THE KILLER ANGEL : Book Three "Journey" (THE KILLER ANGEL TRILOGY 3) (9 page)

The next morning, I followed her trail at my maximum speed, as the sky darkened with impending stormy weather. It became quickly clear to me that Nicki again traveled only with Ben; the fate of her companions having become a mystery to me, and was not my concern. Very soon Nicki’s trail would be obliterated by rain. I moved rapidly.

Finally, at one disturbing point, I found strange and shifting signs of her progress, which indicated some inexplicable detour, but I decided not follow them in detail, as I knew exactly where she would have spent the night – a cliff face above a small cluster of country shops.

I swiftly moved to the promontory, easily surmounting the height as dusk darkened the landscape. Examination of the site proved my assumption to be correct, although I was terribly disturbed at the most pronounced evidence of her stay.

A heavy rain began falling, with a sharp, bitterly cold wind whipping icy slivers into my eyes and stinging my skin. Ignoring the discomfort, I pulled out a
headlamp and studied the ledge, even as my gloved fingers grew stiff in the chill. There was still evidence of a small campfire and several empty boxes of rifle and pistol shells, the very same type used by Nicki. My muscles reflexively tightened with nervous tension at those boxes, since it was clear that Nicki had been into something big, but seeing no medical debris, I felt safe in assuming that she had survived unscathed.

As I examined further, I found that the back wall of this little rocky alcove contained an ancient, vertical slab of rock, upon which, in carefully inscribed one-inch letters, the following had been etched:

193 souls. I failed you. My heart is broken.
I am forever in sorrow.
N.R
.

As I read those words, a grave sense of foreboding washed over me.
What did this mean? One hundred ninety-three souls?
Something terrible had occurred there.

Failure? Nicki had failed? How? What happened?
I could feel my heart beating faster as my body pressed me to charge off into the wet darkness to find my friend. I resisted the nearly overpowering urge to do so, since to move at speed after nightfall would be suicidal, and at best would only slow me down when exhaustion conquered my body. I wanted to weep and shout for Nicki’s pain.

Something unimaginable had happened here – one hundred ninety-three souls
. I lay awake thinking about the implication. I would not linger beyond the night to uncover the mystery; I had a much more demanding objective: To find Nicki Redstone as soon as humanly possible. I was thankful that Ben trekked with her.

Chapter Six

“The Shelter”

- Nicki -

O
CCASIONALLY, MY comfortable water travel was inhibited by impassable obstructions, in each case a destroyed bridge was the problem, no doubt the result of a probably futile effort by unknown survivors to halt a mass assault by the raging undead.

When forced by such circumstances, Ben and I necessarily abandoned our watercraft to circumvent any problem, then acquired a replacement on the downriver side. Abandoned boats were in abundance on the Missouri, fortunately.

On one occasion, however, our obstacle was far more significant than just a blown bridge, since the destruction was widespread and massive, probably nuclear in origin. I would not risk investigating.

We docked our boat and took off on foot, giving the burned out ruins a wide berth, and targeting a town that
was two days away, but one that promised plenty of suitable boats and opportunities to re-provision.

As we tracked along empty back roads on the first day of this major detour, it became apparent that we were being followed. I detected the potential foe – two people - while conducting my late afternoon scan from a tall radio tower perch, right before sunset, and then noticed the duo again the following evening. These people could not be simply moving identically in my direction, since the pace that I kept would not possibly permit coincident movement. No, these were trackers who were using a pair of small breed dogs to assist, possibly beagles. It had to be tough going, though, given the speed at which I traveled, and I smiled at the thought.

“We may have company soon, Ben,” I said to my companion; he woofed in understanding. He, too, was aware of our followers, perhaps scenting them in the air.

Although I knew that I could easily evade my trackers if I chose to do so. Once aware of them, I decided instead to interrupt their progress and learn their intentions. It would be interesting to know their motivation, and whether they were friend or foe.

In the late morning of the following day Ben and I crossed a small highway bridge. Once over, I walked a short distance upstream, purloined an aluminum row boat, recrossed the river to the other side, then hiked up to a hidden location where I could observe and evaluate
my potential adversaries, being careful to position myself downwind from my quarry.

Within an hour or so, two young men, possibly in their late teens, came puffing and sweating along, holding the leashes of two handsome beagles. They seemed modestly equipped, and I evaluated their new age survival skills and reaction ability to be mediocre at best.

I stepped into the street behind them, rifle on my back and hands on my vest – my usual unassuming and seemingly unprepared stance when meeting strangers.

“Why are you following me?” I asked loudly.

Both of the men whipped around in some fear, instinctively reaching for their shouldered guns. In the flick of an eyelash, I aimed a pistol at each of them before they could complete the effort.
They were so slow!

“Stop!” I said, “Put your hands in your pockets.” An order to which they quickly complied – rather clumsily - as they continued holding the leashes.

“Finally!” One said excitedly, “Nicki Redstone! We’ve been trying to find you for two weeks. Damn! You are fast! Sorry about the cursing, ma’am.”

I looked the pair up and down as they stood in front of me, dripping in sweat and waiting for my next move. Midwest accents, probably Nebraska country. Tall boys, blonde haired and blue-eyed; they were clean-cut and well groomed, as were the dogs. Their manners were respectful, and I detected none of the odd ornaments,
clothing or behaviors that often presage unpleasant action or intent.

They both wore high school letterman jackets with the traditional white leather sleeves and red vests; large white “D’s” on the fronts. No, these were clearly decent boys, so I holstered my weapons.

“You can relax now guys. Sorry, but I take no chances. Who are you and why are you following me?”

“We’re here to join you!” They both said simultaneously.

“Really.” I replied rather flatly, tilting my head slightly, and resisting the temptation to bring my Ace Ventura impression into the conversation. No, that humor was for Brick and Kip only.

“We have been following your story from the beginning, Ms. Redstone, all the way back.” They took turns speaking. “Fort Puller, the monastery, the balloon, the Pinebluff fight, the Fifth Mounted Regiment, Dr. Cott, Braidwood, Kip Kellogg, all of it.”

They were excited, talking fast. “We learned from another traveler that Brick had stayed in the Dakotas and that you were off with Ben. My brother and I knew then that we must find and join you...if you would allow us to do it, that is.”

I could see the gleam in their eyes, the excitement, the thrill of the adventure.

The shadows were beginning to get long, so I interrupted, “Let’s pause the conversation for now, guys, and find a camp for the night.”

I had noticed a forest ranger fire lookout tower half a mile ahead, past the bridge, so we grabbed a few supplies from a nearby convenience store, and then quickly moved to the tower and set up in a perfect position for the night.

Josh and Lou Beauchamp turned out to be solid young men, on their own for almost two years. They had no living family and moved from one location to another, helping folks as they went along, but never staying in place for long. Their search for adventure kept them moving. As they survived each occasional dangerous encounter, their skills improved, although I detected that much of their success was due to plain good luck. Being country boys, they fortunately never witnessed the awful onslaught of a massive runner attack, something I had – through multiple experiences – learned must be avoided with planning and reconnaissance, if possible.

Their weapons selection offered further evidence of their inexperience, being comprised of five round, pump-action shotguns and one six-shot revolver apiece. Twenty-two rounds between them, and weapons that offered slow reload action; it would not suffice in a mob attack. It was apparent that, somehow, these boys had never encountered or even seen a horde.

As we set up for the night, I could sense Josh and
Lou observing my every action, studying my equipment, even my food. Their exuberant youthfulness made me feel a little old, even a little motherly. I anticipated that my nightly drill of equipment maintenance and practice would no doubt evoke some interesting comments.
Oh well
...

In the twilight, Ben’s head snapped up in alert and he quickly moved out of the tower hut to look down at something. I could feel the eager anticipation in my two new acquaintances as I scooped up my rifle to evaluate Ben’s concern: a pair of sniffing runners, evidently on our trail, but stymied by the tower where we camped.

I immediately dispatched both of them, each with a single, fairly quiet bullet.

“Aren’t you worried about attracting more?” Lou asked.

“One or two shots will not bring others,” I replied, “not unless they are very near. If more are close by, I would rather know it now then find out once we’re on the ground. Of course, since this gun is suppressed, I could probably fire off an entire magazine and not alert any but the very closest of runners.”

I knew much about runners, most of my knowledge gained in tight spots and desperate situations. From my first frightening encounter in a Phoenix hotel so long ago, to the sniffers who tracked me into a tiny California jail where Ben and I had intended to spend a quiet night.

My education was paid for by the sad deaths of
others on too many occasions, deaths that I could not stop, and will never forget. Not even the gentlest of the animal kingdom were spared when unrelenting and savage hunger enraged a runner. I recalled my encounter with the terrible death of a calf a year ago as it cried out in pain, an unpleasant flashback in my mind. In one short breath, I executed its tormentors, and then had no choice but to end the life of the poor, broken and mutilated creature.