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

by Stafford, Myles

  “Please wait here, Ms. Redstone.” Tim said as I gently rubbed Ben’s neck.

  Even though the other side of the glass was dark, I could feel eyes upon us.

  A light clicked on automatically in the small side room into which Tim had shuffled. He set down his bag and was rinsed off. He moved to another adjacent room, removed his suit, rinsed off again, then moved to a third chamber and dressed himself in well worn clothing.

  Tim Gardner, the man in the yellow suit, was just an ordinary looking guy, thin, rather pale, gray hair, maybe in his fifties. Nothing at all noteworthy.

  Finally, Tim completed the last stage of his return by passing his security card over a reader, then held it between his teeth as he turned a latch and shoved open a heavy door to the main bunker. As he did so, ceiling lights flickered on to reveal a very large, open room, perhaps a supply receiving area, packed with staring people.

  I was in shock. I had not seen so many living, breathing human beings in one place since this nightmare began. Could this be all of the one hundred ninety-three survivors? They were all pale and rather unwell looking. No doubt, two years underground was not the best environment for robust health.

  The whole place was unattractively sterile, as milk white walls and pale blue fluorescent tubes offered a cold, unhealthy contrast to the verdant, moist hills that were, for me, only a few easy paces away. The effect was terribly depressing.

  Ben and I stood motionless as Tim spoke with a few men, no doubt reporting in. I scanned the crowd, some sitting at tables, but many were standing. We must have made an interesting image for these people. Gorgeous Ben, with his harness and saddlebags, and me, covered in leather, weapons and a small backpack. No doubt a very strange sight to these people who, in many ways, probably still lived in an artificial version of the world that disappeared two years ago.

  Ceiling microphones picked up voices as a speaker crackled above my head.

  “Mr. Secretary,” Tim began, “I’d like to introduce you to Ms. Scottie Redstone.”

  Scottie Redstone? Where did they get that? My mind remembered Tim’s fear at first meeting me. Why would Scottie instill such terror?

  I could see faces move, expressions change, some pointing, mostly in wonder, as though looking at a celebrity...or a zoo animal.

  Ben lay down and relaxed on the floor, sensing that this might take awhile. His calm settled my tense nerves; I had not been on stage in a long while.

  “Welcome, Ms. Redstone,” words slowly spoken in a sonorous, western twang by a fatherly looking, white-haired, bearded gentleman. “We were hoping to entice someone to aid us, but we never hoped to engage someone of your stature. We hope you can forgive our method. We are aware of your reputation for searching out and ending oppression where you find it. Please...please be assured that we truly need assistance, and are reaching a point of desperation, but we would never intentionally set out to harm or imprison anyone.”

  I noticed that Tim had taken a chair, looking relieved and thirsty. He was gulping water and rubbing his thighs.

  “I get that, sir, no harm done,” I said calmly with a firm voice, although inside I knew I would not have been so easygoing had I found myself tangled in their foolish net trap. “Also, I am not Scottie Redstone.”

  Those words were met with puzzled looks, maybe even some alarm. The secretary looked at Tim, who shrugged.

  “That’s Nicki Redstone,” a teenage boy spoke up. The Secretary looked at the boy, then at Tim Gardner, who was looking very drowsy. That’s odd, I thought.

  Then a hubbub and murmuring recommenced across the room. I could hear a gaggle of comments as some looked in disbelief, while others pronounced their “I told you so...” to anyone nearby. It was humorous and worthy of live theater; but this wasn’t a stage, and I could not delay. It was obvious that they thought Nicki Redstone could do anything; I wished that were true.

  I spoke up loudly, “He is correct. I am Nicki Redstone. I don’t want to be rude, but I have urgent business elsewhere. How can I help you?”

  The talking and movement among the crowd once again ceased as the Secretary spoke, “We have supplies for approximately another eighteen months. Before outside, two-way communications ended, which was quite some time ago, we were advised that the CDC in Atlanta had developed a vaccine. We cannot leave here without one. We need someone to go to the CDC and bring the vaccine to us, if indeed such exists. To be blunt, we hope, pray and ask that you are that someone.” It was a very tall order placed in a brief statement.

  The room was silent; hundreds of hope-filled eyes were upon me. I stood next to Ben and gently rubbed his warm neck. I looked at the many passive, yet pleading faces; faces from another time. Only a very few children. Even with vaccine, these people would have difficulty surviving in the outside world today. They had no “runner training”, plus there were other predators – the living kind. I saw very few among them who looked capable of physically handling the harshness that would be required to endure. These people would need someone who could see them through, but I was not sure that I wanted to be that person. However, those were details that could be managed later. Bringing them a vaccine, if one existed, would be the first step.

  I did not want the delay to my journey, but there were so many lives at stake here, how could I refuse? I spoke with conviction, “Yes, I will help you... I will do what I can.”

  There was obvious relief in the room, with many of the survivors indicating their appreciation. Applause commenced.

  I noticed that Tim was asleep, having polished off four glasses of water.

  Thirst...

  Soreness...

  Sleep...

  Then, like a thunderclap it hit me.

  His security card...he had held it in his mouth...I had touched it!

  “GET OUT!! NOW! RUN!” I yelled, as Tim’s eyes snapped open. Oh my god! The virus had skipped the immediate death phase in Tim’s case, and had jumped straight to “runner”.

  Tim’s eyes had that cloudy, wild, bloodshot look as black bile oozed from his nostrils. “SHOOT HIM! SHOOT HIM!” I yelled. Everyone looked around in wide eyed panic. No one was armed; why would they be? He jerked spasmodically, shrieked, then, with raging speed and ferocity, began tearing into everyone near him. The conversion was happening so much faster than ever before. Complete pandemonium ensued... screaming... stampeding... sprays of blood were splattering everywhere. Oh dear God no!!

  These people had no concept of what actions were immediately and desperately required. There was absolutely no time to plan or talk. You can’t negotiate with a runner. Action was the one and only recourse for survival. For me, action was instinctive and immediate, but I had experienced runner assaults in every possible situation many, many times, and trained myself for their murderous assault extensively every day, without fail. These survivors had nothing, absolutely nothing!

  A courageous man and woman attempted to pin Tim down, but the fury and velocity of his agitated state was unstoppable. Bites were transforming humans to monsters within seconds.

  “Nicki help us!!” It was the boy who had identified me, his face consumed with fear.

  Ben was beside himself in agitation, barking and snapping. “Ben! Back!” I might infect the whole room, but I had to do something. Raising my rifle and standing at an angle I emptied 21 rounds of 5.56 ammunition into the main glass panel. Chips flaked off, and small spiderwebs marked each strike, but the window held.

  Oh please don’t let this happen! Give me power!!

  The frenzied carnage and chaos had turned into a gory, bloody feast for screeching demons as defenseless lambs were slaughtered before my eyes. No human should ever witness such an appalling event. The raging insanity within was reaching a crescendo as I bashed the fractured glass with a chair, but to no effect.

  I loaded another magazine and emptied another twenty hot bullets into that panel, the surrounding wall, and the door, yet every barrier was reinforced, defying my strongest efforts. “God damn
you!!” Tears burned my cheeks as I pulled two pistols from my vest and emptied all thirty-two rounds in seconds. Nothing! Dozens of creatures charged me from the other side, themselves smashing into the glass wall, smearing it with blood and black syrup, their eyes glaring upon me. I could still hear terrified cries for help from a few remaining, desperate survivors. I pulled out two fresh pistols. I would not let them all die; this is why I lived! “GOD DAMN YOU ALL!” I yelled as I charged into the spiderweb of damaged glass, slamming my body into the panel, my mind prepared for the hyper-speed fight ahead with bullets and blood. I smashed hard into that thick, unforgiving panel, but was completely stunned as I bounced off; that transparent slab was like concrete, and treated me no better.

  Creatures charged me from the other side, crashing into the glass, causing the entire surface to warp...but it held. I recognized faces that I had seen earlier. Horrible, ghoulish faces now that only a few moments before had been hopeful and smiling.

  I hurled my body into that bloody panel over and over as the monsters on the other side crushed against each other to get to me. One final leap into the barrier with everything I could muster left me unconscious on the floor. I snapped awake only minutes later; a small, wet pool of blood from my nose and left ear had collected on my jacket; Ben was at my side. The half wall below the window obscured my vision of the carnage, which had now grown quiet. I could hear croaking noises; the sound of gorging runners. I was sick; exhausted; spent.

  The wall had held. What next? Emotion wanted to consume my mind. Failure meant death. These people had hope...where was Nicki Redstone? I had to regain control; clear my head. Think! What next?

  I calmed my breathing as my giant, powerful friend stood next to me, looking at me with his intelligent, beautiful eyes.

  Concentrate! Focus! Control! Statistically, there should now be no living, breathing humans remaining within the bunker. This was a topic often discussed among survivors of the great twenty-first century plague. Out of over three hundred million Americans, it seemed that only a few thousand had survived, but that was only a guess. No one really knew for sure. Grampa had estimated that if an average of one thousand people survived per state, then that would mean there were fifty thousand people still alive who could be regarded as Americans. That’s a survival rate of one in six thousand. The odds that there was anyone alive on the other side of that glass who might be one of those “one-in-six-thousand” were very small.

  I struggled to keep my mind from screaming into uncontrollable emotion at the atrocity that I had just witnessed... and inadvertently caused. Oh dear God... save me... I need you Kip... Brick... where are you?

  Focus!!

  I determined that no one on the other side could possibly be a living, normal human, but I had to be certain. Never...never could I leave anyone to die alone in such a place. My knowledge must be absolute.

  Taking a deep breath and regaining my calm, I prepared myself for the view. I wiped sticky, red wetness from my neck. Still shaking and weak from the exertion and massive bolts of adrenalin coursing through my body, I stood up stiffly, feeling aching pain from my struggle to ram through the glass.

  Being mindful of my location at all times, I commenced preparing my gear as the creatures on the other side of the seriously chipped and cracked panel eerily followed my every move. I always hated that hollow, hungry stare at a distance. Now, witnessing the creepy glare up close was chilling beyond description.

  I picked up discarded rifle magazines and placed them in my pack, then loaded full clips into my weapons, with rounds properly chambered. After a calming stretch, I checked each item for proper placement. The knife in my braid felt good.

  In spite of soreness, I felt solid...strong. I knew my body and mind. It would take a few days to recover from the trauma, especially the mental aspect, but I would recover. I had been through this grim hell before and survived. Although this was perhaps my worst, most shocking encounter with the man-eaters, I knew that I would remain whole and vital.

  Then, after another slow, deep, calming breath, I looked into the previously peaceful room and beheld the carnage. I had seen horrors before – many times – but this disaster far exceeded all previous experiences. Disgusting, horrifying images filled my vision, well lit and sharply visible, close up. Some of those people never had time to convert before being ripped to shreds. I calmed my mind and methodically studied every creature and every corner. Nothing. There were no indications of real life.

  Still, I had to be sure. This nightmare was bad enough, but I would not allow the thought of one single survivor living alone in terror to further disturb my already fitful sleep.

  There were two, large double-door exits from that ghoul-filled room, one closed and one partially open. I reasoned that there must be at least one secondary or emergency egress for this facility. I owed it to the dead – and the possible living – to find it.

  Immediately departing through the shop from where we had entered, Ben and I set out to locate another way into the doomsday bunker.

  As we exited the building, however, it became immediately apparent that our search could not commence until the morning. A chilly dusk was rapidly approaching and we needed a secure layover for the night.

  I quickly grabbed a variety of foodstuffs and water bottles from a couple of shops, then headed outside for my position. It might have been safer inside the bunker, behind heavy doors, but hell itself could be boiling up the road towards this building and I would still not spend my night inside that hole.

  Passing a once attractive wine shop, I was tempted to take a bottle of some fine merlot and cheese, and then ease myself into sleep, but I could not. The dawn would require a clear head and crisp action. To deplete myself with alcohol would be foolish. Besides, I knew that I would sleep well. The day’s events had left me exhausted, body and spirit.

  I found a good, secure spot on a cliff face overlooking the town and, after a modest meal, lay down with Ben, completely fatigued. With my eyes closed I could smell the sweet, clean scent of wet pine trees. Ben pressed close, warming my side. I imagined myself in the calming comforts of Sheffield Abbey. Oh how I wished to be among those pleasant monks. Their gentle hearts could cure any sorrow. Ahh, so long ago...

  Sometimes this life is a miserable existence, but I am Nicki Redstone, and she is needed more than ever; I will carry on. Who am I to challenge that destiny?

  The next morning, following breakfast, I took extra time to brush down my beloved guardian, then carefully positioned his saddlebag harness. After servicing my own equipment and running through my mandatory fighting drill, I carefully secured the “tools of my trade” into their previously selected and memorized slots. All items had to be precisely where my muscles and my mind expected them to be – always.

  As I slipped my dagger into my braid and prepared to leave, I pondered the staggering speed with which the virus had pierced the immune systems of those in the shelter. Never before had I witnessed such an appallingly fast onslaught. Was that how the virus had changed in the absence of fresh, untouched blood? Was it growing stronger and possibly a threat to us in the future? It was thoughts such as those that made me realize that, sooner or later, a visit to the Center for Disease Control in Atlanta may indeed become necessary. But for the moment, I had a sad task that needed to be seen through...although before doing so, I briefly held my mission in check in order to honor those who had recently fallen. The flat rock face upon which I had leaned served my somber purpose.

  Leaving the cliff perch and making swift travel to the back side of the government bunker hill via the country shops road, the location of a “secret” shelter entrance became very apparent, even obvious. I made good time, as always, in spite of a leaden feeling holding me down, almost as though a great weight bore down on me, probably more the result of the emotional havoc wreaked upon my soul than any physical stress. Regardless, I pressed on.

  First, I encountered a string of deteriorating cars along the road; some
were dark limousines, many of them apparently having been parked in considerable haste. Then, inside a fenced area, a dozen or so decomposing dark blue vans – military.

  Within that barricaded parking area was another smaller fenced perimeter; jagged ribbons of concertina wire secured the crown. The second fence contained a heavy gate and a substantial cinder block guardhouse, but the gate lock had been broken off and the entire place appeared to be abandoned. However, as I surveyed the compound, I noticed someone, a man, inside the guardhouse, sitting in a chair that was leaned against the wall, smoking a cigarette. His eyes were closed.

  I scanned the compound for a moment longer, then walked in with Ben, straight up and through the sturdy gate, announcing myself as we moved closer. “Hello! You have a visitor.”

  The man was unarmed, although I could see that he had a pistol nearby, but he made no effort to retrieve it, remaining motionless with half closed eyes viewing us through wisps of gray tobacco smoke.

  “Bonnos dayos.” Came a deep, hard voice; then brief silence. “Name’s Paul.” The man obviously did not speak Spanish. He was very pale, thin and unhealthy looking; no doubt a shelter survivor. Sixty years old, maybe. Possibly a soldier long ago, but he appeared to have lost all athletic ability.

  “Good morning, I’m Nicki,” I replied, maintaining a relaxed posture, but guarded, nonetheless. “Are there other survivors?”

  Paul took a long, draw on the cigarette, pleasure - or relief - evident through his low lids. “There were, but I’m it now. All gone. Two years of waiting in that box and I could have left anytime. Who knew?” The man’s precise, deliberate speech denoted advanced education; probably Ivy League.

  Then he paused, “You were the visitor at the other entrance, weren’t you? Yes...yes... I missed most of the interview. A weak bladder and too much Earl Grey sent me to the latrine. All I heard was yelling, screeching, and a barrel of gunfire, so I took off running, and then boom and out the back door. Totally against protocol, but I had no choice with those creatures on my six. God that was awful. But I’m alive and having my first cigarette in two years. It’s old and dry, but tastes sweet, sweet, sweet.” He took another long draw, causing the end to glow and burn down nearly an inch.