THE KILLER ANGEL : Book Three "Journey" (THE KILLER ANGEL TRILOGY 3) (18 page)

Gus had suggested that my return trip to Oregon might best be accomplished via his Central America route. The concept was excellent, but I was uncertain as to where my travels would lead, since it was conceivable that I could end up in Canada searching for missing family.

“No problem,” Gus quipped, “I’m New Orleans bound for now; I mean to net some shrimp, which I’m sure are plentiful there!” I’ll pop in with Steven, from time to time, and give an update. If you need me, I’ll be around.” Gus winked and gave Ben a rub, “You do the same, okay Nicki? Whenever you get near a radio, let us know what you’re up to...the world is interested.”

With that, Ben and I were on our way, on the long journey east. I looked back one time to see Gus waving in the distance. I palmed my dear friend a kiss and waved in reply. Affection and great emotion welled up in me for this man, and with all my heart I hoped to see him again, but nothing could be for certain in such a nightmare world. A person might easily disappear forever...leaving no trace for those who cared.

In the weeks following my radio presentation at Steven James’s small operation, there followed requests by other transmitters to make similar broadcasts. These unsophisticated operators supplied their locations and various reasons why their needs superseded those of others. A few aspiring jockeys wanted to interview me,
Hollywood style, to discuss my history, aspirations, romances, and other such nonsense. That kind of idle foolishness belonged to a long gone age, and perhaps may have once been useful marketing to some degree, but I had no interest whatsoever in selling myself or burnishing my image. Any celebrity that was now attached to my name was purely incidental to my great desire to gather my family and, of course, to sometimes assist others along the way.

Am I a humble person? I suppose so, although it’s nothing intentional. A cynic? Definitely. Those traits were not new to me – I have always been put off by arrogance, bombast and by those who crave attention.

Our trek through Mississippi and Alabama, and then into Florida was long and relatively uneventful. After careful map study, Gus and I had calculated that the trip would take three to four weeks, which turned out to be fairly accurate. Of course, there were occasional interruptions, some pleasant, some not, but I generally avoided contact with others unless there was some compelling reason to do so.

The exception to my self-imposed isolation was children. When I encountered anyone traveling or homesteading with small ones, I would observe the adults from afar, then carefully make my presence known so as not to alarm anyone. I was always
gratefully welcomed, often with much excitement and exclamation. Entertainment is scarce in the post-apocalypse, so a visit from just about anyone could be a nice break from the monotony of survival.

A brief, but noteworthy interlude on that last, long leg of my quest came in the form of a wiry man who would have been called “African American” in another time. Now, he was a member of a very unique category: A survivor...and a lone traveler.

And age? It was growing increasingly difficult to determine the age of people, due to the whole body rejuvenation experienced by those who had not succumbed to the virus. Watching him in the hazy distance, I guessed the man to be forty-five, plus or minus five years.

Traveling on a two-lane blacktop, we would inevitably cross paths unless I chose to remain undetected. The fellow piqued my interest, however. Sitting still on the hood of a rusty, old pickup truck, I observed him from afar through my rifle scope. His gait was lively and he moved with a purpose.

It was his clothing that jolted me: Gray trousers with a black stripe running down each leg; a jacket with red, white and blue stripes; a satchel over one shoulder and a rifle on the other. He wore a fur-lined, flip up trooper hat with an emblem attached to the front flap. He was too far away for me to make it out, but I was willing to bet that the hat emblem was that of the US Postal Service.

A mailman!? Very intriguing
...

I leaned back and relaxed against the hard truck windshield as Ben snooped around in the nearby brush, always maintaining close proximity to me as he kept a vigilant eye on our rapidly approaching riddle.

When the man still had a safe stretch between us, and to minimize shock and unnecessary flight, I calmly announced myself, “Hello! Good afternoon, sir!”

Startled from thought, he stopped, squinted, and studied me for a short moment, then briskly marched towards me, then halted when Ben made his appearance, perhaps twenty yards from my spot on the truck.

When Ben’s movement was slow and deliberate, as it was at that moment, he could be intense, dark and intimidating – even menacing. But he took his cues from me, and would switch to warm and loveable once he sensed that I was comfortable with a person or situation.

“Good day to you, ma’am! Quinton Bates, United States letter carrier, at your service.” Delivered in crisp, courteous tones, with a warm southern accent. He stared at Ben, who woofed softly. “Pardon my hesitation, but perhaps you’ve heard that canines and mailmen don’t always get along.” It had not occurred to me.

I smiled, “No need to worry, Mr. Bates, Ben won’t bother you. He’s been fed, so he won’t eat much if he does.” I couldn’t help myself.

“Ben?” Quinton broke his eye-lock on Ben, then looked at me; his expression became a large, warm smile.
“Good lawd
, Ms. Nicki Redstone! Luck stays with me! My own, personal encounter with the most famous person alive today. Yes Ma’am! I am thrilled to find you. I have two letters for you; fan mail, I think.”

With that, Quinton promptly extracted two neat, clean envelopes from his mail pouch, and handed them to me as we moved to sit beneath the shade of a nearby massive oak tree. Quinton tensed somewhat when Ben rolled up next to him, but relaxed as my wolfish companion flopped down and innocently closed his eyes for a nap, his back paw resting on the mailman’s leg.
Ben must have been a comedian in another life
...

Indeed, the letters were from younger fans, with directions to their homes, should I ever be in the vicinity, and generous words of appreciation and admiration. I enjoyed the youthful compliments... almost like the old days.

“I’ve heard so much about you, Ms. Redstone, but never figured you to be a jokester.” He paused, looking at Ben, who had moved to my side; then, “You were joking, of course, about how much he eats?” I had forgotten what an intimidating ally my canine friend could be.

I smiled, nodding, and rubbed Ben’s head, “So what’s your story Mr. Bates? Delivering mail? What’s the compensation?” There were many questions in my mind, so I waited, sharing pistachio nuts, some orange
slices and a water bottle as I did so.

Laying aside his satchel, the itinerant postman and I relaxed on soft turf. “Oh, I was a mail carrier before it all ended. Once the world
did
end, and I survived, I decided that we would need a mail service again one day, so I figured I would get it going. I move from place to place, sometimes even returning with happy news to a sender. The only compensation I ever receive is a good meal and a dry bed... sometimes a bath. What else do I need? People appreciate what I do.”

“Wow,” I replied, “now that is a worthy cause.”

“Ah, thank you,” Quinton responded with a proud grin. “I’ve been trying to recruit others, but no takers, so far. It’s a lonely, tough life, but I feel good about it.”

“Yeah, I know what you mean,” I replied...and I did.

He produced a bag of boiled peanuts. “Fresh...I made them last night.”

I nibbled one with a little nostalgia. “Delicious! Just the right amount of heat. My sister used to make these; very similar.”

“They seem to be growing everywhere down here,” Quinton noted. “If you know what the plants look like – and I do, believe me – you just pull ‘em up, clean ‘em off in water, then boil away. I have my own special Cajun seasoning.” With those words, he produced a bag of red powder from a fanny pack. “Most houses have a gas stove or grill, which still work fine, and plenty of pots, so cooking is easy.”

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.