THE KILLER ANGEL : Book Three "Journey" (THE KILLER ANGEL TRILOGY 3) (6 page)

“We’re a few years away from it, but have you thought about what we do to replace batteries when they finally all expire?” Brick queried.

“Hmm...good question,” I replied. “I’m sure we could find a hand cranked radio; I’ve seen a few here and there. The same with hand held lights, although they are bulkier and don’t last as long. Our head lamps and rifle lights, though, those would be difficult to replace.”

“Canned goods expire, too,” I continued the thought as we pedaled on at a good clip. “But I think the freeze dried stuff will keep almost forever, and we seem to never have a shortage of fresh fruits and vegetables. I guess we’ll be okay in the long run.” Resourcefulness was a virtue, and survivors were learning to be increasingly creative.

Of course, we had access to anything and everything we desired - jewelry, gold, priceless art and important documents; it was all ours for the taking, but none of that mattered anymore. It was sometimes fun to handle finery in expensive stores, or actually pick up and study otherwise untouchable museum objects that were once owned by important historical figures, but all of those priceless effects were now nothing more than wonderful, disintegrating reminders of what once was an amazing planet. The only things that really mattered in this new age, besides people, were those materials that enhanced survival.

We were making good time on our journey, pushing hard each day to clear the many miles before us, rapidly increasing the distance from Hedley and my beloved Kip, and my Gramma and Grampa. Oh how I wished to return there to the comforts of home, good food, fine wine, and fun conversation.

Brick was the perfect companion for a journey such as this - intelligent, compassionate and empathetic; he was often aware of my thoughts before I spoke them.

Mid-way through Wyoming, on a clear night following our routine of equipment practice and maintenance, we discussed our excellent partnership, a relationship that worked perfectly.

“When I first found you unconscious next to the shore of that river in Dufton, not so very long ago,” Brick recalled, “I instinctively felt that there was something unusual in you. I wasn’t certain of what it was.

“Of course, your attire, and your armaments made a forceful statement. I had never seen anyone so completely weaponized, from head to toe. Admittedly, I was impressed and intrigued.”

“Then,” Brick continued, “you spoke French in your semi-conscious state. Clear and distinct, Parisian, too, which reminded me of my mother and visits with family in New Orleans.”

“Understandably, your reaction upon awakening completed the picture. You had a pistol out so fast that I thought you might be some ex-law enforcement or
military type. And calm! A little
conversation française
and you were off. Heh heh...makes me smile to think of it.”

I chuckled at the memory.

“Nicki, I knew then and there that you were special and could use a fighting brother. Even though it was obvious that you traveled alone, I felt that we could learn from each other, and that perhaps, together, we would make a first rate runner trashing partnership.”

I had to smile at his kind words and fun memory, “You were right about that,
mon ami
, and I have been so incredibly proud to stand with you through this journey. Who could ever have predicted the adventures we’ve shared, and the successes we’ve enjoyed. Without you, I could not have made it through the toughest of times.”

After a pause, I asked, “How is it that you seem to have no nightmares or mental hangover from our struggles? No PTSD, whereas I suffer and fight almost every night, sometimes waking in sweat from the exertion. It’s a hell of a workout you know.”

“It’s a good question,” Brick replied thoughtfully, “I’ve read that genes probably play a part in this, which might account for why some people never suffer with it after major and prolonged trauma, while others are tortured by comparatively minor events. My father long suffered effects from the Vietnam War, while my grandfather reportedly never lost a night’s sleep, in spite of intense experiences in the Korean War. I was told
that, until my father came back from Vietnam, my grandfather did not believe in ‘battle-fatigue’, which is what they used to call PTSD.

“Still,” Brick smiled, “it does not seem to slow you down.”

“Nope,” I grinned, “not yet.”

At one interesting point in our odyssey, we passed what had been a gorgeous country mansion. In spite of its decay, the estate was still magnificent. Some hardy ivy grew on the walls and through broken windows; expensive cars lined the large curved driveway, their tires flat, and formerly polished finishes covered in leaves, dirt and animal droppings. We decided to take a quick look inside. Such diversions were often educational and interesting.

“The end must have happened during a party of some kind,” Brick noted in a matter-of-fact voice. “All the guests were here. It must have been terrible.”

As we stepped up to the door, weapons at ready, we detected no signs of human occupants – no maintenance of any kind whatsoever. Even so, I loudly announced a “hello” along with a loud whistle. Within moments we could hear distinct pounding sounds and the awful screeching noise that only a runner can make.

We waited, and although nothing came our way, the noise eventually tapered off, which was puzzling. “Ben?” I said softy, and with that encouragement, our canine scout took the lead, his sharp senses and
extensive experience would keep surprises to a minimum.

Ben carefully padded deeper into the shadows of this once beautiful palace. The farther we proceeded into the gloom, the more unpleasant the atmosphere became, dank and moldy, with the occasional detritus of a bygone tragedy in evidence throughout – skulls, bones, scattered and brown-stained clothing. Eventually, Ben stopped in front of a large, ornate gate that appeared to lead down to a basement door, a sturdy padlock firmly restricting access.

“Probably a wine cellar,” I said. “Well, we came this far.”

Brick shouted out a bold “yo ho!” To which the raging insanity of a runner replied not ten feet away, causing all three of us to step back slightly.

“‘Sounds like a very healthy runner,” I remarked. A moment later we could hear the sudden, pounding rush of feet on the floor above, causing me to question our wisdom in entering this home, as there was no need to do so. Ours was a small mission of pure curiosity, not the best reason to expose oneself to danger.

This would be close contact, so our pistols were up and ready as we moved instinctively into a room with only one entrance and a window escape. I felt perfectly calm and confident in our ability to handle anything heading our way, as we had faced far worse on many, many occasions. It is comforting indeed to have the confidence of personal success, and to have full
awareness of the fighting mettle of your comrades.

The creature vaulted into the room without warning, seeming to literally fly at us with superhuman speed and ferocity. The velocity and power of this ugly beast was met with the hot gunfire of two experienced and unfazed opponents, its head exploding in mid jump as it intercepted the flights of our hollow-point bullets.

We studied the muscular carcass. No doubt this particularly nasty monster had been a continuing menace to any passerby, human or animal, since it had obviously not starved.

“Crikey, you’re a very naughty boy...very naughty.”
I announced in my best Australian accent.

Brick smiled, “Ah, I miss him. Steve Irwin would have been great at handling runners.”

“Oh, I agree,” I replied, “He would have made pets of them all.”

Humor was another tool of survival in dark times, and nothing to frown about. There was no sadism about it, only a means of dealing with the horrors of reality. The creature upon whom we placed our light comments was a frightening caricature of what was once human, its face contorted into terrifying anger, even in death. Mild joking somehow seemed to let us pass through the nightmare intact and resolute.

“Now, I guess we’d better take care of our friend in the wine cellar.” I said. We knew that to leave an easily dispatched, active runner in such a place would be dangerous to any subsequent guest, and it would be a
merciful act for the runner, although I could no longer bring myself to pity those creatures. There is absolutely nothing left there to mourn...nothing.

Brick slammed a piece of expensive furniture on the gate padlock, breaking it off after a few tries, as the beast on the other side of the second door raged in unrestrained fury. “God knows what it has been eating,” he said “it seems very upset.”

“Probably wine,” I answered, “but not the good stuff. The real reason it’s so upset.”

“Heh heh...yep, I’d be annoyed, too. I hate crappy wine.” Brick retorted, “Here we go.”

We all stepped closer to the narrow confines of the cellar access, covered our ears and faces as well as we could. I fired a few shots into the door...then there was silence. The large, ornately carved slab was easily opened, as we cautiously looked within, both of us having flipped on our rifle lights.

There, at our feet, the ugly creature lay slumped over on the ground, the upper half of its head having been removed by my blast. We stepped past without a word and down a flight of stairs into the cellar. There were indeed many wine bottles and various other stores, but we could not linger, for the awful runner odor was overpowering.

Although the home held no further dangers, Brick and I felt depressed and anxious to depart, in spite of the many unique items of interest that may well have been priceless in another time.

For us, it was all useless debris.

The next day we passed an old country speedway, so we dropped our bikes and stepped in to climb up its empty bleachers for lunch. As I laid out a snack for Ben from his saddlebags, we noticed cars smashed and piled up on one end of the track.

Brick pondered out loud, “Somebody had fun here for awhile. Probably jamming the gas pedals in those cars on maximum with the high gear engaged, while the rear axle was jacked up, then – boom – let it take off into a crash. Pretty cool.” He studied through his rifle scope. “Yep, there’s the jack down there. Oh, and it looks as though he rode the last one in himself.”

I took in the evidence through my own scope. “Yeah...I can see his remains in the last car, all crumpled around the steering column. No air bag deployment, not that it would have saved him. What a shame...”

Many of those few who survived the initial carnage and losses of the epidemic eventually lost the will to press on. This poor soul was evidently one of those who had surrendered to defeat and killed himself, rather than struggle on into a terrifying and uncertain future.

We continued our journey
...

Chapter Three

“Dakota”

An excerpt from Brick Charbonneau’s “History of the First and Second Recovery Periods “
.

I
KNEW from the first moment I found Nicki Redstone that we would be friends, and that we had a destiny to fulfill together. I am not generally given to superstition, nor do I give any particular credence to tales of the supernatural, but the night before I first saw Nicki, my dreams brought a vision of a warrior for the dark times of the apocalypse; a fighter, heavy with weapons and bristling with power. Not a man, though, but a woman, companioned by a wolf spirit. I discounted this dream as only that - a dream - until the next morning, when I was astonished to find this wet fighter, unconscious on the riverbank, speaking French, no less, looking very much like the image from my sleep.

It is true that Nicki was a very direct and firm person from the beginning, although never rude, and
her slightly husky voice always commanded attention. She was confident in the extreme, and serene in the worst possible situations. I would feel calm and sure in her presence - even invincible - in deadly situations, when logic otherwise screamed that our survival was in doubt and the end was near. Nicki had that effect on everyone. It was because of her that I increased my weapons load to more closely match hers.

She had a way of sizing up a man that was interesting and distinctive; oftentimes even amusing. Her eyes would scan up then down, calmly, taking in every detail, her hands usually resting easily on two of the pistols holstered in her vest (when impatient, her fingers would gently tap the guns). I think this mentally disarmed her potential adversaries, as they would think her unprepared – so very few had any concept of her lightning speed.