THE KILLER ANGEL : Book Three Journey (THE KILLER ANGEL TRILOGY 3)
Page 16
“That’s fine, sir, but we would like to talk to the ladies, just for a moment. Would that be okay?” Scottie replied with a smile.
I was proud of my sister. There were no police, no investigators, no family services, no courts – no one to protect the innocent and abused. But Scottie had developed a system that worked well and gave the oppressed a chance for freedom. I was thankful that survivors like her and her comrades were willing and capable of accomplishing the task. In the bigger picture, I remembered that my Kip and his rangers, and Captain Carter and his soldiers, worked towards the same goal, and I was doubly appreciative that the power of courageous, kind hearts proved stronger than that of dark souls.
I studied the three before us. Pretty ordinary; I’d seen their type before. Religious zealots who used their beliefs to lord themselves over others. Not excessively dangerous, but not to be ignored.
Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed Scottie’s hands feigning relaxation, but I knew her well and recognized her preparation for action. I was already there. We were within easy pistol range.
Another bearded, deep voice snarled, “Go away! Leave us be!”
With that, Scottie’s pistols were up faster than any human could follow; mine were positioned simultaneously. Ben, too, was ready, having witnessed many similar confrontations with me. His ears were back and his muscular body was tense and imposing.
From either side of the farmers, our over-watching guardians revealed themselves promptly, their rifles aimed at the threat. From behind us, our remaining comrades came forward carefully. Brick calmly moved up next to Ben. It was an effective, overpowering display, as it was intended to be.
“Place your weapons on the ground, then lay yourselves down. We will not harm you. We only want to talk.” The men complied and were zip tied where they lay, hands and feet. The women and children were examined and found to be unarmed.
While the men were kept secured, Scottie and I took the “family” to a private spot for conversation. Brick stayed with the remainder of our troupe where, with Scottie temporarily occupied, he was bombarded with celebrity comments. Even our prisoners pitched a few awed questions. I smiled at how well he handled the attention; he was growing accustomed to the routine, and was very relaxed about it. I had to admit one thing, he definitely looked the part. He was indeed a heroic figure; a living legend. The evolution of his story would make interesting reading in a hundred years.
I have always been proud of my great friend, Brick Charbonneau.
Later, while reviewing the day’s events, Brick remarked to me, “Only a solid-to-the-core person can withstand the corrosive effect of power; the dogmatically religious types seem to be especially susceptible. It’s a pernicious human failing.”
Good grief...
Brick could be one amazing philosopher, but I had to jab him. “Brick... Brick... did you just say ‘dogmatically’ and ‘pernicious’ in one breath? Those are very big words...very big.”
His dark eyes flashed humorously through a suspicious squint. “Yes...and you don’t know their meanings...hmmmm...let me think on that for a few days.”
“No one uses words like that in conversational English. That’s for textbooks. I don’t want us to be facing down a bunch of goons and hear you say something like, ‘Nicki, there are some ‘pernicious’ guys in here. Okay? It’s just not good for my reputation.”
We both chuckled with Brick’s reply, “Ah, yes, I see your point.”
Easy, harmless humor. It was an important pillar of our friendship... and mental health.
“That was a fairly routine encounter, Nicki,” Scottie explained that evening, as we privately enjoyed a glass of dark red wine and a tray of fine cheeses in her quarters. “There is no typical, of course, but our religious interventions usually end up the same way. Even so, we always try to plan for the unexpected. You never know, so it’s best to remain on guard, never complacent.”
Scottie paused and looked at me with unexpected compassion, tilting her head ever so slightly. “You’ve seen some of the worst, Nicki, I know.” I nodded and smiled with sadness at my twin.
“For us, the most dangerous are the slavers – the real criminals who think nothing of snuffing out a young, innocent life. Deadly and vicious. We take no chances with them. Usually, after observation, we act quickly.” Scottie eyed me firmly before continuing. “In most of those cases, we take no prisoners. I won’t let any slaver escape to torture and dominate others. You understand?”
“I made that vow long ago, Scottie,” I replied. She knew that I had lived up to my oath more than once. Taking life was not something I was proud of, but as long as I was able, I would never allow any living being to be tormented by any predator, whether runner or human – the later being the worst, by far.
“Besides the religious fanatics,” Scottie continued, “we deal with the slavers, the militias, the survivalists, the KKK types, and the occasional sadistic traveler. Sometimes they are a mix, but we’ve established protocols that work well for each – preventing surprises is an obsession for me, and that obsession has saved us from many tragedies.
“Most of the sadists have left the region or are dead. Those are the ones that we tracked, located and punished with determination and vengeance. We are fanatics about it.”
Scottie took a more relaxed pose and softly rubbed Ben’s back. “The groups that remain in the vicinity are, overall, reasonably decent folk. Sometimes they even cooperate with us. Others have modified their organizations so as not to create conflict with us. It’s an acceptable approach as far as I’m concerned. We didn’t set out to be the ‘law’ of the land, but it has worked out that way. Somebody had to do it, I guess.”
“You’ve had a tremendous impact on the entire region, Scottie. God only knows what atrocities would go on here without you. I can see why you won’t leave.”
“Not yet, anyway,” Scottie replied, “not until I know that the area is stable and will stay that way when Flynn and I depart.” She paused introspectively, smiling. “And Marshall? I don’t think you will ever get him to leave, though, other than temporarily. He’s having too much fun. Who knew?”
With that, we both chuckled, then stood up and embraced in silent cheer. It was good to finally hear Scottie’s sweet laugh; almost like old times.
“You arrived just in time, Nicki; I was losing myself... becoming someone... or something... not ‘us’. You know?” I nodded as my eyes watered. I hugged my sister again, held her close, and kissed her scarred cheek.
“Je t’aime jusqu’à la fin ma soeur.” I loved her more than life.
“Je t’aime pour toujours, Nicki.” I never doubted it.
Scottie knew my story - every detail of it - and she knew that I had faced my own demons, and was nearly lost to them. Scottie and I were true twin sisters, bonded to the soul – and always would be.
We stood, face to face, smiling, simultaneously raising our glasses, and with one voice made our soft salute:
“Redstone...”
I studied my beautiful sister. The damage to her eye was healing, not so red, I thought. No doubt the virus side-effect was helping. And the scar?
Well, we were the Redstone twins, after all...
Departure
Departure day had arrived. Leaving Scottie was proving far more emotionally difficult than I had imagined.
The prior evening I executed my self-imposed obligatory drill, although that time the rehearsal required a sharper, more relentless edge - it would divert my mind from the impending sadness of separation. I gripped each weapon with speed and efficiency, always pushing myself with the intensity demanded of a life or death skill – this was no game. Magazines were popped out and new ones loaded, each located precisely in its pouch. I could find every knife, every pistol, every item on my body, my vest and my pack with maximum speed and in complete darkness – without thinking; without fumbling.
Faster...faster...faster!
As always, I trained with two hands in un
ison, then left-handed only, then with the right hand. Using legs and arms, I switched up the phantom onslaught, responding with an instantaneous defense or preemptive attack of my own. I was ever open to modification. If I could glean some advantage from experience or observation, I would evaluate the concept and incorporate it into my kit. This was for my life, and for the lives of others...I must be perfection!
It was an important day. Everyone was present – Scottie, Flynn, Marshall, Brick, Ben and me.
Flynn reported that three days of transmitting our intentions had been successfully acknowledged by Gus in Baton Rouge. He would await our arrival on the Mississippi, an event that Brick and I estimated would require three to four weeks of easy land travel to accomplish, barring unforeseen detours or delays (which were all too likely).
After considering the options, Brick and I decided that returning to Hedley was our foremost desire. Having finally reconnected with Scottie, ending the long separation from Kip had surged to prominence in my mind and heart.
Brick, much to my surprise, had developed an enduring and genuine fondness for Hedley – the countryside and the people – but most especially for Kip and my grandparents. I was pleased to learn this as I knew the feelings were mutual, and the thought of having my friend living far off in the Dakotas had always been depressing to me.
Marshall had strenuously offered to give us a lift out of town in his truck, but we declined with thanks. Our trek would be paced out on foot, and we were ready to pitch into it.
We had our gear – clothing, shoes, packs and weapons – strapped, engaged, and clipped – every detail precisely located, to include Ben’s saddlebags and the thin dagger slipped into its sheath in my braid.
Before convening for departure, Scottie pulled me aside, “I have something for you Nicki.” She opened her hand to reveal a bronze, silver dollar-sized coin. I knew it immediately; it was our father’s Airborne coin, an important symbol to us when we were young. Scottie had drilled a small hole near its edge and had passed a sturdy cord through it.
“I have his dog tags. Daddy would want you to have this.” And with those words, Scottie placed the string over my head and under my braid.
“Thank you, thank you...” was all that I could say as we embraced one last time.
Family. All survivors. We stood together just inside the main gate of Camelot, silently for a moment, in pride and affection for one another.
Unnoticed by everyone present, Scottie had produced a chilled bottle of Dom Perignon, along with five crystal champagne glasses and a bowl. She popped the cork like a pro, and poured each of us a few ounces of the still precious liquid. We raised our glasses...
“To ‘speed’...” she said.
“Never hesitate...” I replied.
“Never quit...” enjoined Brick.
“Resourcefulness...” added Marshall.
“Determination and focus...” concluded Flynn.
Then Marshall added with easy sincerity -
“Redstone!”
And with that final salute, we were off!
I wanted to go home, to Kip and to my grandparents. No more “adventure’” No diversions. No more rescues. I wanted to have my own life, to marry Kip Kellogg, to have children and to live an undisturbed life in Oregon, in the new age. I had done my part.
People forget, I think, that I did not set out to become a hero. My one shining goal was to find my loved ones, and to bring them together. Let others carry civilization across what had been the United States of America. Let others search out survivors in what had been Canada.
I would lock my guns and kit into Grampa’s old Army trunk.
Soon... soon... I could do so.
Yes, I had done my part...
The Legend could retire...
Epilogue
ON THE main deck of a once magnificent cruise liner, a slender young girl quietly dropped coins into the dark water below, faint luminescence briefly exposed ripples in the otherwise smooth ocean surface.
The angelic beauty’s mother stood near, looking off into the night sky, her flowing auburn hair clearly visible in the moonlight. “We must leave soon, Dejah,” she said gently. Her daughter nodded in understanding.
Mr. Lapham walked by and tipped his cap. “Good night Ms. Redstone.” Such a nice gentleman, one of the few honorable men on board. A veteran of the Vietnam War, he must be over eighty years old, but he seemed not the least affected by his age. She waved and blew him a small kiss.
She pondered the life-preserver hanging nearby. It’s inscription gave her hope, “Lady Tintagel”, an homage to King Arthur and his valorous nights. It was a good omen...she had waited long enough.
Nicki’s Letter
Author’s note: Nicki’s letter – penned on simple, light-blue stationary - is preserved under glass in the Hedley Museum, pistachio shells placed rather humorously alongside. It was faithfully delivered by our first post-epidemic letter carrier, Quinton Bates. Her words are simple; her hand is firm.
To my Dear Family -
I write to you from somewhere in Alabama. I am fit and well, and only a few days from home. I am ever anxious to see Mom, Daddy and Scottie.
Gramma and Grampa, I can’t wait to be in Hedley with you, sipping wine at sunset. Once I return, I hope to never to leave again.
My darling Kip, I think of you often and miss you always. You are my light and my heart. You are my soul. I love you endlessly.
Do not worry for me. My spirits are high and my strength is excellent. Ben is by my side.
I love you forever!
Nicki
~ About the author ~
The author, writing under a pseudonym, is a former Army officer, career operations manager, business owner, adventurer, and father of three.
Myles Stafford completed his undergraduate work at Oregon State University and earned his Master’s degree from the University of Southern California.
Author email:
AuthorMylesStafford@gmail.com
THE
KILLER ANGEL
Trilogy
THE KILLER ANGEL
Book One
“Hard Player”
THE KILLER ANGEL
Book Two
“Legend”
THE KILLER ANGEL
Book Three
“Journey”
by Myles Stafford
© 2015, Myles P. Stafford. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.