THE KILLER ANGEL: Book One "Hard Player" (THE KILLER ANGEL TRILOGY 1) (3 page)

“Dammit. Not on my list of the top three things I wanted to see tonight.”
I whispered to Ben, amusing myself. I had learned that humor was a natural part of calm for me in moments that might otherwise be stressful.
This had become almost routine for me
... but I never permitted myself to become complacent. That mindset could easily lead to catastrophe.

One grotesque creature, in another life an athletic male, stopped by the station door, inches away. Then another. Then half a dozen. I could actually hear sniffing... and then that awful, unforgettable stench wafted into the room, making me recoil in a spasm and nearly vomit. Then, in an instant, that horrible, frenzied runner screeching started, attracting all within hearing, exciting their wild cannibal urges. The monsters began pounding and slamming the door with fists and heads, clawing and charging onto and over each other to get inside of my small fortress.

Runners are entirely lacking in any courtesy for one another
...

I could see Ben’s beautiful eyes on me in the moonlight. He had that concerned, doleful look he gets sometimes...but not a sound did he make, not a whimper.

I stroked his cheek briefly.
That’s my boy. Don’t worry, we’re not on the menu tonight
.

It was time to make some noise and exit. I never accepted a no-win situation, and always planned an escape. Survival demanded planning, and I was
compulsively consistent about it, as I was with every aspect of my live or die existence.

There was no short supply of high octane alcohol in this place, so I poured it on everything, then cranked the static from my radio on full volume, fired a spray through the front door, lit a newspaper on fire, and tossed it and the radio in as I cautiously moved out through the back door.
Always know your exit route!

What a mess! We quickly moved a block away, and could easily see that at least two dozen runners were swarming in and around the burning police station, some on fire. The radio static, the growing fury of the flames, and the screeching orgy of runner insanity served the dual purpose of easing our escape and gathering every runner within earshot to the party and away from me.

My back-up plan led us to a nearby small township water tower. Hauling Ben in his climber’s harness, I struggled up that cold, wet ladder to the first level. He seemed to get heavier each time I did this.

I was breathing hard by the time I was able to block the ladder access. I spent the rest of the night cuddling Ben’s warm fur on that hard metal deck. Slightly chilled, but secure, and not the first or last time I would carry Ben.

~

As I dozed, I remembered leaving home after high school to live my dream in Hollywood. It was a
difficult goodbye; I loved my family and home dearly. There were so many wonderful memories trying to keep me there.

Before long, I met my fiance, Kip Kellogg, on set. He was a tough, young guy - a war vet with a heart of gold. Very smart. Very handsome. Tremendously principled. A genuine love story for the ages, as my mother would say..

We had career success, too. We worked well in the business, gained solid actors’ credentials, and never had to work second jobs, although we were always building, creating and brainstorming when we weren’t on set. The actor’s life would never be everything to us, in spite of our mutual passion for the business.

Many young people recognized us, I suppose, and I became accustomed to the attention. To be completely candid, Kip and I were unusually successful in an industry where most wannabees have only ugly personalities to their credit. Even my twin sister, Scottie, would be occasionally stopped by a loyal fan all the way on the other side of the country, and even once in London when on holiday. It made me laugh when I learned of her fan interaction, and of course Scottie did not mind, although she was sometimes put off when small groups of people, girls typically, would stare and point at her.

Oh, how I missed my sister
...

For breakfast, Ben and I enjoyed spaghetti and meatballs from a can heated over chemical tabs, sitting on a thin foam mat thirty feet up an old, rusty water
tower.
Not awful, really
.

A clear view in the damp morning air revealed the still smoking police station ruins and a few of the sniffing runners rolling around on the ground, naked and charred, their clothes having been burned off in the flames. None killed, it seemed. Odd behavior, that sniffing and pack movement. Something I always would remember and watch for.

The orange morning horizon revealed a large, white cloud in the distance, mushroom shaped; just an ordinary cloud, though, but it brought back memories of the nukes. China tried them first to stop the hordes, but the EMP following detonation destroyed large swaths of technology: communications, computers, diagnostics, transportation... pretty much everything.

The United States held off as long as possible. Everything was tried first to halt - or at least to slow - the runner onslaught. Chemicals, fire, small bombs, then bigger bombs. But large numbers of runners were intrenched everywhere - buildings, basements, subways, sewers, stadiums, churches, warehouses, and hardened security compounds.

By the time America’s leaders understood that the virus was more than a temporary catastrophic event; that it was, in tragic fact, the annihilation of the human race, the resulting efforts to control it were all just too little and far too late.

At least when atomic weapons were finally cracked open by the US military, it was done with as much compassion as possible under the circumstances, not
like the malignant government activities portrayed in many thrillers. These were air-burst weapons that had been designed to kill over a large area without widespread destruction or lingering radiation. Even so, the weapons did little good.

Such a vivid memory
...

First, paper fliers were dropped, telling survivors what was happening and when. Also, there were constant radio and television emergency broadcasts. Then armored vehicles and air crews went in to save as many people as possible. But it was intensely difficult to evacuate a family from a building that was surrounded by hordes of ravenous killers who relentlessly swarmed the rescue trucks. It was a bloodbath, and many heroes died trying to help, but it was the only way.

The United States reportedly used only a few nuclear weapons on the most overrun population centers early on. There were rumors of more after national communications failed and the power grid was lost.

As with the Chinese, the overall damage to high tech systems was just too great, to say nothing of the heartbreak of knowingly killing trapped survivors. Any resulting benefit did not some seem worth the horrible price.

I shrugged off those dark thoughts, gave Ben a warm hug, and then climbed that cold, steel water tower ladder further up. Ben knew the drill. Time for a little reconnaissance. In my past life I hated heights, but now
climbing to useful vantage points was routine, and no longer an issue. Once at the top, I almost habitually flicked my braid to my back, feeling the thin, stiff dagger firmly sheathed therein; it was a strange source of confidence for me, as was the ever present close proximity of the pistols in my vest.

At the highest level I could see for a wonderfully long distance down the road, but detected nothing of concern, only green hills, scattered trees and a few houses. It was a gorgeous view, but I could not linger. I had to move on.

Once we were back on terra firma, I strapped on Ben’s saddlebags and we took off at a trot. I wanted to make 25 miles that day. Headed north. Always north.

~

Chapter Three

“Sheffield Abbey”

~

T
HREE UNEVENTFUL days later, while looking for an off-road night spot, I came to a smooth, grassy clearing, in the center of which was a very old, high walled adobe ranch, with large arched, solid double doors blocking the entrance. Even though I felt somehow calmed by the obvious serenity of the pastoral surroundings, the setting was nevertheless strange. The scene was out of place, even out of time. Still, the overall effect was definitely familiar to me; something recognizable, yet not unpleasantly so.

For awhile, watching with piqued interest from the treeline, I took it all in and considered this increasingly puzzling view. Before long, rather gentle seeming men in brown robes appeared along the top of one beige colored wall, doing what could only be described as household chores, sweeping and the like. I could hear the soft musical tones of male humming, but there was no talking.

A small door opened on a side wall and a little,
chubby fellow came out, dumped a bucket and then sat down on a stool, wiping sweat from his partially bald head, muttering something. I was somewhat taken aback.
Are you kidding?
I remember thinking.
He looks like Friar Tuck! Monks? Really? Do they still exist?

I had no experience with such a phenomenon, although I faintly recalled by father telling some story about silent monks, but I could not bring his words into the forefront of my thoughts, not at that moment. Still, the memory was a positive one, so, after a few more seconds of contemplation, I took a chance.

“Hey, hi!” I had not spoken in awhile...my voice was raspier than normal, not at all sexy; probably more masculine than anything.

I could almost see the man’s eyes pop out of his head. The poor fellow ran inside and the merry humming within stopped at once. I truly did not intend nor expect to cause such alarm.

I pretended to relax at a respectful distance with Ben sitting next to me, hoping that my calm demeanor would lower the tension level, although I nevertheless kept a thick old fence post somewhat between myself and their wall as my fighting instinct was simultaneously feeling the proximity of my various armaments without actually touching them. One must always, always be prepared for the unexpected. Should there be a problem I knew precisely what to do - without hesitation. I was well trained and thoroughly experienced. Weapons up, fire a spray, then move to previously identified cover. If needed, my sprint from
there had already been mentally reconnoitered. Always be the hard target.
Yeah, my papa had trained me well
.

But there was no running that day. I continued to lean nonchalantly on the post, waiting patiently for a reaction. I was certain it would not be long.

Less that two minutes later, a voice from the wall spoke, somewhat tremulous “Hello! Who are you?”

“I’m Nicki, from North Hollywood, traveling alone with my companion, my canine friend.” It was difficult for me to think of Ben as a pet, which he was not. “His name is Ben.... and you would be Friar Tuck, I presume?” Humor could not hurt.

A pause, then a small chuckle from within. “Nooo, only humble monks here...but we could use Robin Hood for sure, for sure.”

Hmmm...was that a Scottish accent? This could be amusing
, I remember thinking at the time.

“May I come in, sir?”

One of the big doors slowly opened, just enough to allow Ben and me to enter. Upon it were the words:

“Know ye gentle guest, the Rule of St. Benedict holds here, our silence is our bond to the Lord. A safe bed and simple fare awaits. No innocent traveler is denied. Enter and depart in peace.”

Ah...a real life abbey! Interesting
...I thought.

As was ever my way, I entered, confidently, yet fully alert, and was pleased to see twelve monks, dressed alike in heavy brown robes; all silent with
amazed expressions. No one said a word, which rather surprised me, “You can’t talk?”

In reply and all at once in chorus they blurted out many excited words, heads bobbing and faces full of cheer, “Oh yes, oh yes, yes, yes!” Until the Friar Tuck chap held up his hand and kindly stated, “AHEM.... We can only speak in reply to a question dear lady, so be forewarned that any answer to your query will likely be met with an overlong, mostly unnecessary and probably VERY boring answer.... ahem!!!”

Much chuckling, smiling and head nodding followed.

What a jovial bunch!
I felt instant love for the entire group.

Some chit chat and introductions were made all around and, not surprisingly, the head monk advised that he was pleased to be known simply as Brother Tuck, or “Friar, if you like”, noted with a smile and a nod...and chuckles all around. “I’m the abbot here at Sheffield Abbey.”

“May Ben and I stay here tonight, sir?” I asked as I scratched my guardian’s neck. One cannot be timid in these times. If permission were denied, I would have no time to linger.

“It would be our pleasure, of course and most definitely.” Came the quick reply. “Brother Tom and Brother Chen will show you around our humble piece of heaven, but first you will want to cleanup, I’m sure.”

The two friars then calmly and quietly guided me down a long hallway to a small guestroom. Sparse in its
adornment, brown and drab, it was nonetheless homey, clean and comfortable. I allowed myself only a few minutes to wash up, as I was keen to learn more about my new friends. I trusted my instincts and felt safe in dropping most - but not all - of my many weapons and gear on the bed. I found Brother’s Tom and Chen patiently waiting nearby - silently, of course. I then proceeded on tour with the two smiling monks, much to their great pleasure and pride.

These Trappists had created a simple, yet picture perfect home in this land of the lost and damned. Truly peaceful. Vegetables, fruits, eggs and honey. Quite a setup and off the beaten path. I was generous with questions, which were all received with pleasure and an effusiveness seldom seen in any setting.

I pondered how it was that the monks were evidently unaffected by the virus, and when I broached the topic, my guides indicated their puzzlement, as well, although they were naturally inclined to offer their survival as a blessing from heaven, which it may well have been.

The evening meal was simple, yet hardy: Potatoes, lentils and onion stew, fresh carrots, scrambled eggs, beer and milk. Conversation and laughter was sparkling and perfect, and there was no fear of the noisy revelry, table pounding and clanking of mugs.