THE KILLER ANGEL: Book One "Hard Player" (THE KILLER ANGEL TRILOGY 1) (10 page)

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Chapter Seven

“Monsters”

~

A
COUPLE of weeks of rest and recovery, and our little band of heroes was ready to go. True to their words, the Camp Puller soldiers provided access to anything that Brick and I needed, since we had lost almost everything in that rooftop fight.

We were thrilled to learn how to use hand grenades - and to actually have them in our possession, but we could only carry a few. We happily accepted military-grade night vision devices as replacements for our old civilian models.

New weapons, new food, new maps, all excellent equipment of the best quality. There was an abundant supply and we could all now afford the most expensive gear in the world, as it was now free to survivors.

Then, on a chilly fall morning, Captain Carter and a two vehicle patrol took us comfortably to the edge of their designated scout for that day, about a one hour drive from the camp, which was a nice kick start to our journey.

Ben, in particular, was loath to depart. I sometimes suspected that he may have been a soldier’s dog somewhere in his past, since he immediately adapted to the military organization, almost as though he knew its purpose and protocols. Still, I knew he would never abandon me, but Ben’s clear sadness caused me to further ponder his provenance.
Was he a former K-9? He was never cowed in the fight; the noise; gunfire; death. Maybe a veteran of some distant human conflict?
I would probably never know.

Three days out from Camp Puller and we estimated that seven hundred miles remained in our journey. Brick, true to his word, was almost completely healed. There would be plenty of rough terrain to traverse, so we would have to stay with the main roads, for efficiency, re-supply and so as not to get lost.
Oh how I miss my GPS
, I often mused.

The general target direction would be northwest to Sacramento, but we debated making a direct route to a seaport, and then trying our hands at sailing, something with which neither of us had any experience. I was a fast learner, though, and my hot air balloon experience gave me added confidence.

“Plains Indians don’t really love ocean travel that much.” Brick explained. “Too salty. Too many fish. Fish...not really my thing.”

Brick always cracked me up. I seemed to have the same effect on him. “What, you need buffalo meat? You’re half creole, too, as I recall. Some shrimp eating going on there somewhere.”

“Shrimp? I’m trying to quit. Just big bugs to me. Fish? Same thing. I don’t care for the fishy flavor, the scales, the lips, and I heard they might have mercury and stuff. Bad for my complexion.” Brick said with his usual dry wit. “I prefer pizza, or a taco would be nice right now...with french fries.”

“Poutine?”
I suggested.

“Damn it...did you have to say that? Now you are just being insensitive. Ah, yes, poutine. The greatest food on earth, next to pizza, and both are completely out of reach. I really don’t know why I hang out with you, Nicki Redstone, I really don’t.” Brick feigned irritation. “Ah, poutine and pizza, that would be heaven.”

“And a nice Cabernet.” I added, which was entirely doable.

“Ohhh yeah, let’s keep and eye out for some.” We both daydreamed as we walked. I removed the final dressing from my facial wound. It felt surprisingly good.

“Damn fine scar. I definitely like it.” Brick stated. “I must have one too, only bigger.”

“Pas un probleme
, Mr. Charbonneau; I’ll put in an order with the next horde we meet. I’m sure they will be happy to help you out with that one.” Actually, Brick had his share of scars, but somehow his were all below the neckline, an observation that I would tuck away for the appropriate “get Brick” moment, one of my favorite pastimes.

~

Eventually, we came across the inevitable obstacle, which was a frequent occurrence, although this one was unusual: a blown out dam. There was no way to tell what had caused the failure, but it was a mess, with debris, upended cars and destroyed buildings visible a long way down. Plus, there was no apparent way across the rushing water below. A road led up river and our map indicated a bridge thirty miles away. We had no other option than to press on to that crossing, which we could make by the middle of the next day.

A few miles up river we came to an abandoned adventure training camp, with a few intact buildings near the former water’s edge, which was now much lower than it had been before the dam collapsed.

Locating canned goods, root beer and wild, slightly green apples, we enjoyed a hearty lunch. I noticed a solid wood frame tower device with cables arching down to the far side.

“Is that a zip line?” I was somewhat amazed.

We walked over and studied the apparatus. It appeared to be intact and functional.

“What do you think?” I asked Brick.

“Hmmm...look before you leap,” came Brick’s reply.

“Ahh,” I said, “no guts no glory!”

Brick eyed me, “Measure twice, cut once.”

I smiled, “He who hesitates is lost.”

“Dammit! It’s very high...very high,” Brick slowly shook his head, looking down, “And you are much lighter than I am.”

I laughed, “That’s why I’m going first!”

A nearby hut contained the necessary harness for multiple guests, all of it in serviceable condition. We worked out the details and carefully studied the far side. This could work. I would go first, test the line’s stability and clear the far side, followed by Ben, then Brick.

Luckily, the entire plan worked to perfection. It was an exhilarating ride, one that I regretted being able to do only once, but there was no easy way back for a second run.

“What a kick in the crotch! I should have done that years ago. I don’t know why I was so uncomfortable with the concept!” Brick exclaimed as we gathered up our gear and continued our journey.

~

For survivors of the epidemic, there were a thousand dramatic stories at every turn, most involving severe loss. Many times those stories made for interesting re-telling, even without embellishment. I was one of the fortunate few to have survived every one of my own adventures, good and bad.

Along the way we sometimes met other travelers, usually in groups of two or three, but not often. Caution was essential.

Brick and I were aware that paranoid trekkers hid
from us, and sometimes, through caution learned from experience and observation, we avoided contact with other travelers, especially larger, unpleasant looking groups. Admittedly, our antisocial behavior was as much a dislike for strange company as it was from a cautious outlook.

For the most part, I had found that these hard times brought out the best in most survivors. Still, even in this period of great sorrow, there were those who could not curb their base desires and sadistic instincts; the worst of mankind, ready to take full advantage.

In all ages of history the villains are found, of course; the highwaymen, the tyrants, the rapists, the bullies - those with power who were too often disposed to abuse those without. Brick and I did our best to defeat this savage predilection when we encountered it, but there were times when we simply had to walk away from a fight. Eventually, however, as we journeyed together and gained experience and power, we stopped avoiding those “times”. Indeed, when the need was great, we would even seek out the scourge and end their ability to harm.

Meeting any stranger on or off the road was always a tentative event. Survivors learned to be wary of ambush, trickery, con or thief. Brick and I developed a sixth sense about the intentions of weary travelers whom we encountered, but it was the canine instincts of Ben that almost always first identified trouble.

Sometimes we would trade with friendly souls, always helping those in need when we could. Rarely,
we would spend the night together in the security of companionship, making quiet merry around a small fire, sharing news, rumors and any information of value. We were very surprised on increasingly frequent occasions to hear travelers voicing recognition of us. Evidently, word was spreading, which was something that Brick and I pondered as a temporary curiosity.

Encountering people was not really so common; but we covered much more terrain than the average traveler, so we probably saw more survivors than most. Runners, too, seemed to be becoming somewhat more in absence, something we noticed but did not regret.

“They’re dying of starvation, especially here in the backwoods.” Offered a cheerful, older man, Abe, who, with is wife, Mary, settled down for a pleasant evening with us. They were kind, generous folk; the type of people for whom Brick and I always developed a fast fondness. “The direction you’re headed, though, I imagine you will run into swarms of the poor dead devils. All from the city and suburbs, moving out in clumps, more dangerous than ever, if that’s possible. The Sacramento area is especially bad. Awful, awful.”

Mary and Abe were towing a nice, sturdy red wagon that was loaded with supplies. It would not have been a practical device for us, but I could see its advantages. These were good people who were headed to the relative safety of some fort that they had heard was rumored to be near Pinebluff.

“It’s no rumor and no fantasy.” Brick stated. “We came from there over a week ago.” As we went on to
describe what Abe and Mary could expect at Camp Puller, their relief and growing elation was visible. We provided specifics about location, directions and obstacles, raising their hopes and confidence, which cheered everyone.

Mary, just as sweet and kind as anyone could imagine, smiled with eyes glistening at the news. She produced a tin of fine chocolates that we all shared and enjoyed. After a calm night, we bade farewell to our new friends on a cold, damp morning, but not before making multiple suggestions on how to better protect themselves along the way.

Even then, perhaps in some small premonition, I wished that we could do more for Abe and Mary, and felt sadness at not being able to guide and guard them to their journey’s end. I was feeling a growing responsibility for the welfare of others, and sometimes chafed at being unable to be in multiple places simultaneously to aid those in need. More and more, I could see that survivors needed assistance, and I had the skill and the tools to do so. I felt a developing urge to apply my talents for the sake of others.
Kip will help me figure out this dilemma
...

Brick and I pushed ourselves hard for the next few minutes down a damp road, slick with wet, green algae. It was still misty and chilly, and the morning dew was pooled in leaves on the asphalt. Each breath produced a puff of fog. It was great to be alive.

Suddenly, in the distance behind us, there was a ‘pop’, then another. Then one more. Then silence.

Brick and I looked at each other, and then, without comment, retraced our steps, but now we stayed off the road, moving smoothly, efficiently...and ready.

We passed our previous night’s campsite.

I re-checked my weapons, loosened my rifle, and took it off of safe. Brick was ready, too, anticipating the worst, hoping for the best.

It wasn’t long before we came across Abe’s and Mary’s little wagon, broken - smashed, as if for fun - its contents ransacked, scattered. Not the work of runners.

Still moving slowly and silently through the woods, just off the road, we soon located Abe and Mary lying in the road, holding hands, but not moving. After a few seconds of study, as I provided overwatch, Brick went to check on the couple. Both dead; shot in the head. Abe twice.

Brick came to me. “For their little wagon of things? They had to kill them?” Brick’s eyes watered red and his face was flushed with anger. “Oh dear God, I will never get over this...those gentle folks were so close to a new home.”

We looked at each other, but said no more. We knew what had to be done, and immediately moved out. For the first time, I felt a burning sensation in my cheek, sensitivity in my new scar. It would not be last time.

Between the two of them, it was hard to tell who was the better tracker, Brick or Ben, and they worked off of each other in a way that I could only marvel at.

Brick would find something, make a soft whistle,
then Ben would hustle over, sniff, and off they would go, with me trailing fast. The path to those criminals was easy to follow, though, since those guys believed themselves to be bad enough to handle anything. They would soon learn otherwise.

Moments later, we heard voices ahead - rough, young, filthy, street toughs. I backed off and moved somewhat to the side with Ben, as Brick took point. Brick signaled “stop and wait”, then moved out of view.

Upon returning, he whispered, “No sentries, but they have a miserable looking pit-bull chained to a stake. They have a big motorhome that they are living in. Six guys are visible, but I can’t see inside the RV. Plenty of guns and knives, but they’re stupid, dirty, foul-mouthed and just sitting around boozing and snorting cocaine. They’ve got a runner, too, alive; chained to a tree. Female. Naked. ‘Hate to think of what that’s about. A real nasty bunch.”

We moved in a little closer to study our quarry. There was loud talking from the camp. The day was warming and steam was rising from the moist forest floor. Six ugly looking bottom feeders were lounging around a fire.

“You shouldn’t have killed the bitch, shithead.” A heavily tattooed, greasy looking dude said. “I wanted her to suck my dick.”

“She would’a bit your mouse-dick off, so shut up about it before I kick your stupid ass.” A blonde, curly haired skateboarder looking guy said.

On and on it went, as we silently observed... and
prepared to punish the fiends. Even outnumbered, this seemed easy. I looked at Brick and held up held up a precious grenade. “Seven second fuse.” I whispered.

“I’ve got mouse-dick and the skateboarder, if they run.” Brick said quietly.

“Cool,” I replied. “I’ll take care of anyone else leaving the blast. We both need to watch that RV.” I pulled the pin, hesitated briefly, then tossed it into the fire.

One of the gangbangers remarked, “Very funny, Stick.” Then it exploded with much more violence than I expected. The concussion made me wince and my ears rang as bits of shrapnel sprayed through the leaves near us.”
Thank you Captain Carter
...