Brick and I had acquired special operations silencers for our rifles, which added eighteen ounces to our gear, but the burden seemed worthwhile since they performed with great effectiveness. I also carried one small can of pepper spray... As I’ve said before, not every threat required extermination. At one point early on, I carried a machete, but such a weapon proved cumbersome and unwieldy for me, so I discarded the thing.
Each night, without fail, I practiced locating and using every item on my person multiple times, including several sequences with my eyes closed. I wore a leather jacked that would stop a runner’s bite, and armored mountain bike gloves on my hands. Each item, and each weapon, had served its purpose by saving my life and the lives of others. My entire kit received the careful attention that was necessary to ensure continued survival and success in this land of the damned.
Before the world ended, I was not a daredevil, nor unusually fearless – certainly far from the face-cruncher that the Camp Puller radio boys boast that I am now - but I was always exceptionally fast, a gift of good genes, and that talent had improved with extensive practice. That practice gave me confidence and success. Lack of success meant death, since runners do not give second chances.
As things began to quiet down for the evening, one of the kids turned on a little radio to catch any available updates on the airwaves. The usual static was being interrupted increasingly by smart survivors who could follow radio system assembly instructions that were periodically transmitted by Camp Puller in California, and by Wade and Jeff in Oregon. The signals seemed to originate from all over the continent, and displayed varying degrees of amateur sophistication. Many broadcasts contained useful information, or requests for advice, and there were sometimes emotional appeals for the whereabouts of lost friends and relatives. There were often rebroadcasts of news from Camp Puller and Hedley, which were - so far - the only detectable locations of the resurgence of genuine civilization.
One disturbing and weak transmission from Benton, Tennessee, was location specific and delivered in a youth’s voice, “Nicki Redstone. Please help us. We have no one left and are trapped.”
There was silence as the message repeated itself a few times, then ended abruptly, soft crackling noises of the ionosphere replacing human voices. It was an empty, lonely sound.
Finally, Brick spoke up, “That’s the third request for Nicki Redstone this week. Two from out east and one from Quebec, Canada...in French.”
The pleading rescue calls to me were becoming frequent and sometimes alarming, and each placed a depressing burden on my conscience. I could not be everywhere. I know that my dear Brick often worried for the effect on my morale.
“When we return to Hedley,” I said as I considered the last touching request, “We will have to talk with Kip about organizing teams who can seek out and assist others wherever they are. Maybe coordinate with Captain Carter at Camp Puller. We must do what we can for all survivors. We will find a way to help them.” It was this admonition to myself, often repeated, that kept sorrow and depression at bay.
The next morning, following our daybreak hygiene and a light breakfast, we said farewell to our new friends, with the request to advise our loved ones in Hedley of our condition and progress. We would be passing through Grayrock, but said nothing of it; however, I knew that grandfather Dan perceived that my intention was to right a grievous wrong, and prevent a recurrence, if it were possible to do so.
One of the teens, a developing artist, had sketched an attractive charcoal picture of Brick, Ben and me, but on my image she had faintly drawn large, white wings rising up from my shoulders.
“Why the wings?” I couldn’t help but inquire.
The girl looked at me and then blushed. Her mother spoke up with a smile, “There’s a rumor going about that you’re not really human; that you cannot die and that you will never fail. Some folks say you’re a living angel...a guardian angel; the last one. Stories told to kids to give them hope, I think; stuff like that.”
Looking at Brick, I could see that he didn’t know what to make of the unexpected sobriquet. Nor did I.
As I pondered the implications of the title, the young artist asked us to sign the sketch, which I did, along with a short note to the family announcing that I would “See you in Hedley! - Nicki Redstone.” It was a fun moment, since I had not been asked for an autograph in almost two years. It was entirely new to Brick, and he blushed at the request and happily complied.
My last word to the mother and grandfather was a strong recommendation to train the teens to fight. The girls could shoot somewhat, but were not armed and they had no real fighting skills. Without being patronizing, and remembering the many valuable lessons taught by my own father, I left them with an admonishment, “This is a new world; you have to forget the old ways. Your children must learn every weapon and practice all aspects of survival. Please give them that gift.”
And we were off...
Thirty minutes into our journey, our fondness and concern for this small family caused Brick to look back from a low plateau for one last view of them, over two miles away, heading due west on a dry, grassy plain. In so doing, it became evident that both north and south of us, and moving rapidly in the direction of the Clayton family, were two streams of runners.
It was not particularly unusual to see runners trailing something or someone that had alerted their senses, and I had more than once witnessed large packs pursuing their quarry over long distances (knowledge that caused us to prudently and frequently look backwards as we traveled), but I had never before seen the simultaneous chase by independent packs. The creatures tend to accumulate into herds, some very large, but the reason for this behavior was a mystery.
Clearly, due to the nature of the intervening terrain, we could not make it to the Clayton’s position ahead of the hungry creatures, even on bikes. Discussion was unnecessary as Brick and I both knew what had to be done. We established and confirmed rendezvous points and our plans of attack. Then we were off, Brick to the northwest, and Ben and I on a beeline southwest, both on a tangent that would intersect and stop the runners.
As I drew closer, it became evident that the Claytons were not what had the mob inflamed with hunger, but rather, the instigation was someone on a motorbike of some kind, maybe electric or propane powered. The cyclist was intentionally guiding the runners to wreak mayhem on the little family. The actions of the rider made this conclusion obvious, since he would slow down and allow them to approach, enraging their hunger if they slowed or straggled behind. No doubt Brick would encounter the same thing.
The little Clayton caravan was easily visible now, and coming into “imprint” range of the runners, a distance wherein it would be difficult for me to cause successful distraction. The obvious choice was to take out the biker. I could not hesitate and weigh options. To hesitate meant death, and I would not allow any harm to my new friends if I could stop it.
I dropped my bike and continued rapidly on foot. My rifle was ready. I stopped, kneeled down and fired two shots at the biker at medium range. As the pneumatic sound of the silenced bullets left my rifle barrel, he fell tumbling from the bike and was quickly overtaken by the ghoulish posse. I could hear the distant “pop pop pop” of gunfire to the north – Brick was using a pistol and must be in close contact.
I stood and continued sending quiet death from my M4 barrel, then shouldered the rifle and switched to pistol fire as I walked towards the snarling, screeching mass. Most of them turned their attention upon me and charged in my direction, but some continued their mad rush towards the Claytons, kicking up a large dust cloud in the process.
I was able to put down the remainder of those who had charged me without reloading, but I did not stop to confirm termination, as I feared for the girls and their grandfather. I pulled out new magazines, popped each on my arm, slammed them home, and ran hard towards my friends, whence a few gunshots could be heard, but I could see nothing as my vision was completely obscured by the tan colored air
borne earth.
“BEN GO!” I yelled. With immediate understanding, Ben charged off at hyper-wolf speed, disappearing in the dust cloud. This was an especially dangerous situation for us, since it would be easy to mistake me for a runner, and Ben too could get hit in the mess. Unfortunately, my options were limited, so I waded into the mayhem with two pistols drawn, ready for runners at close range. Within seconds I was charged by three of them, each of whom I quickly put down with bullets in the skulls, one apiece. Then more. I could hear Ben snarling and fighting, but I could not see him. I yelled out, “Ben! Dan! Molly! Girls! It’s Nicki here!!”
It had grown quiet and Ben came over to me as the dust began to settle, panting heavily and in good spirits, black runner vomit sticking to his fur. There were runner bodies strewn about, a few of them with their throats torn out or necks broken, the result of Ben’s crushing jaws.
A few disabled runners continued to move, grasping at me with extended arms and bulging eyes...those were silenced...without anger, yet without hesitation. I had dealt with the inhumanity of being the executioner long ago, many, many times over. I learned to expel emotion from the process, and accepted the necessity of permanently terminating the half-dead, a grim but important “business”. The approach kept me mentally stable and emotionally strong.
Although my hearing was dull and muffled from the pistol fire, the further lack of any sound whatsoever was unnerving.
It was so quiet!
A light breeze slowly cleared the dust as I looked about. I lowered my guns.
I could see the Claytons’ small wagon, with the donkey still attached and unmolested, but there was no sign of the Claytons themselves. As I moved about the field, I noticed a large, thick tarp on the ground, and the unmistakeable smell of gasoline in the air. Could it be? I thought. “Mr. Clayton?” I spoke out.
“Nicki?” Came the reply. Sure enough, the Claytons’ defense had been to hide under the tarp in a small depression and scatter gas around themselves to mask their scent. There they were, dusty and unharmed, all four of them, along with the two dogs. I was relieved and thrilled to find them in fairly good shape, if not terribly frightened.
I doubted that the tarp would have supplied more than a few moments of security, knowing the nature of runners, especially the sniffers, but it was possible, I surmised, that the gas odor may have thrown them off of the hunt. Nevertheless, those nearly deadly circumstances provided stiff reinforcement of their need to strengthen their fighting skills.
I searched the distance for Brick, and was soon relieved to see his long stride covering ground in the distance. I could see that he was not alone, as it appeared a prisoner was in tow. Ben trotted out in greeting, tail wagging in eager happiness. Clearly, he had been energized by the recent action.
As they drew close, the prisoner’s eyes revealed consternation at the carnage. His hands were thoroughly zip tied behind him. With no ability to defend himself, he stayed silently close to Brick, so there was no need for any leash.
“Comment ça va?” Brick said jovially. “I see you had fun here, Nicki, much more than I had. Is everyone okay?”
“Ça va bien,” I replied, “Oui. Beaucoup de plaisir.” My French always made Brick grin. I had to jab him, “Brick...Brick... Slow down a moment; take a whiff. Do you smell something? Sniff that? Ninety-one octane petroleum, maybe? Yes...I’m sure of it...”
A frowning sniff, then, “Please don’t say it, Nicki.”
I couldn’t resist, “That’s what I thought. Kind of makes you feel at home now? My great Sioux friend, ‘Smells-Like-Gas’.” It brought back a fond memory of our first meeting, which seemed so very long ago. Before he became the Great Brick Charbonneau, Brick had tried using the gasoline odor as a runner deterrent. It probably worked a little, but it was more useful as a tool for teasing.
“The Lakota will never believe that you are my prisoner. Never. I’m probably going to do a sun dance later to fix the insult, bones in my pecs and everything. I am really not joking here, Nicki Redstone.” Brick rubbed his chest in painful anticipation, a sour expression on his noble face. He could have been a standup comic. I’m sure that he made wonderful use of his talent as a prep-school teacher.
By this time the Clayton’s were once again moving about, reassembling their little convoy, cheeks wet with natural tears following the experience, and the air filled with flowing words of appreciation for their deliverance. They had obviously been through many trials over the last two years, but somehow they had avoided any similar near death experience like the one that they had just survived.
With my hands resting lightly on two of my vest pistols, I studied Brick’s prisoner, up and down; I could sense Brick watching me as I did so. The creep was easy to read, and easier to dislike. The man looked like a drug gang member, an obvious message of intimidation he wished to deliver. I did not fear his kind, and I was not impressed - muscular definition; mid-twenties; two expensive watches, big diamond studded rings and necklaces; shirtless; a nice leather vest. Expensive and nearly useless shoes. As if any of that mattered. I was a little surprised to see him squirm slightly under my gaze; I rather expected venom and spit. I had no sympathy whatsoever for this creature.
“He was riding some kind of quiet motorbike.” Brick noted.
“Yeah, I saw the same thing. The other driver is dead.” The prisoner looked down upon me with unrestrained malevolence, and then something else - arrogance. The Clayton girls cast angry eyes upon the man.
“He’s one of them, isn’t he,” I said softly.
“He tried to force us,” Molly’s gentle voice breathed angrily.
“Hmmm...well, Brick and I are going to take care of that little rat’s nest, I promise you.”
Once again, we bade farewell to the Clayton clan, and they moved on quickly to their next planned stop. As they departed, I could hear them discussing weapons, training and ammunition, and where more of each could be acquired.
Our unhappy guest was not inclined to speak much, and we were not keen on his company, so Brick, Ben and I took off after reacquiring our bikes. I cannot deny that it was an interesting diversion noting the effort the man made to keep up with us after initially defying our instructions.
Our foot bound prisoner slowed us to moderately paced travel. The next day, we paused for map and terrain study, and a bite to eat. “We’ll make Grayrock in a couple of hours.” Brick noted. With those words our sleazy prisoner took off running in the town’s direction, puffing and sweating, with his hands still locked behind him.
Brick, Ben and I watched in amusement as the escapee became small in the distance. The man was of no special value to us, and we were not particularly concerned about any alarm that he would raise with his comrades. They were surely already on the lookout, and it might even help to have them become apprehensive about our arrival, given the complete failure of their assault on the Claytons.
“Maybe he will make it,” Brick mused. I knew what he meant. Unarmed and tied as he was, the man would make an easy target for any predator, especially a runner. Not our concern now.
Grayrock was an uninteresting, small town. The aforementioned “mall” was nothing more than a tiny conglomeration of craft stores, antique shops and art galleries surrounding a little food court. No doubt cute in another time. The main street had only one traffic light, darkened long ago.
Of course we did not make our approach obvious, instead finding our way quietly to the rooftop of a building with the only commanding view of the area. It seemed reasonable to suppose that any opposition would surely be observing us from that vantage point, but we were disappointed and puzzled to find our pathway completely unchallenged.
I sent Ben to make a quick survey of the small, flat area. Clearly, it had been used recently for observation, since there were lawn chairs, coolers, and vegetable plants growing there. It was getting late, so we co-opted the position, barred all access, checked for booby-traps, and laid out our gear for the coming night, as we munche
d on some sweet carrots growing in a trough.
“It’s puzzling,” Brick commented, “but I really feel as though these guys have taken off. But why? To fight another day?”
“Maybe,” I replied. “They have almost everything they want, and what they still need they can take from the weak. Maybe they choose not to risk confrontation with someone who can actually fight back. That might have been the message our little escapee delivered. He must have developed some concept of our capabilities from his experience with us. The Claytons had said the gang wasn’t big, and was comprised of all ages. They may not have had the heart for a real contest. It’s too bad, if so. They’re a murderous bunch, and I hate to see them run free to inflict suffering on others.”
The next morning was cool and calm. Looking about from the rooftop upon which we were perched, the little town of Grayrock indeed appeared to be completely abandoned. Typical of all post-apocalypse communities, there were signs of decay everywhere. Tall, dry grass and large weeds sprouted from streets, sidewalks and rooftops. Open doors and broken windows revealed foliage growing unrestrained into shops and homes. Small trees were pushing up in the oddest places.
We examined the conglomeration of boutique shops and snack bars, eventually locating the remains of Andy and the Clayton’s dog, Blue. Both had been left where they had fallen and, although decayed, were undisturbed. We did what we could for the their bodies, paid our respects, and moved out of doors for fresh air.
The slow, but obvious crumbling of civilization was especially depressing in that little town, so we moved on. There was nothing for us there, not even a loose runner to manage, since the former occupants had evidently cleared the place of everything and everyone.
THE KILLER ANGEL : Book Three Journey (THE KILLER ANGEL TRILOGY 3) Page 3