THE
KILLER ANGEL
Book Three
“Journey”
by Myles Stafford
THE
KILLER ANGEL
Book Three
“Journey”
by Myles Stafford
© 2015, Myles P. Stafford. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.
Also available in
THE
KILLER ANGEL
trilogy:
THE KILLER ANGEL:
Book One - “Hard Player”
THE KILLER ANGEL:
Book Two - “Legend”
by
Myles Stafford
Special Thanks to...
Actress Mandy Musgrave for graciously providing her beautiful image for the book covers,
and to...
Up and coming architect, Jamie Musgrave, for the many hours she invested in creating the spectacular cover art for the trilogy.
~ The original twins ~
And Finally...
Grateful applause to Mario Jovani Alfonso for the sublime back cover artwork, a third of which was used on each book.
~ Table of Contents ~
Preface
Historical Note
Journey: “I did not choose this life!”
Runners: “Source: Letters From Nicki Redstone”
Chapter One: “East”
Chapter Two: “The Weak”
Chapter Three: “Dakota”
Chapter Four: “River”
Chapter Five: “Tracking Nicki”
Chapter Six: “The Shelter”
Chapter Seven: “Signs of Nicki”
Chapter Eight: “Nicki’s Revenge”
Chapter Nine: “South”
Chapter Ten: “Nicki’s Voice”
Chapter Eleven: “Scottie”
Chapter Twelve: “I Will Find You”
Chapter Thirteen: “Excerpt from ‘Flynn’s Story’”
Chapter Fourteen: “Marshall Arrives”
Epilogue
Nicki’s Letter
About the Author
Battle not with monsters, lest ye become a monster; and if you gaze into the abyss, the abyss gazes also into you.
~ Friedrich Wilhelm Nietzsche ~
German philosopher
1844–1900
PREFACE
I enjoyed the privilege of interviewing both Nicki Redstone (with Ben III, ever at her side) and Brick Charbonneau near the end of the Second Recovery Period, a full thirty years after the Great Epidemic. Relenting to the strident urging of all who loved them, they agreed to provide their stories, which I have assembled and recounted in these volumes.
In these humble works, I have done my best to faithfully provide an accurate history of their remarkable lives – through their words – during the post-apocalypse years. Some of this story has been documented in other publications, pieces of which I have included here.
Nicki Redstone, at the time of our meeting, was almost sixty years old, although she still appeared to be a very young woman, literally no older than twenty-five, while Brick Charbonneau seemed barely a decade her senior. Admittedly, like a wide-eyed schoolboy, I noted the infamous scar across Nicki’s cheek, still faintly visible after so many years.
As you would imagine, these two modest paladins were as impressive in person as one might expect from the thrilling legends with which we are all familiar. Beautiful and fit, they exuded an aura of extreme confidence that only comes from successfully overcoming the most intense trials of fire and fear.
I hope that you, the reader, can appreciate that my words here do only small justice to the brilliance of Nicki and Brick, and to the glowing effect they had on others. Truly, a princess and prince for our new age.
This is their story...
Sincerely,
Myles Stafford
INTRODUCTION
The end of the First Recovery Period is generally accepted among scholars to have occurred with the epic loss of Captain John (Jack) Carter and the remaining soldiers of the 101st Airborne Division in the defense of Camp Puller and the many families who had taken refuge there.
Following radio transmissions of extreme distress at Camp Puller, the Hedley Council dispatched Kip Kellogg and his ranger section to aid if possible. That journey, widely acknowledged as one of the most remarkable athletic achievements in modern history, nevertheless proved futile.
For some, the tragic fall of Camp Puller and the much loved Captain Carter, forever ended all hope for the future of civilized reconstruction. Only Hedley, in Oregon, and the nascent developments of Scottie Redstone and Flynn Petron in Florida offered any real possibility that recovery would continue – and perhaps even succeed.
The commencement of the Second Recovery Period is universally accepted as the day that Kip Kellogg passed through the gates of Hedley with his grim report that confirmed and detailed the nearly complete loss of Camp Puller. Ultimately, it was that sad report - and the lessons learned from it - that inspired a generation of survivors to plan, to prepare, to build better, and to succeed.
After the fire cools, why does one lonely tree stand green when its forest is charred to ash?
And in the aftermath of a terrible wind, why does one single house interrupt a landscape of complete destruction, itself undisturbed?
So it has been with Nicki Redstone.
I choose to stand close to her, in the center of fire; in the eye of terrible storms; and pray to the great spirit that I do not perish for my boldness.
My prayer has been answered favorably... so far.
Brick Charbonneau, Lakota Sioux
(Second Recovery Period)
~Journey ~
“I did not choose this life!”
In the beginning, I knew fear. The kind of fear that makes you hide in a closet, unable to move, stiff and sweating; your heart beating so loudly that you think they might hear the sound. From my hotel window, my eyes wide, my chest heaving to cry for rescue, I saw horrors that I had never before even imagined. No rescue came. It never would come. But I survived. I survived and I grew strong. I overcame my fear and learned their tricks, their lairs, and their instincts...even though, in reality, they had no detectable intellect whatsoever.
Then, a little at a time, as I gained experience, speed and strength...I became the rescue.
The years that followed were often dark and grim much of the time; so much sadness. Tragedy was everywhere. I struggled to keep a positive spirit, to see color and daylight in a nightmare world – to maintain as much cheer and wit as possible, given the circumstances. My sleep was often filled with the agonizing screams of the defeated in a hellish drama, and I frequently awoke in a sweat soaked shirt, exhausted from my dreams.
It was years ago, but in the crisp details of all five senses I remember those steaming guns in my aching hands, nearly glowing with the heat of rapid fire; miserable, grotesque faces flashing in the muzzle blast of each deadly projectile...even now, it is all so terribly clear to me, a horror movie that I can never escape. Sharp, high definition theater that morbidly replays itself in my dreams, dragging me back into the fight.
There was darkness...hot, smokey darkness all around; horrifyingly fast-moving, charging monsters back-lit by fires burni
ng in so many places, rising from nowhere, vomiting black bile, their deadly focus and bloodshot eyes glared upon me, unrelenting, starving, merciless. Their stench will never leave me and I hear still their awful, cannibal screeching.
My ears were ringing and my hearing was muffled by the pounding shock of our guns, yet I can still hear Brick roaring “empty!!” as I turned to stop the onslaught of raging beasts while my valiant Lakota brother reloaded. Each of my bullets found its ugly target, some of them crashing past me in death as momentum carried their lifeless bodies forward.
I learned well the lessons of my father and my beloved Kip – speed, agility, accuracy, confidence, determination.
We kept moving deeper into the building; the soft stroke of Ben’s thick fur and muscular back brushing against me as the powerful animal stood protective guard by my side; nothing would penetrate his vigilant defense. Moving, firing, reloading...searching for pitiful survivors; an awful death stalked us at every corner.
Fort Hope...It was terrifying, horrible, tragic and...to be completely truthful...glorious!
- Nicki Redstone
Runners
“Source: Letters from Nicki Redstone”
(Second Recovery Period)
Ah, my sweet niece, you ask about my knowledge of runners...
In truth, I rarely feel sympathy for any one of them, and make no apology for my lack of tender feelings for the creature. The person that a runner was before transformation is long dead. To introduce sympathy, or any emotion, into the runner equation means to hesitate, and to hesitate is to die. A runner will never hesitate – nor do I.
When this all started, the airborne epidemic spread with shocking speed and virulence – it was unstoppable – and millions died within hours of infection. That indiscriminate assault rapidly decimated populations around the world, eliminating minds and bodies that were critical to all phases of civilized infrastructure.
The ability and knowledge to run power plants, cell phone systems, fuel refineries, water treatment facilities, chemical production – everything – was all but entirely lost. Without power, all other functions became beautiful, lost luxuries. Communications, transportation, hospitals, hot showers, movies, the internet – every aspect of life was impacted. I dearly miss it all.
As with any virus, there were those whose immune systems resisted the disease to varying degrees, their suffering most often still resulting in eventual death. There were also a very small number of people who were entirely immune, but the virus had hit so fast and so hard that it had destroyed every nations’ ability to develop vaccines from those few immune survivors.
Then that same deadly virus morphed into something worse. The original strain could still kill outright, but some of those who survived the initial infection and lingered in fever rapidly became violent. The fevered violence quickly transformed into a raging, insanely carnivorous instinct that could only be controlled by death.
No one knows how or where the madness began, but it would be easy to imagine a family, at home caring for a stricken loved one, to be overwhelmed by the transformation, which could easily have turned into a bloody, screaming catastrophe in seconds. I know, I’ve watched it happen too many times.
We call them “runners”. A hard, penetrating bite from one pushes the virus deep into muscle tissue, where immediate incubation occurs. There is no immunity to the infection transferred in this manner, whereas surface contact via cuts and fluids seems to be resisted by a healthy body’s immune system.
Usually within minutes, but sometimes in mere seconds, the newly infected will feel warm, and complain of soreness at the infection site, followed by muscle aches and an intense thirst. Sleep follows quickly. The area around the eyes darkens, the skin turns sallow, then gray with pronounced veins, offering a hideous effect. The heart stops. Brain activity ceases. Within seconds of “death”, the limbs will move spasmodically and the eyes then open. Ghastly, cloudy, bloodshot eyes. The mouth opens to vent disgusting odors and horrifying sounds, and then what was once a living, breathing person becomes a creature with only one instinct: To devour living flesh, especially human flesh - and they are fast...very, very fast.
Within days, the raging beast becomes almost unrecognizable as a person, often losing its hair as its body becomes lean with a corrupted metabolism on permanent hyper-drive, black bile vomiting from its mouth and draining from its nose when a meal is in sight. Often, there are gruesome wounds on the body, inflicted at the time of death, or in some later conflict. Missing limbs are not uncommon. The teeth become yellow and black, breaking off in shards as the creature feeds senselessly on bone, meat and blood alike, completing a most horrifying, hellish image. It fears nothing, neither pain nor death, and will stop at nothing to satisfy its dreadful need – crushing its teeth into living, breathing beings. Nothing will kill a runner, save a bullet or spike in the brain – or outright decapitation.
A runner can be incapacitated, crippled, and paralyzed, just like any human. Although its energy seems limitless, it will wear down eventually, and can be starved into weakness and even death - but a runner will never cease its charging, grasping, clawing hunger until it is dead...permanently dead.
Avoid runners whenever possible!
My love always -
Aunt Nicki
THE
KILLER ANGEL
Book Three
“Journey”
by Myles Stafford
Chapter One
“East”
Badly garbled message received in Hedley:
“Marshall Kellogg to Scottie Redstone...
...breached...one truck running...your way...
one hour...”
- End of transmission. -
FINALLY... finally, after many months of hard travel, I had reached my Florida home...or what once had been home, anyway.
From a distance, even with a gloomy gray sky hindering crisp vision, I could see that our once beautiful, two-story house, though entirely vacant, still appeared surprisingly normal; almost cheerful. But glad times were an illusion from the past there, nothing more.
The structure was protected by an unfamiliar, substantial wire barrier, with clear warnings to keep out. The damp smell of impending rain was thick in the air and the low rumble of rolling thunder presaged unkind weather. A lonely sensation gnawed at me; I could feel Brick’s absence.
As we drew closer, Ben’s head rose up in a familiar alert state, looking at something north of our travel, ears aimed in the same direction, his entire body frozen. A few hundred yards away was a breach in the subdivision wall. Ben snorted as something seemed to flicker there... but then... nothing.
Something just out of hearing... croaking?
A careful view through my rifle scope did not reveal anything useful. Through the soft texture of my gloves I gently stroked the weapon’s safety switch.
Ben glanced my way. “Hmmm...I don’t see anything buddy, but let’s stay sharp.” I was feeling a little edgy. A premonition?
I took a deep breath as we walked on, ever mindful of our exposure. Although I searched, I could not identify any position to which we could retreat and secure ourselves. Ben’s canine senses seemed unusually tight, so I double-checked my weapons and gear. We would not linger there.
Overall, the neighborhood was no more decayed than many I had seen in my travels, probably even less so. Overgrown yards, a few broken windows, feral cats, and so on. Still, there were birds singing in the trees, squirrels playing in the street, and other familiar glimpses from my childhood memories.
There’s the Lambert’s home; the Chapman’s; I could still see Juan Coronado and his wife, Iris, waving from their lawn chairs in our cul-de-sac...I would press a button and our garage door would welcome me home to warmth, security and happy times.
I stepped up to the barrier fronting my house to look within, difficult though it was, painful even. Ben snooped through rubble; this place held no special interest for him.
A solid, gl
istening granite slab had been erected in the front yard, inside the fence. There was an inscription. I read slowly, having difficulty accepting the reality of the words...
Here lies our beloved father, Carson Redstone, and by his side our dear heart mother, Marie-Soleil Redstone, devoted strength and gentleness in one glorious person.
Defending the ones he loved, our father died too young.
Our mother soon followed, her heart broken, never to heal.
We love you forever – Nicki, Scottie, Tara
I was in shock. Dear god no! How can this be? How can he be gone? He was all my heroes bound into one man. He taught us everything...speed, calm courage, constant training...he knew what to do.... He was never given a chance to show us ...dying how? Defending from what? My mother, immune to the infection, losing her life to a broken heart?
OH MY GOD, I CANNOT BEAR IT!!
I could take no more, and collapsed to my knees, crouched over with my head on the ground, defenseless, racked with sobs. Despair overwhelmed me. It was too much to withstand.
A light rain began to drizzle, mixing with my tears, popping on my leather jacket, chilling my exposed skin. I had failed so many, many times, and good people had died by my failures. And now, my greatest failure...I was not there for my father and mother. I knew I could have saved them...I would have...nothing could have stopped me! But I was absent when it counted most.
There was noise in the distance behind me as someone - or something - swiftly approached.
Ben...I can still see his handsome, intelligent face so clearly as he became increasingly agitated, growling and whimpering while he circled and prodded my prostrate form, pleading for me to rise once again.
Distant screeching sounds; hard breathing; rushing movement. I did not care. Let them take me! I could do no more. I was forever done. No more!
Then it happened!
Ben leaped over me with his own fierce canine war cry, delaying the inevitable only momentarily. I could see a mob of hyper-fast monsters crash into him, smashing him twenty feet past me into the gate of my home, instantly burying him beneath a maniacal mass of carnivorous killers. He fought to climb his way out of the grasping, snarling demons, but his struggle was hopeless.
THE KILLER ANGEL : Book Three Journey (THE KILLER ANGEL TRILOGY 3) Page 1