THE KILLER ANGEL: Book One "Hard Player" (THE KILLER ANGEL TRILOGY 1) (6 page)

Demons and heroes; what a world
.

The O’Conklins pointed in the direction of a nearby northwest bound river and suggested using it for passage.
Good idea
, I thought, and with a wave I was off. Two miles and less than thirty minutes later, I was standing on the river bank, breathing easily as I relaxed and took in the view.

I continued hiking along the waterfront and soon found a serviceable, very clean canoe that only required a slight tilt to empty its belly of accumulated rainwater and some small trash.

I was not the least hesitant, as I was a competent paddler
..thanks again papa
. With plenty of daylight left, Ben and I climbed in to the aluminum shell. I secured my pack and rifle to the crossbeams, checked my other gear and compass, then moved out.
It was great way to travel!

There were no problems passing under the old steel Marysville bridge, but I had to be constantly mindful of debris in the river, even though the current was slow. It
would not take much to capsize this little craft.

Sometimes I had the acute feeling that eyes were following us, but when I looked about and then to Ben for any alert, he was completely calm. Totally knocked out much of the time; legs jerking in his own dreamworld.
Maybe he had PTSD, too, poor guy
.

It might have been only my imagination, but I always trusted my instincts and remained keenly vigilant.

As night eventually fell that first day on the river, I decided to sleep in the canoe, tying up to a log that jutted up out of the water.
Very nice
...

After we shared a light snack and some purified river water, I rolled out a thin foam mat and fluffed up my compact sleeping bag; reclining only partially into it provided a modicum of comfort, yet still permitted rapid, unfettered movement in an emergency.

Emergency
...that was funny. I spoke to Ben, “In the
likely
event of a a water emergency, your seat cushion may be used for flotation, but swimming is preferred, the dog-paddle, if you prefer. Watch for piranha, you look delicious.” I smiled and lay back into my shallow cocoon.

No bad dreams tonight...please
... but that pleading rarely availed any peace.

~

Chapter Five

“Brick”

~

C
LICKING AND chirping birds provided an early wake up service, and before the sun broke the skyline, I untied my canoe and paddled silently through the misty air, leaving rings in the water’s nearly glassy surface.
Ah, beautiful
. It reminded me of wonderful family camping holidays in Florida, and of canoeing on crystal clear, slow moving rivers with my sisters. We would argue constantly over the smallest things in those innocent days. Such fun.
I would give anything to return there now
...

By noon the river flow had picked up considerably, but not enough to cause alarm. I was shooting for a town on the map called Dufton to re-provision my kit. As I approached the first indications of the little city, the hull of my canoe pushed into something under the surface, twisting the nose hard and tilting the side with a jarring noise. Water rushed in and in seconds the little metal craft had capsized, dumping Ben and me into the icy flow.

I was no slouch in water, but it was a powerful current, with an energy sapping chill. I had to make it to shore - fast.

“Ben! Ben!” I shouted. The effort was taking too long; I should have been clear of the water, but a vertical concrete wall blocked my escape and I was dragged along the edge. My muscles stiffened in the cold, my fingers became nearly useless as they grasped in futility for any grip on that hard, flat, unforgiving surface. I passed out.

~

Nighttime... Darkness...
Where was I?The river!

Someone’s said softly:
“Hello! Comment ça va? “

French? Mom?? No! A man’s voice!

I rolled over, kicked back and whipped a pistol from my vest, trembling just a little.
“Ça va bien.”
I coolly replied in my most precise Parisian French.

“Hey, hey, it’s okay!” The voice said, “You’ve been out for hours. I found you half in the water, napping.”

I slowly relaxed and whispered, “I wasn’t napping.”

“I know, I know.” Came the reply with a chuckle.

I studied the man in the moonlight, slowly, up and down, sizing up his weapons, his gear and his soul in a way that he eventually would come to know, to understand - and to respect. He could easily have taken advantage of and disarmed me in my incapacitated state, but he had not, which said a lot about his intentions.

He was tall, well-built, and wore his hair long and straight. He did not appear to be heavily armed, and it seemed to me that his attire bespoke native American culture. His English was crisp and denoted advanced education, but his French, although smoothly spoken, was clearly spiced with a familiar accent. He was an enigma to me.

I did not know it then, as I pondered his origins, but this brave, yet kind soul would grow to be my greatest friend and most loyal warrior brother.

Then it hit me, suddenly and with barely suppressed fear, “Where’s my Ben? Ben! Here Ben!”

“A dog? You were alone when I found you.”

“Gotta find him...thanks and see ya.” I stood stiffly and started to move in the darkness, back toward the river, still holding the pistol at ready. There would be no shouting about.

The man followed me. The air near him smelled thickly of gasoline.

“Why French?” I inquired softly. No answer. “You spoke French; why?”

“Creole, actually. From my mother. You said a few words while you were out...and you?”

“From my mother, too, Québécois...” I replied.

“Ah, classy. Well, pleased to meet you. I’m Brick Charbonneau; part New Orleans Creole, part Lakota Sioux on my father’s side, which you may know as Teton Sioux. And no ‘name’ jokes, please. Brick will be fine.”

I considered his words, which explained part of the
puzzle. “What’s the gas smell, Brick?”

Brick replied: “Ehh, hmmm, well gasoline seems to disrupt the sniffing runners’ search, I think, so I poured some around us. Old Indian trick.” Another chuckle.

“Hmmm....I’ll have to remember that.”

In the gloom, on the other side of the river, I could just make out Ben, and he saw me, so I sat down to wait, as did Ben. Brick joined me, courteously loaning me a coat to cut the chill off of my wetness.

Not a great place for chit chat, given the exposure, but I judged Brick to be a good guy, with no unpleasant motives. I sat there, hunched over in the cold, and dozed for a few hours. Brick never relaxed, sitting erect and maintaining a vigilant eye on our surroundings. Dawn couldn’t come soon enough.

~

At first light, Ben and I headed down parallel sides of the river toward the nearest bridge, with Brick in tow. He was a good looking man, tall and lean, with long, shiny black hair worn Indian style, with one feather hanging down the side, as in the movies.

He was probably in his mid-to-late thirties and rather fatherly looking... and he liked to talk, which was cool with me. The dialogue was always interesting, educational or humorous. “I was on holiday in Mexico with friends when it all went down. I’ve been making my way north ever since. How ‘bout you, Nicki?”

I related my story, which seemed of great interest to
Brick. “Oregon? I always wanted to see Oregon. I would visit my cousins, the tall braves of the Nez Perce tribe. They will welcome me. Yes! Why don’t you first come with me to my reservation, meet my wife and children...and my people. I can tell them you are my white captive. A great honor for me.” Brick chuckled at his own comedy.

“That’s very funny Ghandi, but no can do...” I replied, “but you can come with me to Oregon, if you like.”

“Ghandi? You’re joking...” Indeed, he knew that I was.

“He was Indian, oui? And so are you, just taller, with more hair. Otherwise, indistinguishable.”

“Okay, if you insist,” Brick surrendered in good cheer. “But just to confirm, I’m not Running Bear, or Sitting Bull, Kicking Bird, Hiawatha, Tonto, Brick Wall, Pontiac, Chevrolet, Black Hawk, Chief Joseph or any of that stuff. I’ve heard them all. Just Brick...or Ghandi.” Brick chuckled again at his own wit, which he often did. So did I, for that matter.

“I’m with you...chief
Smells-Like-Gas”
I could not resist. I have been called deadly and labeled a killer, which was true I guess, but I was never rude This was tender humor and we both enjoyed the parley. A truly legendary friendship was in its infancy.

“Ah, white people! You know, I’m pretty sure that’s the real reason we attacked Custer, some name like that!
Smells-Like-Gas
..Hah!”

As we made progress, I could finally see Ben
ahead, tugging on something. The canoe rope. Nice! I could tell that Ben had watched Brick for awhile out of genuine protective concern, but if I trusted him, then so did Ben. A few sniffs and it was all cool with him. Ben and I quickly grew fond of our new friend. He was clearly a brother in arms and someone to be trusted under all circumstances.

The canoe was a wreck, but my pack and rifle were there, still tied to the cross beam. The pack had to be emptied and dried. The rifle was okay, but needed cleaning and oil. The rail was intact and in place, but the scope and light were gone. I hoped to find replacements somewhere on main street Dufton, where we were headed... and I really wanted to find a secure rooftop on which to rest, dry out, and get my bearings.

~

Dufton town center was an enormous mess. Probably the worst I had seen up to that point. Brick surmised that the town may have been a central collection center for evacuation, which would have meant a vicious epidemic conversion once the high speed stuff hit.

It was awful. Shredded skeletons were everywhere, an unusual number with partially intact hair on leathered scalps, which added a peculiar twist to this macabre scene of wrecked cars and smashed windows.

A dike or dam must have broken nearby, since a fast running creek flowed through the town, removing
much of the road and tearing off building fronts. I wanted to cross over, since it looked as though all ideal shopping was on the far side, but I needed the brilliance of my sister - an architect - to provide a secure means to do so.
Dammit Scottie, I need you!!

I made the announcement: “My twin, Scottie, would figure this out in seconds, Brick. She’s an architect, I’m proud to brag. Boom boom, and she’d have us on the other side, high and dry where all of the good stuff is. I really miss her.” I paused, “Ah well, time to put up for the night.”

We soon found an appropriate, isolated building, climbed the exterior fire stairs, then secured the hatch and all other access to the rooftop. An awning provided some shelter, and there was enough clutter and loose wood to build a respectable little fire. Good conversation ensued, with each of us sharing provisions, along with tools and oil for cleaning weapons. Brick and Ben both enjoyed jerky that I always carried, while Brick shared a supply of sourdough bread and cheese, which Ben refused with a snort.

“Bonne nuit, mon ami du Quebec; bonne nuit mon Ben.”
I listened to Brick’s thick Creole French, making me smile and think of my mother.

“Bonne nuit et dormez bien, oh great one-feathered hunter.”
I replied, drifting off to another fitful, fist-clenching slumber.

~

The sun came up peacefully, and most of my things were dry by mid-morning. I slipped into my gear, carefully checked and adjusted each item along with Ben’s saddlebags.

I remember Brick eyeballing my methods, as I worked several repetitions of an action drill that I had developed. Every item on my person was gripped, removed, unloaded, reloaded, clipped, buttoned, and so on - at speed. I made certain that everything was in its place and that each would do exactly as I required; weapons and tools alike.

“Huh, Cochise, him be careful not to piss off paleface French woman. Fiance, him must be tough guy!” Brick commented in mock Indian style.

“Heh heh... ohhhh yeah...” I replied. “Kip is tough on the outside; a marshmallow inside. You will like him, Brick.”

I reflected on Brick’s name. “Where does this name ‘Brick Charbonneau’ come from? Never heard it before. Not even in the movies.”

“I’m not really sure,” Brick replied, “and I’ve asked, believe me. Of course, ‘Charbonneau’ has been my family name for several generations now, but ‘Brick’? I’m sort of suspicious that it follows the old joke about how native Americans name their children after the first thing they see. If this is true, then I guess I’m lucky my parents didn’t see some dog marking his territory...HUH!” We had good laugh at that one.

I continued the conversation, prompting Brick to
tell me more about himself. “So BC, what do you do when you’re not on the warpath attacking wagon trains and stuff?”

“Ah, kemosabe, I’m a high school history teacher at the George A. Custer prep-school for college bound kids...all scholarship enrollment.”

“Really?” I was surprised. “History? Custer?!? Somehow I don’t see history coming from you, no offense intended. You seem more like the science type...biology maybe. And you work at a place named after a guy like Custer?”

“Geek, huh? I guess I can see it.” Brick was amused, shaking his shiny black mane. “Custer wasn’t so bad, if you view him within the context of his culture. You have to read source material from both sides. He makes a great scapegoat for both the white and red man, but really, he was a preeminent civil war hero and was sometimes furious at the white man’s treatment of the ‘savages’. Of course, his hands were certainly not clean, and his ego eventually conquered him, but I look at the times and figure both sides did some awful things, including many admired Native American leaders. It is what it is.
Comprenez-vous?”

“Oui,”
I replied.

“Bored now?” Brick finished.

“Oui.”

It was time to find provisions, so we headed quietly down side roads, away from the river wash, looking into various broken storefronts and gathering little things along the way. Eventually, an enormous, two-
story sporting goods store revealed itself, wherein I replaced filtration gear and found a decent scope for my rifle, plus a useable light that could be taped to the rifle rail. Very workable.