, they took Ben and me straight to a shower facility.

  A hot shower was what I needed most at that moment. It had been a very long time. With my permission, my clothing was taken for cleaning, and in its place I was supplied with cargo pants and a sweat shirt, which were soft and brought back memories of better times. Next in order was to be a hot meal, then to the doc for a look-over.