THE KILLER ANGEL : Book Three "Journey" (THE KILLER ANGEL TRILOGY 3) (4 page)

In spite of our extreme unwillingness to split our team, Brick and I found ourselves in precisely that unwelcome situation one month out of Hedley.

While traveling through a fairly open and hilly area of western Montana, we encountered a fine family, the Claytons, consisting of a grandfather, his grown daughter, and her two beautiful high school age girls. In tow were two big, friendly mongrel dogs. They also had an old mule pulling a small cart of goods, which was an unusual sight.

We had sometimes considered the assistance and speed of equine travel, but the unavoidable noise of the animals makes them dangerous companions. Horses, by nature, can be loud creatures, chomping, snorting and releasing gas like a firecracker, and to combine those dangerous negatives with the care that they required simply made them all too impractical. Plus, I could never forgive myself if we were jumped by runners and some dear saddled companion was brought down and savaged by the ravenous creatures. Still, the Claytons had a mule, and it seemed to work for them.

The family was en route to Hedley, Oregon, where they hoped to begin a new life in the relative security of the slowly growing community. These folks were former “doomsday preppers” - shelter escapees; bunker
dwellers - “survivalists”. Almost none of their type did, in fact, survive, since very few bunkers were designed to block an airborne virus, and those facilities that could forestall such a catastrophe were never designed for permanent habitation. I had seen a few. Most were empty; some remained the tragic habitation of runners, no doubt the former occupants.

In spite of the positive nature of their journey, those gentle people proceeded in a state of mourning, having recently lost the only other man in the group a few days earlier, the twenty-year-old brother of the two girls.

“We thought we were doing great when we reached Grayrock.” The grandfather, Dan, explained, “We were in good health and great spirits, no runner problems there, but then...we were taken by surprise in a country mall.” One of the teens wiped tears from her eyes as Brick and I listened in silence over a warm campfire. It was a sadly familiar story.

Dan continued, “We were spread out a little in the mall when a rough group of guys came in, five in all, but I think there may have been more somewhere else. All ages, too, from sixteen to sixty, dressed mostly in hunting type camouflage clothing, but a couple were dressed New Jersey mafia style. They saw my granddaughters first, and it seemed that they had the intention of taking our girls as their ‘women’ since they made crude comments about not having been satisfied in months.”

Brick and I knew where this was going, having
encountered similar unrestrained human animals on occasions in the past. It was a grim reality of the apocalyptic age – the strong dominating the weak, taking what they wanted by force.

My blood was beginning to boil with a force within me that could not tolerate the crimes of power that have haunted and tormented the innocent for millennia. I could see that Brick was calmly studying my face; he knew how I felt and could anticipate how it would end.

“It happened fast. Those thugs tried to take our girls, but our boy Andy was around the corner and intervened. Andy had so much courage...” Dan’s voice broke for a moment in emotion, then he continued, “But they shot him, right there and then, in cold blood. There was no talk; it was just plain murder. They even laughed about it. My daughter Tam and I ran to the commotion, and then everything went crazy. We were shooting, they were shooting, our girls ran for cover. Our dogs were everywhere trying to help - my old hound dog Blue was tearing up one of the bastards before they gutted him with a knife.” Dan choked up at the retelling.

“So we made it out. We knocked down one of them in the process, but I don’t know how bad he was hurt. We had to leave Andy’s body behind, and Blue, too. So we took off, and here we are. I’ll never get over it...” Dan trailed off in soft weeping, to be consoled in the loving arms of his own daughter, the careworn mother of the young, deceased hero. The adrenaline in my
system had me trembling slightly, but I quietly concealed my agitation from everyone but Brick. He and I would discuss and consider this unhappy news when we were alone.

After a time of quiet contemplation, the conversation slowly shifted to milder matters, of youthful dreams and survivor plans, and eventually it became apparent that the teens were staring at me with very interested eyes. Ah yes...that look...fans. I had quite forgotten my scar, that slash on my left cheek. It was hardly noticeable normally, unless I exerted myself or was worked up over something. Given my agitation, even in the firelight that white line must look fluorescent on my skin.

“I didn’t notice your scar earlier, Miss Redstone...wow...just like they said on the radio.” One of the girls popped out without thinking. “Molly!” The mother cut her off. The “radio” that Molly mentioned was undoubtedly the Camp Puller retelling of our fight in Pinebluff. That clash was nearly the end of Brick, Ben and me, but it was also where we met the determined soldiers of the 101
^st
Airborne Division and their remarkable leader, Captain Jack Carter. It was their twice daily radio transmissions, and also those of Hedley, that provided valuable assistance and advice to what remained of the world, to include the occasional updates regarding the adventures of Nicki Redstone, Brick Charbonneau and Ben.

“It’s okay, I’m used to it,” I said with a smile.
“Brick keeps on me about it. He says it tells him when it’s time to shoot.” A comment that gave everyone a small chuckle. The girls and their mother all looked at Brick with admiration. Tall, handsome, and exuding quiet confidence, his aura was magnetic to all, women and men alike.

The remainder of the evening was spent in gentle small talk, as we shared histories, advice, and thoughts on the future. Ben stayed close to me, but was not unfriendly to the inquisitive sniffs of the Clayton pooches, and he was especially welcoming to the gentle attentions of the girls.

As we sat on the ground enjoying the comfort of easy companionship, I noticed a small, yellow butterfly land on an ant hill, which produced an immediate and aggressive response from the occupants. Much to the imagined ire of the ants, I plucked the overwhelmed arthropod from the sand and gently blew off its attackers, and then sent the fluttering creature on its way. Brick observed and nodded, but did not smile. The symbolism was obvious, but not intentional.

It’s just what I do
...

We learned that the Claytons had traveled far from the east. They had odd ideas about self-defense, and to me it was a wonder that they had made it this far.

I was surprised to learn that they had heard word of my sister, but nothing specific, which I found to be terribly frustrating. All that they could tell me was that the name “Scottie Redstone” had been mentioned by an
aimless wanderer who had never heard of me. He reportedly voiced annoyance upon learning that there were “two of us”. The man had declared his dislike for my sister, having escaped some conflict in which she was involved. He would say no more, but the Claytons indicated some unease while in the man’s company; his character seemed doubtful, even dangerous. I was not surprised by his antipathy for my twin, for I, too, had made a few enemies among the predators in this new age.

Good people make solid friends fast in this world of the very few, and those four travelers made me miss my own loved ones, those whom I had left behind a month earlier in Hedley, which was only one of two small centers of civilization known to exist in the apocalyptic world; and also those loved ones I was now in search of in Florida, with a very long journey in between. I missed my valiant fiance and idol, Kip Kellogg, who, being incapacitated, remained in Hedley with my grandparents, Gordon and Ellie Redstone; and I dearly missed my twin sister, Scottie, who was known to be in some state of intensity in Florida, along with Kip’s father, Marshall Kellogg. The whereabouts and condition of my estranged older sister, Tara, my mother, Marie-Soleil, and father, Carson Redstone, remained unknown.

As always, in the evenings, Brick and I serviced our equipment and weapons, ensuring that everything
was precisely where it belonged and in ready condition. I carried a standard military M4, 5.56mm ammunition firing rifle as my primary defense, with scope and light attached, along with a vest in which were usually four 9 mm, Glock 19 semi-automatic pistols, and one more holstered on my backside. That was almost ten pounds of loaded guns on my body, not counting the rifle. I used hollow-points wherever possible, and always kept a bullet in every chamber. I loaded myself down with ammunition, ready to go in large capacity magazines, dried food, and a one day supply of water, along with sundry other items, to include water purification, spare batteries, a head lamp, a small radio with ear buds, some medical supplies, and so on. I had upgraded my braided fishing line to 200 feet of 300 lbs capacity. I often kept a knife or steel rod on each of my arms and legs, and always a small dagger in my hair braid. I was comfortable with most handguns, but intentionally kept my selection to a minimum, which made for efficient handling during intense moments or in darkness.

Brick and I had acquired special operations silencers for our rifles, which added eighteen ounces to our gear, but the burden seemed worthwhile since they performed with great effectiveness. I also carried one small can of pepper spray... As I’ve said before, not every threat required extermination. At one point early on, I carried a machete, but such a weapon proved cumbersome and unwieldy for me, so I discarded the thing.

Each night, without fail, I practiced locating and using every item on my person multiple times, including several sequences with my eyes closed. I wore a leather jacked that would stop a runner’s bite, and armored mountain bike gloves on my hands. Each item, and each weapon, had served its purpose by saving my life and the lives of others. My entire kit received the careful attention that was necessary to ensure continued survival and success in this land of the damned.

Before the world ended, I was not a daredevil, nor unusually fearless – certainly far from the face-cruncher that the Camp Puller radio boys boast that I am now - but I was always exceptionally fast, a gift of good genes, and that talent had improved with extensive practice. That practice gave me confidence and success. Lack of success meant death, since runners do not give second chances.

As things began to quiet down for the evening, one of the kids turned on a little radio to catch any available updates on the airwaves. The usual static was being interrupted increasingly by smart survivors who could follow radio system assembly instructions that were periodically transmitted by Camp Puller in California, and by Wade and Jeff in Oregon. The signals seemed to originate from all over the continent, and displayed varying degrees of amateur sophistication. Many broadcasts contained useful information, or requests for
advice, and there were sometimes emotional appeals for the whereabouts of lost friends and relatives. There were often rebroadcasts of news from Camp Puller and Hedley, which were - so far - the only detectable locations of the resurgence of genuine civilization.

One disturbing and weak transmission from Benton, Tennessee, was location specific and delivered in a youth’s voice,
“Nicki Redstone. Please help us. We have no one left and are trapped.”

There was silence as the message repeated itself a few times, then ended abruptly, soft crackling noises of the ionosphere replacing human voices. It was an empty, lonely sound.

Finally, Brick spoke up, “That’s the third request for Nicki Redstone this week. Two from out east and one from Quebec, Canada...in French.”

The pleading rescue calls to me were becoming frequent and sometimes alarming, and each placed a depressing burden on my conscience. I could not be everywhere. I know that my dear Brick often worried for the effect on my morale.

“When we return to Hedley,” I said as I considered the last touching request, “We will have to talk with Kip about organizing teams who can seek out and assist others wherever they are. Maybe coordinate with Captain Carter at Camp Puller. We must do what we can for all survivors. We will find a way to help them.” It was this admonition to myself, often repeated, that kept sorrow and depression at bay.

The next morning, following our daybreak hygiene and a light breakfast, we said farewell to our new friends, with the request to advise our loved ones in Hedley of our condition and progress. We would be passing through Grayrock, but said nothing of it; however, I knew that grandfather Dan perceived that my intention was to right a grievous wrong, and prevent a recurrence, if it were possible to do so.

One of the teens, a developing artist, had sketched an attractive charcoal picture of Brick, Ben and me, but on my image she had faintly drawn large, white wings rising up from my shoulders.

“Why the wings?” I couldn’t help but inquire.

The girl looked at me and then blushed. Her mother spoke up with a smile, “There’s a rumor going about that you’re not really human; that you cannot die and that you will never fail. Some folks say you’re a living angel...a guardian angel; the last one. Stories told to kids to give them hope, I think; stuff like that.”

Looking at Brick, I could see that he didn’t know what to make of the unexpected sobriquet. Nor did I.

As I pondered the implications of the title, the young artist asked us to sign the sketch, which I did, along with a short note to the family announcing that I would
“See you in Hedley! - Nicki Redstone.”
It was a fun moment, since I had not been asked for an autograph in almost two years. It was entirely new to Brick, and he blushed at the request and happily complied.

My last word to the mother and grandfather was a strong recommendation to train the teens to fight. The girls could shoot somewhat, but were not armed and they had no real fighting skills. Without being patronizing, and remembering the many valuable lessons taught by my own father, I left them with an admonishment, “This is a new world; you have to forget the old ways. Your children must learn every weapon and practice all aspects of survival. Please give them that gift.”