~
The sun revealed itself at dawn with an orange horizon and waves of long, thin wispy clouds. In a world without electricity, one tends to live by the sun.
It was difficult to disengage from Ben in the morning, so warm and cozy. I was loathe to move.
“Comment ça se va, mon ami?” Brick asked, noting my stillness.
“Ça va pa.” I replied. “I dreamed of home - Kip, my family; being young and carefree, with silly problems and the adventures of a normal life ahead. I don’t ever want to forget; I must not lose who I was - never - even though who I am today keeps me alive.”
“Que sera sera.” I added with no hint of humor.
After a quick snack, we marched off, filled with the spirit of confident determination. And why not? We had overcome challenges and perils only dreamed of before humanity became an endangered species.
It took longer than planned to circle that small city. The lights did indeed attract both the living and the dead, but not to the extent we had expected. There were a few small roving patrols of hunters whose sole purpose appeared to be to eliminate runners, but Brick and I chose to avoid them, which was more of a gut reaction, rather than for any specific reason.
Clearly, someone had organized an operation in the town, but observations and rumors from occasional interaction with other travelers raised enough concern such that we did not feel at ease until we were miles past the place.
Ultimately, we decided to make a beeline for the coast and travel north from there. We had been hearing recurring stories of areas that were nearly impassable along the interstate leading to Oregon, for one reason or another, so the coast provided an acceptable alternative. This revised path was clearly out of our way, but the road seemed correct and appealing, and offered interesting possibilities.
It took almost ten days to travel the roughly 160 miles to the coast, which was not bad, all thing considered. Each day required stops, starts and detours. If an opportunity presented itself for provisioning, a judgment had to be made regarding value versus delay.
Every sleep stop was made early, giving time to find a good position, an escape plan, a backup position, and a rendezvous location should we be separated in the dark. We had learned our survival lessons well and never, ever skipped our established protocols. We tried to have a thoroughly understood “Plan B” for every possibility, whether in camp or on the trail.
Once in place, we would clean and repack our gear, oil and check our weapons, eat, and then plan out the next day’s course of travel. Multiple repetitions of fighting drills and procedures would follow, then relaxation and sleep. The nightly routine was comforting - and it kept us alive. Far too often, we encountered the somber remains of others who failed to maintain a life totally centered on 24/7 survival.
~
Upon reaching the ocean, we headed due north, passing through little villages that were comprised mostly of deteriorating residences and shops. A pleasant life in another time, now these were nothing more than damaged relics and ghost towns that were quickly being reclaimed by nature.
A few days up, after passing one of the many, often still attractive coastal hamlets along our way, Brick noticed movement in the distance behind us, at least two miles away, downhill on a very long, sparsely wooded slope.
I looked through my rifle scope. “Sniffers, I think. Half a dozen, maybe. Looks like they have our scent. We better move on and look for good cover. They will likely attract others.”
We increased our pace, although there was no protective structure of any kind visible anywhere. This would be an open area defense wherein we still had the advantage of good visibility and long range fire. Managing six runners would not be difficult, but we nevertheless prepared for worse.
As we moved quickly north on the two lane winding road, a large, deforested hill to our right unexpectedly revealed horsemen at the top.
“Cavalry? Here?” Observed Brick. “Five riders, maybe six. They’re checking us out.”
The riders were indeed observing us, but it was quickly apparent that also they had their eyes on the sniffers.
Before long, the horsemen took up an easy gait in our general direction. The natural equine noises and movement soon sparked the sniffers madness, and - even in the distance - the resulting screeching was chilling as the starving creatures were excited with unquenchable blood lust.
Far from stopping or dismounting, having closed to within fifty yards or so of our position, the horsemen turned sharply away and charged off at a trot, then a gallop, towards the runners, drawing long sabers in anticipation of combat; a flag streamed from a pole attached to the saddle of one rider.
For some reason, the power and thrill of the attack reminded me of my oldest sister, Tara, with thick, flaming red hair flowing behind her, like a Valkyrie descending with thunder from Valhalla. Indeed, even in the distance, I could clearly hear the pounding of those horses’ hooves.
Within minutes the riders pitched into the runners; swords sweeping down in efficient execution. It was all over in seconds.
Witnessing the charge, I remember thinking: That was glorious; out of another time...fantastic!
Brick, however, was noticeably uneasy, a reaction that immediately dampened my enthusiasm. Something was not right. “Nicki, did you notice the flag?”
“Yes, red circle with a white cross. Some Christian group?”
“Christian is debatable.” Brick shook his head. “You are familiar with the Ku Klux Klan?” I was. “That’s their symbol, and they are generally unfriendly to the red man. Strange to see them in California, and I did not see them in our tour book. Just what we need.”
The riders, having paused for discussion, began retracing their steps towards us, two by two. We feigned relaxation, but prepared ourselves for action.
When close enough, one of the riders, not unpleasantly, held his hand up, looked directly at me, and loudly announced, “Greetings from the Fifth American Mounted Militia. This is Militia land. State your business here.”
The troop had spread out into a loose semi-circle around us, the KKK flag boldly displayed next to the obvious leader. They all had various types of facial hair, old fashioned, more or less. They wore large, light colored cloaks, expensive looking range gear and Stetson hats, obviously intent on presenting an old-style, western image.
Brick replied pleasantly, “We’re just passing through, headed to Oregon. We thank you for your assistance.”
The speaker completely ignored Brick’s courteous response, and did not take his eyes off of me. “You and your dog may join us. The Indian has one hour to get through Jacksonport, the next village. Let’s go.” He turned, nodded to one of his men, and in a flash they wheeled their horses to depart, when suddenly one of the riders nearest to me, a massive fellow with an enormous bushy black beard and long-gauntleted gloves, grabbed me by my pack and effortlessly hoisted me onto his saddle in front of him, and took off at speed. He clearly had no idea what he was up against.
Ben, my ever protective and giant German Shepard was on the man’s back in an instant, clearing the ten foot leap in a single bound. Simultaneously and without a sound, I dropped my rifle, pulled a six inch dagger from my left wrist and plunged it overhead deep into the man’s eye socket, killing him instantly. As he fell from the saddle, his great form, pulled Ben and me to the ground with him, cushioning us both from the crashing hardness below.
Rolling and kneeling, yet unable to breath with the wind knocked out of me, I reached for two pistols as Ben crouched nearby in a protective posture, but all danger had passed...for the moment.
Brick had already put two other horsemen on the ground as they had wheeled to fight, kneeling behind a log for protection, firing his weapon with deadly, swift precision. The remaining riders took off at a hard gallop, departing to whence they had come, eventually disappearing over the bare hilltop, leaving their flag and three lifeless bodies as evidence of their foolishness.
“You okay Nicki?” Brick as
ked. In later discussions, he described how clearly he could see the sharp scar on my cheek, prominently revealed by my exertion.
“Yeah, yeah, I’m fine,” I relaxed and shrugged, as I retrieved my rifle. “That was crazy! What the hell? Half good guys, half bad guys? What next? Racist Barbies? Killer Smurfs? I’m so disappointed.”
Taking a deep, refreshing breath of air, I knelt down on the ground for a moment to look over Ben. “Hey my old man, are you okay? What a hero...you too, Brick. Thank you forever my friend.”
“Always, Nicki, always,” Brick answered calmly as we all stood to resume our journey. “Well, we’d better get past ‘Jacksonhole’, or whatever they call it.”
As we walked, Brick voiced his thoughts, “What is it with these guys? I feel so picked on. You’d think I personally scalped someone in their family. We need to get as much distance between us and those creeps before nightfall, just in case they feel the need for another exceptional crotch-kicking.”
We both chuckled at Brick’s words. Humor had become our means of dealing with death, sadness and shock, and just about every feeling in between...and it worked. As a a team, our strength and skill as a fighting force was rapidly evolving - deliberate, effective, overpowering.
Not knowing what kind of numbers the militiamen might have in reserve, and not being interested in fighting the living, despite the bigotry and hatred, we moved at a quick pace onto and through Jacksonport, stopping only when it became necessary to find shelter for the night.
In another time and place, maybe pepper spray would have been sufficient to deal with the abduction, but this was not that time, and there was no 911 and no police to rush to your aid. Now, survivors like us had to be savior, judge, jury and executioner...if we wanted to live.
~
The next morning found us approaching a larger municipality, which included an “olde town” style port that was visible below from a still very serviceable green metal bridge. Similar to many small ports along the Pacific coast, it occupied the terminus of a slow moving, wide river.
There were plenty of boats of all types and sizes in view, more or less properly docked, which made sense given the circumstances of the epidemic. In some cases, though, there were masts protruding from sunken craft under the water, and a few smaller boats in the street, evidence of occasional stormy weather. There the detritus would remain, probably forever.
Studying the port from the bridge, I suggested that the area appeared unoccupied, and that it might be worth a visit. Brick somberly concurred, and we descended nearby stairs at our usual quick, but alert pace.
Noting my friend’s uneasy demeanor, I asked, “What’s up Brick?”
His reply was thoughtful, “I know what you’re thinking, Nicki, but neither of us can sail, Ben hates fishy things, and I don’t love the stuff, as you know, and...well...I’m not exactly an Olympic swimmer; more of a water-wings type, actually. Maybe you heard, I’m half plains Indian.”
I felt myslf smiling wryly; humor was in order, “Reeee...heeee...heeeeee... leeee....!!” A perfectly timed Ace Ventura moment.
Brick looked at me with pleading eyes, “Have mercy Nicki...please!” Ben seemed to share Brick’s worry.
“Sure, sure, sure.” I laughed. “No worries there,” but Brick knew that this might not go as he preferred.
~
Chapter Nine
“Gus”
~
EXPLORATION IN these times was always interesting, definitely dangerous, and sometimes fruitful. This particular investigation resulted in the latter, in the form of Sam Gustafson.
Sam Gustafson, or “Gus”, was the former night caretaker for the small, primarily recreational, port facilities that Brick and I were scouting.
We spotted each other from a distance, gauging any potential threat. The man sat on the edge of a large luxury powered craft, no doubt the former toy of someone very wealthy. He waved us over as he stood up, apparently armed only with a holstered sidearm. I noticed Brick out of the corner of my eye as he watched me focus my study on the man, waiting for me to act. As I relaxed, so did Brick.
“Hello seekers!” It was a cheery greeting from the man. “Name’s Gus... Where ya headed?” He was friendly, early sixties, tan, whiskered and had a western twang. He was missing an upper canine tooth, which looked like a recent loss, the gum being red and his lip swollen.
“Hi Gus. I’m Nicki Redstone; this is Brick Charbonneau; and my pal, Ben. We’re on our way to Braidwood, Oregon, where my grandparents live.”
“Oregon, huh? Beautiful. Nice war dog you have there.” Gus observed. “Charbonneau? That sounds like a French Indian trapper name. Redstone, too, for that matter. What tribe?”
“Lakota.” Brick replied pleasantly. “Sioux.”
“Ah, my favorite. Always wanted to meet a genuine Sioux...And you?” Looking at me.
“English and French Canadian.” I smiled.
“Well, please to meet you both...welcome aboard!” Gus said, standing up and stepping forward to greet us. He was about five foot four, wiry thin, and moved with a small limp in his blue overalls, but he seemed otherwise sturdy and fit. He turned out to be an excellent host...and a great friend.
Gus presented a feast for the us that day, comprised of more than seafood, out of courtesy for his two non-fish eaters. He had access to plenty of propane, so the ship’s galley was functional, and the fresh halibut certainly pleased my palate. “I never thought I would ever have this again. Delicious!”
Even Brick and Ben were impressed, devouring the pan fried catch in spite of earlier negativity. Simple foods and quiet pleasures were cherished more than ever before, and this would have been exceptional even before the world’s end.
“Brick, some caviar?” I offered the dish, knowing full well that he intensely disliked even a hint of fish flavor.
“No thank you; I’m trying to cut back.” With a deadpan expression, Brick held up his hand to emphasize the negative. With only the slightest hint of mirth in his eyes, an expression that was always hilarious to me, and all the mores so, I think, because of his natural good looks and noble bearing. He never let vanity or pride get in the way of being a comedian, a trait that we both shared.
Conversation, rumors, stories and updates were on order for the evening... it was how news traveled in the new age. Eventually, Brick broached a small bit of curiosity that had been in his mind, “What happened to your tooth, Gus? It looks like new damage.”
“Oh, it is...I had a little dust-up with a couple of young militia boys two days ago. Caught ‘em sneaking on my boat to steal a propane tank. Heck, they only had to travel into town a little farther and they could have all they wanted. Lazy bums. I chased ‘em off with a twelve gauge shotgun blast in the air, but the recoil knocked out my own tooth. How stupid do ya have to be? I miss that tooth...It was my favorite.” Gus grinned, revealing the gap once again.
“I guess those boys will bring their pappy back, even though we are well north of what they claim as “theirs”. Some reckoning due in their eyes, I’m sure. Let ‘em come...” Gus ended firmly with a twinkle in his eye.
Brick and I went on to relate our own more deadly experience with the Klan.
“Oooooweee! That’s serious!” Gus exclaimed, slapping and shaking the small breakfast nook table. “I should have known who you are! I just figured it out. I heard stories about you from a few different travelers passing by here and a few things on the radio waves. Yep, I’m not kidding! All the way back to that terrible fight you had near Fort Puller, maybe even farther back. Killed a thousand runners, from what I hear.
“I don’t know that all of the wild tales I’ve heard about you are true, or even if all of them are actually about you for that matter. Heck, until now I really doubted the existence of Fort Puller. But gossip still spreads - not much else to talk about - and it is plain to see the stories about a fire-eating actress and her testicle-ripping Indian friend were actually real, as much as I thought it was all just wishful t
hinking. Throw in Ben and wow, it all comes home. I am triple-thrilled to meet you guys! Somebody better write a book! I want an autograph! Heahh!”
I was amused by the news. “Hah, how about that Brick? You have become famous!” Then to Gus, “What’s the story on these KKK militia guys? I never heard about them in California, mainly just stories from the old south.”
“Ah, well,” Gus explained. “That’s because they were nothing before. I never even knew their names, I always referred to them as ‘the militia’...or the “Doones”.
Brick and I were quizzical. “Dunes? As in sand dunes?”
Gus feigned surprised. “No, Doones!” He said, spelling it out. “You two never heard of the ‘Doones’? as in ‘Lorna Doone’? One of the greatest books ever written in the history of writing? Ah well, it’s old, written in archaic English, so I can understand. It’s an obscure reference. If you ever do read the book, you’ll see the comparison.”
Gus smiled and looked at me, “From the sound of it, Nicki, you killed ‘Carver Doone.’ The baddest one in the bunch, and I mean B-A-D. I guess he probably thought he was invincible. Those militia boys are never going to forget you - either of you - ever.”
Gus continued: “Before they became ‘The Fifth Militia’, they were just tough fringe people living in the woods in a couple of old buildings and part of a cave, from what I knew of them before the epidemic. They didn’t have much, very clannish, mostly uneducated, and were pretty rough people. Backwards in many ways, not only in their lifestyle, but also politics and religion. They always had some horses and cattle, but I don’t know how they made a living. Anyone who interacted with them reported being fearful. I guess they liked to be intimidating.
“Narrow-minded bullies, really. Kept to themselves, mostly. Lots of rumors about them over the years. Immigrants from Tennessee, supposedly. They didn’t seem to be impacted much by the plague, almost as if they were ready, and - of course - after the dead overran the living, the ‘militia’ had access to everything. Guns, fine clothes, pretty much anything they wanted...except females. Those were in short supply, as you may have guessed.” He finished grimly
THE KILLER ANGEL: Book One Hard Player (THE KILLER ANGEL TRILOGY 1) Page 9
