THE KILLER ANGEL: Book Two "Legend" (THE KILLER ANGEL TRILOGY 2) (7 page)

I studied them for a moment longer. Middle-aged, handsome people, well-spoken, probably from the suburbs, now living in the country. These were good folks.

I stepped out to where they could more clearly see me; Ben followed. “Hello... I’m Nicki Redstone. This is Ben. Pleased to meet you.”

Then, to my complete surprise, their eyes went wide and the children giggled. “Nicki Redstone! Oh my lord it is a blessing! Your are real and you are here! Nicki Redstone sent by heaven to save our girls!” They were all grins and tears as they shook my hand and embraced me.

The recognition and praise were humbling, but it felt good, this I cannot deny. Actually, it felt great. Celebrity? Yes. Gratitude? Yes. Hero worship? Not on my radar. The increasing recognition of my name - plus the reputation attached to it - was not expected, not at all. The ramifications were something to ponder. It was difficult to know where such acclaim could lead, but I could envision both pros and cons.

Somehow, through this grisly clash, I felt some redemption at having succeeded with these children where I had failed so miserably with my sweet replica at Dr. Cott’s, something I hoped to forget one day, although never her name - Rachel Chase.

I smiled and thanked them for their kind words. “Please come with us to our home, Ms. Redstone, it’s not far.”

“It’s okay to call me Nicki,” I said, “but I can’t stop. I need to keep moving. My friend Brick and others are waiting for us, I pointed to my direction of travel. Thank you though.”

“Our place is on your way, not far from here. How about a quick meal and clean up? We have a shower; hot water, too.”

Shower?

That was all it took. I could hear the sound guy cueing the noise of tires screeching to a halt.
Stop the production!

Okay, okay... I’ll give Brick a little extra R and R; he needs it
. I grinned.

A hot shower!

We arrived at their home within a half-hour. A veritable fortress on the side of a rock face, nicely defensible and architecturally beautiful.

At sight of the marvel, I very much wished for my own twin sister, Scottie, to see this place. As an architect, she could evaluate it and explain its puzzling construction to me. My mind dreamed of her.
Ah, Scottie, I miss you. I need our twin time together
.

I learned that these young girls had wandered off to explore, much against the repeated warnings of their adoptive parents, and they chose exactly the wrong time to do so. Roving bands of sniffing runners were passing through the area in search of or perhaps following some other quarry when they happened upon the scent of these children.

“Scout and Tara...What great names! Scout... perfect! And Tara? My oldest sister’s name is Tara,” I said. “She has beautiful red hair, just like you two.” They grinned and looked at me, holding my hands as we walked up a steep driveway leading to a garage below their house.

What an interesting picture we must make
, I thought to myself at the time. Two sweet, neatly dressed children holding hands with a leather-jacketed young woman who bristled with guns, knives, and the accessories of tough living. It felt good to be in their innocent company.

The family Kincaid. Two brothers married to two sisters. They seemed a jovial family, loving and helpful to one another. They had fared better than most, and had made intelligent use of their home. Madeline Kincaid and her husband, John, were engineers, and had worked with an architect friend of theirs to design their home years ago. Who knew it would prove so valuable?

The place was well equipped, but they had to travel rather far for provisions, since Braidwood was not an option after “nuclear sterilization”, the final recourse of a desperate, dying nation.

Marsha Kincaid was a nurse and her husband, Raymond, had owned an antique bookshop in Braidwood. Marsha knew of Dr. Cott and remembered her as arrogant and unemotional, probably a sociopath all along. She did not recognize the name “Rachel Chase”, although she did know of a Chase who worked in another department. It was a large hospital system, serving a significant clientele.

We climbed a ladder up to the home from the garage area, the stairs having been removed for security. The ladder was then drawn up behind us.
Nice!

Marsha and Madeline ushered me to a large bathroom, which was fed by a cistern higher up the hill. The cistern being constantly replenished by runoff from even farther up. It was the perfect setup - no water shortage. Solar heated, too.
Yes!

“We’ll look after Ben and check over his sutures.”
Marsha offered. “Just relax and take your time.”

The ladies had provided a nice selection of shampoos and soaps. It had been too long since I had last enjoyed such luxury.

I calmly viewed myself in the mirror. No makeup, but I looked good, I thought. I could see that stress and sadness were taking a toll on my normally cheery face. I would have to watch that. I still had my vanity.

The white scar on my left cheek was faintly visible, but it did not bother me, although Brick had told me that it became a white hot streak when action was upon us. I have never seen it thus, of course, but others have since confirmed Brick’s observation. The Kincaids were far too polite to have mentioned it, and the twins had probably been admonished to not ask rude questions, although I would not have been offended.

A hot shower!

How I missed that small but important luxury. In general, my cleaning was limited to chilly creeks or a damp cloth. On a good day, I would use a five gallon water jug that I could sit up on a shelf, with a few small holes punctured into it to resemble a more traditional - but weak - shower. Cold but clean.

I disengaged myself from the extensive arsenal with which I was willingly encumbered, undid my braid, and then thoroughly enjoyed the finest hot, cleansing shower that I ever experienced before or since. At the sincere behest of the Kincaids, it was also one of the longest showers of my life.

For the first time in months, I felt fresh, beautiful
and alive, in spite of the many very visible cuts, scrapes and scars across my body, some of which would fully heal; others would remain permanent reminders of some very desperate moments. The cosmetic damage was of no concern to me; I knew that Kip would love me regardless.

Early that evening, I stepped into the Kincaids’ dining room, shiny and clean, wearing soft jeans and a flannel shirt that Marsha had supplied, with only my braid and the dagger held therein denoting my unyielding preparedness.

Without the weight of my armaments and the accumulated dirt of over a week, I felt featherlight. I was greeted with glistening eyes of sincere affection and appreciation. It was a good, warm feeling, which I reciprocated. These were fine people... my kind of people.

“We thought about leaving when the Army evacuated Braidwood, but it was all voluntary beyond the zone of destruction,” Raymond explained, as we dined over a feast of exquisite dishes, some of which were fresh from the ground. “However, we elected to hang on here, and it turned out to be a good decision, so far.”

I listened intently to their story, reveling in their kind attentions. I sat up straight and followed proper dining protocol, the training of my Quebecoise mother kicking in instinctively.
Thank you, Mom!
I said quietly to myself.

Before the end of the world, old fashioned table manners and proper behavior were already becoming extinct in a society that cheered and emulated obnoxious and crude behavior...and barely knew how to use a fork.

Now, when couth and culture seemed even less valuable than ever, I especially enjoyed being able to approach a table where the men stood in courtly respect until all ladies were seated, then dine in candlelight with the accoutrements of elegant living. Everyone enjoyed the experience, with backs straight, elbows off the table, and left hand in laps.

Ahh, the joys of nearly lost civilization
, I sighed.

The kids would not leave my side. Even in the bathroom, Marsha and Madeline had to shoo them out to give me privacy. Cute indeed, reminding me of great times with my own sisters, Scottie and Tara.

“They loved your show,” Confided Madeline at one point. “So did Marsha and I. You are so much like what I hoped you would be, Nicki. Your television wit and delivery gave me strength and confidence in some hard times. You just don’t know. We are so very proud and happy to have you here. We will never forget you!” She said with tears in her eyes.

It made me proud, too.

I ended up staying the night in their comfortable home, a guest of honor. I was up very late with the kids, enjoying one of the simplest, greatest pleasures of all - watching a Barbie movie on a battery operated DVD player. I even experienced the long overdue joy of having my nails painted, compliments of Scout and Tara. Ben was treated with equal kindness, and enjoyed the best that the Kincaids’ had to offer. We were both in heaven, even if only temporarily.

Excerpt

“The Transformative Moment”

by Reverend Alexander Carlisle
(Excerpted with permission from “Reformed”)

All my life I was on the wrong side of things, and thought nothing of it. Although not a leader, my lack of compassion for the suffering of others made me valuable to those who craved power, a tool to serve sadistic needs. I deserved every bad thing that resulted from my lack of humanity - every sickness, every loss and every injury, to include being bound forever to a wheelchair.