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

by Stafford, Myles

  Further conversation led to the conclusion that Brick and I could not linger for too long with Gus, as much as we would have enjoyed the break. Late into the evening, Gus announced that he was leaving, too, and offered his services as a skipper for the next leg of our journey.

  “Go by boat?” Brick threw out the comment with obvious unease. “Hmmm....not crazy about the idea here.”

  Gus was emphatic, “Look, you could bi-pass a hell of a lot of trouble, plus be at a port nearest your folks in Braidwood in much less time. I have the perfect boat, and it won’t take much to get it ready. A little sailor training for you all, a little prep, then we’re on our way.”

  “What do you all say?” Gus waited pensively.

  We looked at Brick. “Okay...I’m in.” He puffed it out with a big breathe.

  Given the probability of a reconnaissance and then full assault by the militia, Gus felt that we safely had only one full day to prepare and train for the next leg of our quest.

  ~

  There was so much to do, and only one day in which to accomplish everything. The basics of sailing, safety, what to do in various situations, assignment of responsibilities, load provisions, and on and on.

  The sail boat was a beautiful and almost new twenty-eight foot luxury model, with a small galley, a little toilet-shower compartment, and designed to sleep two, but four could be accommodated with no trouble.

  We decided to leave port that evening and anchor farther out in the bay, past the bridge, which turned out to be a prescient decision.

  As the dim morning light cast long shadows on the steel bridge, numerous horsemen in light colored cloaks were clearly visible between the green girders. By that time, though, our little crew had already hoisted anchor and were fortunately well out of rifle range.

  Even as we departed, I felt, somehow, that my destiny would cause our paths to cross again in the future, a thought that filled me with a mix of trepidation and eager anticipation, for the new and growing responsibility I felt as protector of the innocent and defenseless burned stronger with every victory.

  This fresh self-awareness revealed itself to me each time that I prevailed over those who would dominate and hurt others. I was feeling the gift of unexpected and remarkable power. My passion for the just fight was growing and - like the Knights Templar of legend and fact - I resolved to use my might for good, and oppose those who lorded their strength upon others to satisfy their lust, greed and sadistic urges.

  As I stared at the receding image of the riders, there was no music in my heart; no victorious laughter on my lips. I was warm with determined energy, and I could feel my cheek scar burning a slash across my face. From the corner of my eye, I could see Brick observing the riders, then over to me. Yes, I know that he saw my scar glowing, and watched me challenge my foe with a small nod.

  “It is an honor to stand by you, Nicki Redstone.” He said. “And I will be there when we return. For every fight and for every reckoning, I will be there.”

  I could not stop the silent tears of gratitude and pride that flowed from my eyes, an emotional display that I disliked intensely, but a fearless fire burned within me, and to have Brick’s support was deeply moving.

  Brick spoke softly, “I thank my ancestors for allowing me to adventure with such a warrior.” I could only smile at his words.

  I dreamed fitfully of Kip that night; I longed for his calm strength and loving devotion. Was he okay? He had to be! Was he thinking of me? Did he miss me? I knew that Kip would love Brick like a brother. What a team we will all make!

  ~

  “I cannot even make a joke I’m so sick.” Brick wheezed out, during a pause in his dry heaving. “Oh my God...never been so sick. Shoot me now. Just do it.”

  “I’m so sorry, Brick.” I felt great sympathy for my otherwise seemingly invincible companion. “Gus! We’re going to have to find a port.” I had taken motion sickness pills on Gus’s advice, but Brick was convinced that for him it was unnecessary.

  The first day was not bad, as the seas were calm. The morning of day two, however, revealed large, smooth rolling waves, perhaps eight feet from the crest to the trough of each, which, in this small craft, proved too much for Brick as we sailed endlessly up and over each small hill.

  Gus guided the boat skillfully into a picturesque fishing port that advertised brew pubs, chowder houses and leather shops. Perfect. I carefully surveyed the town for problems, then, finding nothing, gave Gus a thumbs-up to dock.

  Five minutes later, Brick was on land and just as chirpy as a new puppy. It was amazing how quickly he recovered. Soon, he announced: “I think we made excellent time yesterday. We must be close to the Oregon border now.”

  Ben, too, was clearly happy to be ashore, as he pranced around like a newborn pony, running back and forth along the pier, stopping periodically in a playful hunter’s pose.

  “What the heck?” Brick exclaimed. We were all very surprised to see, not far from where we had docked, the massive, dark and beautiful hulk of a U.S. submarine.

  “Wow.” Gus exclaimed. “The nearest sub bases are northern Washington and southern California. Strange.”

  Gus continued. “Never thought about it before, but my guess is that many sub crews around the world may have totally missed the initial epidemic carnage, since some of them can stay under water for months. Maybe, like the soldiers at Camp Puller, when this sub crew reached the US mainland, they dropped sailors off at different places, then landed here with the last few who could still drive the thing. I would bet that it has been properly shut down, locked up, and is in ship shape...ready for another day.”

  As we moved to examine the amazing craft, we found that it was indeed in excellent condition, secure, and apparently abandoned; perhaps never again to plunge the oceans.

  We decided to stretch our legs for a few hours, but taking no chances, we prepared for action and discussed protocols for multiple situations, then walked the streets together. The leather shop provided some useful gear for everyone, and one of the taverns offered up a couple of bottles of fine Cabernet. “Now that’s a blessing!” Noted Gus. “Add some cheese and we’re set.”

  Looking through storage rooms, Brick located a large, unopened, undamaged red wax coated wheel of cheese. “Yo ho!” He he announced as he presented the cheese to Gus.

  “Bless you, my son, bless you!” Gus said gratefully with obvious sincerity.

  As we stepped outside again, it was evident that the wind had kicked up considerably, and the sky was rapidly becoming overcast. “We better park here for the night.” Distant thunder could be heard. I switched to survival mode, my mind always planning ahead. It had become was an automatic condition for me. I surveyed the little port street, squinted a bit, identified a two story, newer building with a windowed penthouse that was surrounded by a roof deck on all sides. That would do.

  Gathering food and supplies, the four of us cleared the building for security, barred all access points, reviewed escape plans, rendezvous points and the specifics of each person’s responsibilities in various emergencies.

  Gus had not previously been exposed to this procedure, and he commented in a sincere, complementary tone, “Now I understand how your successes - and your reputations - grow, even in these times. You leave nothing to chance. It is clear even to my old eyes that you give yourselves every possible advantage to ensure success. I am truly proud to know you both. Thank you for having me on your journey!”

  I recalled a high rise hotel fire that I had experienced with my family while on holiday in Montreal as a little girl. A young bellhop knocked on our door late one night to announce the emergency; in the darkness, his shadowy form revealed a smoke filled hallway. My father calmly led us to a fire stair down the hall that he had marked out the moment we had placed our suitcases in the room. Other guests headed straight to the elevator in panic. That, I remembered, was my first lesson in contingency planning.

  Gus was a smart guy, but simple. His gift and focus was the
sea, not long road trips, if he could help it. When on land, his contingency consisted of some food in his pockets, a small pistol, a twelve-gauge, semi-automatic shotgun, and as much shotgun ammo as he could carry in various belts and pouches. Following my persistent encouragement, Gus ultimately saw the wisdom of having a small hydration day pack close by in which to carry a few additional essentials.

  ~

  We set up for the evening in that glass penthouse, and it proved to a great spot with a nice view in all directions. I poured water into a dish for Ben, and then prepared his food. “Hungry little fella? There ya go.” I said in light exaggeration, with a buck-toothed grin which I aimed at Brick. Humor worked best with an audience.

  “Heh heh, you really do a great Ace impersonation.” He chuckled.

  I had to smile, “I’ll be here alllll night....”

  We settled in for a nice meal, sharing our bounty, but going easy on the dark red wine. The wind had moved in and the lightning flashed across the sky, followed by terrific blasts of thunder. The noise brought a few runners into the street, visible in the explosions of light, aimlessly chasing the sounds reverberating through the port. They presented no threat to us. Then the rain hit...hard. “Thank God we stayed in port this night.” Gus said.

  I dreamed of Kip that stormy, dark night, and how he had proposed marriage to me. This was the tough guy who would never marry; a fighter, a skilful orator, a crisp, decisive mind...an actor who men envied and women adored.

  I remembered the amazing video proposal he had himself created and presented to me, a memento for all time, revealing his emotions and reasoning. It was Kip all the way. Courageous, systematic, disciplined and noble. What he said, he meant. I loved him all the more for it, and my heart ached in his absence.

  ~

  Our little sailer had fared well during the storm, taking on no water and appearing ready for action. With new provisions, Gus steered us out of port on smooth waters into a gentle breeze.

  As we headed up the coast, here and there, we would encounter vessels beached on rocks, or half submerged. At one point, we passed the hull of some enormous capsized ship, maybe a tanker of some kind, propellers high out of the oil streaked water, presenting a strange, somber image on what was otherwise a picture-perfect, blue sky morning.

  Six hours into the day, Brick yelled out in astonishment. “Hey, look at that!”

  A large, white luxury cruse liner was anchored offshore ahead, appearing in the distance as it did in the best of times, giant flags flying brightly in the breeze.

  As we drew closer, however, it became evident that this was not a ship of the living. The bright flags were torn, the finishes were dirty and dripping with algae stains, and barnacles were in much evidence beneath a hull that was listing slightly to one side, an indication that bilge pumps had failed many months earlier.

  Snarling and screaming sounds from the decks above defined the remaining occupants of the ship, as they reached out at us, some jumping into the sea in their grasping hunger, never to resurface. A few of the lifeboats had evidently been deployed, but the boats themselves were nowhere to be seen.

  “Mon Dieu! I’m so happy to see they forgot life vests!” Brick joked softly in dark humor at the submerged runners. Then, thinking about it and scratching his head, he and Ben looked over the side cautiously, just to make certain. “Can you imagine diving around down there and bumping into one? I wonder how long they live without air...”

  ~

  A couple of uneventful days on the water and Gus felt that we should put into a place called “Stovepipe”, a good jump off point to start our trek to the Willamette Valley. From there, if everything went according to plan, it was felt that we could be in Braidwood within a week. It was a good location for our purposes, being large enough for re supply, and near what should have been a suitable road through the thickly wooded coastal hills.

  Stovepipe was a fine little port, or was once, and we were all happy to feel its solid earth underfoot. I was anxious to get started, but planning and resupply were necessary, so the remainder of the day consisted of a scout of the town, collection of supplies and a review of some newly acquired maps for the journey.

  Gus declined the trip to Braidwood, as expected, electing to remain in port, which suited his nature and habits. Our little band of friends-for-life re-boarded the sailer and spent the night anchored a short distance off the dock, enjoying one last beautiful evening together.

  ~

  Chapter Ten

  “Swarm”

  ~

  THE CHILLY, moist morning air had the sweet scent of freshly harvested pine, the sky was bright blue, and our start had the makings of a great day. After a few affectionate embraces and promises to reunite one day, Brick, Ben and I moved off towards the densely wooded hills that lay between Stovepipe and the Willamette Valley. I looked back one time to see Gus protectively watching our backs. I waved and was pleased to see it returned in good cheer.

  The scenery was glorious, just as I always remembered. “Truly God’s country,” Jack Munson, a close family friend, said more than once; and he was right. The verdant hills, interspersed with icy rivulets and trickling cascades made the vision a nature photographer’s dream.

  Brick was impressed. “These trees are enormous!” He puffed out from the exertion of walking up a long, inclined road. “...And these hills go on forever.”

  At one point, I mentioned a thought that was troubling me a little, “Brick...We haven’t seen one runner, and not one person since we hit Stovepipe... seems odd, doesn’t it?”

  “Yeah. It does.” Brick could sense that I had notched up my alert mode a tick or two, and it made him visibly raise his attention to our path as he searched for indicators of trouble. We understood each other, and knew well enough now to trust our instincts without question.

  Ben, on the other hand, was enjoying himself, staying generally out in front of us, sniffing, exploring and scouting - but never allowing anything to block his vision of me. I observed that he frequently stopped his canine intrigues to raise his head momentarily to check my position, then return to his activities. Ben’s attentiveness to my presence was immensely comforting.

  In spite of the endless hills, we moved efficiently and made excellent time, being physically fit and accustomed to exertion. Our feet were well callused for trekking, and we were always careful to tend to our overall health.

  A winding creek paralleled the two-lane blacktop that was our path, affording a place to bathe and filter water. The road, once a well-maintained route between the central Oregon Coast and the Willamette Valley, was now in extreme disrepair. All kinds of debris, branches and occasionally trees were scattered everywhere and, in two places, the lower road side had collapsed into the creek. More troubling were those spots where small rock slides had fallen unchecked onto the highway from cliffs above, scattering pebbles, mud and boulders across the tarmac.

  The late morning of the second day revealed our road to be entirely blocked by one such rock slide, a very large and destructive movement of monolithic granite slabs, dirt and vegetation. An old path up and around the slide appeared to be the most efficient means of circumventing the impediment, so with Ben at the forefront, we moved on with only momentary consideration.

  Massive trees and dense, fern choked vegetation closed in around us and muted the sunlight, but I felt comforted by the scenery - I was at home there. Many happy childhood memories were spent in woods like those, with my Gramma keeping a watchful eye as Scottie, Tara and I poked and explored the lush Pacific Northwest jungle-scape, tossing sticks and watching for deer and wild turkeys.

  Eventually, we could see Ben stopped ahead, waiting for us at the top of the hill, appearing rather pensive, looking at us then at something ahead. Once there, a spectacular view revealed itself, but that magnificence was marred by strange movement far off below.

  Beneath a vista of a few, very distant white capped mountains, and beautiful forested hills broken by cliffs
and rock outcroppings, was what looked like a saw mill, over a mile away. It seemed to be heavily occupied.

  “Runners...damn!” I noted quietly as I observed through my rifle scope. “There are hundreds of them, maybe a thousand; perhaps even more.”

  “So many in one place.” Brick was looking through his scope, too. “Strange. It’s not like this area is a population hub, and there doesn’t seem to be anything to feed so many. Fishing tournament when they were hit, maybe? Workers at the mill?”

  “I don’t know.” I replied, “But we’ll have to give them plenty of room, and stay downwind. This won’t be easy.”

  It soon became evident that there were single runners and small packs milling around the woods below us, sniffing and scavenging. Even as we prepared to move with practiced stealth, we soon became aware that our plan was doomed the moment we crested that rocky hilltop.

  Ben was the first on alert. Brick and I both comprehended the canine’s crouch, the fur on his back spiking up, ears laid back. “Here we go...” I sighed, weapons ready.

  Then a runner lunged from the nearby woods, slightly downhill. Then another, then a half dozen sprinting and snarling living nightmares crashed towards us. There was no time to use silent weapons... and there were too many.

  It took only a few seconds to put down the attack, but the multiple gunshots to do so proved to be an irresistible beckoning to the starving horde below. Even at that distance and without magnification, it was clear that the mass was moving, sliding in our direction like some evil, dark fat snake on the land. It was a chilling sight.

  Without a word, Brick, Ben and I took off at an easy run, allowing no panic; maintaining steady breathing; listening for any ghouls who were almost certainly closer than the following host of flesh eaters. Our speed reminded me of my days on the track team with my twin sister, Scottie. She was long distance and I was the sprinter. I had to smile. Ahh, good times...

  After a scramble back down to the road, we kept up a rapid trot for a couple of hours, but the leg damage that Brick had suffered in the Camp Puller fight was clearly causing him to suffer and limp, especially on one side. What was an easy jog for me was proving to be a disaster for Brick. He would not be able to keep up the pace.