THE KILLER ANGEL: Book Two "Legend" (THE KILLER ANGEL TRILOGY 2) (11 page)

A few hours later, secure behind fences and walls on our rooftop hideout, I snapped awake to see Ben at the parapet, eyeing something passing one street over, dimly visible in the deep shadows of a moonless, starry night.
Runners
. A sizable pack of them, moving in the same direction in which we were traveling.

Small animals skittered away from the monsters, a couple of scared big dogs and some cats. All moved in silence - they had also learned to survive.

Brick had come up, kneeling to look over the wall. “Not after us, but we will have to be extra vigilant. I would hate to encounter a group that large out in the open.”

“Smooth sailing, huh?” I teased.

“Ah, that’s nothing. Twenty runners? We’ve seen much worse.” Retorted Brick, smiling.

“Look there,” I said, pointing northeast. In the great distance was an orange glow on the horizon.

“Fire maybe,” Said Brick.

We studied the soft, distant luminescence for a minute, watching for any more runner activity in our area. “Well,” I said, “I guess we’ll find out tomorrow. It looks like it’s right where we’re heading.” With that, we all lay back down for a fitful night of sleep.

After a hot breakfast the following morning, everyone was refreshed, body and soul, and ready for the next leg of the odyssey.

As was not unusual on our journey, we would sometimes encounter other travelers. We had the benefit of Ben’s sense of smell and sharp hearing to give us an early warning advantage over an approaching unknown, giving us time to determine the wisdom of revealing ourselves. In most cases, we found other survivors - who were equally suspicious - to be pleasant sources of valuable information. Hedley, it seemed, was a focus of conversation for the region, and a community held in high regard by everyone, which gave us all optimism. We estimated that we were less than ten days away.

We did occasionally hear of other small survivor outposts, but nothing like Camp Puller or Hedley. Some of them were hardened, scrubby trading camps, and others were reinforced refugee way stations, as people still made their way across country for a variety of reasons: lost family, rumors of civilization, a better life, even adventure.

There were always discussions and warnings about gangs who preyed on travelers, and the ever troublesome and growing militia bands who sought despotic control and power - those who believed that their strength gave them the right to do as they wished; a problem for good people throughout history. We had
encountered such in the Fifth Mounted Militia, as they called themselves, earlier in our journey. They were not the “good guys”.

That so-called “Fifth” was nothing more than a bigoted, extended family of uneducated, dirt-poor troublemakers before the world ended, but who, in the apocalypse, used their brute strength and ruthless morals to dominate others.

They had failed miserably in that effort when attempting to force their control over Brick, Ben and me, much to their chagrin. No doubt, they remember us well and would take revenge if given the chance. In spite of my general depression, the thought of those criminals aroused an eagerness in me to teach them another lesson.

One day...perhaps
...

As was our usual practice, we were up early and on the road by first light. The kids were wonderfully resilient, bouncing quickly back from what must have been a traumatic past.

Brick and I did what we could to build their survival skills, health and confidence; educating them in a variety of matters, interspersed with fun and interesting, yet practical activities. All the while, we were careful to maintain vigilance, using every opportunity to pass on survival techniques to those eager young, bright-eyed hopefuls. Maybe they would
be the Brick Charbonneaus and Nicky Redstones of the future.

Later that day, Ben went into alert status as we all moved along the heavily forested left side of a narrow road. The right side of the street sloped down to an old junk yard that was strewn with all manner of corroded machinery, some of it very large. From somewhere not far within the field of rusting debris came the unmistakeable croaking sound that is made only by gorged runners.

It was a useful moment for the children, since they had never heard the sound before. Although initially alarmed, they quickly relaxed when they saw the calm in Brick and in me. We listened briefly, then moved on.

“Why not shoot the runners, Nicki?” One of the girls asked.

I explained that we could shoot if we were in a place that could be better defended. I added a few more details of explanation, but did not mention that the presence of young children in our care further limited our options. They would come to understand such matters as they grew older and gained experience.

In the mid-afternoon, Ben froze in place, his ears sharply pointed forward, his nostrils sensing the air, then he ducked off the road into the woods, which was across a ditch and up a slight embankment. Someone - or something - was moving at great speed, directly
towards us from our front.

We quickly found concealment and prepared for action; not an ideal location, but it would suffice for the needs of the moment. Brick tucked the kids into a rock outcropping farther up the hill, with the admonition to remain absolutely silent.

Fingers on our rifle safety switches, we crouched low, ready to pitch into anything that could be thrown at us. Within seconds, I heard the approaching noise of panicked flight and hard, gasping breathing. The unmistakeable sounds of fear.

A man approached, clearly spent and dripping with sweat. He looked wild-eyed with fright, and was clutching a shotgun. He had nothing else - no water, no pack, nothing.

We let the individual pass undisturbed. He was evidently in flight, but our concern for the welfare of our young wards caused us to leave this unknown trouble alone. We would, however, travel with additional caution.

A few minutes after the frightened fugitive was out of sight came the unmistakeable crack of explosives being detonated, followed by faint small arms fire. Unfortunately, the increasingly noisy action appeared to be occurring directly and unavoidably along our path. Judging from the sound, the disturbance was not far away.

The farther we traveled, the more gunfire we heard, some of it in automatic mode, which was an enormous waste of ammunition, unless there was an unlimited
supply - or there was an excess of targets. Whatever the reason, there was undoubtedly a serious event occurring, and we had no choice but to learn more.

According to our maps, our route traveled downhill to a bridge that crossed a river which in turn fed a medium-size lake. We continued towards the bridge, but did so off of the road and under the cover of thick foliage. It was getting late and we would need to be thinking about a position for the night’s layover.

A sharp precipice provided an advantageous view of the lake below. A fortress of some kind had been constructed on an island in the lake, with a road leading to it. To me, it looked as though it had once been a nice, rather large estate home, or pair of homes, that had been cleverly converted into a reasonably defensible facility. Given that we were nearly two years into the “great apocalypse”, it must have done its job.

Tragically, what we beheld was a site that we had not seen since those first few months of horrific mass conversion of humans to runners, when literally thousands of the creatures, berserk with raging hunger for human flesh, were vaulting out of cities in massive swarms.

The defenders of this little paradise could never hold out against such a large and relentless onslaught, no matter how brave or how well equipped. There were fires burning, and creatures on all sides of the fort, some rising out of the water, charging from all directions. I could see still more runners approaching in the distance. Many hundreds of dead or incapacitated
monsters littered the field, a tribute to the determination of the fighters within.

Like some horrifying movie, I watched through my rifle scope as the comparatively small numbers within the fortress desperately did what they could to save themselves. There appeared to be no hope for them, no matter how valiantly they fought. Only troops from Camp Puller could have possibly turned the tide in favor of the brave defenders below. Even those warriors would have suffered grave losses in the process.

As I considered the moment, I spotted a dozen or more men, women and children below us, and not far away. They huddled together, watching the tragedy below. I looked at Brick and he nodded, waiting for my move.

We worked our way to the observers cautiously, yet quickly, our little band of children following quietly with us.

As we approached, the sun had just dipped to the horizon behind us, sparkling on the water below, clearly revealing the smoke and growing scope of destruction one last time. I stepped out of the shadows to where I could be seen without causing alarm, followed silently by Brick and Ben. The kids in the group saw me first.

One of the younger teens, seeing me, chirped up softly, “Papa, that’s Nicki Redstone!” And they all turned to look, repeating my name and whispering Brick’s and Ben’s names to each other. There was hope in their eyes - such innocent, heartfelt hope - because of me - because of us. Hope because of what they thought
I could deliver.
Don’t they know I’m just a person? I am not a superhero!
I remained calm and studied this sad assembly.

A small girl said softly her cheeks still wet with tears, “It’s going to be okay now, grandpa!”

I overheard the word ‘scar’ and someone pointed.
Was it that obvious?

Brick tilted his head, smiling slightly in spite of the unfolding tragedy, and then shrugged his shoulders.
Oh well, so what?
I thought.

I looked around, studying their faces, and saw the stares, feeling so small in spite of their renewed hope at my presence.
Oh dear God, must I bear this burden?
I thought as I observed the challenge before me.

It was my worst fear; the one that I never wanted to face again; the one that I had only faced once before, and it haunted my hellish dreams ever since.

A “no escape” scenario
...

Those few men, women and children, who watched in suffering, weeping silence, would do nothing more. They were defeated, demoralized and spent with fatigue, sorrow and fear. What remained of their hopeful community was a funeral pyre of the dead and dying, whose struggle below could still be heard. It would not last long.

What more could these survivors do but hide in silence? Their ammunition was seriously depleted, not even sufficient for their own defense. It was a truly terrifying, tragic situation. The worst that I had yet
seen, and far worse than I had imagined.

I briefly watched the fires burning, as still the runners ripped at the defenders’ remaining walls, freakishly enraged further as their tattered clothes burned around them, lighting the night in hellishly macabre and smokey theater.

These brave frontier families had chosen their home well, situated on a small island. Like a castle of old, it had its mote and drawbridge, but it was designed to deter ordinary thieves in a more peaceful time, and was not capable of holding back a horde of berserk flesh-eaters, especially when they take to the water.