THE KILLER ANGEL : Book Three "Journey" (THE KILLER ANGEL TRILOGY 3) (7 page)

You may be surprised to learn that Nicki Redstone was not cocky or arrogant, as some have suggested - not in the least. She was, in many respects, quite a humble, even self-effacing person. And humorous? One would not think that someone in such a grim line of work could be comedic, but her wit and timing often kept me cheerfully relaxed in situations that could easily have been completely demoralizing. If you can for a moment, imagine the toothy, overbite expression, with half closed eyes that Nicki once directed at me as we listened to some snobby and vacuous former opera prima donna blather on about her own magnificence,
then you would understand why I nearly turned purple trying to politely contain my laughter. It was this same witty display – or something similar – that she would unfold at some otherwise frightening moment, effectively turning fear into courage.

Above all else, though, Nicki always displayed an unmistakeable aura of mature, proven confidence, a characteristic that was gained through experience and triumph.

It is true that Nicki suffered at night, in sleep. I would sometimes wake in apprehension at the sounds of a struggle, only to see her hands pushing at something in the air, sometimes her legs would kick out. Even in darkness, I could see her face burning with anger, and sometimes I saw fear - the only time I witnessed the expression on her beautiful face. Ben and I both worried for her. Sometimes he would nudge her into relaxation, and sometimes I would speak quiet phrases of French to ease her to softer dreams. Out of necessity, she was sensitive to sound – we all were.

Nicki Redstone was born for this world, this I believe. She was, is, and forever shall be my friend, my daughter, my blood-sister, and even my mother. I stand by her always.

“Nicki”

W
E APPROACHED Brick’s South Dakota homestead from the northwest in the mid-afternoon on a clear, warm day, stopping on a grass covered bluff to survey the land and catch our breath. Ben rolled in the turf, scratching his back with obvious pleasure.

“I’m thinking of upgrading my
equipage.”
Brick announced, wiping sweat from his brow, watching Ben.

“Oui?”
I sensed a bit of Brick Charbonneau banter “In what way, oh Great Hunter?”

“Full body armor,” he said, drawing in a deep breath, “I mean full, head to toe, like a football player; face-mask, helmet, gaiters...the whole thing. I wouldn’t even need a gun.”

“I would pay a dollar to see that. Seriously.”

“A whole United States greenback...the
Québécois
are truly a generous people.” Brick grinned.

“I really can see it, though,” I continued, “the next biker-type that we see, give him your best,
‘I need your clothes, your boots and your motorcycle’.”

“Hah...not too shabby, Nicki.
Terminator Deux?
I never heard
‘Ahnold’
in a woman’s voice. Nice twist.”

“I do what I can...”

Then, from Brick, “How about this one,
‘It’s not a tuma... not a tuma.’
”

“Meh. Not awful. It’s overdone. Give me something
new.” I replied.

“An opportunity to break into the
biz?
Indeed, I shall work on it.”

“Seriously, though, full body armor? It’s not a bad idea, really,” I acknowledged. “In some of the tight spots we’ve found ourselves, armor like that would have been nice. Of course, it would be hot and would slow us to a walk on the long haul, but in the Pinebluff fight? Damn!”

“On a more serious note, Nicki,” Brick paused for a moment, “You know that I am half French-Creole and half Lakota-Sioux.”

I nodded.

“My parents raised me to respect and enjoy both cultures. My wife, on the other hand, is a very modern woman, but she is a full Sioux sister.” Brick considered for a few seconds, “She and her family sometimes felt that I was too ‘white’, and not entirely in tune with the history of our people, especially the mistreatment that our nation suffered through much of the last century. One would think that in this Armageddon such things would not matter, but I wanted to prepare you, just in case. It would be nothing personal towards you, even though it may feel that way.”

Brick paused to solidify his thought; then, “What I ask you to remember, Nicki Redstone, is that I am your friend - always and forever - and I will stand between you and...everything. Nothing is more important than that. Not my life and not my wife.”

Brick’s home - It was evident that someone still lived there, since a small vegetable garden was maintained next to the pleasant, isolated two-story structure, and the front porch was swept clean. Weeds had not overtaken the walkway, and cows grazed nearby. All in all, a very normal, pastoral scene in a post-apocalypse land.

As we came to within shouting distance, Brick yelled out, “Hello, is anyone home?” Eventually, there was movement behind a window curtain, then the door opened slowly. We remained in full view to give the occupants a moment to inspect us.

Finally a lady stepped out, then an older man. “My wife and my uncle.” Brick explained in a low tone.

We walked forward. I was surprised at the low key welcome, almost as though Brick had only been gone for the morning, yet it had been two years since he was last home.

“This is my friend, Nicki Redstone...and Ben.” Brick made the introductions. It was evident that they knew who I was, but the response from Brick’s wife was nevertheless very formal and without cheer, although the uncle was somewhat more lively.

Brick’s wife, Susan, a raven haired, dark-eyed and beautiful woman, made some unintelligible comment, to which Brick admonished, “Please speak English; we
have guests.”

Susan examined Brick with a brief, neutral expression, then proceeded to politely ask me into her home, with only the slightest hint of a smile on her lips.

In spite of being courteously invited inside, I did not feel welcome, and had the distinct feeling of some ill-will directed towards me. Ben was essentially ignored, although he too was invited indoors. It was not the triumphant homecoming that I had expected and hoped for Brick, but he did not seem surprised, although I had the impression that the presence of the uncle was unexpected and maybe even somewhat annoying. Possible drama in the post-apocalyptic world for my great friend.
Damn
.

Although there were undertones of something negative, we enjoyed a meal that was entirely satisfactory, comprised of a good variety of prepared dishes, some of which were fresh off of the vine.

Brick and his wife took a walk outside before the sun had set, while his uncle, Ben and I relaxed near the fireplace, engaged in idle conversation. Brick’s and Susan’s home was tastefully decorated in modern style, with many native American contributions, and even a few pieces of New Orleans artwork. Overall, a comfortable and homey effect. Even so, I was uneasy at detecting no sign of children.

Later in the evening, I was provided a comfortable bed in a small room upstairs. I noticed that Brick’s wife retired to her room alone. I wanted to stand by my life
and death friend, to give him a loyal ear, but the circumstances were not right, and the necessary distance from my warrior friend made me ache to be back on the road. I did not like it there, and I felt deep resentment towards anyone who would mistreat this gentle, yet brave man, or cause him any pain whatsoever. In any other circumstance, I could and would take forthright action, as is my nature, but it was not my place to be so bold there. I could feel sadness in this great man who had become my brother. I felt weak and powerless to help him, a situation and feeling that I detested to my core. As my anger and frustration grew, I knew that I must press on without delay.

In the morning, the world seemed brighter. The air was cool, and Brick’s uncle was inquisitive and affable. He had learned of a few of our adventures, but asked us to fill in gaps, or to correct distortions presented on the radio or by those extremely rare gossip carrying travelers who were actually heading somewhere east, when all others were moving west.

Eventually, Brick and I had a few moments alone.

“I guess I’m not the white captive they were looking for.” I joked, remembering a bit of humor that Brick had placed upon me early in our friendship.

“Ah, Nicki,” Brick replied, “How can I apologize for someone like her, but I do so anyway; and I do not
know what to make of this long absent uncle. Unfortunately, there are very few others left in the area, but it is home and I am here.” Then he paused heavily.

“My boys did not make it, Nicki. They fell ill later in the epidemic. They did not share my resistance.” My heart broke for my dearest friend as he softly shared the tragic news. Of all the sadness in this new world, Brick’s loss cut especially deep, and I could barely maintain my own calm. I would do anything for this knight-errant, yet I could do nothing more than offer heartfelt words and my shoulder – feeling so inadequate.

Brick knew that I could not linger. When I departed, he would remain with his wife, as was planned all along, but the arrangement seemed, to me at least, incorrect and unnatural. Nevertheless, I knew my friend well, and understood that he would honor his oath and obligations, unreasonable though those seemed.

The next morning, shortly after dawn, I said my final farewell to the closest, most dear friend that I had ever known, and moved on down the road.

Discarding the bike, and traveling only with Ben, I felt more at home in my old style of quick-paced travel. I would have to become re-accustomed to moving and surviving alone, and forced myself to think of anything
but my loneliness. It felt almost as though Brick had died, as I was not certain that I would ever see his noble and understanding face again. God, it was so terribly difficult and lonely. The unknown lay ahead, and it filled me with foreboding.

At night I would often scan various radio frequencies to gather whatever news was available. More and more, there were survivors passing on updates and advice. There was some speculation about my location and situation, which is understandable given that I had avoided contact with most travelers. Also, there was a request from a small group of survivors in Maine who wanted to make it to Hedley. They wanted advice on weapons, handling runners, secure travel, and so on. I would have taught them all that I knew, but there simply was no way to deliver the information, unfortunately. I could not be everywhere at once.