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

by Stafford, Myles

  In spite of being courteously invited inside, I did not feel welcome, and had the distinct feeling of some ill-will directed towards me. Ben was essentially ignored, although he too was invited indoors. It was not the triumphant homecoming that I had expected and hoped for Brick, but he did not seem surprised, although I had the impression that the presence of the uncle was unexpected and maybe even somewhat annoying. Possible drama in the post-apocalyptic world for my great friend. Damn.

  Although there were undertones of something negative, we enjoyed a meal that was entirely satisfactory, comprised of a good variety of prepared dishes, some of which were fresh off of the vine.

  Brick and his wife took a walk outside before the sun had set, while his uncle, Ben and I relaxed near the fireplace, engaged in idle conversation. Brick’s and Susan’s home was tastefully decorated in modern style, with many native American contributions, and even a few pieces of New Orleans artwork. Overall, a comfortable and homey effect. Even so, I was uneasy at detecting no sign of children.

  Later in the evening, I was provided a comfortable bed in a small room upstairs. I noticed that Brick’s wife retired to her room alone. I wanted to stand by my life and death friend, to give him a loyal ear, but the circumstances were not right, and the necessary distance from my warrior friend made me ache to be back on the road. I did not like it there, and I felt deep resentment towards anyone who would mistreat this gentle, yet brave man, or cause him any pain whatsoever. In any other circumstance, I could and would take forthright action, as is my nature, but it was not my place to be so bold there. I could feel sadness in this great man who had become my brother. I felt weak and powerless to help him, a situation and feeling that I detested to my core. As my anger and frustration grew, I knew that I must press on without delay.

  In the morning, the world seemed brighter. The air was cool, and Brick’s uncle was inquisitive and affable. He had learned of a few of our adventures, but asked us to fill in gaps, or to correct distortions presented on the radio or by those extremely rare gossip carrying travelers who were actually heading somewhere east, when all others were moving west.

  Eventually, Brick and I had a few moments alone.

  “I guess I’m not the white captive they were looking for.” I joked, remembering a bit of humor that Brick had placed upon me early in our friendship.

  “Ah, Nicki,” Brick replied, “How can I apologize for someone like her, but I do so anyway; and I do not know what to make of this long absent uncle. Unfortunately, there are very few others left in the area, but it is home and I am here.” Then he paused heavily.

  “My boys did not make it, Nicki. They fell ill later in the epidemic. They did not share my resistance.” My heart broke for my dearest friend as he softly shared the tragic news. Of all the sadness in this new world, Brick’s loss cut especially deep, and I could barely maintain my own calm. I would do anything for this knight-errant, yet I could do nothing more than offer heartfelt words and my shoulder – feeling so inadequate.

  Brick knew that I could not linger. When I departed, he would remain with his wife, as was planned all along, but the arrangement seemed, to me at least, incorrect and unnatural. Nevertheless, I knew my friend well, and understood that he would honor his oath and obligations, unreasonable though those seemed.

  The next morning, shortly after dawn, I said my final farewell to the closest, most dear friend that I had ever known, and moved on down the road.

  Discarding the bike, and traveling only with Ben, I felt more at home in my old style of quick-paced travel. I would have to become re-accustomed to moving and surviving alone, and forced myself to think of anything but my loneliness. It felt almost as though Brick had died, as I was not certain that I would ever see his noble and understanding face again. God, it was so terribly difficult and lonely. The unknown lay ahead, and it filled me with foreboding.

  At night I would often scan various radio frequencies to gather whatever news was available. More and more, there were survivors passing on updates and advice. There was some speculation about my location and situation, which is understandable given that I had avoided contact with most travelers. Also, there was a request from a small group of survivors in Maine who wanted to make it to Hedley. They wanted advice on weapons, handling runners, secure travel, and so on. I would have taught them all that I knew, but there simply was no way to deliver the information, unfortunately. I could not be everywhere at once.

  Waking in the morning with an empty and depressed feeling, I cheered myself by remembering how, before meeting Brick, I sometimes sprinted through winding back roads of California with Ben, thrilled at my invincibility and a song in my heart as I traced my way north to Oregon. The thought livened my spirit and I marched on with a lighter gait.

  I recalled sweaty days back in middle-school, running track in Florida with my twin sister. That hard endurance training gave me another foundation for survival in the post-apocalypse.

  Scottie was a long distance athlete, breezing through the miles with stamina, whereas I was always a sprinter, using up everything that I had within minutes. I would run until I thought my lungs would burst as I pushed through extreme limits. Not always victorious, but I would never, ever quit, and I never stopped trying, even though I was sometimes dangerously close to running myself into a delirious, gasping heap on the school pavement.

  Such good times...

  Chapter Four

  “River”

  ONE SURPRISING side-effect of the runner virus was exceptionally good health for those who proved immune to the airborne disease. Virtually all of mankind’s ailments disappeared within the first year following the pandemic. No cancer; no diabetes; no heart trouble; no malaria; no colds...almost nothing. The surviving population, when nourished and protected from harm, became almost like new. Over time, gray hair vanished; skin became clear and youthful on older survivors; injuries healed well. Everyone enjoyed a high level of fitness. It has been proposed that life-expectancy will be much extended, but confirming that theory will, of course, take many, many years.

  There is also evidence that the birth rate is significantly down, but whether that is a psychological reaction to life in the new age, or the result of change brought on by the runner virus is unknown.

  Keeping compass and map directed towards the Missouri River, my goal was to acquire some manageable watercraft wherein Ben and I could make reasonably secure and swift travel to the Mississippi, and then debark somewhere in southern Louisiana.

  My father had taught me the art of land navigation, a skill that was honed when GPS satellites failed. Brick further increased my capacity for understanding wilderness travel, along with some basic tracking education, although he had an extreme natural ability that I could never come close to matching.

  In less than a week after saying goodbye to my great friend, I was pleased to see the expanse of the mighty waterway from a hilltop advantage. By late morning Ben and I were on the water in a small day sailer. Thankfully, I had learned the basics of sailing from Gus off the Oregon and California coasts, frequently practicing the skill under his kind schooling. Ah, I miss that fine man. This type of watercraft was useful, being stable, efficient and roomy, with space for a few extra supplies and a small covered area to shelter us from rain. I was determined to stick with the craft as long as the river provided clear passage.

  Generally, the flow was smooth and wide, with a noticeable current, so Ben and I were able to make good time as I kept us tacked generally far from shore. The days were often long and monotonous. I missed Brick’s company, as he was an excellent conversationalist, being well versed in a great many topics, and he often stretched my mind with positions and opinions that I had not previously considered. I know that, on occasion, he would take an obnoxiously divergent thought purely to create debate and stimulate creative thinking. I learned a great deal from him. He must have been one mind-bending teacher.

  Brick gave me considerable insight into the Native American e
xperience, educating me on many events, injustices, failures and successes of which I was entirely clueless. He had the remarkable capacity to examine and describe history from multiple perspectives, eliminating as much modern bias as possible. His expansive knowledge of history encompassed many peoples, including his own Creole and Sioux lineage, of course, and revealed a remarkable, yet modest brilliance. I have always been enormously proud to call Brick Charbonneau “friend”. What an honor it was to have stood by his side.

  I often wondered how my mighty warrior-teacher-friend was faring in my absence. Oh how I missed his sturdy and witty companionship.

  Chapter Five

  “Tracking Nicki”

  - Brick -

  FOLLOWING Nicki Redstone was usually easy, but catching up with her was impossible, a difficulty that did not surprise. Beginning my pursuit nearly a week after her departure was terribly frustrating, though. It had not taken long to comprehend that my wife and I no longer shared any connection whatsoever, emotional or otherwise. Further, it became exceedingly apparent that her attentions were focused on my uncle, even if furtively. Strangely, I was not in the least fazed by that awareness; I had experienced far too many greater events than to be disturbed by something so ordinary. At her request, and without ceremony, we ended our relationship; “split the blanket” some would say. We would never meet again.

  I knew Nicki’s general direction of travel and ultimate objective, of course, and the occasional traveler whom I encountered easily identified her, even if she never spoke to them, something that was not uncommon for Nicki. She was cautious and therefore disinclined to engage strangers, unless there was a good reason for doing so. Nevertheless, she was distinctively attired - noticeably so, even at a distance – if you were lucky enough to see her at all. Plus, with Ben by her side, identification was not difficult for anyone who paid attention.

  Survivors who did see her were often excited about the event, a “Nicki Redstone sighting”, as I called them in teasing humor. My description always made her chuckle in the past. Nicki was a quick wit and had an easy laugh, which often brought comfort to those who might otherwise be petrified in fear. I smile at the thought even now as I write.

  Those few who actually met her usually enjoyed a meal in her company and, on rare occasion, were permitted to camp within the screen of her unbroken vigilance and unyielding protection. They would describe her routines at night with a certain amount of awe, and reported having a wonderful, secure night of sleep when she was near. Nicki had that effect on people; I witnessed it many times. Survivors, not only children, often would plead with her to remain with them. But she could not.

  I was keenly familiar with her preferred nighttime layovers, and the occasional pistachio shells and milk bone crumbs often provided heartwarming verification that I was on the right path to my dearest friend.

  Sometimes the trademarks of her movements were as pronounced as dynamite in a cardboard box, but when she took to river travel her trail was not so easy to follow, and I fretted about missing her departure from the current. With each day of that trek I fell a little farther behind her. I easily deduced that she was moving faster than normal; Nicki’s determination to find her sister was revealed in her impatient pace. That pace must have taken a toll on her physically, since it exceeded my own stamina. I was losing weight in my effort to keep up. I ate constantly, but was always hungry and thirsty.

  Many days into my journey, I was forced into a lengthy detour off of the river, which proved advantageous to my mission, since, as expected, I soon learned that my friend had earlier taken the same path.

  I glanced occasionally at my map, mainly from habit, since Nicki’s direction of travel would be the most direct route back to the river, straight across what was essentially a peninsula. Strangely, I detected that she had backtracked across a small creek, a tactic that would mean she was being followed. Indications of trouble were not anywhere evident, something that was always a relief to me.

  I surveyed the horizon and soon spotted a forest ranger tower not far from the bridge. I had to smile, as I knew my friend would have rested there for the night, so I moved promptly for a closer look.

  Examination of the elevated facility was gratifying, and numerous puzzling questions were swiftly answered. She and Ben were clearly in good health; there had been no expended ammunition, and it seemed that she had trusted in the company of two male survivors and their pets, at least for the night.

  The next morning, I followed her trail at my maximum speed, as the sky darkened with impending stormy weather. It became quickly clear to me that Nicki again traveled only with Ben; the fate of her companions having become a mystery to me, and was not my concern. Very soon Nicki’s trail would be obliterated by rain. I moved rapidly.

  Finally, at one disturbing point, I found strange and shifting signs of her progress, which indicated some inexplicable detour, but I decided not follow them in detail, as I knew exactly where she would have spent the night – a cliff face above a small cluster of country shops.

  I swiftly moved to the promontory, easily surmounting the height as dusk darkened the landscape. Examination of the site proved my assumption to be correct, although I was terribly disturbed at the most pronounced evidence of her stay.

  A heavy rain began falling, with a sharp, bitterly cold wind whipping icy slivers into my eyes and stinging my skin. Ignoring the discomfort, I pulled out a headlamp and studied the ledge, even as my gloved fingers grew stiff in the chill. There was still evidence of a small campfire and several empty boxes of rifle and pistol shells, the very same type used by Nicki. My muscles reflexively tightened with nervous tension at those boxes, since it was clear that Nicki had been into something big, but seeing no medical debris, I felt safe in assuming that she had survived unscathed.

  As I examined further, I found that the back wall of this little rocky alcove contained an ancient, vertical slab of rock, upon which, in carefully inscribed one-inch letters, the following had been etched:

  193 souls. I failed you. My heart is broken.

  I am forever in sorrow.

  N.R.

  As I read those words, a grave sense of foreboding washed over me. What did this mean? One hundred ninety-three souls? Something terrible had occurred there.

  Failure? Nicki had failed? How? What happened? I could feel my heart beating faster as my body pressed me to charge off into the wet darkness to find my friend. I resisted the nearly overpowering urge to do so, since to move at speed after nightfall would be suicidal, and at best would only slow me down when exhaustion conquered my body. I wanted to weep and shout for Nicki’s pain.

  Something unimaginable had happened here – one hundred ninety-three souls. I lay awake thinking about the implication. I would not linger beyond the night to uncover the mystery; I had a much more demanding objective: To find Nicki Redstone as soon as humanly possible. I was thankful that Ben trekked with her.

  Chapter Six

  “The Shelter”

  - Nicki -

  OCCASIONALLY, MY comfortable water travel was inhibited by impassable obstructions, in each case a destroyed bridge was the problem, no doubt the result of a probably futile effort by unknown survivors to halt a mass assault by the raging undead.

  When forced by such circumstances, Ben and I necessarily abandoned our watercraft to circumvent any problem, then acquired a replacement on the downriver side. Abandoned boats were in abundance on the Missouri, fortunately.

  On one occasion, however, our obstacle was far more significant than just a blown bridge, since the destruction was widespread and massive, probably nuclear in origin. I would not risk investigating.

  We docked our boat and took off on foot, giving the burned out ruins a wide berth, and targeting a town that was two days away, but one that promised plenty of suitable boats and opportunities to re-provision.

  As we tracked along empty back roads on the first day of this major detour, it became apparent that we were being followed.
I detected the potential foe – two people - while conducting my late afternoon scan from a tall radio tower perch, right before sunset, and then noticed the duo again the following evening. These people could not be simply moving identically in my direction, since the pace that I kept would not possibly permit coincident movement. No, these were trackers who were using a pair of small breed dogs to assist, possibly beagles. It had to be tough going, though, given the speed at which I traveled, and I smiled at the thought.

  “We may have company soon, Ben,” I said to my companion; he woofed in understanding. He, too, was aware of our followers, perhaps scenting them in the air.

  Although I knew that I could easily evade my trackers if I chose to do so. Once aware of them, I decided instead to interrupt their progress and learn their intentions. It would be interesting to know their motivation, and whether they were friend or foe.

  In the late morning of the following day Ben and I crossed a small highway bridge. Once over, I walked a short distance upstream, purloined an aluminum row boat, recrossed the river to the other side, then hiked up to a hidden location where I could observe and evaluate my potential adversaries, being careful to position myself downwind from my quarry.

  Within an hour or so, two young men, possibly in their late teens, came puffing and sweating along, holding the leashes of two handsome beagles. They seemed modestly equipped, and I evaluated their new age survival skills and reaction ability to be mediocre at best.

  I stepped into the street behind them, rifle on my back and hands on my vest – my usual unassuming and seemingly unprepared stance when meeting strangers.

  “Why are you following me?” I asked loudly.

  Both of the men whipped around in some fear, instinctively reaching for their shouldered guns. In the flick of an eyelash, I aimed a pistol at each of them before they could complete the effort. They were so slow!