“My own hand-powered coffee grinder, how ‘bout that?” Gus winked and smiled his knowing smile, as he passed powdered cream and sugar to me. He knew how much I enjoyed and longed for a fresh brew.
“Brick would love this coffee; you make a fine barista!” I meant it, too; the coffee was delicious. “When I open ‘Nicki’s Place’, you’re hired, no questions asked. And bonus, you can keep the whiskers.”
“The day Nicki Redstone opens a coffee shop is the day I work there.” Gus retorted, “So I guess I won’t be working there...ever.”
I could not stop grinning, “Gus, you look great...younger, very robust, and no gray hair; and no limp, I noticed.”
“Ah, yes; compliments of the virus, I guess,” Gus replied. “Still missing the tooth, though.” I had noticed the gap when he laughed through his ever present whiskers.
“You look great, too, Nicki; deadly as ever, no doubt, although I can tell you have seen some hard times. You’ve lost some weight and have picked up a few new scars, some of the damage very fresh, I see. Hmmm... some worry lines, too.” Through his tender smile, I could tell Gus was concerned about me, but he didn’t allow the moment to linger. “It’s good thing that Uncle Gus is here to fatten you up!”
Ahh Gus... Following a deadly incident with a malignant group calling themselves the ‘Fifth Militia’, Brick and I had met Sam Gustafson in a small port on the Pacific coast where, in his old life, he had been the night caretaker. An experienced seaman, Gus took Brick, Ben and me north in his newly acquired sailing yacht, and during the trip had taught us as much as he could about sails and the sea.
We munched on the many snacks that Gus had laid out. Over refills of steaming, wonderful coffee, I demanded his story. “Gus, what are you doing here? There is no way you could sail through the Panama Canal. Also, I’m very impressed that you found me on the river, which had to be a long-shot guess. Right?”
“Yep, yep, all true Nicki,” Gus grinned, lingering on a long sip of his hot brew for dramatic effect. His story was coming out slowly, which was fine, since I had, until that moment, only myself and Ben as company for the last month. I had to smile; I had missed Gus. Having Brick there would have made the reunion all the more perfect.
“Of course, I pretty much knew your plans, and was able to follow some of your journey whenever there was news of you on the radio.” Gus paused for a munch. “I almost had a heart attack, I mean up and died, when I heard that you had been killed at Fort Hope. It was so final; so definite; so awful.” Gus waved his hand across his face as if to ward off something evil. “But it came out later that you were okay. The gods of war were with you that day, I know, Nicki.”
“And Brick...and Ben,” I added.
“Yes.” Gus continued, “So I wandered around the Oregon coast, mostly bored. I was halfway down to California when word came out that you and Brick were on your way. I knew that you would be headed to South Dakota to his home, then to Florida on your own. I was sure you would jump on the Missouri, then the Mississippi, given that you were an expertly trained and supremely capable sailor.” Gus was proud of my skill, which made me laugh.
“I figured you could use Gus’s boat taxiola, so I thought, ‘what the heck?’ I needed an adventure, so I sailed to the Panama Canal, which I had traversed a few times before. The locks would not be operational, of course, but it’s less that 50 miles wide and I knew that some of it would be sailable - which it was.
“Runner traffic was light, which I tended to avoid as much as possible, since I didn’t have a ‘Nicki Redstone’ with me. I’m not terribly spry, but I ducked and dodged a bit, then I made it to the Gulf side, then ‘pow’ found this slick transport, and headed for the Mississippi.” Gus shifted in his chair as he moved his hands, boxer-like. He was quite a character, and always kept me laughing with his antics. That grin with one tooth missing only added to the comedy.
“I constantly listened for updates about you, Nicki, trying to track your progress. I knew that at some point you would probably leave the river and head east, so I came as far north as I thought seemed correct, and - voila - here we are!”
I was impressed and deeply grateful, “Gus, it is so great to see you...you just don’t know. Thank you for being here. I really needed to see a friendly face, and yours is perfect. And that ‘voila’ ...Français? Damn! I feel right at home!” I hugged him again and kissed his rough, whiskered cheek. Hard times can make bonds that reach the soul; I had that feeling about Gus, and nothing would ever change that.
“So, how was the ocean travel, especially in the Gulf of Mexico?” I queried. I had previously determined that my exit from the Mississippi would be in Baton Rouge, but I was still curious.
“Waaayle,” Gus began, “as you know, this is hurricane season, so that concern made me very edgy and kept me close to shore. I did not want to be caught in the open sea, fearless though I am... Ahem! Plus, there is all kinds of debris out there, some of it huge... gigantic. Ship hulls, houses, docks and whatnot; flowing out of the rivers and ports I guess, with no one to remove or mark the stuff. It will take a long time for it all to clear away, I think. Dangerous. I had to keep a careful look out.” Gus paused, then lay back against the bulkhead, very relaxed.
“Most of the old permanent hazards are still marked by solar powered lights, but some of those are failing. Battery problems, maybe. Lousy repair service these days, you know? I might have to write a letter...”
I had to smile at Gus’s small joke. Humor is what kept me going through the worst of times, and both Gus and Brick were brilliant at slipping easy levity into a serious conversation.
“Interesting thing, too,” Gus continued, “I saw another of those cruise ships a few miles from New Orleans. A big-un, too.” I sadly recalled the dark specter of a listing cruise ship off of the Oregon coast, populated by runners.
“This one was in much better condition than that Oregon wreck. A theme park ship, I figured; named the Lady Tintagel, an odd name, don’t you think? It was properly anchored, too. Only a few lifeboats remained on board. No runners that I could see, so I guess maybe everyone abandoned the thing. I was tempted to check it out, but I didn’t want to risk missing you. Maybe another day...”
My older sister had once enjoyed holiday cruises, but that was long ago, and we had been estranged for many years. I had no idea of her continued existence, nor that of my young niece. Those bonds of affection and love were firmly denied by the stern hand of Tara Redstone.
The reasons for any discord were now beyond pointless...
Gus changed the subject. “So tell me the latest about Brick, and a little more about your journey since you left. I can tell it has been rough on you, Nicki, and word was passed over the airwaves that you took care of a bunch of thug slavers, a big dust up from what I can tell. Some mighty grateful folks there for sure. Nicki Redstone does it again! I was busting my buttons I was so proud...and so damn scared for you.”
“Yeah, I know, Gus, I know,” I gently replied and laid my back against a cushion next to Gus. “The stars are out now.” We both looked up as a chill breeze cooled the air around us. “So many!” Of course, there were no longer city lights and air pollution to dim their sparkle, one of the very few benefits of this new life.
With that, I began the process of bringing Gus up to speed on my adventures - Brick’s family situation; the horrible debacle at the federal bunker; the Beauchamp boys; Mannat and the slavers – all of it. We had all learned that the best way to deal with devastation and sorrow was to talk frankly with those who were close and could understand. Gus was one of those people; he knew me well and he understood everything.
The next couple of weeks were spent comfortably in Gus’s company. An actual bed was a nice luxury, as was the small galley and shower. I was so accustomed to sleeping on the ground and bathing in rivers that I did not think of such indulgences when doing without; but when available, I appreciated those beautiful pieces of comfortable living all the more.
During his journey to find me, Gus had anchored for a day in Baton Rouge to resupply, and in the process had made the acquaintance of a lonely, young survivor who had his own radio operation near the wharf.
“His name is Steven James. You’re his hero, Nicki,” Gus remarked without expression, “as you are to many people. Of course you know that.”
“Yes, I know.” I said, smiling slightly as I watched Gus adjust the steering. The gentle wind that filled the sails was chilly, but if felt good, even as it blew strands of loose hair across my face.
“Steven had the idea that it would be good and helpful to a lot of folks if they could hear words of encouragement from you; maybe some tips on survival and so on. I think it’s a pretty good idea. Boost morale and educate.”
“Re-he-he-heeeely,” I said softly in my Ace Ventura voice. Gus was bringing back my sense of humor. They were right, of course; there were some things that I could pass on to other survivors that would surely be helpful, and maybe save lives. “Yeah, I agree, Gus, it makes sense. I look forward to meeting Mr. James. Maybe this will be fun...interesting, at least.”
Those two weeks spent in the uplifting companionship of Sam Gustafson were all that I needed to regain my vigor, both physical and mental. It was proving difficult to once again bid farewell to my dear friend following a one night sojourn with Steven James, the Baton Rouge radio operator whom Gus had described.
My airwaves presentation went well, as it was not an entirely new experience for me, given my background, and I was hopeful that it would deliver valuable tools to those in need. Additionally, it provided me an opportunity to update my loved ones in Oregon, and to offer a schedule of my travel to anyone who might be listening in Florida. Even if the original broadcast was too weak to reach everyone, I knew that it would be retransmitted many times. Eventually, all would hear.
But then it was time to “strap it on” and head east. I thanked Steven for his effort, and then embraced Gus like a father, with a firm promise that I would see him again as soon as possible.
Gus had suggested that my return trip to Oregon might best be accomplished via his Central America route. The concept was excellent, but I was uncertain as to where my travels would lead, since it was conceivable that I could end up in Canada searching for missing family.
“No problem,” Gus quipped, “I’m New Orleans bound for now; I mean to net some shrimp, which I’m sure are plentiful there!” I’ll pop in with Steven, from time to time, and give an update. If you need me, I’ll be around.” Gus winked and gave Ben a rub, “You do the same, okay Nicki? Whenever you get near a radio, let us know what you’re up to...the world is interested.”
With that, Ben and I were on our way, on the long journey east. I looked back one time to see Gus waving in the distance. I palmed my dear friend a kiss and waved in reply. Affection and great emotion welled up in me for this man, and with all my heart I hoped to see him again, but nothing could be for certain in such a nightmare world. A person might easily disappear forever...leaving no trace for those who cared.
In the weeks following my radio presentation at Steven James’s small operation, there followed requests by other transmitters to make similar broadcasts. These unsophisticated operators supplied their locations and various reasons why their needs superseded those of others. A few aspiring jockeys wanted to interview me, Hollywood style, to discuss my history, aspirations, romances, and other such nonsense. That kind of idle foolishness belonged to a long gone age, and perhaps may have once been useful marketing to some degree, but I had no interest whatsoever in selling myself or burnishing my image. Any celebrity that was now attached to my name was purely incidental to my great desire to gather my family and, of course, to sometimes assist others along the way.
Am I a humble person? I suppose so, although it’s nothing intentional. A cynic? Definitely. Those traits were not new to me – I have always been put off by arrogance, bombast and by those who crave attention.
Our trek through Mississippi and Alabama, and then into Florida was long and relatively uneventful. After careful map study, Gus and I had calculated that the trip would take three to four weeks, which turned out to be fairly accurate. Of course, there were occasional interruptions, some pleasant, some not, but I generally avoided contact with others unless there was some compelling reason to do so.
The exception to my self-imposed isolation was children. When I encountered anyone traveling or homesteading with small ones, I would observe the adults from afar, then carefully make my presence known so as not to alarm anyone. I was always gratefully welcomed, often with much excitement and exclamation. Entertainment is scarce in the post-apocalypse, so a visit from just about anyone could be a nice break from the monotony of survival.
A brief, but noteworthy interlude on that last, long leg of my quest came in the form of a wiry man who would have been called “African American” in another time. Now, he was a member of a very unique category: A survivor...and a lone traveler.
And age? It was growing increasingly difficult to determine the age of people, due to the whole body rejuvenation experienced by those who had not succumbed to the virus. Watching him in the hazy distance, I guessed the man to be forty-five, plus or minus five years.
Traveling on a two-lane blacktop, we would inevitably cross paths unless I chose to remain undetected. The fellow piqued my interest, however. Sitting still on the hood of a rusty, old pickup truck, I observed him from afar through my rifle scope. His gait was lively and he moved with a purpose.
It was his clothing that jolted me: Gray trousers with a black stripe running down each leg; a jacket with red, white and blue stripes; a satchel over one shoulder and a rifle on the other. He wore a fur-lined, flip up trooper hat with an emblem attached to the front flap. He was too far away for me to make it out, but I was willing to bet that the hat emblem was that of the US Postal Service.
A mailman!? Very intriguing...
I leaned back and relaxed against the hard truck windshield as Ben snooped around in the nearby brush, always maintaining close proximity to me as he kept a vigilant eye on our rapidly approaching riddle.
When the man still had a safe stretch between us, and to minimize shock and unnecessary flight, I calmly announced myself, “Hello! Good afternoon, sir!”
Startled from thought, he stopped, squinted, and studied me for a short moment, then briskly marched towards me, then halted when Ben made his appearance, perhaps twenty yards from my spot on the truck.
When Ben’s movement was slow and deliberate, as it was at that moment, he could be intense, dark and intimidating – even menacing. But he took his cues from me, and would switch to warm and loveable once he sensed that I was comfortable with a person or situation.
“Good day to you, ma’am! Quinton Bates, United States letter carrier, at your service.” Delivered in crisp, courteous tones, with a warm southern accent. He stared at Ben, who woofed softly. “Pardon my hesitation, but perhaps you’ve heard that canines and mailmen don’t always get along.” It had not occurred to me.
I smiled, “No need to worry, Mr. Bates, Ben won’t bother you. He’s been fed, so he won’t eat much if he does.” I couldn’t help myself.
“Ben?” Quinton broke his eye-lock on Ben, then looked at me; his expression became a large, warm smile. “Good lawd, Ms. Nicki Redstone! Luck stays with me! My own, personal encounter with the most famous person alive today. Yes Ma’am! I am thrilled to find you. I have two letters for you; fan mail, I think.”
With that, Quinton promptly extracted two neat, clean envelopes from his mail pouch, and handed them to me as we moved to sit beneath the shade of a nearby massive oak tree. Quinton tensed somewhat when Ben rolled up next to him, but relaxed as my wolfish companion flopped down and innocently closed his eyes for a nap, his back paw resting on the mailman’s leg. Ben must have been a comedian in another life...
Indeed, the letters were from younger fans, with directions to their homes, should I ever be in the vicinit
y, and generous words of appreciation and admiration. I enjoyed the youthful compliments... almost like the old days.
“I’ve heard so much about you, Ms. Redstone, but never figured you to be a jokester.” He paused, looking at Ben, who had moved to my side; then, “You were joking, of course, about how much he eats?” I had forgotten what an intimidating ally my canine friend could be.
I smiled, nodding, and rubbed Ben’s head, “So what’s your story Mr. Bates? Delivering mail? What’s the compensation?” There were many questions in my mind, so I waited, sharing pistachio nuts, some orange slices and a water bottle as I did so.
Laying aside his satchel, the itinerant postman and I relaxed on soft turf. “Oh, I was a mail carrier before it all ended. Once the world did end, and I survived, I decided that we would need a mail service again one day, so I figured I would get it going. I move from place to place, sometimes even returning with happy news to a sender. The only compensation I ever receive is a good meal and a dry bed... sometimes a bath. What else do I need? People appreciate what I do.”
“Wow,” I replied, “now that is a worthy cause.”
“Ah, thank you,” Quinton responded with a proud grin. “I’ve been trying to recruit others, but no takers, so far. It’s a lonely, tough life, but I feel good about it.”
“Yeah, I know what you mean,” I replied...and I did.
He produced a bag of boiled peanuts. “Fresh...I made them last night.”
I nibbled one with a little nostalgia. “Delicious! Just the right amount of heat. My sister used to make these; very similar.”
“They seem to be growing everywhere down here,” Quinton noted. “If you know what the plants look like – and I do, believe me – you just pull ‘em up, clean ‘em off in water, then boil away. I have my own special Cajun seasoning.” With those words, he produced a bag of red powder from a fanny pack. “Most houses have a gas stove or grill, which still work fine, and plenty of pots, so cooking is easy.”
THE KILLER ANGEL : Book Three Journey (THE KILLER ANGEL TRILOGY 3) Page 11
