THE KILLER ANGEL : Book Three "Journey" (THE KILLER ANGEL TRILOGY 3) (19 page)

Bypassing Engleton via beltway roads added two days to my journey, and it proved to be a boring and colorless detour. Out of concern for possible lingering radiation, I consumed only canned goods and fluids from within substantial structures outside the gray perimeter, supplying Ben with sustenance from my pack.

Since I had no knowledge of my sister’s precise location, other than rumor, the obvious destination would be my family’s home, wherein I was certain that Scottie, my father, and my mother, would have left directions for me, just as I had done at my Los Angeles apartment upon my departure.

That seemed a lifetime ago...sometimes only a dream
.

Chapter Ten

“Nicki’s Voice”

“Brick”

E
ACH DAY I listened. I kept one earpiece on low at all times, hoping to catch news of Nicki. Radio chatter was increasing, most of it entirely useless jabbering, but contacts were growing and survivors were keen on sharing information. I often mentally tuned out those conversations, as my primary focus was on the physical exertion of driving forward my kayak as fast as possible, and on maintaining constant vigilance of the surrounding waters, since delay and danger preyed upon the unwary.

Finally, following the drone of a local rumor and gossip report, delivered in the sleep inducing monotone of a young-sounding man, whose words I did not absorb, came a voice that I recognized like no other, shocking me to alert stillness. A smooth, rough-edged, movie star goddess voice, filled with the power and confidence that I knew well.

Sitting high and still on the water, eyes closed, volume up...I listened carefully. Every word and vocal inflection would give me clues: Her health; her motivation; her location.

“Hello everyone...this is Nicki Redstone. I am in Baton Rouge now with my friends, Captain Gus and Steven James, on my way to find my family in Florida. To Kip, and my Grampa and Gramma, and to my friends everywhere, I’m doing fine and miss you all. Brick, old man, Ben and I feel your absence on this trip.”

There was a pause, then, “Steven, the Baton Rouge area radio operator, asked me to say a few words that may be helpful to survivors around the country.”

“First, something very important to me. To anyone listening: Do not follow me. Do not attempt to join me. I don’t want your company. Period. Except for Brick and Ben, I travel alone. I will not accept any other companions. My life is sadness and danger, and you risk yours by getting close. I would hate to be the one to injure or kill you. Stay away. Do not seek out danger for the sake of it, certainly not because of the stories that you hear about me. I do not seek danger...ever. We all have lived through enough horror and sadness, and should never search for more. Parents, keep your children close, and don’t let them be overcome with the false dreams of following in my footsteps. This only leads to disaster and sorrow, as I have seen too many times now.”

It was a sobering statement from my dearest friend, and I could sense sadness in her delivery, in spite of the natural strength of her voice.

Nicki then continued into a helpful briefing for the listeners, covering facts about what she had seen in her journeys, and what they could expect at Hedley and Camp Puller. From there, she gave excellent advice on effective protection against runners when traveling, and the essential training and armaments that were necessary for survival when doing so. She also offered caution and explanation regarding beasts of the human kind.

I imagined that the few living people in the world who heard that message that day from Nicki were probably thrilled to have finally heard her voice. I knew with certainty that the transmission was being recorded in numerous locations, to be rebroadcast repeatedly in the future.

And Captain Gus? Sam Gustafson? It had to be, but it was incredible that he – a sailing man – would be found so far from his ports along the Pacific Coast. Now that had to be a story worth hearing.

I pressed on with renewed vigor.

Baton Rouge!

Chapter Eleven

“Scottie”

“Y
OU BOTH have the gifts of speed and ambidexterity,” my father spoke often of this to Scottie and me when we were very young. “They are Redstone family traits, but you must repeatedly sharpen those talents,” he admonished, “or they will be lost...especially the balanced use of your left and right side. Most in our family neglected the skill, and are now strictly left or right handed.”

We did not really understand what he meant by those comments at the time, but my father would often challenge us to throw and catch a ball with each hand, or compose letters to see how well we could do when changing grips, right to left. In the games of “slap hands” or “catch the dollar”, we had to both increase our speed
and
to accomplish the tasks left, right and double-handed.

We would spend hours in the back yard, covered in sticky pulp, smashing oranges as fast as my father could throw them; or ducking tennis balls on the court where
he would fire dozens of them at us with gusto and strength as we laughed at his increasing inability to strike us. My mother would shout in worry and alarm in her sweet French accent, “My ‘oney, don’t throw so ‘ard”, and he would always grin and say the same thing in reply, “It’s good training!” Then he would stroll up to us, flipping one of those felt covered, green balls under his elbow and catching it, then popping it off of the front side of his elbow, all the while challenging us to do the same. Every challenge, every struggle, every discomfort was “good training”.
Ah, such fun
...

My father continually pressed us with these things, in his kind yet determined way, always preparing us for something, almost as though he could see the future.
Maybe - somehow - he did
.

As we grew older, it was the pistol range, where our ever increasing two-handed skill would impress others as we fired instinctively, without sighting down the barrels. Initially, our father resisted this inclination, believing that sight-targeting was superior, but he quickly relented when we proved our abilities. Being very competitive, Scottie and I loved the exercises, not realizing then that our father was intent on keeping us sharp.

And oh how his training has paid off!

My mother
...

My father
...

My home
...

All...all gone
...

I had traveled so very far, seen so many things... and now the adventure ends on the steps where my story began, only a short lifetime ago
...

I put my finger on the trigger and prepared to end the legend of Nicki Redstone forever, no hero’s ending and no witness...no one to relate the inglorious end to a onetime legend. My sorrow would now end...one small bullet to pierce this warrior’s heart; one last victim for the
“angel of death”
.

Even then, even in my own dark despair, I could hear the agony of my dearest, ever faithful companion, as he vented those sounds that are made only by an animal suffering in-extremis, a most painful, fearsome death. Steadfast and unyielding to the end, Ben would not leave my defeated side, and was paying the price for his loyalty and courage.

Then my father’s voice came to me, vividly clear and real,
“Live...LIVE my daughter. YOU are the hero now...Fight on!”
My blurred vision suddenly cleared and my mind burned with those words.
“FIGHT ON!”

I could see nothing of Ben, save the back of his writhing, furry head; his dying screams withered beneath the beasts who swarmed him. That sound burned me to my soul; my blood boiled like never before; raw, uncontrolled fury returned to me – body and soul, propelled by an unquenchable thirst for vengeance...
I said you could take ME damn you!!

BEN!!

How could I have let myself become so self-centered, so weak, so selfish?

Quicker than thought, the missile meant for me was sent into the creature holding my back, followed immediately by five more rounds, dislodging the horrifying fiends in their frenzied, maniacal rage.

I dragged out a second pistol and blasted away at the heap of undead where Ben had fallen. Ducking, kicking and dodging grasping death, totally surrounded by a tornado of screaming insanity.

Oh yes, I knew those creatures well, how they turned, when they would leap, their grotesque eyes and flexing limbs announced demonic movement that I could easily read...and swiftly terminate.

Fully aware of every detail, as if the passage of
time stopped entirely, I made every crashing bullet of those fifteen round magazines count. I moved and fired...moved and fired, backing up as I drew closer to the home of my birth. I visualized the small, soft green balls launched in earnest by my father, dodging left, right, ducking, jumping...that was easy...this was easier. Those ugly faces were nothing to me as 9mm bullets broke out the back of every monster’s skull.

I DO NOT FEAR YOU!!

Yet they came on, screeching and vomiting, the object of their obsession almost within reach. Calm focus... catharsis... power... destruction. Methodical, systematic, controlled, effective... every lethal missile smashing into its target; each hollow-point removing a berserk attacker from the conflict.

Those hot guns emptied fast
...

Four pistols spilled their power until dry. I pulled the fifth and last weapon from my backside, emptied it and reloaded. Constant training delivered unbelievable, Olympian speed. I deeply gulped air at the exertion as sweat burned my eyes. I did not care and I did not notice...I only wanted to kill the demons.

Again...again...again, but there were too many
.

The gun sizzled and smoked as rain spattered upon its fiercely heated barrel. This was Pinebluff; this was Fort Hope; the relentless onslaught of nightmare creatures would not cease nor hesitate until they were dead...or I was. I could feel a smile upon my lips; my scar was hot on my cheek.

Who says a girl can’t fight? Come on damn you!

My back pressed against the tall gate guarding my parents’ small home. Better to die a hero’s death here with my beloved father and mother.