THE KILLER ANGEL: Book One "Hard Player" (THE KILLER ANGEL TRILOGY 1) (15 page)

The conversation continued for hours, and would recommence in various forms often in the future. It was the only mental repair available to survivors in the new age. Even so, it was better than the attempted remedy of self absorption, which was no remedy at all.

~

Chapter Eleven

“Hedley”

~

T
HE BLUE Dog falls at Wilsonville.
Finally!
Once again, it was time to part ways. Gus would stay in the vicinity for a few days, just in case, then make his way back to Greenport, which was north of the runner infested Stovepipe that had been our earlier landing preference.

Ben was loathe to break the connection with Gus, having bonded with the old character. Still, wherever I went, Ben would follow, unto death if it were required of him.

Brick, of course, ever anxious to move on, was relieved to be free from the confines of the small boat. It had many advantages, but he preferred to control movement with his own body, and was happy for the exercise. His legs were strong now, much healed and feeling good.

The exhilaration of being on foot and in the forest was wonderful. The thought of folding our bodies into a canoe or rowboat was not exciting, but a small water
craft would probably be most effective. If our plans remained intact, we would arrive in Braidwood in three days or less. Unfortunately, “plans” and “intact” were not two words that paired well in this strange world in which we now lived.

Finding a suitable canoe was easy enough, but after a few hours on the water it was evident that we were paddling against a river current that was far stronger than anticipated.

I mentioned it to Brick, “I’ve seen this river a few times and it has never been so high or so fast. There must have been some heavy rain recently.”

Brick’s low key reply, “I think we are going backwards.”

His words were simple to interpret, so we switched to our “Plan B”, which was to cut over to the railroad tracks and follow them south, straight into Braidwood.

Hiking the rail line proved to be an efficient means of travel, for we met no people and saw few runners, and those were at a distance and easily avoided. The little townships through which the tracks passed provided suitable foraging for food and secure shelter. We made good time.

We pondered the lack of interference, but feeling optimistic, I chalked it up to simple good fortune. Brick, on the other hand, was uneasy at our completely unimpeded travel, but he rarely voiced his worry.

The second late afternoon off the river found us somewhat perplexed about travel direction, which was uncharacteristic of us, and nowhere near any town. The
maps simply did not match reality on the ground. Upon finally encountering a massive interstate overpass, we reasoned out the mistake and easily identified our position but, due to the late hour, it was apparent that the enormous concrete structure would have to serve as our bivouac for the night.
Not ideal
.

It was amazing how incredibly large a structure could be when one was on foot. In a car, zipping by at 75 miles an hour, an interstate overpass was nothing; but as a pedestrian, it was an entirely different matter. “The massive size of these things always astounds me,” commented Brick. I agreed and echoed the same thought.

We aimed for the top, where it appeared that a few abandoned, larger vehicles might provide suitable shelter. Sleeping under the overpass was not a safe option, since experience advised that dark corners and areas of shadow often hid surprises that were better avoided when possible.

As we marched up the long incline, Ben stopped in mild alert, head up, sniffing the air. We waited. Then, from the shadows below came the disgusting and unnerving sounds of ugly croaking - audible evidence of gorged runners.

“God knows what they ate, and I don’t want to see it,” Brick said in low tones. I agreed.

Although we preferred not to remain in the area, as noted earlier it was too late to continue to a superior layover. A very nice RV at the highest part of the arched concrete pavement would provide a comfortable night’s
shelter and an unobstructed view for hundreds of yards in all directions.

We entered the luxury vehicle quietly and, once inside, paused to discuss ‘what ifs’ and various escape plans, should they become necessary. Then we enjoyed a decent meal, followed by weapons and gear maintenance. As soon as the sun set, we were asleep, relying on our own naturally sensitive abilities - and Ben - to provide warning of approaching danger.

Shortly before sunrise, in the very earliest dawn light, I snapped awake, fully alert to strange noises. I looked at Brick. He felt the same thing. Survivor instincts. Ben had already perched himself in ready mode at the back window.

Within seconds, we had gathered and donned our gear and moved to Ben’s position, looking out through the curtain. There, standing silently, very still and fairly straight, with arms at their sides and heads down, were five ominous human forms.
Runners
.

It was uniquely strange behavior for runners. No screeching. No grasping. No sniffing, searching or milling around, which is always their expected behavior.

Watching tensely, and feeling the proximity of our weapons, we observed the five runners as a slow, dim morning light further illuminated their ghastly forms.

Then, an additional surprise. The creatures began walking forwards; treading eerily, not running. As they passed just outside, I could see their horrible eyes focused on us; their mouths snapping and hissing. Yet
they walked by, each with a small egg shape visible on the base of their skulls.

“Weird,” I said softly.

“Yes, very,” Brick confirmed the observation.

We stepped outside to investigate, prepared for a fight, if necessary. Seconds later, something unusual moved in our direction from a far treeline.
A vehicle?
It appeared to be a propane powered golf cart with a man and a woman in it. The runners had stopped a football field length away, frozen as if only harmless mannequins, their backs to us. Farther on, beyond those grotesque creatures, in the increasingly bright morning light, I could discern what appeared to be a heavily fenced enclosure containing a few buildings. One had electric lighting. Solar power, probably.

The cart driver looked rough; his hair stringy and oily. There was a sneer on his thin face and a shotgun in his hands. “What’re you doin’ heah?” He snarled.

The woman was large, massively so, in height and girth, with short cropped mud colored hair; her face remarkable in its lack of pleasant appeal. She wore a long white coat, and raised up her hand, which held a thin, brown cigarette, “Quiet Seth.” She commanded. There was something cruel evident in this woman, sadistic maybe..

“I’m Doctor Jane Cott.” She continued coolly, taking a puff. She had an odd demeanor and a clipped, unemotional way of speaking. “Neurosurgeon. Those creatures are my research subjects. Radio controlled. I would have punished you had you damaged them. You
will come with us.”

Brick glanced at me, smiling, his eyebrows raised. As with so many others, this woman had no idea of who she was dealing with.

“No thank you, ma’am, we’ll just keep moving. We have business elsewhere.” I stated with minimum courtesy.

I studied our possible opponents. Brick knew me and my “unique” ways, having observed my human analysis many, many times without ever interfering. He knew that I had my own unique style of evaluating people and situations. Even though Brick could handle anything that came his way, as his own tactical intellect was unmatched, yet, with me, in moments of danger or crises, he always deferred to my judgement. I know his was a premeditated decision, based solely on a chivalrous, respectful and trusting approach to our relationship as a fighting team - and as great friends.

In his own mirthful story-telling, Brick sometimes explained to rapt listeners, as he drew a finger across his cheek, that if he saw my scar reveal itself in bold definition, then he knew that action was imminent. “Get ready for trouble! Nicki Redstone is in the house!” He would exclaim with gusto to everyone’s amusement. I was accustomed to his habit of encouraging hero worship among my fans. He truthfully narrated our many “adventures”, often in great detail, but he made them all the more exciting by adding his own special blend of colorful adjectives.
Always the raconteur!

Back to the doctor...

“Business...hmmm...not my concern.” The doctor replied. “I’m interested in the animal.” She waved her cigarette at Ben. “Canis lupus familiaris - and a Deutscher Schaferhund, too. Magnificent specimen; probably military elite. Perfect for my work.”

Dr. Cott raised both arms in the direction of the radio-controlled runners, like a god displaying her power. “You can see what I’ve done with runners. No one else could do this, even before the plague. But my work is far from finished. I need other subjects. I’ve been searching for a higher order animal like yours for three months, a prerequisite to my work on living humans, my ultimate goal, of course. This animal is the perfect specimen.” Her eyes almost glowed with desire.

That was all I needed. Before either Seth or the doctor could react - almost before they could blink - Brick and I had our rifles in killing position at very close range. Youthful reflexes and experienced skill make a dominating combination.

Neither Seth nor Dr. Cott moved. Shock registered only momentarily on the doctor’s face, then she squinted and nodded, more in recognition than surprise. “Huntress. Hunter. Dog,” she said calmly, puffing her cigarette once again. “Nicki Redstone. Brick Charbonneau. Your reputations are known to me.”

Seth’s wormy face displayed utter shock, his mouth hung open. Doctor Cott continued; a crooked, forced smile cracked her otherwise unreadable face. “You must join me.”

“You have your answer.” Brick loudly announced.
“If you or your creatures bother or follow us, we will not be so friendly.” And with that, Brick, Ben and I moved out, giving Doctor Cott’s stationary and macabre runners a wide berth.

~

That night, Brick and I reviewed and debated the day’s events, considering, back and forth, whether or not this doctor and her henchman warranted further investigation.

“Brick, did you hear that accent on Seth? Not my favorite. Maybe it was fake; he might have been auditioning for a part in my next project. If so, he’s hired. I’m calling my manager tomorrow.”

“Ah yes,” Brick observed. “A fine character actor. He had bad teeth, too, which was a nice touch. Do you think they are married? They must have handsome children.”

“Hah! No doubt!” If they only heard our banter...

We continued the discussion in more serious tones. There was something horribly sinister about Dr. Cott’s actions, which might produce tragedy for other, less prepared travelers, a troubling concern for us. For the time being, however, we decided to table the matter and stay on track - we were too close to our destination.

We would soon regret that decision
.

One day later, Brick and I were very surprised to approach a substantial, but apparently completely
abandoned blockade on the outskirts of Braidwood, situated on a flat area, midway up a very wide, heavily wooded hill. It had high fences extending in two directions as far as we could see. It appeared to be a very large encirclement.

We had encountered many roadblocks before, of course, but this one was different - larger, less ad hoc, almost permanent - with guard towers, motorized gates, and a number of evidently related buildings and fenced compounds nearby.
Who had the time and resources to build this?

The area was deserted, but not in the usual disarray of neglected, rapidly abandoned civilization.

We moved up to the gate as Ben snooped around, his typical reaction to most unexplored environments. There was a large sign on the gate, which was latched, but not locked. My heart was in my throat. The sign read:

DANGER - DO NOT ENTER
Radioactive contamination
Braidwood atomic detonation area
Evacuees transferred to HEDLEY, OREGON
See lists in Bldg #3

I felt severe panic, a sensation that I had rarely ever experienced, and deeply disliked. My heart was racing. From the beginning, I had deluded myself into believing that my family would remain untouched by the horrors that I had witnessed. It was a survival tool
for me, I guess, but reality was slamming into me now with brutal force.

I had been certain that in Braidwood I would find peace and happiness, just as before; but, at that moment, as an overpowering sense of loss washed over me, for the first time in my life I felt a horrible, rising fear that this would be a loss that even I could not withstand.

Brick could see me turning pale, faltering.

Years later, in somber tones, he remarked that he “had never before seen such a lost look on that heroic face. It was a terribly demoralizing experience, one never to be repeated.”

Brick took me by my shoulders. “Come on, Nicki...let’s go check out building number three.”

Number three was clearly marked and easy to find - a small gray, hastily erected, windowless cinder block building with only one door.

As Ben continued his nearby scout, Brick and I entered the structure and noticed cork boards standing in rows with typed lists stapled upon them, although a few boards also had hand-written lists and many notes tacked up.

“Oh please, please, please...” I pleaded as we studied the lists. My fingers were shaking as I quickly moved through the names. “Oh there, dear God, there! My grampa and gramma escaped! I’m going to pass out.”

I caught my breath. “But wait...What is the handwritten star next to their names?” The star had an arrow
pointing down. I looked to the page bottom. Another star was there. My heart was beating faster. A note, dated only two months earlier:

Nicki. Meet you in Hedley. I love you forever!
Kip

“Oh my God! My family and my love all in one place! It’s a miracle, Brick!”

We shared tears and hugs of tremendous elation, better news could not have been expected. The world was going to be okay, or so it seemed at this one, spectacular moment.