THE KILLER ANGEL: Book Two "Legend" (THE KILLER ANGEL TRILOGY 2) (8 page)

I remember that
one
day - that one critical moment - the most important and transformative of my entire existence. Sadists, abusers, psychopaths, and sociopaths, we all thought that we were invincible; that there would be no reckoning. We were strong and could do anything to anyone without penalty. Not one soul withstood our wicked might...until
she
came.

On a dark night of hedonistic savagery it all ended.
A river of booze and a stockpile of heroine kept us numb as we laughed and tormented fresh captives. What a band of stupid, evil fools we were.

The debauchery ended that misty evening in an explosion of deadly gunfire. Even in our narcotic haze we knew someone or something new was upon us; lead missiles rained silently upon us with great speed and laser accuracy. I recall a slight pneumatic puffing noise as my comrades fell all around me from that unseen foe. In an eyeblink I became the cripple I am today.

The attack was carefully planned and precisely executed. As I look back now, I know that even had we been fully alert and sober, it would have made no difference in the outcome.

Then there was stillness.

Then there was silence.

In the quiet calm, no one remained standing. A slowly descending fog hindered vision, creating an eerie effect on an already morbid scene. The recently dead lay everywhere. I was incapacitated and could feel wetness on my back - it was blood. One rifle bullet nicked my spinal cord, nearly severing it as the round smashed through, a second slug crushed the bone in my right shoulder. I called out weekly for help, but no one lived to respond.

It was so quiet...I waited...alone.

Then - suddenly -
she
was there.

I recognized her immediately. The “Killer Angel” herself - a goddess, a queen, an avenger; granting no mercy, and asking for none in return. My mind reeled at
her glorious image, a pistol in each hand. She moved fast, much faster than I had imagined, with steady, focused purpose, eyes scanning, anger in her expression. The
reaper’s
eyes locked onto mine, briefly, a pistol aimed at my heart - it was an assessment -
“should he live or not?”
. She shook her head in disapproval and disgust, barely slowing her gait during the encounter.

I felt deep shame in her gaze. I was taken by her beauty; her calm; her power.

Then the
angry angel
was gone. That was it. I was nothing to her; not worthy of even a single word from those beautiful lips...
and that thought cut deep
. But she let me live. In spite of intense pain and mental fog, my mind exploded with new comprehension, a revelation, an epiphany.
I did not want to be her enemy!

I felt shame at the many bawdy descriptions of what we would do with her if she came within our reach. What corrupt, vain fools we were.

At that pivotal, pain-filled moment, I became a believer. I would do good and help others selflessly, if only I would be allowed to do so.

Please, God, let me live! Deliver me!

...And He did...

Since that moment of rebirth, I have devoted my heart and soul to helping others in every way possible, striving to cleanse the stains on my conscience and my soul that I created by harming others.

I can never do enough
...

Chapter Five

“Eastern Oregon ”

T
HE NEXT morning, the Kincaids were up early with me. Survivors tend to live by daylight, and my fine hosts knew that I wanted an early start. I had explained my destination, advising that Wade and Jeff were good people to know, and discussed the current value of radio communications.

I assured the Kincaids that I would pass their greetings on to the two soldiers, along with an invitation to visit as special guests in the Kincaid home. I left a ‘thank you’ note of heartfelt gratitude on the bed.

Scout and Tara would not let me go, holding on to me and squeezing so hard that I had to laugh and beg for release. “Nicki, oh please, please come back to us!” They repeated over and over, to which I promised with a laugh that - one day - I would indeed return.

Ben and I walked off and turned back to wave one last time. The entire family remained there in the distance, waving until I was out of sight.

Ben seemed thoroughly reinvigorated, so we
trooped off at a quick trot. I knew that we could make it to Jeff’s and Wade’s compound by late afternoon, barring any unforeseen delay.

As we moved on, the weight of buried sorrow began to haunt me once more. The farther we traveled from the Kincaids’ small paradise, the heavier I felt, depression weighing me down. Try as I might, I had difficulty shaking it off. Ben sensed the disquiet in my soul and offered as much comfort as his brave heart could muster.

The swarm encounter of the previous day remained in my thoughts, as I reviewed the event and my performance. What changes in action would have produced better - or worse - results. To survive after being overwhelmed is a rare thing, although, miraculously, I have done so more than once.

In a maniacal scrum, runners rip each other from their target, and pile upon one another, thus paralyzing themselves in the frenzy. Once in close contact, a common defender’s mistake is to push at a runner with hands open. But fingers are glowing snacks to the monsters, and once fingers are gone, all is lost.

I’ve come across a hundred massacres and the remains of the truly dead; many of the lost were absent their fingers - a clue to their demise, if any such evidence were needed. Runners too, often lack fingers, a very specific and disturbing indication of someone’s terrible last moments. One must train to be automatically in a “fist fight” with the tidal wave of a swarm; it’s not something you can think about as it
happens.

Even though training, creative thinking and skill have been critical to my survival, a large ego has no place in my kit. Luck has made the winning difference too many times to allow such arrogance.

A survivor must be ready -
always!

About mid-morning Ben alerted me to activity in the distance - people moving in our direction, down the same narrow road upon which we were traveling. I was certain that they had not seen us as we skipped off to the side into hiding. I was ready for anything, as was Ben. The travelers did not move rapidly, certainly not at my speed.

When they came closer, I could make out three figures, all male. One had a familiar gait. I smiled.

“Comment ça va mes amis? ”
I barked out as they passed.

They were startled and whipped around to look at me, standing nonchalantly by the road where they had just passed. I had to chuckle; we all did.

It was a quiet and happy reunion of embraces and discussion. Five survivors together in celebration seemed an increasingly rare thing. Ben perked up immediately at Brick’s presence, and they both fell to the ground in joyful excitement.

I felt that Ben and Brick would soon be okay, after all. Brick, in particular, seemed remarkably - almost
shockingly - fit, given the rather severe nature of his injuries, and with such a short time to mend.
The Charbonneaus do indeed heal quickly
, I mused, as Brick often pronounced.
Still, this was remarkable, almost phenomenal
...

We promptly decided to continue for a few hours in a return route to Jeff’s and Wade’s home, although, due to the slower pace, our destination would not be made until well after nightfall, so an additional evening in the forest would be necessary.

As I had rather expected, the men could not restrain themselves from following me on my mission to Dr. Cott’s, even though they knew they could not keep up as I moved rapidly to find Ben.

Brick, too, was beside himself with anxiety after I left. So, the three comrades gathered their gear and left a day and a half after my departure, but it was slow going for Brick, and, as expected, Jeff and Wade could not bring themselves to abandon him, in spite of his admonishments to do just that.

“Nicki, where’s your glove?” Brick asked, knowing that I rarely removed them.

In reply, I gave my friends a thorough current events report as we walked, right up to seeing the three of them pass me on the road, including the tragic end to the mystery girl.

The entire retelling dimmed all enthusiasm in me for high spirits, and I had nothing in my soul with which to cheer sad hearts, for mine was still so broken. I was beginning to doubt that I would ever fully heal.
Death and loss was chipping away at the livelier, more optimistic aspects of my persona, leaving behind a survivor, deadly and capable - but not a whole person.

We settled the night onto the middle deck of another old water tower that Brick had spotted on the way to find me, knowing well that the giant cisterns were my favorite layover, both for the security and for the view.

Wade and Jeff were kind enough to carefully hoist Ben up, and we all enjoyed the evening with our backs against the hard wall of the tank, our feet dangling over the side as we watched the sun set and conversed softly. At that pleasant moment, the world was quiet and peaceful; the air fresh with the scent of pine, brought gently to us on a soft breeze.

I was so very tired, in spite of my respite at the Kincaids. Their generous hospitality seemed so far away now in this wilderness. I so wanted to remain with that lovely family.

Following small conversation and routine weapons maintenance, I eased back onto my foam mat and noticed Brick’s concerned look for me. Stolid, yet compassionate; he knew that I was unwell, becoming a wraith of my former sparkling self. No spirit; no joy; no life. He feared for me, with good reason. I was unable to regain fullness as a person - lacking the lively and humorous spirit he knew so well.

Always before, I was able to climb out of the darkness with comedy and wit, but this time it was more difficult. I felt myself becoming something of an
instinctive being - observe, evaluate, decide, fight, rescue, destroy, survive - repeat.

Maybe Ben, too, suffered as I did. In the fray, I felt alive and certain of myself, undefeated. But later, in contemplation, my vitality ebbed. I now saw myself lying with eyes open to heaven, a large bullet hole gouged into my chest.

Sometimes, on nights like that, fear consumed me, chasing me into my dreams, waking me as jaws ripped flesh from my body, having already destroyed those whom I loved, my own fighting effort proving useless... yelling without sound; running without traction
.

Thank God this panic never seized me as I prepared for the fight against an unyielding enemy. In those thrilling moments, I became the Nicki Redstone spoken of on the Camp Puller radio, the one that Scout and Tara admired, able to fight with gusto and a smile. It was only later, upon reflection, that the reality of each near death moment set in.
Please don’t ever let me lose my fighting spirit
, I prayed, as I finally fell into an unbroken, fatigued sleep.

In the middle of the night, faintly, very far in the distance, we heard extensive gunfire, substantial at first, then trailing off to a few sporadic shots, then nothing. Such noise at night was more common a year and a half ago, but as the existence of people - and runners - diminished, so did the shooting.

Silence and sleep
.