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

by Stafford, Myles

  “Nicki,” He eventually wheezed out, sweating profusely. “I’m going to hole up in the fish camp that we left this morning. We both know that I can’t run all the way to Stovepipe, but I know that you and Ben can.”

  I knew what Brick had in mind without hearing the words. He would “hole up”, then blast his ammunition into the mass of insane monsters, with the hope of slowing their assault and buying time for me with his sacrifice.

  “Not gonna happen, kemosabe, not in this life.” I responded firmly. “Besides, I never thought a Sioux brave would give up so easily.” I continued, teasing. “Especially Lakota.” As I said that I removed the emergency rope braid from my right wrist and began unraveling it, jogging all the while. “Stop a sec!”

  We stopped and I quickly bound up Brick’s leg tightly with the rope, giving it a firm, supportive muscle wrap; then I grabbed a solid stick and passed it to Brick for support.

  Brick smiled at me and drew a line on his left cheek, then pointing at my scar.

  “I know,” I said, “I can feel it.” We both grinned and took off. The compression wrap was working. We were moving faster and Brick was doing better. Still, we had a long way to travel.

  If we held that pace, we would make the same trip that had taken us a day and a half in about four more hours. No stopping to explore, or eat, and sipping water from our bite-valves only as necessary. Everything would be done on the run. Brick was holding up, so far. Between breaths, we chatted or told jokes to distract our minds from our growing discomfort.

  Skittish deer ran past us in the same direction that we traveled as we rushed towards the coast. Then other animals. Panic. The hungry runners were closing in on us. Once a runner locks onto a target, it rarely disengages, but this chase was unprecedented.

  Miraculously, I eventually spotted four or five medium-sized girls’ bikes on the side of a ghostly cabin. “God, there’s even some air left in the tires.” Even more fortunate, much of our remaining escape was downhill.

  We jumped on the brightly colored bikes and raced down rubble filled roads as best as we could, dodging the detritus of a lost world, and cutting around damaged areas, sometimes crashing in our haste.

  At one point, I glanced over my shoulder and was stunned to see hundreds of the starving flesh eaters stumbling over each other in their pursuit of us; only the most powerful could have gained so much on us... but even those were beginning to lag. Contrary to myth, runners have limits. Runners slow down with exertion; some stop altogether and sometimes finally, truly die. I could see signs of exhaustion in those horrible faces and scarred bodies.

  Edge of town. It looked as though we would make it to the dock, but Brick was flagging badly. I shouted, “Ben! Go to Gus!” Ben refused. “Go!” I commanded forcefully. Ben took off at a speed that could never be matched by anyone, living or dead, quickly disappearing around a corner.

  No runners in sight. “Come on Brick!” We entered the street that paralleled the waterfront, shops blocking our view of anything in pursuit. Off the bikes and onto the dock... we had made it. Then behind us, multiple shotgun blasts in rapid succession.

  Instinctively positioning my rifle for a fight, I looked back from the dock. Gus was standing now between us and the fastest of the undead, blasting away; pumping out shells and then rapidly reloading, walking backwards, with Ben nearby in great anxiety.

  “I have this!” I yelled at Brick as he moved towards me. No further communication was necessary, Brick knew what I was in my mind. He immediately charged to the boat and readied it for our getaway as I pulled up my rifle, myself heading back towards the old man.

  “Come on Gus!” I yelled, then braced my feet, crouching slightly over my rifle. I started firing... and never wasted a bullet. My mind was clear; the world slowed down. Calm and smooth. I smiled. My father would be proud...

  Gus was trotting towards me with his slight limp, grinning and reloading as he moved. Not too shabby for an old guy, I felt warm affection, like my Grampa.

  Gus and Ben boarded and shoved off as I continued to knock down the fastest rot eaters. I admit that I was loving the action; the exhilaration was there for me, I cannot deny it. For many, the pandemonium that can accompany mortal danger creates severe mental confusion and multiple mistakes. Under such circumstances, I am fortunate that my mind becomes focused, decisive, even comfortable, without any trace of shock or panic. Yes, I am indeed fortunate for these gifts...and they have saved my life uncountable times.

  Brick pulled the pin on one of his remaining grenades and tossed it into the nearest pack. “Get down!” He yelled and I did, laying behind a log car stop. The small bomb exploded with great force, sending body parts skidding across the dock. Time to move!

  I made the easy jump to the sailer, reloaded, then Brick and I continued to buy time with a continuous barrage of gunfire as Gus did his best to gain precious distance for us from shore.

  We were thirty feet from the doc when the main horde appeared, a frightening, ghastly mass of screaming, frothing maniacs. They hit the dock and did not stop as the seething legion surged into the water, most of them sinking rapidly, hands outstretched, eyes bulging as they churned and sucked in seawater.

  “Whew, that was close!” Brick panted and sat back. “Look at ‘em. Jesus!” He paused for a moment, “No worries now, though, runners can’t swim. Definitely not swimmers.”

  As if on cue, we were all shocked by a loud thump on the hull of our small boat. An obstacle? Then another thump. Then many.

  Gus and I looked at Brick. “Yo ho, it’s what I heard!” He said.

  “It’s probably at most only twenty feet deep or so here. They’re pushing off of the bottom.” Gus noted. We looked back in the slow wake of our only means of escape and could see ghastly heads and arms popping up out of the water, then re-submerging.

  Then, suddenly, nasty looking arms and a wet head appeared above the stern. A quick shot from one of my pistols put it down. Then another. For the next half-hour, Brick and I kept the boat clear of uninvited guests, as Gus set full sail and took us to the safety of deep water.

  ~

  Admittedly, I was thoroughly demoralized. It was quite a setback to my quest. We were so close...

  Brick noticed me staring into the dark ocean waters, “Je suis désolé mon ami.” He said softly. His thick Creole accent made me smile.

  “Ah, mon chere ami, nous serons victorieux!” I replied; I would not be defeated.

  Brick knew me well now, and could feel the fire in my soul and hear the strength in my voice...and he believed.

  “Bon; tres bon.” He said quietly with a confident smile, looking more than ever like the proud and handsome descendant of ancient warriors that he was. Brick was evolving into something greater; we both were.

  Gus interrupted our exchange as he poured over a large map. “I have an idea. It may take longer, but maybe there is a another approach to this problem.”

  Brick and I gathered around Gus’s map. “Why not let me take you north where we can go inland via the New Thames river. We’ll sail west through Seaport, then south on up the Blue Dog river. I’m sure I can get you as far as Wilsonville, where the falls are. From there, you could hike around the falls, pick up a canoe or rowboat, then continue your trip. You’ll be pushing against the current, but at any point you could leave the Blue Dog and follow the railroad tracks to Braidwood, where your folks are. Either way, you make it.

  “It’s farther than shooting straight overland from the coast, but with those steep hills and Brick’s problem leg, you’d have a better shot this way. It gives Brick time to heal, and maybe the opposition and the terrain won’t be so difficult, since you will be in the valley flat country. What do ya think?”

  I considered carefully. It was our best move. It would definitely take longer, but the advantages were obvious and compelling.

  So I agreed, “Yes, let’s do it Gus. It’s a good plan, don’t you think Brick?” He nodded his approval. I knew that he quietly cursed
himself for the concerned placed upon his damaged leg.

  In spite of being a self-styled “loner,” Brick was my partner now, and I was confident and proud of our team. We had been through too much together to change that, and I intended to get him at least to my grandparents’ home, maybe even farther. Plus, the journey by water would be relaxing and comparatively carefree, unlike the immediate struggle that would be necessary to make a beeline from the next suitable port.

  We needed the time to recover and replenish supplies. Nevertheless, I was determined to move with deliberate focus and speed. Something inside of me was telling me that it was time to get to my grandparents. I felt a foreboding that was tugging at my conscience, affecting my mood and normally robust spirit. With each passing day, the feeling grew stronger. I pressed Gus to make the most headway possible.

  Unexpectedly, both Brick and I were becoming accomplished sailors, and we each took shifts to maximize speed. The New Thames river was reached without incident and in good time. Along the way, we stopped at a useful port where provisions were ample, to include freeze-dried foods, ammunition, batteries, medical supplies and a few little radios.

  That evening, I was pleased to hear the midnight sound of the Camp Puller transmission on the short wave band, along with a few other signals in other languages - Spanish for sure, occasionally French, and maybe Japanese. There were obviously pockets of civilization around the globe, but I had no way to determine their size, but they were probably very small; the transmissions were just too unsophisticated to have been produced by any government entity or commercial enterprise. Although interesting and sometimes informational, none were designed to be purely entertaining. That would surely be a sign of vastly improved circumstances somewhere.

  The twice daily radio report from Camp Puller always included hopeful personal messages from various survivors. It was, by far, the most polished and organized radio station that we could pick up.

  On occasion, the Camp Puller announcer would make mention of Nicki Redstone, Brick Charbonneau and Ben, usually a thank you from someone we had assisted on the road. Sometimes it was a more elaborate homage, perhaps an embellished description of some clash for which we were far too modest to relate with the appropriate story-telling flourish that listeners seemed to crave in the post-apocalypse.

  Survivors who were aided in some meaningful way, or perhaps even rescued by us were definitely not so reserved in their accolades, sometimes exaggerating to the ridiculous. It is thus that determined individuals become larger than life heroes, I suppose. For us, it made for entertaining listening, even if the grandiose language was sometimes well over the top, and called for embarrassed apologies to Gus.

  ~

  Seaport would not be used as a landing target, a decision that we made long before arriving. It was just too big. There were masses of noisy seagulls and barking sea lions everywhere. As we cruised past giant tankers and cruise liners, the justification for the decision to bi-pass the port was abundantly apparent. This harbor was designed for gargantuan platforms, and given that this was once a heavily populated city, the likelihood of encountering an overpowering enemy was too much to risk. We already possessed what we required, and pressed on up river to the Blue Dog junction, thankfully unmolested.

  Brick and Gus noticed that I had grown increasingly quiet over the preceding few days, and the humorous side of my personality had vanished entirely. Ben stayed closer to me then, more than ever, obviously worried. We all suffered from nightmares, but my “sleep fights”, as Gus called them, seemed to be growing in intensity.

  Having had a previous night watch, Gus made an observation one morning: “Must have been one helluva fight last night, Nicki. Was I in it and did I make it?” I know that Gus, in his kind, fatherly way, was trying to lighten my thoughts - and to get me to open up.

  “Not your time, Gus, thank God, but it was bad. It was those ten minutes in Pinebluff, near Camp Puller.... I am there, every night.” I gathered my thoughts, “I’ve done so much, seen so many awful things - we all have - but that moment in time won’t leave me. Seeing Brick fall...feeling the crush of the runners, their bodies, their smell, the escape with Ben, slamming into the other roof...The whole thing is taking over my dreams, over and over.”

  Brick always encouraged cathartic conversation; it helped us all. “I marveled at your control, Nicki, especially when we realized that we were the new targets for the runners. I thought every poor soldier was dead then and we were next in line, but you had it all together. I am not ashamed to admit it, but I took strength from your steady calm. I swear that I saw you smiling, as though you enjoyed it all.”

  I finally cheered a little. “The adrenaline rush, the fight against an overwhelming enemy, yes, I am guilty of feeling the thrill; but then I saw the end, and you were down and I had no ability to help; then reality slammed me hard. No more family. No future. Nothing. No one would know what happened to me. The end of everything, and there was nothing I could do to stop it. The reality and horror of that moment is what haunts me now.”

  The conversation continued for hours, and would recommence in various forms often in the future. It was the only mental repair available to survivors in the new age. Even so, it was better than the attempted remedy of self absorption, which was no remedy at all.

  ~

  Chapter Eleven

  “Hedley”

  ~

  THE BLUE Dog falls at Wilsonville. Finally! Once again, it was time to part ways. Gus would stay in the vicinity for a few days, just in case, then make his way back to Greenport, which was north of the runner infested Stovepipe that had been our earlier landing preference.

  Ben was loathe to break the connection with Gus, having bonded with the old character. Still, wherever I went, Ben would follow, unto death if it were required of him.

  Brick, of course, ever anxious to move on, was relieved to be free from the confines of the small boat. It had many advantages, but he preferred to control movement with his own body, and was happy for the exercise. His legs were strong now, much healed and feeling good.

  The exhilaration of being on foot and in the forest was wonderful. The thought of folding our bodies into a canoe or rowboat was not exciting, but a small water craft would probably be most effective. If our plans remained intact, we would arrive in Braidwood in three days or less. Unfortunately, “plans” and “intact” were not two words that paired well in this strange world in which we now lived.

  Finding a suitable canoe was easy enough, but after a few hours on the water it was evident that we were paddling against a river current that was far stronger than anticipated.

  I mentioned it to Brick, “I’ve seen this river a few times and it has never been so high or so fast. There must have been some heavy rain recently.”

  Brick’s low key reply, “I think we are going backwards.”

  His words were simple to interpret, so we switched to our “Plan B”, which was to cut over to the railroad tracks and follow them south, straight into Braidwood.

  Hiking the rail line proved to be an efficient means of travel, for we met no people and saw few runners, and those were at a distance and easily avoided. The little townships through which the tracks passed provided suitable foraging for food and secure shelter. We made good time.

  We pondered the lack of interference, but feeling optimistic, I chalked it up to simple good fortune. Brick, on the other hand, was uneasy at our completely unimpeded travel, but he rarely voiced his worry.

  The second late afternoon off the river found us somewhat perplexed about travel direction, which was uncharacteristic of us, and nowhere near any town. The maps simply did not match reality on the ground. Upon finally encountering a massive interstate overpass, we reasoned out the mistake and easily identified our position but, due to the late hour, it was apparent that the enormous concrete structure would have to serve as our bivouac for the night. Not ideal.

  It was amazing how incredibly large a structure could be w
hen one was on foot. In a car, zipping by at 75 miles an hour, an interstate overpass was nothing; but as a pedestrian, it was an entirely different matter. “The massive size of these things always astounds me,” commented Brick. I agreed and echoed the same thought.

  We aimed for the top, where it appeared that a few abandoned, larger vehicles might provide suitable shelter. Sleeping under the overpass was not a safe option, since experience advised that dark corners and areas of shadow often hid surprises that were better avoided when possible.

  As we marched up the long incline, Ben stopped in mild alert, head up, sniffing the air. We waited. Then, from the shadows below came the disgusting and unnerving sounds of ugly croaking - audible evidence of gorged runners.

  “God knows what they ate, and I don’t want to see it,” Brick said in low tones. I agreed.

  Although we preferred not to remain in the area, as noted earlier it was too late to continue to a superior layover. A very nice RV at the highest part of the arched concrete pavement would provide a comfortable night’s shelter and an unobstructed view for hundreds of yards in all directions.

  We entered the luxury vehicle quietly and, once inside, paused to discuss ‘what ifs’ and various escape plans, should they become necessary. Then we enjoyed a decent meal, followed by weapons and gear maintenance. As soon as the sun set, we were asleep, relying on our own naturally sensitive abilities - and Ben - to provide warning of approaching danger.

  Shortly before sunrise, in the very earliest dawn light, I snapped awake, fully alert to strange noises. I looked at Brick. He felt the same thing. Survivor instincts. Ben had already perched himself in ready mode at the back window.

  Within seconds, we had gathered and donned our gear and moved to Ben’s position, looking out through the curtain. There, standing silently, very still and fairly straight, with arms at their sides and heads down, were five ominous human forms. Runners.