THE KILLER ANGEL: Book Two "Legend" (THE KILLER ANGEL TRILOGY 2) (9 page)

“It sounded like both shotguns and semi-automatic to me, probably AR-15’s; maybe some pistols, too,” said Wade the next morning. “Must’ve been one heck of a dust up.”

We were all curious, but chose not to seek out a fight that was not of our making and was not in our direction of travel. I was increasingly feeling the need to get to the town of Hedley in eastern Oregon, to find comfort in Kip’s strong arms, to laugh and sip wine with my Gramma and Grampa. I needed to find my twin sister, Scottie, and my family in Florida, so very far away. All were vital to my existence. They would make everything okay.

I had no doubt that Brick was feeling a similar longing to reach his family in the Dakotas. I sometimes caught him staring off into the distance, looking East, and I understood. We had to keep moving.

We traveled smoothly on damp paths through the woods, arriving unhindered at Jeff’s and Wade’s compound later that morning.

Brick and I used the rest of the day to reprovision ourselves. Jeff and Wade were tremendous in their generosity, offering all manner of food, weapons, maps and advice.

Of course, we kept our gear as light as possible,
and could only accept what we could reasonably carry: lightweight, packaged foods, ammunition, an exchange of some weapons, medical supplies, batteries, fresh socks and so on.

New leather gloves - yes, but I would need to acquire a better pair once we came to a sporting goods store. (I preferred armored, mountain-biker style gloves.)

The only things lacking were hand grenades, items that Brick and I were always eager to obtain, having experienced their effectiveness against a massive runner pack on the coast with Gus, our erstwhile guide and sea captain.

Later, that evening, we listened as Wade powered up his radio transmitter, and enjoyed hearing his update of our progress to the world, referring to it as “The ongoing adventures of Nicki Redstone, Brick Charbonneau and Ben.” Wade’s entertaining delivery made us all smile. He let the world know where we had been and where we were going. The next day, on the “Camp Puller” broadcast, we heard their echo of the news from Wade. It was definitely a motivating experience.

Upon inquiry, Wade and Jeff noted that, on occasion, they did pick up radio signals from other locations around the country, and less frequently, from other parts of the world. Sometimes there were even two-way conversations. Wade did a nice job of broadcasting instructions for setting up a battery powered, solar-energized radio communication system,
and it seemed that people were following his instructions, little by little. There were frequent radio discussions about alternative fuels, since petroleum products had mostly gone bad, unless treated with preservatives, and those were not in large supply or used in a timely manner.

Battery supported equipment was a growing concern, too, since most solar powered products relied on battery storage and these, as with almost everything else, had an all too limited lifespan. (It was always a beautiful thing to come across some bright street light or flashing yellow signal that still functioned, when the vast expanses of the previously civilized world had been thrown back to pre-electricity living.)

There were even fairly powerful transmissions from Hedley, but they were not regular as were those from Camp Puller, and were more of a formal notification and advisory nature. It seemed that Hedley had the resources but perhaps not the technical skill to make full use of their communications system.

After an early, hot breakfast, Brick, Ben and I once again set out for Hedley, refreshed and eager to make good time. Our spirits were high and, for the first time in a while, I felt an uplifting energy. I’m not sure why, maybe it was the feeling that Hedley and my beloved Kip lay ahead, but regardless of the reason, the renewed thrill of adventure surged within me, and I was grateful
for it.

Although we were flush with confidence and determination, the reality of physical limitations forced us to move at a relaxed pace. Both Brick and Ben would need time to regain full strength; setting too fast a pace would only cause damage. Ten miles each day seemed a reasonable goal, thus working the body, but not overly so.

Days pressed into a week, and we were hiking through high country, headed for the mountain pass to eastern Oregon which, in all probability, was still snowed in.

We were making better time each day, as both Ben and Brick were exhibiting multiple indicators of excellent health and superb ability.

Somewhere along the way I had picked up poison oak, and it bedeviled me for a couple of days with a pronounced, itchy rash. Brick, too, suffered a similar malady.

“What the heck did we get into?” He declared in agitation, “We’re going to have to get something for the itch. It’s driving me nuts. Plus, now I have a small toothache. I sure hope that Hedley has a dentist.”

We often commented to each other about comparatively minor irritants, a means of venting, I suppose. “I think I’m losing hearing in my left ear,” I said.

“Yeah, me too,” Replied Brick. “No time to use ear plugs.”

“I know, I know,” I smiled. “A few more years of
this and we will be completely deaf, among other things. IF we survive, that is.”

In the post-apocalypse, the smallest things could sometimes become serious burdens. We both had great hopes that Hedley would provide many essentials that, in our earlier lives, we had taken for granted.

In general, the days were empty of anything eventful. We had no trouble finding suitable and secure shelter each chilly night. Supplies were plentiful in every little village that we passed. On rare occasion, we met other survivors and gladly exchanged information.

Even less often, we would join lonely travelers overnight, and entertain one another with updates and plans. The only runners in evidence were so emaciated and feeble that they posed no threat. Those we left undisturbed.

In one of our many exchanges, I asked Brick about his music preferences.

“Ah, I like most things, but some of the older stuff stays with me —
Pink Floyd’s
‘Time’ being a good example. A lot of
Foreigner’s
stuff, too. I will probably never hear that music again.”

“Huh,” I replied, “never heard of them.”

“Really? I must be getting old. What about you, Nicki?”

“Oh, my music tastes are pretty wide-ranging — rock, classical, some country, top forty. I like some of the old stuff, too — Big Bad John, Wolverton Mountain, Sixteen Tons, stuff like that.”

“Wow, eclectic, but I like it.”

We quietly sang a few bars of the chorus to “Big Bad John” as we trekked, but only a few. It would have been unwise to do more.

As we closed in on higher elevations, snow became much in evidence. We realized that acquiring winter gear would not only be prudent, but essential. Many homes and a ranger station had pretty much everything that we needed, including larger packs, sub-zero sleeping bags, warmer outer wear, even snow shoes and cross-country skis. The added bulk was cumbersome and unfamiliar, but we felt that it was all essential to success. We pressed on.

As predicted, the pass was indeed deeply covered in snow. The tops of trees, trucks and motor-homes were visible above the snow pack, and we made comfortable use of the latter, which freed us from the chilly task of building and sleeping in some type of snow shelter. RV living was almost like home compared to sleeping on the ground.

There were no issues with runners, which was a relief, although we never let down our guard. It was a long, cold and boring trek.

Once over the pass and through the lava fields, we found ourselves in the eastern Oregon climate, which was cooler and much more dry than the lush and verdant rainforests of western Oregon, but not nearly as frozen as the mountains. The air was fresh, and smelled
of juniper.

“We are getting closer, Nicki,” said Brick. “I can feel our progress.”

I knew what he meant; I was feeling it too. We could pick up speed now on the comparatively flat land. Both Ben and Brick were in tremendously improved condition.

We passed through the sizable town of Whitehorse, where we exchanged our equipment for the more familiar and comfortable day-packs and sleeping gear. Less encumbered, we moved off at a much increased pace. My spirit was strong.

Life is good!

The edge of Whitehorse was not yet out of site when we encountered a fortified National Guard armory that looked recently occupied, but it was quiet, appearing abandoned.

Following our usual pattern, we approached carefully, occasionally halting to make a 360 degree survey of our surroundings.

The view was not attractive, being mostly devoid of vegetation and color, with only a few juniper trees and some thirsty shrubs breaking the bleak scenery. A chilly breeze added a depressing quality to the dismal landscape.

What an ugly place to live...and die
.

The fort had a single, large, double-gate access that was unopened and fully intact.

It was so quiet
...

As the three of us drew closer, it appeared that large rocks or bags were strewn around the yard, but we knew better - those were bodies.

Our weapons were ready as we approached and stopped at the gateposts to study the interior from the cover afforded there.

Brick spoke first, “We missed it by three days.”

I knew what he meant. Had we arrived earlier, we would have saved those people; we would have made the difference.

Leaning against the wide wooden post, I looked above my shoulder and noticed a large, decorative object. “Brick,” I said, “this is a Jewish symbol, isn’t it.”

Brick studied the item from his side of the gate, “Yes, a
mezuzah
. This must have been a Jewish encampment... Look over there,” he motioned to the right side of the enclosure. A large section had been violently removed. It would be our entrance.

En route to the breach, we passed wires trailing away from the destruction. They terminated behind a pile of discarded old tires. Brick nudged a small box on the ground — three inch silver tubes rolled out. Blasting caps.

“Dynamite, probably. Why would anyone do such a thing?” Brick pondered out loud. I had no answer.

Brick and I slowly walked the fort’s interior grounds. We could see that chaos and death had held sway there. It was sadly similar to massacres that I had seen before. The familiar odor of unburied dead
permeated the air. Flies had made their appearance; vultures, too.

There were hundreds of dead runners strewn about, but only a few uninfected dead. The fence destruction indicated great treachery. A nearby pickup truck evidently supported the breach, a loudspeaker aimed rearwards gave further evidence of horrendous evil. Whoever assaulted the fortification brought runners with them - a shock-force horde, horrifying, demoralizing.

A pair of desert camouflaged armored track vehicles stood silent watch near the gate. Both empty.

Brick made an observation, “I think there must be a last-stand redoubt somewhere, and maybe a safe-room. These people knew they had enemies besides runners.”

We moved farther into the large enclosure and found that part of the main armory roof was protected by multiple layers of sandbags. Barricaded windows and doors blocked access, but one large corner of the building had been blown out and had collapsed, providing a ramp up for the attackers.