THE KILLER ANGEL : Book Three "Journey" (THE KILLER ANGEL TRILOGY 3) (10 page)

Before darkness fully descended, I finished cleaning, oiling and organizing my gear, reestablishing the precise location and function of every item on my person, regardless of its purpose or importance, as I had done a thousand times before.

Then, I commenced runner assault drill, rapidly handling each weapon as though in combat, popping out magazines and loading new ones, each precisely located in its pouch. I explained each action and purpose. I could find every knife, every pistol, every item on my body, my vest and my pack with maximum speed and in the dark. I trained with two hands, then left handed only, then right handed. Losing the use of a limb is always possible in every fight, and it is a risk that need not mean disaster if training is thorough. My legs, too, were weapons equipped, as I trained for all manner of attack.

Runners do not stop – ever – nor do I
.

I wanted to deliver every gift of survival to these boys that I possibly could. Maybe it would save their lives. Who knows? Maybe one day they would save mine.

Training under the inquisitive and devoted gaze of my young – but temporary – associates was somewhat uncomfortable; however, I wanted them to learn, and they were exuberant students, so I explained the reasons behind everything that I did, all along answering their enthusiastic questions with patience and genuine concern. These young guys were clumsy and unprepared for survival, which was surprising, given that we were approaching two years into Armageddon. They understood forest living and camp craft, but actually knew very little of city survival in the new age, so I wanted them to have the benefit of every gift that I could give them.

I went through my nightly fight regimen multiple times, and encouraged them to develop a similar program. Their weaponry was terribly limited, so I gave them my thoughts on the minimum equipment that their arsenal should contain, and my reasoning for each item. I extracted promises from both of them that they would immediately ramp up their offensive and defensive equipment load. Lou and Josh were good students and eager to learn; they quickly grasped the importance of each lesson and the value of creative adaptation.

With some regret, I eventually broke the news to
my fine new friends that I could not take them on as companions in my quest. With Brick being the one and only exception to my rule, I traveled alone.

The guys took it hard. They were fans, for sure, and I detected no hidden “lovelorn obsession”, only the most noble of intentions. Their dream “job” was to join up with their idol and press forward with rescues and deliverance into some glorious and unknown future. But their vision was blurred by youth; my life was too often filled with disquiet and tragedy. I would happily trade it all to grow old in quiet comfort with my Kip, raising a family in Oregon, and forgetting this awful business forever.

To me, Joshua and Louis Beauchamp were like two young and untested Knights Templar, freely searching the land for adventure and excitement, only lacking a royal charter and much needed expertise. But danger abounded, and they were ill prepared for even moderate trouble, runner or human. I worried for their continued survival, given their frequent mistakes and obvious lack of any real skill or planning. They were an amusing, cheerful pair, and clearly loaded with good intentions. I quickly grew fond of them, and probably bored them with repetitious instruction and worried advice.

As I bid Josh and Lou farewell in genuine sadness, I hoped that my counsel and education would help see them through. I admonished those bright-eyed boys to carefully heed my words and to use caution always...and to never take on more than was reasonable.

They promised their allegiance to my wisdom and desires, and swore that they would do me proud. It was that oath that haunted me ever after.

Maybe...maybe I should have taken them under wing a little longer...Maybe I could have saved them
... The decision to send those boys off would plague my worst dreams forever.

Since they had no real goal, other than adventure, Joshua and Louis decided to seek out their futures by heading southeast, while I was determined to find my way back to the faster river travel, which placed me in an easterly direction.

A day later, in a remote, heavily wooded, hilly area, Ben pulled me off of the road. We waited in concealment, but nothing happened and no one approached, which was the usual reason for Ben’s action.

In the distance I finally spotted Ben’s cause for alert. Looking down the scope of my rifle, I could make out the once familiar yellow form of a man or woman in a full hazmat suit. A good one, too; probably government issue. At one time, those outfits were everywhere, but now? Never.

Hmmm
....I pondered this strange development.
Investigate?

I hated to delay, but something so unusual required
explanation.

I moved closer. The person in the suit was setting a trap. A spring loaded big game or people trap using a large net to hold its quarry once the trigger was sprung.
For runners maybe?

Then I noticed “HELP US” signs in the area, with arrows pointing to the trap.

The trap itself was not so cleverly concealed, since any wary and reasonably observant hiker couldn’t help but notice some of the pieces.

What was the bait?

I studied further. Ah, another “help us” sign with a box beside it, a framed photograph of a nice-looking family sitting on top.
Rather devious
, I thought.

As the suit was finishing, I cautiously moved closer, with Ben by my side. I detected no one else in the vicinity. At just the right moment, I tossed a small log onto the trap’s trigger point and the whole thing went up into the air, working surprisingly well.

I heard a whimper of fear from the person in the suit; it sounded like a man. He whipped around, fumbling for something in a shoulder pouch, probably a pistol, but I already stood before him, my rifle with a dead-eye bead on his plastic covered head.

“Stop,” I said. “Put the bag down.”

He complied. The clear window of his mask was fogging up; his breathing was hard and audible.

“Sit down.” I commanded as I moved closer and crouched next to a tree, its solid girth providing a shield
against any potential adversary from the most likely direction of attack. I surveyed the area, far and near. Detecting no threats, I studied the fellow. The man had quickly complied with my order. Ben began sniffing around.

Then, after looking from me, to Ben, then back to me, he suddenly freaked out, “Oh my god, I know you! Oh dear god, please don’t kill me. Please don’t shoot! I wasn’t going to hurt anyone! I’m sorry! We really do need help, but no one would help us....No one would stop! We are desperate!” I backed away a little, scanning in all directions. Ben withdrew to my side. I had not expected such a wild, fearful reaction.

I wondered,
does he really know who I am?
The chap was babbling and clearly sorrowful, even though almost incoherent in his fear. My feelings were mixed about this guy, as I felt both distrust and sympathy, but regardless, I wished Brick could see this reaction.
Good grief, he would never let me hear the end of it!
I smiled to myself, slightly shaking my head.

“Calm down, sir! I’m not planning to hurt you,” I said without emotion as I shouldered my rifle, all the while still mentally feeling the close proximity of my pistols. I never let my guard down, and always prepared myself for surprises. I’ve had far too much experience to do otherwise.

I evaluated the man, but the yellow hazmat suit provided very little information. “Toss your bag to me, sir...carefully now.”

As expected, the satchel contained a pistol; semiautomatic, but not cocked and no round in the chamber. Unsurprising. There was also a sandwich and an identification security pass-card.
Machine sliced bread?
I hadn’t seen that in awhile. The ID card was typical government issue; the man’s name: Tim Gardner.

“What’s your story and why the trap, Mr. Gardner?” I asked with genuine curiosity as the man slowly relaxed and caught his breath, although I already suspected the answer.

“Federal employee...I’m a FEMA administrator, actually.” He hesitated, looking around.

“You’re from a government survival shelter, aren’t you?” I said, rather flatly, but sadness was already slipping into my heart, “Are your friends watching us now?” The thought did not concern me terribly much, as the picture was becoming clear. Even if they were indeed watching, there was probably nothing else that they could do but watch.

These would be mostly high ranking people, probably administrators and politicians; maybe some of their families. Perhaps some technicians, also, all sealed away in an environment of filtered air and clean supplies, waiting for the time when they could safely exit.

But that time never came.

It would never come.

The tragic flaw in their program was the occupants’ lack of immunity. Who knew there would be no one left
to work on a vaccine? So many government secure facilities; so many survivalists and “preppers”; all meeting the same fate. Either perishing in the same horrible ways as those without shelter when their comrades succumbed to the disease, or forced to remain entombed forever in sterile bunkers, their technology slowly flickering to dark, just as each underground survivor’s life force faded in loneliness.

I’ve seen other bunkers, some of them loaded with generators and expensive all-terrain vehicles – most were completely abandoned. I imagined that the owners must have believed that petroleum products would be forever plentiful. It seemed a foolish lack of foresight to me.

“No, they cannot watch, although there will be a mechanical viewer when we get close to the entrance, sort of like a periscope. We are having trouble with power - solar cells and batteries - you know? At one time we had a feed from the grid, then generators, but fuel ran out after the first month.” Of course; no one predicted such a long stay. He continued, “Our radio transmitting capability was lost long ago when a storm knocked out our tower, but we can still receive radio signals. We had only a few suits capable of going outside, so repairs were not realistically possible for us, even if we had the expertise and tools.”

“How many down below?” I asked. The answer was surprising.

“One hundred ninety-three,” he replied. “The
shelter was designed for over two thousand, but things happened so fast at the end that the doors were sealed before more could make it inside. Horrible to see the disaster...horrible. You just don’t know.”

“Uh huh...,” I replied without feeling. I had lived every second of it – above ground. I couldn’t help feeling somewhat bitter about these modern troglodytes, but Armageddon wasn’t their fault, even though they were among the privileged class who were supposed to bring the world back to stability, such as it was. Unfortunately for these semi-survivors, bureaucrats and politicians served little purpose in the post-apocalypse, although truly good leaders and organizers would always be in demand.

My mind flickered back to those awful moments in Phoenix as, trembling and petrified in fright, I watched the fearsome horrific end of civilization unfold from the darkness of my hotel room window, barely daring to take a quiet drink from a bathtub I had filled with water. My stomach clenched at the memory. The dauntless Nicki Redstone of today was then nothing more than a scared child, herself hoping for some hero savior.

Yes, I saw those early speeding, shock-force mobs, crashing into anything that might hold a warm body; dragging defenseless men, women and children from their cars and shops, ripping them to shreds, and no one – NO ONE had the power to intervene. Once the insane onslaught began, there was nothing on earth that could
stop it. Yes, I saw it all. I lived the horrific tragedy, deadly and up close, over the last two years.

I took a deep breath, sucking in the fresh, clean, forest scented air. My mind drifted briefly...
I miss camping with my family
...

“So why the trap?” I inquired, refocusing my thoughts to the present, wondering how the bunker colonists planned to force someone to assist, given their impotent circumstances.

“Desperation,” he replied. “We just wanted to talk, but the rare passers-by always run when they see the suit, but it’s our only way out of the shelter.”

I thought for a moment. “Let’s go in. I’ll stay in your air lock. It has windows, right?”

“Yes, yes, thank you, thank you Ms. Redstone.” Ahh... indeed. The man angled his face mask around to look at me, “By the way, just call me ‘Tim’.”

The rather cleverly hidden entrance was inside of a country retail boutique setup; a small rustic, two-story wooden building with many leased out spaces. Perfect for the furtive comings and goings of undercover government minions. Who would have ever guessed?

Passing through the back door of one shop, Tim pressed his ID card on to a plate on a side wall, then entered numbers on key panel. Then another door and key panel were revealed, only this time it was a blast door that must have been eighteen inches thick. When opened, metal caged ceiling lights revealed a hallway and stairs, which we walked down into a well lit
chamber with large windows on three walls.