Brick and I, too, had made frequent use of kitchens across the country, most having well stocked cupboards. We always kept an eye out for places that had gardens. Even though overgrown, there was often a bountiful supply of vegetables, herbs and fruits much of the year.
“Ms. Redstone, I’m traveling west, as you know. It would be my great privilege to carry a letter for you. May I have the honor?” With those words, the doughty mailman reached into a side pouch and withdrew a watertight bag, from which he extracted a perfectly clean, crisp, light blue writing pad and an envelope.
I reached over and accepted the offer. Quinton then pulled out a thousand dollar ballpoint pen from his shirt pocket. I penned a brief note to Kip and my grandparents, sealed it, and then handed the envelope to the new-age postman, who promptly placed it in his mail satchel.
With that, we both stood. I offered a few tips on what the letter carrier might encounter on the road ahead, and recommendations on what to avoid. He returned the favor, as had become customary with most travelers. I also described Gus and the radio man, Steven James.
“I am proud to have met you, Ms. Redstone. You’re letter will make it, I assure you.” I believed him.
“And you, Mr. Bates, I believe you are making history. Thank you.”
Quinton Bates gave a small tug on his cap in courtly salute, and then was off briskly, just as I had expected. What a fine man. I had the certain feeling that I would see him again one day.
A week later, on a chilly morning and with Ben trotting alongside, I approached my hometown of Engleton, in Florida, from the north, a direction that I knew would provide a panoramic view of the city. I was not prepared for the utter devastation that revealed itself before me.
As we surmounted the highest point of a long, concrete overpass and looked over a barrier, the appalling vision was jarring. Spread out before me was not the lush and glittering city of my memory, instead there appeared the ugly ruins of broken concrete and tangled steel, making me question the accuracy of my navigation. The image before me was a barely recognizable landscape; a tragic, unholy portrait that symbolized what had become of our world.
I leaned over the rail and studied destruction that was far more complete than anything I had previously experienced. I had seen cities that had been nuked - broken, charred, and pushed outward as though swept by a giant broom. This was different somehow. More complete and very raw. Where it was once flat, the center was pushed up slightly into a giant, low mound, the top of which was scooped out into an almost glassy dish, while the edges of the dish contained fragmented building shells that looked like the broken teeth in a runner’s mouth. From there, the city-scape was pushed outward downhill from the dish center...tree trunks and power poles lay flat on the ground, looking like toothpicks. There were large areas of nothing, and everything was painted in monochromatic shades of gray, devoid of all color.
I studied the “toothpicks”, hundreds of them – wood, steel, concrete. Eventually, as I had hoped, I found one standing, surprisingly near the depression. It pointed straight up, not even a slight angle – to me, an image of defiance. I smiled at the sight. If he were there, Brick – with a touch of wit - would sternly announce in his “Indian voice” that I was that defiant vertical form, then throw in some Sioux words for emphasis.
Ahh...Brick’s metaphors always gave me a happy heart.
I gazed across the landscape. For miles in all directions; the air had an unpleasant, brown quality to it. Something lingered there, obscuring everything in the farther distances, and I could detect the faint odor of burning material. It was a familiar smell, not altogether unpleasant, but I could not recall its origin.
There was no indication of movement anywhere. Nothing – no bird, no insect, not even a breeze. The silence was eerie, and the petrified image was so still that it could have been a photograph. It was haunting to see so vast a man-made landscape so entirely devoid of activity.
I was certain that acquiring a filtration mask for myself would be prudent, and it would also be necessary to customize something for Ben.
Bypassing Engleton via beltway roads added two days to my journey, and it proved to be a boring and colorless detour. Out of concern for possible lingering radiation, I consumed only canned goods and fluids from within substantial structures outside the gray perimeter, supplying Ben with sustenance from my pack.
Since I had no knowledge of my sister’s precise location, other than rumor, the obvious destination would be my family’s home, wherein I was certain that Scottie, my father, and my mother, would have left directions for me, just as I had done at my Los Angeles apartment upon my departure.
That seemed a lifetime ago...sometimes only a dream.
Chapter Ten
“Nicki’s Voice”
“Brick”
EACH DAY I listened. I kept one earpiece on low at all times, hoping to catch news of Nicki. Radio chatter was increasing, most of it entirely useless jabbering, but contacts were growing and survivors were keen on sharing information. I often mentally tuned out those conversations, as my primary focus was on the physical exertion of driving forward my kayak as fast as possible, and on maintaining constant vigilance of the surrounding waters, since delay and danger preyed upon the unwary.
Finally, following the drone of a local rumor and gossip report, delivered in the sleep inducing monotone of a young-sounding man, whose words I did not absorb, came a voice that I recognized like no other, shocking me to alert stillness. A smooth, rough-edged, movie star goddess voice, filled with the power and confidence that I knew well.
Sitting high and still on the water, eyes closed, volume up...I listened carefully. Every word and vocal inflection would give me clues: Her health; her motivation; her location.
“Hello everyone...this is Nicki Redstone. I am in Baton Rouge now with my friends, Captain Gus and Steven James, on my way to find my family in Florida. To Kip, and my Grampa and Gramma, and to my friends everywhere, I’m doing fine and miss you all. Brick, old man, Ben and I feel your absence on this trip.”
There was a pause, then, “Steven, the Baton Rouge area radio operator, asked me to say a few words that may be helpful to survivors around the country.”
“First, something very important to me. To anyone listening: Do not follow me. Do not attempt to join me. I don’t want your company. Period. Except for Brick and Ben, I travel alone. I will not accept any other companions. My life is sadness and danger, and you risk yours by getting close. I would hate to be the one to injure or kill you. Stay away. Do not seek out danger for the sake of it, certainly not because of the stories that you hear about me. I do not seek danger...ever. We all have lived through enough horror and sadness, and should never search for more. Parents, keep your children close, and don’t let them be overcome with the false dreams of following in my footsteps. This only leads to disaster and sorrow, as I have seen too many times now.”
It was a sobering statement from my dearest friend, and I could sense sadness in her delivery, in spite of the natural strength of her voice.
Nicki then continued into a helpful briefing for the listeners, covering facts about what she had seen in her journeys, and what they could expect at Hedley and Camp Puller. From there, she gave excellent advice on effective protection against runners when traveling, and the essential training and armaments that were necessary for survival when doing so. She also offered caution and explanation regarding beasts of the human kind.
I imagined that the few living people in the world who heard that message that day from Nicki were probably thrilled to have finally heard her voice. I knew with certainty that the transmission was being recorded in numerous locations, to be rebroadcast repeatedly in the future.
And Captain Gus? Sam Gustafson? It had to be, but it was incredible that he – a sailing man – would be found so far from his ports along the Pacific Coast. Now that had to be a story worth hearing.
I pressed on with renewed vigor.
Baton Rouge!<
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Chapter Eleven
“Scottie”
“YOU BOTH have the gifts of speed and ambidexterity,” my father spoke often of this to Scottie and me when we were very young. “They are Redstone family traits, but you must repeatedly sharpen those talents,” he admonished, “or they will be lost...especially the balanced use of your left and right side. Most in our family neglected the skill, and are now strictly left or right handed.”
We did not really understand what he meant by those comments at the time, but my father would often challenge us to throw and catch a ball with each hand, or compose letters to see how well we could do when changing grips, right to left. In the games of “slap hands” or “catch the dollar”, we had to both increase our speed and to accomplish the tasks left, right and double-handed.
We would spend hours in the back yard, covered in sticky pulp, smashing oranges as fast as my father could throw them; or ducking tennis balls on the court where he would fire dozens of them at us with gusto and strength as we laughed at his increasing inability to strike us. My mother would shout in worry and alarm in her sweet French accent, “My ‘oney, don’t throw so ‘ard”, and he would always grin and say the same thing in reply, “It’s good training!” Then he would stroll up to us, flipping one of those felt covered, green balls under his elbow and catching it, then popping it off of the front side of his elbow, all the while challenging us to do the same. Every challenge, every struggle, every discomfort was “good training”.
Ah, such fun...
My father continually pressed us with these things, in his kind yet determined way, always preparing us for something, almost as though he could see the future.
Maybe - somehow - he did.
As we grew older, it was the pistol range, where our ever increasing two-handed skill would impress others as we fired instinctively, without sighting down the barrels. Initially, our father resisted this inclination, believing that sight-targeting was superior, but he quickly relented when we proved our abilities. Being very competitive, Scottie and I loved the exercises, not realizing then that our father was intent on keeping us sharp.
And oh how his training has paid off!
My mother...
My father...
My home...
All...all gone...
I had traveled so very far, seen so many things... and now the adventure ends on the steps where my story began, only a short lifetime ago...
I put my finger on the trigger and prepared to end the legend of Nicki Redstone forever, no hero’s ending and no witness...no one to relate the inglorious end to a onetime legend. My sorrow would now end...one small bullet to pierce this warrior’s heart; one last victim for the “angel of death”.
Even then, even in my own dark despair, I could hear the agony of my dearest, ever faithful companion, as he vented those sounds that are made only by an animal suffering in-extremis, a most painful, fearsome death. Steadfast and unyielding to the end, Ben would not leave my defeated side, and was paying the price for his loyalty and courage.
Then my father’s voice came to me, vividly clear and real, “Live...LIVE my daughter. YOU are the hero now...Fight on!” My blurred vision suddenly cleared and my mind burned with those words. “FIGHT ON!”
I could see nothing of Ben, save the back of his writhing, furry head; his dying screams withered beneath the beasts who swarmed him. That sound burned me to my soul; my blood boiled like never before; raw, uncontrolled fury returned to me – body and soul, propelled by an unquenchable thirst for vengeance...I said you could take ME damn you!!
BEN!!
How could I have let myself become so self-centered, so weak, so selfish?
Quicker than thought, the missile meant for me was sent into the creature holding my back, followed immediately by five more rounds, dislodging the horrifying fiends in their frenzied, maniacal rage.
I dragged out a second pistol and blasted away at the heap of undead where Ben had fallen. Ducking, kicking and dodging grasping death, totally surrounded by a tornado of screaming insanity.
Oh yes, I knew those creatures well, how they turned, when they would leap, their grotesque eyes and flexing limbs announced demonic movement that I could easily read...and swiftly terminate.
Fully aware of every detail, as if the passage of time stopped entirely, I made every crashing bullet of those fifteen round magazines count. I moved and fired...moved and fired, backing up as I drew closer to the home of my birth. I visualized the small, soft green balls launched in earnest by my father, dodging left, right, ducking, jumping...that was easy...this was easier. Those ugly faces were nothing to me as 9mm bullets broke out the back of every monster’s skull.
I DO NOT FEAR YOU!!
Yet they came on, screeching and vomiting, the object of their obsession almost within reach. Calm focus... catharsis... power... destruction. Methodical, systematic, controlled, effective... every lethal missile smashing into its target; each hollow-point removing a berserk attacker from the conflict.
Those hot guns emptied fast...
Four pistols spilled their power until dry. I pulled the fifth and last weapon from my backside, emptied it and reloaded. Constant training delivered unbelievable, Olympian speed. I deeply gulped air at the exertion as sweat burned my eyes. I did not care and I did not notice...I only wanted to kill the demons.
Again...again...again, but there were too many.
The gun sizzled and smoked as rain spattered upon its fiercely heated barrel. This was Pinebluff; this was Fort Hope; the relentless onslaught of nightmare creatures would not cease nor hesitate until they were dead...or I was. I could feel a smile upon my lips; my scar was hot on my cheek.
Who says a girl can’t fight? Come on damn you!
My back pressed against the tall gate guarding my parents’ small home. Better to die a hero’s death here with my beloved father and mother.
Did I do good daddy? Are you proud of me?
A swarm of at least another one hundred runners spewed through a hole in the brick wall that surrounded the once beautiful subdivision, less than two blocks away, racing for me, their ugly, bloodshot eyes set upon their mindless addiction.
So this is how my story ends...
I looked up at the gloomy sky, thinking how wonderful it was. My eyes watered slightly with emotion as the cool drizzle spattered my face. I briefly closed my eyes... I don’t want to leave...not yet... I want to keep my place in this world.
Shaking my head, I prepared myself for this final massed attack, as I knocked down chargers that came first in twos and threes. I had the time to reload two pistols, fifteen rounds apiece, but could not retrieve my rifle for the distant targets. They came far too fast.
It was then that she stepped in...through the blur of my angry tears I could see her clearly.
At the moment of my own, unstoppable death, she was there...striding confidently towards me from almost nowhere. Was I dreaming? She stood next to me in a relaxed pose.
“Here they come!” was all that she said, tilting her head slightly with emphasis as she looked at me with Redstone calm.
It was Scottie.
With those words we both turned our guns on a relentless foe, sending those cannibals to a skull-piercing death from which they would never rise.
We opened up our weapons with magnificent effect, dropping dozens of frothing runners into stumbling, ignominious deaths, their faces scraping into dirt and asphalt.
I believe that the shock and ferocity of our smashing force must have been witnessed from above by the heroes of all wars past; surely gaining us a place in their noble pantheon. This was valor at its finest; twin executioners, with skills precisely honed to the demands of the new world; containing the brilliance and courage to prevail in a last stand fight to the death. I was proud to be there with my sister.
It then soon became apparent that others were in the fray with us; four in total. Two warriors, a man and a woman, stayed especially close to my sister, per
mitting nothing to approach or challenge her. Those two would give their lives for her, that was clear.
One overly bold and energetic fighter, large and muscular, moved forward ahead of our line, and in an instant was bowled over by the speed and fury of the mob, savaged before any of his comrades could give aid. The damage was irreversible; death was swift and ugly.
Then, suddenly, it was over. Calm. Quiet. Muffled hearing. Heavy breathing. Stiff hands. Scattered bodies and gore. The smokey, comforting smell of gunpowder in the air. Soreness everywhere.
With sublime timing, the rain stopped and a moment of clear blue heaven revealed itself through a small tunnel in the clouds. A few seconds of calm silence, as steam rose from the damp and bloodied asphalt.
I could again sense my father...smiling. Ah, my daughter, it’s okay now... it’s okay...I am proud of you.
“Thanks Daddy.”
“I like the braid, Redstone.” The calm voice was immediately recognizable to me, even though it was flinty cold and cut-steel hard, lacking entirely in any warmth or emotion.
“Scottie?” I knew it was my darling twin sister, finally, after all this time, disconnected by the years and distance, but still bonded mentally, nonetheless.
I stepped over slippery gore and black-blood carnage to embrace my sister, slowly, carefully. She had changed much. Like me, she was physically scarred, at least as much as I was, maybe even more, with the most pronounced damage being the severe injury to her right eye. A dark red orb rested in that gorgeous face, the once beautiful brown iris within was barely visible. A white slash ran from above her brow down to her cheek, no doubt the same wound that damaged her eye. I wondered if she still had vision in it, but did not ask.
A tan leather jacket, gloves, cargo pants, a rifle, a pistol, spare magazines, and a large Bowie knife hanging upside down from her shoulder – that was it. Pretty ordinary stuff, given the circumstances.
THE KILLER ANGEL : Book Three Journey (THE KILLER ANGEL TRILOGY 3) Page 12
