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

by Stafford, Myles

  Suddenly, the two dogs that I had seen earlier showed up, curious and seeming to recognize us – they were the Beauchamps’ beagles. Their presence at my location endangered not only Ben and me, but themselves as well. As much as I hated doing it, I pulled out a small can of pepper spray and sent a thin stream of red liquid in their direction. The beagles took a few sniffs and ran off with barely a sound.

  I immediately scrambled up a nearby tree, dragging Ben up behind me, then pulled the cord, opening the runners’ gate and unleashing a horrifying mob of starving, fast-moving creatures, ghastly and merciless. They ran straight for the noisy souls within the fort. Once they were past us, we sprang from the tree and followed the terrifying creatures in.

  The released runners made their appearance, charging through the gate at an unbelievable speed, their ghoulish eyes set upon the agitated slavers. Abject fear and complete chaos then took hold. The survivors turned their backs and ran for the nearest building, yelling at each other; totally degraded and demoralized, with the fast knocking down the slow, followed by the insane, marauding cannibals who dragged down anyone who lagged. It was a horrifying spectacle, yet I felt no pity or remorse for the punishment that I had unleashed.

  Moving with determination, I entered a building identified by Mannat and found the prisoners crouched in a corner, shaking, unarmed and fearful - five in all.

  “I’m here to get you out.” I said as they first looked at me in shock, then in hope at my words. “Are there any others?” Those young people were weak, half starved and badly abused, but they stirred with renewed energy.

  “Yes, I have two sisters in the kitchen...there,” a handsome boy said softly in an accent similar to Mannat’s, pointing to a nearby structure.

  The intermittent sound of men screaming, accented by sporadic gunfire, continued nearby within the compound, but - of greater concern to me - the teams that had been dispatched beyond the gates seemed to have ended their struggle, as the earlier popping noise of their discharged weapons was absent, and the blaring radios in the distance had gone silent. I had to get the prisoners out before the outside gangs returned and launched into us.

  “Follow me...come on now!”

  “Nicki Redstone...” one girl said. I turned to look at her; they knew me, and all stared at me with big eyes, “thank you.”

  I smiled encouragingly, then walked along the back side of the nearest building with Ben nearby, waving my new friends to follow. Meeting no resistance, we entered the kitchen, but found it empty. “Where are they?” I said as pandemonium and gunfire continued outside. The one who thanked me opened a walk-in pantry, and looking within, I could see huddled in a corner, partially camouflaged by bags of rice were two females. Upon seeing their comrades, they jumped out to join us, looking at Ben and me in wonder.

  Outside, the earlier bedlam had become noticeably calm and almost quiet. My little band of survivors grabbed handfuls of food items and drinks as we made for the back door, when two burly thugs barged into a large, open area near the stoves.

  “You ain’t going nowhere you little sons of bitches.” Short-barreled shotguns were aimed directly at me. Everyone froze.

  “Holy shit, Duke,” one on the brutes announced, a sweaty man with long hair and a fancy leather coat, “that’s that Redstone bitch the chief was always talking about.”

  The one called Duke glared at me for a moment, then said, “Well, well, the bloody ‘angel of death’ herself; huh, ‘bitch angel’ I say.

  Wait for it...

  Wait for it...

  Then it happened!

  A snort from Ben...his timing was perfect.

  The two men looked over at Ben for barely a second – a tiny fraction of time that almost every important moment of my new life was built around.

  And that was all I needed.

  As Duke and his partner glanced at my powerful ally - in that little slice of time - I pulled two pistols from their holsters, a move practiced and used a thousand times, and sent both fiends to hell before they could blink; two bullets apiece, rounds already chambered in the barrels and ready for anything. I never hesitate...to hesitate is to die.

  Violence was the only solution in this dark, nightmare world; there could be no negotiation – there were no prisons, no SWAT, no police, no rehabilitation. Just me. While I still breath, I will forever fight the inclination of the strong to dominate and enslave the weak, this I swore.

  My little band of survivors stared, eyes wide, speechless.

  “Let’s go,” I said, my ears ringing and muffled from the blasts. Even though it had healed, my left ear ached anew from the damage suffered in the government shelter. Discard that thought!

  We stepped outside and I turned to my companions, “Can you use guns?” To which they all nodded in eagerness.

  They were munching on snacks as I passed two of my three remaining pistols to the group, along with two additional bullet clips and quick instructions. The group quickly decided who would handle them. They looked at the warm guns in appreciation and awe, causing me to smile.

  The compound was silent. No voices, no runners, nothing.

  I peered around a corner as I led my little clan toward the opening torn by the cement truck near the river. I saw bodies scattered everywhere; there was no movement of any kind. Strange. Where were the returning reinforcements?

  Then, through the wide jagged fence opening on the far side of the enclosure, I saw five or six people entering cautiously. There was something odd about them. These were not the leather clad and bejeweled slavers I had seen earlier. No, their attire was simple, and each wore a tall, black or navy blue hat.

  The newcomers moved into the compound unchallenged, and as they drew closer, my new friends stood, tearfully looking at the approaching men. “They are our friends; our family,” a young woman next to me said. I then realized that the tall hats were the turbans of Sikhs. At last, it seemed that this terrible sadness would know a happy ending.

  I soon noticed an attractive woman running towards me; it was Mannat. Tears flooded her eyes as she embraced me. I watched as her companions, men and women, paired off and moved efficiently into each building, and several times heard the “crack” of gunfire. Dark business was being mercilessly prosecuted.

  As I pondered this thought, I noticed movement near the wreckage wrought by the cement truck. I quietly walked over, Ben by my side, and found two runners panting and clawing as they frantically worked their way to something pinned underneath the twisted hurricane fence.

  The moment before I dispatched the sorry creatures, the object of their hunger was revealed - a large, frightened, long-haired man in a western style trench coat. I could still see rust colored stains on his right hand and sleeve from the brutal slayings of Louis and Joshua Beauchamp.

  “They’re going to eat me...help...” he pleaded in a whisper. Fear was the only emotion evident on his face as he watched an ugly death approach. I was unmoved. His legs were broken and pinned under heavy debris, and the runners – grotesque monsters with black goo sliding from their mouths in anticipation - were only a few feet from their quarry.

  Mercy...he wanted mercy. I slowly reached for a pistol, then stopped and walked away. As the sounds of violence grew to a crescendo behind me, I knew that justice was being done and that the brute would not live long, at least not as a human. He would harm no more.

  The commotion brought others to the location. Several rifle shots followed and all was then silent.

  The evening was spent in muted conversation. Although there was much joy at the reunion, and many stories to tell, there had also been much trauma, suffering and sorrow along the way. Certainly, I felt no inclination to celebrate. My psyche would require days, perhaps as much as a week, to recover; but I would recover, this much I knew. There was too much at stake, and I was needed by too many to allow myself to be disabled. Still, healing takes time, even for me.

  The former prisoners recounted their various trials and losses. I was impr
essed with their resilience, and further reminded of the evil depths to which men can descend. Without any doubts whatsoever, if I ever had any, my decision to intervene there was the correct one. One day, perhaps, this success would offset the tragedy of my failures. I had wiped out a viper pit, and maybe now these people could rebuild their lives unmolested, although the chain of slaver connections would mean that unyielding vigilance would always be necessary.

  Following introductions and displays of tearful gratitude, I reacquired my weapons and relaxed in the company of my new friends. These were fine people, noble and true, with a dedication to doing what was right.

  My part in the day’s events was recounted and embellished by Mannat and her friends so many times that I could not help but blush at their effusive sincerity. Of course, my cheek scar revealed itself brightly in the firelight, much to the polite amusement of everyone present, something to which I had grown accustomed. It had become a trademark, of sorts, that survivors wanted to see when they met me.

  The following morning, Mannat’s people began the process of clearing the site, which had become their custom. Most bodies would be burned with little ceremony, but a few would be buried.

  At my request, the first to receive traditional treatment were the Beauchamp brothers. Indeed, as I had imagined, those fine, adventurous boys had tried to be heroes and to rescue those in dire distress, but Lou and Josh Beauchamp were neither trained nor experienced in fighting armed opponents of any kind, and were terribly ill equipped to stand up to a small army of ruthless criminals. They had absolutely no chance of success, but their youthful minds caused them to view themselves as invincible. Tragically, victory was never theirs for the taking, but visions of glory and heroic deeds blinded them to this very obvious fact.

  I never desired nor sought out glory; but it found me, nonetheless.

  Before taking my leave of Mannat and her family, I said a private farewell to my two valorous knights, and pinned one of my gloves to each of the carefully constructed crosses above the fresh, moist dirt of their graves. I stood before the disturbed earth and looked up to the sky, closing my eyes, pushing back tears, and calming the ever-present rage that boiled within.

  Eventually, I felt concerned glances upon my still form, but there was no interruption. Lowering my head, I opened my eyes again to the reality before me. I will never forget those two boys.

  I felt so old...

  I made known to my new friends that I was departing immediately via my day-sailer, but as I was concluding my farewells, Mannat and two young men stepped forward, loaded with equipment, announcing their intention to join me on my journey.

  In spite of the tragic events that they had recently witnessed, they still had that gleam in their eyes, the glow of epic adventure and exploration.

  If they only knew the truth...

  Of course, I firmly declined, much to their chagrin, but no doubt to the great relief of other friends and family members who were present.

  Some might fault me for being too stern in my rejection, as I did not smile, nor did I explain, but this growing inclination of others to seek excitement and glory at my side had to be strongly dissuaded, even if it meant hurting feelings and turning my image to sourness. If I could in any way prevent it, there would never be another Rachel Chase, or Lou or Josh Beauchamp, to further haunt my already agonizing dreams.

  Chapter Nine

  “South”

  BEN AND I made excellent time in our small boat, encountering few obstructions to hinder progress, and only occasionally disembarking to gather supplies.

  Eventually, the Missouri flowed into the Mississippi. Our nights were spent on the craft far from shore, usually tied to some object in the water, since I would not endanger our journey with river travel in darkness. Many solar charged lights on the river still functioned, and they offered the comfortable feeling that civilization still existed, but that light was far from sufficient to permit safe navigation.

  In the still darkness, I would lay back against the wooden deck with Ben warming my side, and look up at the stars, pondering our future. It would take time to rebuild this world, but hopefully we would make it a better civilization for all. Even then, I knew that I had become an important part of a new beginning; that my persona had become much larger than I was as a human being, but I understood that this was the benefit - or curse – of celebrity. Brick and I sometimes discussed the value of this fame. I had determined and pledged myself to guard that reputation for the good that it could do.

  Whether or not I liked it, through sometimes overly magnified reputation, and hopefully always positive inspiration, others would indeed emulate my actions and philosophies, or perhaps rebel against them – it’s human nature. Nevertheless, as much as I could control it, I remained resolute that my impact would always be positive. Nobility, grace, courage, resourcefulness, determination, selflessness...these would be important traits of a reborn civilization, and I would do my best to represent that future.

  If ever I fretted over this unexpected power, Brick would display his knowing, ever-wise smile, and admonish me to remember that I did not simply play at being “Nicki Redstone”, but that I was, in fact, THE “Nicki Redstone”, and that it was beyond me to be anything less.

  Ahh, Brick Charbonneau, tu me manques mon grand ami.

  Baton Rouge was my river objective, since it was there that I would terminate water travel and head east. New Orleans might have seemed a good choice, being a little closer to my destination, but I recalled that there were significant bridges in the area that would be essential to my journey. The conditions of those bridges were unknown to me, and I could not risk any major delay that their absence might cause. Of course, traveling by sea to the Florida coast would have been more efficient, but I was not confident enough in my sailing skills to take on the ocean and the various currents that would be in play at river and gulf coast junctions.

  I estimated that two months would be required to make that water journey. I fretted about losing my physical and mental edge in that time, so, in addition to nourishment provisions, along the way I picked up a variety of exercise devices and weights – pretty much everything that I could think of to keep myself fit. I also collected an array of educational books and battery powered video players, along with a wide variety of DVD’s, both for training and entertainment - language (French, of course), navigation, survival, boating, etc. New gloves were easily acquired - armored, of course.

  Whenever I felt the need to dock my craft, I consistently sought out a harbor that had a high, open stairway near my landing. Stairs provided the much needed intense exercise that my body craved. If the conditions were suitable, I would work out until I was a soaking, panting mess. Perfect!

  On occasion, I have been asked if I was afraid when landing alone at new locations. The flat and honest answer is “no”. I had been alone for far too long, and had entered strange surroundings hundreds of times before, so I think it was impossible for such circumstances to raise any natural anxiety to the level of fear. Nevertheless, I never landed at any port that I deemed hazardous or sketchy in any way; plus, I was consistently vigilant in my reconnaissance, relying heavily on my own experience and Ben’s alert senses to minimize surprises.

  I thoroughly understood runners and their repulsive tendencies, and did not fear their easy and instant agitation; but it was the living humans for whom I made my most careful observations. In general, I always expected and planned for runners; but for people, when I detected indications of their existence (which was usually easy), I moved on. This approach was safer for me, and offered fewer delays to my quest.

  Thirty days into my river travel, I worked my craft around a bridge that had been partially blown, which left a smaller section of passable water. As I carefully guided my light sailer through the narrow passage, the power of that river was evident as it noisily surged against the broken bridge’s enormous remains.

  All manner of debris was held fast in the twisted green
metal and concrete, appearing something like a giant child’s mess, with boats, barges, smashed homes, trees and cars held in place by the turbulent flow. Yet, there were no adults to tidy-up the place; perhaps there never would be.

  As soon as I exited the channel, the completely unexpected sound of a compressed air-horn sounded, shocking both Ben and me from our contemplative reverie. What the hell?!!

  During our entire time on the water, we had not encountered one other occupied craft, not one! And now, halfway to our journey’s end, we were being hailed by another, much larger sailboat, anchored in such a way that no one could pass unnoticed.

  Someone, a man, on the deck was waving. Only one person was visible, but the circumstances demanded caution for many obvious reasons. I had lowered my sail earlier, so only the current carried me closer to the stationary vessel. We both stood, each observing the other.

  Silence.

  Then, the man shouted out, “Nicki?”

  Oh my god.... “Gus?” I could not believe what I was seeing. “Gus! Gus! Am I dreaming?”

  As my sailer drew closer, Gus threw a rope to me and drew our boats hull to hull with a clunk. I leaped on to the larger craft and grabbed my old friend in a huge bear hug.

  “I thought I would never see you again, Gus!” My dear, old seafaring Oregon captain here on the Mississippi? “How is this possible? I must be dreaming!”

  “Heh heh, no dream Nicki! I am here and so thrilled to find you! I feared constantly of missing you on the water at night, or having you bi-pass me altogether on land, given how you and Brick go wherever you please, neither demons nor saints to bar the way!”

  “Ben!” Gus yelled out. Ben had been beside himself with excitement, hopping about, tail wagging, wuffing and whistling in joy and anticipation. “Ben, you old war dog; I would never forget you my friend.”

  “Hugs and happiness,” Gus laughed, “now coffee and snacks.” With that, Gus brought out a delicious range of cheese and canned foods, along with some fresh ground and brewed coffee. Propane stoves still worked beautifully, unlike so many reminders of our lost civilization.