THE KILLER ANGEL: Book Two "Legend" (THE KILLER ANGEL TRILOGY 2) (2 page)

My father sometimes spoke of the Redstone lineage, and its curious military bond. It seemed that almost every one of my forebears had felt some call to arms, often in leadership and mostly professional in nature, but not always. Although my respect for these warriors was great, I never considered uniformed service as a career path for myself, not for a second. It was an interesting topic about which Brick and I occasionally conversed, comparing similarities in our extended backgrounds.

Largely because of this history, I know enough to understand that I suffer from some form of post trauma shock, or PTSD as it was once called. There is no treatment now. Brick and Gus say I fight in my sleep, reaching for ghost weapons in my struggles. Maybe it’s true, but there are no counselors now. You take care of yourself or die; that’s about how everything is these days. Your teeth, your body...your mind.

Some say that I have become a legend, a myth, an Amazon, an exaggeration, a story based on little fact. I’ve heard it all.

Nicki Redstone
, a brassy “bad-ass” out there crotch-kicking runners and - when necessary - stomping to death a few of the worthless living who deserve no better treatment than the living dead.

If they only knew.

Far from fearless, I am sometimes awash with the sensation. I fear death. I fear being damaged. I fear the further loss of loved ones.

In the fight, however, I never think of those things, thank God. In those moments of thrilling action and deathly turmoil, the fighting blood of my ancestors boils to the surface, and I am once again gifted with power and speed - unstoppable - even enjoying the deadly struggle with gusto and a smile, something I cannot deny. But later, especially in those slowing moments before sleep, the little girl in me sees reality, and is haunted in garishly colored, yet horribly real nightmares - the sights, the sounds and the awful smells. I keep it to myself. Let others believe in my
dauntless, unaffected capacity for the fight if it helps them.
We all need our heroes
...

I’m still just a kid in so many ways, and I’ve always tried to hang on to that innocent, fun part of me. More and more, though, I found it difficult to be the Nicki Redstone that I was once, in a more pleasant, gentler time... before runners. It was becoming a challenge to find any humor whatsoever in my life.

Runners
...

The undead
...

Those moving remnants of what once were probably pretty decent human beings, with lives, loves and futures - all destroyed in a matter of a few weeks by the worst possible of diseases.

The epidemic spread unbelievably fast, pretty much wiping out civilization worldwide in a very short space of time. It was the universal expiration of all precious long term plans, goals, and dreams.

Those who survived the initial mass contamination were subject to being chased down by those raging mad, ravenous, undead, monsters of second-stage transformation, whose only drive is to tear apart living creatures - most especially living humans - and devour every part - bone, muscle and blood. It’s easy to hate those rot eaters; and there’s no stopping them, unless it is a bullet in the skull.

The runners are fast, strong and nearly tireless,
charging forth on the full equivalent of high-octane adrenaline all the time. A deep muscle bite from one and, well, you are one, too. Not pretty.

Their speed and tendency to charge in packs is the reason I carry multiple weapons, a lesson learned through hard experiences - many times.

An ordinary adversary will allow time for a quick reload, but not runners. No matter how good you think you are, no matter how much you practice a fast reload, when twenty or thirty of those raging creatures are only yards away, a fully loaded pistol, cocked and ready, can save your life - and one misstep can end it. Runners do not pause; they do not wait; they do not duck, hide or seek cover. They attack, and they do not stop until they are dead - or you are.

Because of these facts, I always chose the discomfort of extra firepower weight, and the security it afforded. Extra knives, extra guns and as much ammunition as I could carry. I knew exactly where each item was on my body, and could efficiently manage all instantly and while totally blinded. Perfection through constant practice meant life. I forced myself to be perfect - speed, repetition, consistency, accuracy - over, and over, and over - every day for many hours, without fail. Every movement had to be effective; every bullet had to be accurate.

It is important to mention that - contrary to an often repeated misconception - the sound of gunfire is not an especially magnetic alert for runners, unless the firing noise is nearby or extensive. The “pop pop” of a gun a
few blocks away seems to hold no interest for these ghastly beasts in their ravenous search for flesh. It seemed to me that they could not locate the source of a sound unless it was somewhat regular or close - or unusually loud. Again, experience.

Yes, runners are stupid; remarkably so, but I never underestimate their horrible, tenacious, shock-force ability to pursue and shred some hapless victim once that bloody focus is aroused from its otherwise moronic stupor.

I have learned a great deal in my uncounted contact with those lethal former humans. They fear nothing, neither pain nor death, and will stop at nothing to devour their quarry.

Then, perhaps worse than runners, there are the living savages; the ones who were always among us, but were, more or less, controlled by society - its laws and its enforcers. Oh, how I miss that society. We had our problems, for sure, but it was still civilization, and we were progressing.

I cannot tolerate those beasts who prey on the weak - the thugs, the brutes, the sadists. Please understand, I am not taking on some divine mission to “rid the earth of scum”, but I will never leave one of those human predators to inflict their horrors on the innocent. This I swear. More than once I have honored that oath, and I have rarely felt disquiet over my actions. There is no longer any police force; no jury; no 911. But I am here - capable and willing, almost two years after it all started - or ended.

I had to find Brick
...

I soon came to the knotted end of that tough, braided fishing line. Two hundred feet wasn’t nearly long enough, but at least the slope was not so treacherous.

It was too dark to easily navigate, but I moved carefully, half jumping from tree to tree downhill through soft, wet undergrowth. This was Oregon rainforest, damp and cool.

Not much sound either, other than some insect and frog noises, maybe the occasional bird chirp. In another time it would be beautiful, but now, life was on the line. I had to find my dear friend, Brick Charbonneau, but it was too dark to search effectively.

Almost midnight and I could see practically nothing. I called out with a little bird sound that Brick had taught me, but there was no reply. I didn’t want to miss anything, so I decided to stop, recharge and wait for dawn. It had been a long, difficult day.

As I searched nearby for a spot to hunker down, I noticed a familiar object...ah, a rifle. Not mine, though. Brick’s! We carried the same weapon, but he had little decorations on his - some cloth, a little cross and a few small feathers. Brick would joke that he identified his rifle this way so that I wouldn’t sneak in and swap guns. Of course, I know that the real reason was for luck;
those were his talismans of good fortune.
Hmmm...I’ll have to jab him about that “good fortune”
, I thought. I missed him so much.

I will find you my friend
...

It was chilly and I began to shiver. I found a shallow depression between two trees to keep me from sliding downhill, then piled up moss and leaves for insulation. I enjoyed the fresh, moist smell of wilderness, but missed having a campfire.

Deciding not to get fully comfortable, I unraveled a space blanket (noisy!), checked my gear and weapons, ate a protein bar, changed socks, pulled a snow cap down over my ears, and lay back, resting my head on my small hydration backpack.

God, it all happened so fast
...

Spilling over the side of that hill with Dr. Cott’s runners in pursuit. If a branch had not caught my vest, I would have been somewhere down the steep incline with Brick, probably badly hurt.

Damn, I hope Brick’s okay
.

As soon as I found Brick, I knew that together we would pay an immediate social call on Dr. Cott and her little rat-faced associate, and then rescue my Ben. That amazing German Shephard was the closest thing I had to family on my journey, and I was not going to let him down. We had been through a lot together and, by god, we had a lot of adventuring to do still.
Yep! Ben, Brick Charbonneau and Nicki Redstone, together once more!
Soon...
I thought.

Twelve o’clock. I plugged in one ear bud and turned on the little short wave radio, volume set to low. The Camp Puller “show” was on - Captain Jack Carter and his awesome soldiers. They sustained what was possibly the last piece of real civilization in the world, maybe even the beginning of a new country.

The Camp Puller radio update was uplifting, sounding as though things were going well: The arrival of new survivors; births; awards; warnings; information about trouble areas and supplies. There was even an update about the adventures of Nicki Redstone, former gorgeous television star turned runner butt-kicker and all around hero.
Hah...Sweet!

I was so tired; it was time to doze off. I had made my plans for first light. Dreams of my beloved fiance softly floated through my mind.
Ah, Kip, I have so much to tell you
...But Kip was in Hedley with my Gramma and Grandpa, who were evacuated from Braidwood before it was nuked. Oregon is a big state, and traveling from Braidwood to Hedley was going to be tough.

What a mess...I love you Kip... remember me!

Dawn’s early light - almost. I opened my eyes and felt my mind snap to alert. Something was moving below, and it wasn’t Brick. Not living. Definitely runners, three of them, and banged up pretty good, too.
Females, but wicked looking; huge; fearsome. Amazons in an earlier life; models maybe, but no longer beautiful. They must have gone over the ledge the previous afternoon.

Given my elevated and fairly protected position, I decided to take a chance and remove the threat. I didn’t want them bothering me or Brick, so two seconds and a five-five-six bullet later, one runner was no longer a concern. Brick always kept his rifle nicely sited, its smooth surface cold against my cheek.

Of course, that jolted the other two rot eaters into full on berserker attack mode. Nothing new there. I was impressed at how fast they charged up the steep incline towards me. They were clearly, insanely ravenous. I was unfazed and utterly calm, having witnessed such attacks a thousand times. Sorry... no Redstone breakfast today.

Just as I fired, my target leaped, so what was an intended head shot became a shin hit. No worries, though, as it then became a crawler. The third one came furiously fast, but a bullet is much faster, especially with practice, and I’ve had more than my share. It went down in a tumbling, crashing mess, knocking over the runner who recently became one-legged, creating a snarling, grasping, vicious spectacle. Another round dropped that one straight down like a pop-up arcade target.

I was breathing gently, fogging the cold air as I exhaled, observed and listened. Silence - a good sign. It was time to search... nothing else moved in the area.

As I slid down the slick hill, following signs of Brick’s fall, I couldn’t help but notice my hands. Armored, full-fingered mountain-biker gloves protected everything. I could not see my nails through the gloves, but I knew that they could use some attention.
Damn! Next chance I get, I’m treating myself to a Nicki Redstone nail painting special
. Little things like that are real morale boosters. I decided to keep an eye out for the nearest nail salon or pharmacy. I felt my long braid; yep, the thin blade was in position. More than once it had been my salvation.

Searching the area, I couldn’t find much. I eventually located one of Brick’s pistols and my own rifle, but nothing else.