THE KILLER ANGEL: Book One "Hard Player" (THE KILLER ANGEL TRILOGY 1) (2 page)

Those who knew me in the pre-apocalypse would probably say that I was always lean, sweet and tough. My Kip teased that my voice had a smooth, rough edge, which was what first grabbed his romantic attention. Then it was, “You’re five foot three, with light brown
hair, steel cut muscles and movie star goddess looks...
perfect
!”
Steel cut muscles?
That’s all it took and we were a couple, in spite of the exaggeration. I had no tattoos or piercings, and generally despised vulgarity, which may be surprising to you, given the environment in which I worked before the end arrived.

What a combination. I was 27 years old and trained to compete and win in a man’s world by my dad, and to fight with gusto by my ex-paratrooper fiance, Kip Kellogg. Kip enjoyed telling his friends that I had magician quick hands, and would then coax a small display from me, a little feat that always impressed his boxing friends. Usually, I did not mind obliging - it was all in good fun. My French was fair and improving - when I could practice - and I was proud to have inherited good manners and a natural noble bearing, gifts from my
Québécoise
mother.

I did not know where they all were, but if they were alive, I would find them...and my beloved twin sister, Scottie, probably a very long three-thousand miles away...along with my older sister, with whom I always had a difficult relationship. I would find them all. It will just take time...and surviving. Some worries and lots of sweat...
but I would find them!

Runners
. Those horrifying creatures who were once your everyday neighbors. Nothing will stop them except for major trauma to the brain. Take out their legs and they still keep coming on their hands, snarling and grasping. They will eat anything that moves, but they only infect people, and they especially crave living
human flesh. Their bodies seem to go far on nothing, but they do eventually die without sustenance. When they do eat, they will gorge themselves until they cannot move, bellies bloated, sitting in dark spaces making inhuman, disgusting croaking sounds. I sometimes wondered if the creatures felt pain, or misery of any kind, although they seemed completely devoid of any detectable sensibilities whatsoever, even those basic instincts evident in most lifeforms, such as the will to survive or the avoidance of pain.

Of those few people who lived through the initial epidemic, even fewer still could handle the raging insanity of the running dead, whose brains were mostly melted to a black goo by the disease. The screaming, bloody shock attack of those we once knew to be friends and family was too much to withstand mentally
and
physically for many. That and the black and bloody sputum oozing from their mouths and noses - plus that unholy stink - and, well, the ick factor alone was overwhelming.

But I would tell myself that I handled my existence like a Spartan, learning to fight better and smarter as I made it through countless successive scrapes and too many near misses. Ben and I traveled almost always alone and with cautious, ever alert senses. Clean, dark leather protected my skin and adventure gloves saved my hands from the occasional close contact with runners’ jaws. My shoes enabled swift travel; I could easily afford the best, as there was never a charge and inventory was plentiful.

In addition to my rifle, each of my limbs had a weapon that could be independently fired or stabbed, or both. I trained myself to easily use my armaments without thinking about them; instinctively, through pure rote and constant rehearsal.

Ammunition and pistols were essential to my kit so, in addition to my rifle, I carried four light guns in my custom-made vest and one on my backside. Acquiring weapons was easy, since every dead redneck, policeman, ex-marine and sporting goods store offered a nice selection. The same rule applied to ammunition - there were, quite simply, not enough living users to take advantage and deplete the supply, and there probably never would be. I definitely appreciated the selection... and enjoyed playing with the toys, although far more than entertainment, it was a life-saving pastime.

For its utility, I kept my brown hair in a long braid, woven around a small, slender dagger. An excess of guns? Certainly. Explosives? Not yet, but a couple of hand grenades would be a nice addition.
Someday maybe
.

Knives on my arms and legs could be kicked or pushed out with ease, something that regular practice made comfortably automatic. A high-end, light weight night vision monocular was tucked in my pack. I even kept a small can of pepper spray handy. Not everything and not everyone needed to die.

There was always a day’s supply of water in my hydration pack, and water purification, too, although I would frequently grab bottled refreshment and snacks
as I moved. Briefly, I carried a quick release machete strapped to my daypack, but found it to be burdensome and nearly useless in close quarters. Runners were just too fast.

Food, also, was easy to find and plentiful, but I still always carried a few days of freeze dried packages, just in case. Fresh fruit and vegetables abounded in overgrown gardens and orchards.

I was always on the lookout for useful items to add to my kit, and would quickly discard a tool or weapon for something better, or occasionally augment my gear if I found a worthy piece to add - weight was an ever present and critical factor in my evaluation.

An LED headlamp and extra batteries was stowed in my small pack. A solar charged watch on one wrist and a woven survival rope bracelet on the other. One hundred feet of braided 200 lb fishing line packaged into an interior jacket pocket. Re-worked climber’s harness and saddlebags for Ben, with a solid carabiner clipped on top.

With high quality, featherweight sleeping gear, plus medical items purloined from a walk-in clinic, I could travel light and very fast. I always took special care of my teeth. There were no dentists to keep them perfect. A small radio always turned softly on, sometimes with an earpiece.
You never know
...

The only protection that some said I lacked was headgear, but I was on the lookout for something workable. I had tried different helmets and face guards, but the limitations they placed on my vision - especially
my peripheral sight, and on my hearing, mobility and overall comfort during lengthy exertion, made such protection more of a liability than an advantage. Nevertheless, I was aware of the exposure, and often hoped to find something effective.

I tried staying put for awhile in a giant, concrete-walled, members-only store near my apartment in Burbank, waiting for word from Kip, having made it home after months of travel from Phoenix, where I had been on a shoot and at a convention. Kip and I, always preparing and planning, agreed to meet at Gram’s and Grump’s house in Oregon should we be separated by any catastrophe, such as an earthquake.
But the apocalypse? Who knew?
When the end came, it happened fast. I was in Phoenix and Kip was in Chicago. The Oregon Willamette Valley was a logical emergency destination for both of us.

There was nearly an unlimited supply of everything in that big store, and it was easily defended and very secure, but it was terribly boring, just waiting for something to happen... or to die. The monotony of each day slowly sliding by was driving me insane. The extreme boredom intensified the urge to find my family, to gather them together and to begin life anew. I did not allow myself to face the very real possibility that some, perhaps all of them may not have survived. No, that was not the Redstone fate. So, decision made, I amended the notes that I had already left for Kip at our apartment, then moved on, taking only Ben, my powerful protector and most devoted friend, with me on
this long, lonely, dangerous journey north.

I had tried motorized travel, when such was still available, but jammed roads just made it impractical, noisy and obvious. A pretty girl was still under threat from more than the running dead.

A mountain bike was great sometimes, but not in tight areas. A runner could come out of nowhere and then a rider is stuck dumping the bike and reaching for a weapon, and then scrambling in a hunt for refuge, especially if the assault was a horde.

Hiking was best, stealthy and nimble.
Although that Brink’s truck did look inviting
...but unspoiled gas and engines that would start were becoming increasingly difficult to find.

Ah well...press on
.

I set my sights on Oregon, where my grandparents lived. They were smart and tough. They would be okay. Everyone would rendezvous there, and then sunny days from then on. I was filled with youthful optimism, I guess...and thoughts of family good times. I knew, with certainty, that Kip would be there, too, but he would have to travel many difficult miles from Chicago. He was a rugged guy; he would make it.

No worries. Stay positive. Stay focused. Keep heading north
.

~

Chapter Two

“On the Road”

~

I
T WAS so quiet that first day out of town, and the breeze felt good. Map and compass study was a daily regimen for me, and I became good at it. I wanted to make twenty miles before my first target stop. I picked up supplies along the way and kept moving, mostly in silence.

It was no surprise to see human remains almost everywhere; mostly bones, though, usually wearing clothes. Many were torn apart, either by the running dead or by scavenging animals. Cars were left in all conditions. It was quite a nightmare landscape, although on a sunny day, with a bright blue sky and birds singing cheerfully, my mind could be tricked into believing it was indeed only a bad dream - but only briefly. It was plainly evident that the world did not need mankind to carry on. The apocalypse was purely a human experience, affecting nature in mostly positive ways.

At least the stench had generally cleared by the
time I commenced my journey out of town. So had the flies. It would have been easy to be consumed by sadness and tears, but that would only weaken the spirit.
Still, sometimes
...

Twenty miles made for a very good day, with plenty of time to scout out a place to rest and collect a few provisions. I acquired drinks and canned food from a small grocery store. No runners in evidence; their numbers seemed to be in decline, at least in that area.
Probably not enough humans on the menu
, I thought with a smile. No living people visible, either, which was preferable to me.

Now, how about someplace to relax for the night and freshen up
...

I very rarely stayed in the comparative comfort and shelter of an abandoned car. Soft and dry, sure, but I felt them to be overly exposed, minimally defensible and with a zero backup escape.

Multiple cars in a wide open plain with no other option would work better than nothing, but a lone car anywhere was especially dangerous as it was a natural beacon for other travelers, a few of whom were dangerous.

RV’s used to be great for a shower, when the engines still worked. Most of the time I had to make do by bathing from a bucket or in a stream. As far as I was concerned, cleanliness was an essential ingredient to good mental health and a positive outlook. There were few things quite as uplifting as combing out clean hair and donning fresh clothes.

Today, a small town sheriff’s office looked secure, so I vaulted up its front stair access and began my carefully developed examination. Bars on the windows and a sturdy back door. Good. I quickly cleared the two room building, and secured the access points. An hour remained until sundown.
Perfect!

I lugged a five gallon jug of water from the floor of the sheriff’s storage up onto a shelf, poked three holes in the plastic container, and then enjoyed a decent, trickling shower. Cold, of course, but it was thoroughly refreshing after a long day on my feet.

I had splashed water everywhere, but who would care if the floor was soaked? This place might never again see another human guest. Even so, I never intentionally vandalized relics of the past or trashed an abandoned residence. It’s not in my nature.

Early on, I had encountered a few survivors who couldn’t wait to destroy priceless works of art or burn down a mansion... simply “because they could”. It was the wanton destruction of civilization and history, and I would have no part of it. Only one of the many reasons that caused me to journey alone.

Following a light meal, I was quite satisfied to bed down in the safety of a holding cell with Ben’s furry warmth taking the edge off of the night’s chill.

Not too shabby!

~

Night sweats and stressful dreams. Shakes, sometimes. Many fearful images; dark moments relived. Terrible, unforgettable losses. Friends and acquaintances who died in terror. I could save them all now, of this I have no doubt whatsoever. Indeed, I have faced and conquered far worse since those early days. But I was not yet ready; not who I came to be. I was not equipped mentally or physically. I wasn’t experienced. I was not yet calm in the fight. I was like everyone else - stricken with panic and nearly petrified. When danger exploded around me I tried to take effective action, but my thinking was scrambled with the chaos that enveloped me. In my dreams... running, running; often chased.
PTSD probably
. So much to absorb for a young lady from the genteel suburbs.
No counselor here, though. Nope
.

In the near total darkness of that prison cell my eyes snapped open. I always slept lightly, unlike my pre-epidemic years; but as time passed, I quickly trained myself to be alert to every subtle change in noise. And something was not right. Ben sensed it, too, of course. I could feel his fur ridge up stiffly on that powerful back. Then he produced a very low growl, a warning that I never dismissed.

I easily slipped into leathers, shoes and weapons. My gear was always ready for fast movement, and I could don it all equally well with or without light.

Peering outside, I saw numerous hunched over figures moving under a full moon...
runners?
They actually seemed to be searching for something... or
someone. Searching... That was a new trait.