THE KILLER ANGEL : Book Three "Journey" (THE KILLER ANGEL TRILOGY 3) (12 page)

I found a good, secure spot on a cliff face overlooking the town and, after a modest meal, lay down with Ben, completely fatigued. With my eyes closed I could smell the sweet, clean scent of wet pine trees. Ben pressed close, warming my side. I imagined myself in the calming comforts of Sheffield Abbey. Oh how I wished to be among those pleasant monks. Their gentle hearts could cure any sorrow.
Ahh
, so
long ago
...

Sometimes this life is a miserable existence, but I am Nicki Redstone, and she is needed more than ever; I will carry on. Who am I to challenge that destiny?

The next morning, following breakfast, I took extra time to brush down my beloved guardian, then carefully positioned his saddlebag harness. After servicing my
own equipment and running through my mandatory fighting drill, I carefully secured the “tools of my trade” into their previously selected and memorized slots. All items had to be precisely where my muscles and my mind expected them to be – always.

As I slipped my dagger into my braid and prepared to leave, I pondered the staggering speed with which the virus had pierced the immune systems of those in the shelter. Never before had I witnessed such an appallingly fast onslaught.
Was that how the virus had changed in the absence of fresh, untouched blood? Was it growing stronger and possibly a threat to us in the future?
It was thoughts such as those that made me realize that, sooner or later, a visit to the Center for Disease Control in Atlanta may indeed become necessary. But for the moment, I had a sad task that needed to be seen through...although before doing so, I briefly held my mission in check in order to honor those who had recently fallen. The flat rock face upon which I had leaned served my somber purpose.

Leaving the cliff perch and making swift travel to the back side of the government bunker hill via the country shops road, the location of a “secret” shelter entrance became very apparent, even obvious. I made good time, as always, in spite of a leaden feeling holding me down, almost as though a great weight bore down on me, probably more the result of the emotional havoc wreaked upon my soul than any physical stress. Regardless, I pressed on.

First, I encountered a string of deteriorating cars along the road; some were dark limousines, many of them apparently having been parked in considerable haste. Then, inside a fenced area, a dozen or so decomposing dark blue vans – military.

Within that barricaded parking area was another smaller fenced perimeter; jagged ribbons of concertina wire secured the crown. The second fence contained a heavy gate and a substantial cinder block guardhouse, but the gate lock had been broken off and the entire place appeared to be abandoned. However, as I surveyed the compound, I noticed someone, a man, inside the guardhouse, sitting in a chair that was leaned against the wall, smoking a cigarette. His eyes were closed.

I scanned the compound for a moment longer, then walked in with Ben, straight up and through the sturdy gate, announcing myself as we moved closer. “Hello! You have a visitor.”

The man was unarmed, although I could see that he had a pistol nearby, but he made no effort to retrieve it, remaining motionless with half closed eyes viewing us through wisps of gray tobacco smoke.

“Bonnos dayos.”
Came a deep, hard voice; then brief silence. “Name’s Paul.” The man obviously did not speak Spanish. He was very pale, thin and unhealthy looking; no doubt a shelter survivor. Sixty years old, maybe. Possibly a soldier long ago, but he appeared to have lost all athletic ability.

“Good morning, I’m Nicki,” I replied, maintaining a relaxed posture, but guarded, nonetheless. “Are there other survivors?”

Paul took a long, draw on the cigarette, pleasure - or relief - evident through his low lids. “There were, but I’m it now. All gone. Two years of waiting in that box and I could have left anytime. Who knew?” The man’s precise, deliberate speech denoted advanced education; probably Ivy League.

Then he paused, “You were the visitor at the other entrance, weren’t you? Yes...yes... I missed most of the interview. A weak bladder and too much Earl Grey sent me to the latrine. All I heard was yelling, screeching, and a barrel of gunfire, so I took off running, and then boom and out the back door. Totally against protocol, but I had no choice with those creatures on my six. God that was awful. But I’m alive and having my first cigarette in two years. It’s old and dry, but tastes sweet, sweet, sweet.” He took another long draw, causing the end to glow and burn down nearly an inch.

The man studied Ben. “He’s beautiful. Does he do any tricks?”

That irritated. Rarely had I encountered anyone who looked upon my friend as just a “dog”. “No sir, he does not.”

“Please, sit down for a spell.” I remained standing.

As I watched the man’s amusing tobacco antics, an earlier mystery occurred to me. “Do you know anything about Scottie Redstone?”

“Scottie Redstone?” Paul replied with a puzzled look. Then he seemed to actually see me for the first time through his nicotine haze - my kit, my weapons and Ben. “Ah, I should have known, ‘Nicki’ as in ‘Nicki Redstone, the
‘angry angel’.”
The deep, rough nature of his vocal cords amplified the comparatively soft tenor of my own voice. “Although in some circles I’ve heard that you are referred to as the
‘angel of death’
and the
‘devil’s reaper’.”

I pondered the expanding reputation.

We studied each other in silence as the quirky man continued puffing away. Finally, “Everyone knows about Scottie Redstone; you, too, for that matter. Your twin sister is building some kind of refuge for survivors. Pretty effective I understand. I guess she can be damn hard on troublemakers, though.” A pause, a soft, crackling puff, and then, “It must run in the family.” A slight, almost fatherly smile wrinkled the paper thin skin on Paul’s white face.

“Interesting,” I remarked casually. I nodded to the shelter entrance. “Is anyone left inside?”

There was a brief hesitation, then the smile disappeared suddenly as the wizened fellow squinted his eyes at me in dawning realization of my intentions. This man was a very quick study. Ben tensed for action as Paul nearly shouted, “You’re crazy to go back in there! Forget it! FOR-GET-IT!” His face turned red and veins on his forehead revealed themselves, which reminded me slightly of a skull; a disturbing thought.

“It’s not your concern,” I said calmly as I rubbed Ben out of his protective attack mode. “I will not argue with you, sir. What I need from you is a layout of the shelter and any tips you might have on where I might find survivors, if there are any.”

After much pacing about, numerous agitated tobacco puffs, and a profusion of blue oaths, my newest convert assembled the necessary material in the guardhouse to sketch a diagram for my search, along with helpful information about various aspects of the bunker.

In spite of the grim and dangerous nature of the task ahead, I could not help but smile at this man. Something about the intensity of his reactions was humorous to me. Perhaps it was the paucity of real intellectual stimulation in the post apocalypse, something from which we all suffered; but whatever it was, I still chuckle when I think about the old gentleman and how agitated he had become.

In return for his sketch and helpful technical advice, I gave him a thirty minute Redstone encyclopedia of what he needed to accomplish in order to survive in the new world. Paul had an extremely sharp mind and would adapt well - if he lived long enough... and I had the very distinct feeling that he would not only live, but thrive.

The search through that relic of a bygone nation was not complicated, and took far less time than I had anticipated. Even so, it was probably the saddest burden that I had so far felt obligated to carry. Although daunting and terribly dangerous work, thanks to my own experience and to Ben’s canine senses, there were no surprises and no near misses.

Every closet, cupboard and possible hiding place required systematic examination. In the process, I was compelled to dispatch those unfortunates who had lived long enough to complete the runner transformation. A few faces were recognizable to me, always an especially unhappy and eerie sensation.

I was relieved to find no child runners, although I had expected none. For reasons no one has yet medically determined, there has been no known incident of a child transformation. Children are either fully immune or they succumb quickly to the vicious assault of the virus, ultimately ending in an uncontrolled fever, coma, and irreversible cardiac arrest.

I am not an “angel”, but I carefully accounted for every soul:

One hundred ninety-two...plus one
.

Chapter Seven

“Signs of Nicki”

- Brick -

I
FOLLOWED Nicki with everything my body could manage. Each night I tended to expanding blisters on my feet and friction burns on my thighs, and every morning I liberally applied the best patches that I could acquire over each stinging wound to limit damage and buy more travel time. Aspirin eased muscle ache and inflammation, but there was no palliative for a guilty conscience.

I trucked no delay, whether runner or human, unhesitatingly dispatching the former, and - only on rare occasion - stopping to glean information from the latter. A very real feeling in my gut told me that Nicki needed me, and was taking chances that were beyond wise, brave though she was. Her speed was alarming, maybe even reckless. I thanked the great spirit that Ben, her powerful ally and protector, was by her side.
Indeed, there could be no better guardian for one so determined to push through all obstacles.

Racing from the cliff above the country shops, I only waved in acknowledgment as a thin, pale faced man tried to flag me down from a distance – diversion was unacceptable. I aimed straight for any river landing that offered an effective watercraft. Finding a sleek kayak, I plied the main channel current, gaining paddle efficiency with each passing hour. There was no wind, so I was certain that I would gain on Nicki whether she sailed or paddled.