THE KILLER ANGEL : Book Three Journey (THE KILLER ANGEL TRILOGY 3)

by Stafford, Myles

  Faster than thought, that stinking, crushing horde of vomitous undead raged full upon me with maniacal shrieking fury. I knew well that awful sensation, I had felt it before; that hungry swarm of insane man-eaters that would destroy without mercy, their malodorous breath hot upon my neck; their broken teeth tearing into my leather; those slashing, ripping, clawing brown nails digging into my face, as the runners knocked each other down in their horrid frenzy.

  No, I would not become one with them, never. They would not count me in their kind, even if a scrap of my body was left unshredded to become so. I struggled against the ravenous creatures and pulled one gun from my vest, even as the screeching insanity enveloped me. I’m so sorry Kip! I pressed the barrel into my heart, my finger on the trigger, and prepared to end the legend of Nicki Redstone forever, no hero’s ending and no witness...no one to relate the inglorious end to a onetime legend.

  Even then, even in my own dark despair, I could hear the agony of my dearest, ever faithful companion as he vented the sound that is made only by an animal suffering in-extremis, a most painful, fearsome death. My suffering Ben would not leave my defeated side, and was paying the price for his loyalty and courage.

  How had it all come to this?

  Images of my grandparents flashed through my mind.

  Hugs.

  Tears of love.

  Kisses goodbye.

  My beloved Kip.

  Brick, Ben and I marched out through the Hedley gates on a new adventure. Destination: Florida, three thousand miles distant. We were strong and confident.

  Success was assured...

  Journey...

  Our bodies had once again hardened to long, arduous travel, as we had successfully traversed the Rocky Mountains following an all too brief respite in Hedley with my beloved Kip and my grandparents. God, how I miss them.

  With me always was Brick Charbonneau, proud son of a Lakota Sioux father and a New Orleans Creole mother. Witty, well educated, full of good cheer and always ready for the fray - my closest friend and fighting companion. Brick had seen me in all circumstances, and perhaps understood me better than anyone. He could read the most subtle change in my expression and could act upon it without a word. No more noble soul ever walked the earth.

  And Ben...my dear, beautiful Ben. More than once this faithful German Shepherd had saved my life, nearly losing his in the process. We have been through so much together in this new world, surviving as a team almost from the beginning. I never understood how this magnificent animal chose to bond with me, but I have never regretted the arrangement for a second.

  The three of us had seen it all, reborn as a tight family of survivors in the post-apocalypse. I sometimes pondered who I had become, compared to who I had been. Before the end, I could never have foreseen – and definitely never would have believed – the incredible things that I have done and the horrors I have witnessed. Sometimes I have trouble believing it all myself. I would never say that rapid and dangerous action became routine, but ripping victory from hundreds of deadly confrontations tends to make one somewhat comfortable with the process – mentally and physically – and confident in the outcome.

  Failure means death... I will not fail.

  I have always enjoyed waking up on cool, misty mornings and donning my gear. Each piece supplied a measure of confidence and feelings of security. Velcro straps and buckles firmly held various weapons and tools against my arms and legs, giving a solid, comforting feeling; and the dagger precisely placed into a sheath within my long braid was a thin, stiff weight of power - a final defense that had proved its value more than once. Then my kit: Armored gloves; a leather jacket; my custom-made weapons vest; top-flight athletic shoes; lightweight hydration pack; and – of course – my guns, all cleaned, oiled, loaded and precisely positioned for quick access. Finally, a good stretch and I was ready for action.

  Our original goals had always been twofold: To return Brick to a hopefully healthy family in South Dakota; and for me to locate my family and Kip’s father in Florida, with the further objective of bringing them back with me to Hedley, Oregon.

  In spite of the extreme distances and time required to accomplish those tasks, a greater urgency was placed upon us when we received a startling radio transmission from Kip’s father, Marshall Kellogg, to my twin sister Scottie Redstone in Florida, the contents and tone of which revealed extreme stress, and demanded action on our parts without further delay.

  Brick, Ben and I regretfully departed Hedley shortly thereafter, without the power and presence of my Kip, due to the long rehabilitation required for injuries he had recently suffered.

  The wide open spaces made the use of mountain bikes an effective and safe means of travel, with Ben often enjoying the ride in a comfortable cargo trailer, all items having been easily acquired at a large bicycle enthusiasts store. The best of everything was available for the taking.

  Epic distances notwithstanding, Idaho and Montana provided surprisingly pleasant and relatively smooth navigation. On the long slopes of some highways we occasionally were still able to find vehicles with enough air in the tires to enable comfortable, rapid downhill movement in neutral gear, with our equipment easily thrown in back. Starting any engine was impossible, of course. Even if a battery had any juice, the old gasoline had long gone bad and gummed up engine parts and fouled every necessary component. Still, with the windows down, one could remember how relatively easy life had been, not so very long ago. Ahhh...nice!

  “I’m thinking of quitting the rescue business,” I announced to Brick one morning as we cruised down an especially long, slow incline, with Brick behind the wheel.

  “Hrammmm...Nicki Redstone retires. No, I don’t see it,” Brick responded. “It wouldn’t be ‘Nicki Redstone and Brick’ anymore, just ‘Brick’...that doesn’t sound good. It’s BRICK...huh? What the hell?” Brick was always good at dealing with my humor.

  “No, I’m not liking this idea; it’s very unpleasant to me. Retirement application rejected.”

  “I’m thinking about returning to the biz...I was an actor, you know, fairly successful, too.”

  “Hah, yes, acting, so I have heard and believe.” Brick smiled and glanced at me as he put his arm out stiffly to signal a lane change, never missing a chance for a chuckle. “Besides you and Kip, I’ve met only one other actor, and he was chewing on my arm, so to be honest, my feelings are mixed. Besides, given your resume, you would only be allowed in action movies. ‘Might as well do what you do best.”

  “Je ne sais quoi.” I said. “What would that be?”

  “Kill runners and save the world.” Brick said nonchalantly.

  As the incline depleted itself, our vehicle slowed to a stop. We sat briefly in contemplation and surveyed the calm, dry landscape. I popped the shells off of pistachio nuts, my favorite snack, passed a few to Brick, and then gave Ben a milk bone. A gentle breeze cooled my cheek. Chilly weather seemed to increase sensation in my scar.

  “Brick,” I said slowly, lightly confirming the position of my rifle’s safety switch as we munched. “I fear that, one day, I will not stop. The edge of... out of control fury... of insane rage... is close for me...sometimes. You don’t feel this?”

  Brick paused and looked at me with his wise, brown eyes, “Non, mon ami, I do not. You have enough for both of us. Your rage is your strength, even though you fear it unleashed. I know your soul and I have heard your vow. I am guided by it and by you. I am here with you, Nicki...always.”

  The one superior quality that I possessed, the one talent that had - so far - proven unbeatable, was the speed of my hands - both hands. That gift did not make me invincible, but that speed, combined with resourcefulness, athleticism and, above all, confidence, had given me the edge in every conflict. I prayed these capabilities would never fail me.

  I remained calm and at ease...but I lacked patience.

  Chapter Two

  “The Weak”

  IT WAS an explosive moment requiring an immediate decision t
o separate or commit to unified action – the lives of our new friends could well have depended on the result. Failure was more likely if we remained together.

  Split up!

  Brick and I rarely separated, for many excellent reasons. Once two people were disconnected in the “new wilderness” without a very specific travel route, destination point, and a backup assembly plan, it may not have been possible for those two people to reconnect. If one party was lost or waylaid by trouble, how would the other person find them, unless a specific contingency was always in place? There were no cell phones, no GPS, no police, and no one to assist.

  We tried two-way radios, but found that the added weight, unreliable range and connectivity, and relatively limited battery life were just too inhibiting to make them worthwhile. Solution: Stay together. It was simply too dangerous to separate if your strategy and objective called for connected movement. If you lost track of someone in this comparatively primitive environment, they might not ever be seen again, their absence a permanent mystery. Imagine the difficulties and fear in such a situation, searching unaided and alone.

  In spite of our extreme unwillingness to split our team, Brick and I found ourselves in precisely that unwelcome situation one month out of Hedley.

  While traveling through a fairly open and hilly area of western Montana, we encountered a fine family, the Claytons, consisting of a grandfather, his grown daughter, and her two beautiful high school age girls. In tow were two big, friendly mongrel dogs. They also had an old mule pulling a small cart of goods, which was an unusual sight.

  We had sometimes considered the assistance and speed of equine travel, but the unavoidable noise of the animals makes them dangerous companions. Horses, by nature, can be loud creatures, chomping, snorting and releasing gas like a firecracker, and to combine those dangerous negatives with the care that they required simply made them all too impractical. Plus, I could never forgive myself if we were jumped by runners and some dear saddled companion was brought down and savaged by the ravenous creatures. Still, the Claytons had a mule, and it seemed to work for them.

  The family was en route to Hedley, Oregon, where they hoped to begin a new life in the relative security of the slowly growing community. These folks were former “doomsday preppers” - shelter escapees; bunker dwellers - “survivalists”. Almost none of their type did, in fact, survive, since very few bunkers were designed to block an airborne virus, and those facilities that could forestall such a catastrophe were never designed for permanent habitation. I had seen a few. Most were empty; some remained the tragic habitation of runners, no doubt the former occupants.

  In spite of the positive nature of their journey, those gentle people proceeded in a state of mourning, having recently lost the only other man in the group a few days earlier, the twenty-year-old brother of the two girls.

  “We thought we were doing great when we reached Grayrock.” The grandfather, Dan, explained, “We were in good health and great spirits, no runner problems there, but then...we were taken by surprise in a country mall.” One of the teens wiped tears from her eyes as Brick and I listened in silence over a warm campfire. It was a sadly familiar story.

  Dan continued, “We were spread out a little in the mall when a rough group of guys came in, five in all, but I think there may have been more somewhere else. All ages, too, from sixteen to sixty, dressed mostly in hunting type camouflage clothing, but a couple were dressed New Jersey mafia style. They saw my granddaughters first, and it seemed that they had the intention of taking our girls as their ‘women’ since they made crude comments about not having been satisfied in months.”

  Brick and I knew where this was going, having encountered similar unrestrained human animals on occasions in the past. It was a grim reality of the apocalyptic age – the strong dominating the weak, taking what they wanted by force.

  My blood was beginning to boil with a force within me that could not tolerate the crimes of power that have haunted and tormented the innocent for millennia. I could see that Brick was calmly studying my face; he knew how I felt and could anticipate how it would end.

  “It happened fast. Those thugs tried to take our girls, but our boy Andy was around the corner and intervened. Andy had so much courage...” Dan’s voice broke for a moment in emotion, then he continued, “But they shot him, right there and then, in cold blood. There was no talk; it was just plain murder. They even laughed about it. My daughter Tam and I ran to the commotion, and then everything went crazy. We were shooting, they were shooting, our girls ran for cover. Our dogs were everywhere trying to help - my old hound dog Blue was tearing up one of the bastards before they gutted him with a knife.” Dan choked up at the retelling.

  “So we made it out. We knocked down one of them in the process, but I don’t know how bad he was hurt. We had to leave Andy’s body behind, and Blue, too. So we took off, and here we are. I’ll never get over it...” Dan trailed off in soft weeping, to be consoled in the loving arms of his own daughter, the careworn mother of the young, deceased hero. The adrenaline in my system had me trembling slightly, but I quietly concealed my agitation from everyone but Brick. He and I would discuss and consider this unhappy news when we were alone.

  After a time of quiet contemplation, the conversation slowly shifted to milder matters, of youthful dreams and survivor plans, and eventually it became apparent that the teens were staring at me with very interested eyes. Ah yes...that look...fans. I had quite forgotten my scar, that slash on my left cheek. It was hardly noticeable normally, unless I exerted myself or was worked up over something. Given my agitation, even in the firelight that white line must look fluorescent on my skin.

  “I didn’t notice your scar earlier, Miss Redstone...wow...just like they said on the radio.” One of the girls popped out without thinking. “Molly!” The mother cut her off. The “radio” that Molly mentioned was undoubtedly the Camp Puller retelling of our fight in Pinebluff. That clash was nearly the end of Brick, Ben and me, but it was also where we met the determined soldiers of the 101st Airborne Division and their remarkable leader, Captain Jack Carter. It was their twice daily radio transmissions, and also those of Hedley, that provided valuable assistance and advice to what remained of the world, to include the occasional updates regarding the adventures of Nicki Redstone, Brick Charbonneau and Ben.

  “It’s okay, I’m used to it,” I said with a smile. “Brick keeps on me about it. He says it tells him when it’s time to shoot.” A comment that gave everyone a small chuckle. The girls and their mother all looked at Brick with admiration. Tall, handsome, and exuding quiet confidence, his aura was magnetic to all, women and men alike.

  The remainder of the evening was spent in gentle small talk, as we shared histories, advice, and thoughts on the future. Ben stayed close to me, but was not unfriendly to the inquisitive sniffs of the Clayton pooches, and he was especially welcoming to the gentle attentions of the girls.

  As we sat on the ground enjoying the comfort of easy companionship, I noticed a small, yellow butterfly land on an ant hill, which produced an immediate and aggressive response from the occupants. Much to the imagined ire of the ants, I plucked the overwhelmed arthropod from the sand and gently blew off its attackers, and then sent the fluttering creature on its way. Brick observed and nodded, but did not smile. The symbolism was obvious, but not intentional.

  It’s just what I do...

  We learned that the Claytons had traveled far from the east. They had odd ideas about self-defense, and to me it was a wonder that they had made it this far.

  I was surprised to learn that they had heard word of my sister, but nothing specific, which I found to be terribly frustrating. All that they could tell me was that the name “Scottie Redstone” had been mentioned by an aimless wanderer who had never heard of me. He reportedly voiced annoyance upon learning that there were “two of us”. The man had declared his dislike for my sister, having escaped some conflict in which she was involved. He would say no more, but the Claytons
indicated some unease while in the man’s company; his character seemed doubtful, even dangerous. I was not surprised by his antipathy for my twin, for I, too, had made a few enemies among the predators in this new age.

  Good people make solid friends fast in this world of the very few, and those four travelers made me miss my own loved ones, those whom I had left behind a month earlier in Hedley, which was only one of two small centers of civilization known to exist in the apocalyptic world; and also those loved ones I was now in search of in Florida, with a very long journey in between. I missed my valiant fiance and idol, Kip Kellogg, who, being incapacitated, remained in Hedley with my grandparents, Gordon and Ellie Redstone; and I dearly missed my twin sister, Scottie, who was known to be in some state of intensity in Florida, along with Kip’s father, Marshall Kellogg. The whereabouts and condition of my estranged older sister, Tara, my mother, Marie-Soleil, and father, Carson Redstone, remained unknown.

  As always, in the evenings, Brick and I serviced our equipment and weapons, ensuring that everything was precisely where it belonged and in ready condition. I carried a standard military M4, 5.56mm ammunition firing rifle as my primary defense, with scope and light attached, along with a vest in which were usually four 9 mm, Glock 19 semi-automatic pistols, and one more holstered on my backside. That was almost ten pounds of loaded guns on my body, not counting the rifle. I used hollow-points wherever possible, and always kept a bullet in every chamber. I loaded myself down with ammunition, ready to go in large capacity magazines, dried food, and a one day supply of water, along with sundry other items, to include water purification, spare batteries, a head lamp, a small radio with ear buds, some medical supplies, and so on. I had upgraded my braided fishing line to 200 feet of 300 lbs capacity. I often kept a knife or steel rod on each of my arms and legs, and always a small dagger in my hair braid. I was comfortable with most handguns, but intentionally kept my selection to a minimum, which made for efficient handling during intense moments or in darkness.