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

by Stafford, Myles

  The man studied Ben. “He’s beautiful. Does he do any tricks?”

  That irritated. Rarely had I encountered anyone who looked upon my friend as just a “dog”. “No sir, he does not.”

  “Please, sit down for a spell.” I remained standing.

  As I watched the man’s amusing tobacco antics, an earlier mystery occurred to me. “Do you know anything about Scottie Redstone?”

  “Scottie Redstone?” Paul replied with a puzzled look. Then he seemed to actually see me for the first time through his nicotine haze - my kit, my weapons and Ben. “Ah, I should have known, ‘Nicki’ as in ‘Nicki Redstone, the ‘angry angel’.” The deep, rough nature of his vocal cords amplified the comparatively soft tenor of my own voice. “Although in some circles I’ve heard that you are referred to as the ‘angel of death’ and the ‘devil’s reaper’.”

  I pondered the expanding reputation.

  We studied each other in silence as the quirky man continued puffing away. Finally, “Everyone knows about Scottie Redstone; you, too, for that matter. Your twin sister is building some kind of refuge for survivors. Pretty effective I understand. I guess she can be damn hard on troublemakers, though.” A pause, a soft, crackling puff, and then, “It must run in the family.” A slight, almost fatherly smile wrinkled the paper thin skin on Paul’s white face.

  “Interesting,” I remarked casually. I nodded to the shelter entrance. “Is anyone left inside?”

  There was a brief hesitation, then the smile disappeared suddenly as the wizened fellow squinted his eyes at me in dawning realization of my intentions. This man was a very quick study. Ben tensed for action as Paul nearly shouted, “You’re crazy to go back in there! Forget it! FOR-GET-IT!” His face turned red and veins on his forehead revealed themselves, which reminded me slightly of a skull; a disturbing thought.

  “It’s not your concern,” I said calmly as I rubbed Ben out of his protective attack mode. “I will not argue with you, sir. What I need from you is a layout of the shelter and any tips you might have on where I might find survivors, if there are any.”

  After much pacing about, numerous agitated tobacco puffs, and a profusion of blue oaths, my newest convert assembled the necessary material in the guardhouse to sketch a diagram for my search, along with helpful information about various aspects of the bunker.

  In spite of the grim and dangerous nature of the task ahead, I could not help but smile at this man. Something about the intensity of his reactions was humorous to me. Perhaps it was the paucity of real intellectual stimulation in the post apocalypse, something from which we all suffered; but whatever it was, I still chuckle when I think about the old gentleman and how agitated he had become.

  In return for his sketch and helpful technical advice, I gave him a thirty minute Redstone encyclopedia of what he needed to accomplish in order to survive in the new world. Paul had an extremely sharp mind and would adapt well - if he lived long enough... and I had the very distinct feeling that he would not only live, but thrive.

  The search through that relic of a bygone nation was not complicated, and took far less time than I had anticipated. Even so, it was probably the saddest burden that I had so far felt obligated to carry. Although daunting and terribly dangerous work, thanks to my own experience and to Ben’s canine senses, there were no surprises and no near misses.

  Every closet, cupboard and possible hiding place required systematic examination. In the process, I was compelled to dispatch those unfortunates who had lived long enough to complete the runner transformation. A few faces were recognizable to me, always an especially unhappy and eerie sensation.

  I was relieved to find no child runners, although I had expected none. For reasons no one has yet medically determined, there has been no known incident of a child transformation. Children are either fully immune or they succumb quickly to the vicious assault of the virus, ultimately ending in an uncontrolled fever, coma, and irreversible cardiac arrest.

  I am not an “angel”, but I carefully accounted for every soul:

  One hundred ninety-two...plus one.

  Chapter Seven

  “Signs of Nicki”

  - Brick -

  I FOLLOWED Nicki with everything my body could manage. Each night I tended to expanding blisters on my feet and friction burns on my thighs, and every morning I liberally applied the best patches that I could acquire over each stinging wound to limit damage and buy more travel time. Aspirin eased muscle ache and inflammation, but there was no palliative for a guilty conscience.

  I trucked no delay, whether runner or human, unhesitatingly dispatching the former, and - only on rare occasion - stopping to glean information from the latter. A very real feeling in my gut told me that Nicki needed me, and was taking chances that were beyond wise, brave though she was. Her speed was alarming, maybe even reckless. I thanked the great spirit that Ben, her powerful ally and protector, was by her side. Indeed, there could be no better guardian for one so determined to push through all obstacles.

  Racing from the cliff above the country shops, I only waved in acknowledgment as a thin, pale faced man tried to flag me down from a distance – diversion was unacceptable. I aimed straight for any river landing that offered an effective watercraft. Finding a sleek kayak, I plied the main channel current, gaining paddle efficiency with each passing hour. There was no wind, so I was certain that I would gain on Nicki whether she sailed or paddled.

  While doing my best to track her on that giant river, at one unsettling point I passed a small, hilly town that had witnessed recent, violent activity, perhaps not even a week old. There was a smashed up cement truck partially hanging over a ledge near what appeared to be an old, ranch-style school, hurricane fence clinging to the vehicle’s undercarriage. The damage was new, a deduction that was obvious from the mud clinging to the tires, the lack of rust on scrapped areas, and the absence of plant growth where the weeds should be high, the latter having been raked away by the behemoth as it plowed its way through several barriers.

  After tying up my little craft, I cautiously made my way up the embankment, past the cement truck and into the enclosure, scanning the former playground and surrounding buildings from around a corner. My mind slowly took in the remarkable evidence that was spread before me. This appeared to be a “dynamite in a cardboard box” calling card. I studied further.

  The place was completely silent and calm – with only a slight whisper of a breeze cooling my face – but that a great fight had occurred there only days before was terribly evident; the all too familiar screams of fear and death abounded in my mind, as matching ghostly images crossed my vision.

  Two large piles of bodies had been burned in the open field, but by whom? A third, smaller pyre contained no charred remains, having been swept nearly clean.

  I saw a great tear in the far fence denoting the entry point of the now precariously tilted truck. Ah, I wondered about its power source, given that the engine surely did not start, but now it was obvious.

  Hmmm...all indicators blare the name of an angry angel with a mission, I thought, one Nicki Redstone.

  As I evaluated the many signs of my friend’s presence, I began to again severely fret about her state of mind. Nicki’s protective spirit would sometimes overcome her natural tactical wisdom. I remembered more than one occasion when, while leading us into mayhem, she would suddenly turn back and duck at speed - literally under my rifle arm - to block an assault and wreak deadly havoc upon a swarming enemy, convinced in her mind that her god-like speed was necessary to protect me. Then Ben would parallel her offensive, seeming to almost vault over my head as Nicki smashed full throttle into our attackers. She would pitch into anything and everything, with total disregard for any mortal danger to herself – and that inclination, among many others, kept my stomach permanently knotted.

  I smiled within...

  Carson Redstone, must have suffered never-ending angst over his twin daughters and their energetic ways. Poor fellow!

&
nbsp; Compared to other communities in this dark age, this was a very large encampment. Did she choose to take on the inhabitants alone? It would not surprise me had she done so, especially if her reasons were great, but I could never be forgiven if she were harmed and I had not been there to prevent it.

  I examined the buildings. They were loaded with supplies, much of it useless today – gold, jewels, fine clothes – and also an abundance of foodstuffs and weaponry, enough for a small army, perhaps twenty to thirty souls.

  I walked slowly around the compound, observing every detail. Someone had died with his back to a wooden post, sitting down; probably a gate sentry. There were signs of panic and flight everywhere. Spent shell casings from all manner of guns littered the compound, evidence of a terrible struggle. The scene before me now was, by contrast, serene and quiet, but I easily visualized the drama as the defenders breathed their last.

  There must have been some great evil at play there indeed for Nicki to have wreaked such ungodly, unforgiving wrath upon the inhabitants. I looked out through the side gate and noticed a heavy, orange string hanging from a tree. The braided line looked similar to that carried by Nicki in her vest. It trailed off into the woods to an empty fenced enclosure. It was puzzling.

  It was evident that prisoners were held there at one time, probably the impetus behind Nicki’s assault. Also, someone had only days ago burned and buried a large number of bodies. Nicki could not have done it alone in so short a time, so at some point she had assistance. Perhaps those she had freed? Regardless, the vanquished may never have fully paid for their crimes, but my friend had ensured that they would commit them no more.

  Under a shade tree, I found a half-dozen fresh graves, some marked with symbols that were strange to me. A pair of friendly beagles, scavenging nearby, came over to me – tentatively at first – then closer for a sniff and a rub. They were tame and obviously accustomed to humans. I gave them some jerky, which they devoured with gusto.

  Two of the graves, separate from the others, were placed neatly beneath wooden crosses. Something strange there. I made quick strides and found, to my sad satisfaction, a glove nailed to each – Nicki’s gloves. It was incontrovertible evidence of her recent presence. I did not recognize the names carefully carved into the wood, but through her symbol of love and honor, I recognized that those sleeping below were very important to Nicki for reasons I did not yet know. I said my own words of respect and condolence, and immediately returned to re-board my boat.

  I knew that Nicki would not have lingered there, and now she needed me more than ever. I understood fully how she suffered severely from important losses. I cursed myself for having delayed with the unpleasant partner I once called “wife”.

  By the water’s edge I stood momentarily frozen by a most welcome sight. There, on the ground, were three pistachio shells, the image of which caused such a welling of emotion within me that I nearly wept. I would push my body to collapse to find her, fully determined that nothing in this world would stop me – nothing!

  Chapter Eight

  “Nicki’s Revenge”

  - Nicki -

  THE DAYS were quiet enough, even genuinely pleasant, although there were always those moments of ugliness visible from afar in our little craft. Most of the time I ignored the temptation to investigate. Of course, I docked from time-to-time for provisions, but this I accomplished in mostly remote, out of the way waterside villages. The smaller the pre-apocalypse population, the less likely that there would be something to delay my present journey.

  On one gloomy afternoon, my little craft passed under a rather low bridge, one-half of which having been destroyed, evidently to prevent access by someone or something.

  From the green metal girders hung six bodies in various stages of recent decay, all male. Upon passing this macabre image, I pondered what I had seen. Although it was difficult to be certain, the bodies on those ropes did not bear the marks of undead runners, and this thought troubled me. Were they villains, dispatched by a righteous mob, or something worse? I felt compelled to learn the answer.

  I had long ago vowed to allow no human who preyed on the weak or innocent to survive unpunished and able to continue the evil work of predation. Only briefly did I suffer the angst of indecision, as I knew what must be done. I truly did not want any delay on my path to my sister, Scottie, but some things had to be set right, if indeed it was within my power to do so.

  I cruised my diminutive craft downriver well out of any possible observers on the bridge, and landed on a small, secluded beach. Although there was plenty of daylight remaining, I wasted not one second other than to survey my surroundings for anything of concern. Seeing nothing, I quickly tracked back uphill towards the grim scene at the bridge, following a path that wended its way between industrial buildings and shops, with Ben padding alongside.

  As was most often the case, Ben first alerted me to potential danger ahead, this time by crouching low and behind concealment. Within seconds, someone ran past us - an attractive young, dark-skinned, dark-haired woman - completely naked, fear evident upon her face. Without protection and unarmed, she would not do well in her excited condition, but I remained in place, hand upon Ben, certain that something or someone was surely in pursuit. Moments later, two men came hustling along, both armed with short-barreled shotguns in their hands and revolvers on their hips. These were not handsome men, having a sinister, thuggish look about them, somewhat resembling the fancy “drug lord wannabe” whom Brick and I had encountered outside of Grayrock, although these guys boasted beards and ponytails. Both were beefy; one wore a sleeveless leather vest, exposing bulging, muscular arms.

  I said nothing, other than to whisper a soft “shhhh” to Ben, and then took up easy pursuit of the men. Within a few blocks they slowed to a walk, then stopped. They had cornered their quarry.

  “The chief don’t like his women running off, Stella.” One of the men said roughly between heavy breaths, “You’re gonna pay, starting now, making us run and work up a sweat. Yeah, you’re gonna pay.”

  With those words, the sleeveless brute pulled out a large, thick belt and wide buckle that was wrapped around his waist, causing the woman to crouch down into a ball on the ground, crying in obvious fear and misery. As he raised his arm to deliver the promised punishment I spoke one clear word, “Stop!”

  Thug number two whipped around, immediately raising his shotgun simultaneously in my direction, but before his turn was complete, he dropped to his knees with a hurt look on his face and a red dot growing in the center of his chest, as the quiet pneumatic sound of a suppressed five-five-six bullet took his life. A head shot was unnecessary; this was no runner.

  The man looked up to heaven, then flopped face first to the pavement with a thud, while his partner stood frozen with the belt in his hand, his eyes wide in surprise, panic and fear. A few years ago this scene would have sent me beyond freaked out; now it seemed so ordinary. Oh how my life has changed...

  “Lie down,” I said. The brute complied promptly.

  “The chief is gonna get you, you little bitch!” he snarled. “Man oh man, you killed Antonio. You’re gonna pay!”

  Ben recognized the man’s threatening demeanor, and a low growl rumbled from his protective chest as a sharp ridge of fur appeared on his spine. I could sense his thoughts, “Just give me two seconds with this guy.”

  As I prepared to restrain Antonio’s fuming partner, the young woman, Stella, scooped up a grapefruit-sized chunk of concrete and smashed him on his head, completely knocking him out, and probably nearly killing the cretin. Actually, I think a death blow was Stella’s intention, but his continued breathing indicated otherwise. Urine pooled around his crotch, dripping onto the asphalt. Now that’s nasty, I thought.

  “Not on my list of special sights I wanted to take in today,” I said casually.

  At all times remaining alert to our surroundings, I yanked the jacket off of the recently deceased Antonio and threw it around Stella’s shoulders. It was
long enough to cover her to her hips and would do until I could obtain clothing for her.

  Stella stood weakly in bewilderment as I took her by the hand. “Come on, Stella, come with me. We’ll leave him here. Let’s get you to some safety.”

  It was always my practice to continuously scan for advantageous and secure points for evacuation or observation, and I had earlier identified an ideal rooftop position nearby.

  Ben and I carefully, yet quickly cleared the building as we climbed four flights of interior stairs, with no interference along the way. I grabbed clothing and shoes for Stella on the way up from various open rooms, a plentiful supply of abandoned human paraphernalia being almost always in evidence in buildings such as this.

  We easily obtained the security of the roof, wherein I carefully blocked every access, then Stella, Ben and I sat down to a light meal from my pack as the sunlight melted away. Not much later I could faintly hear the croaking sounds of sated runners. There would be no search party that night, I felt certain.

  “They’re slavers,” my new companion explained, as in darkness I tended to her injuries and needs. I knew exactly what her words meant. In this world, everything was bountiful and free for the taking, except for one thing: living human bodies. Bodies to satisfy lust; bodies for labor; bodies for torture; bodies for every cruel vice of the sociopaths and psychopaths who survived the doom of civilization.

  This corrupt camp of felons profited from their own lack of humanity. Deep within my soul, I knew that my decision to stop and investigate was a good one. Some might say that it was my destiny to detour there as I rushed to Florida, but to me, that aspect was unimportant. My very being had changed so much over the last two years that – to my core – I could not tolerate the existence of cruelty and sadism, and would do all within my power to stop it. I intended to right the many wrongs committed by these degenerates, and to eliminate the potential for any further atrocity.