Paul Kirk - Devastation Point

“Damn,” whispered Major O’Malley. Nobody heard him say it—he had not yet activated his intercom link and the helicopter’s rotors had achieved the speed necessary to lift off. The mild oath of admiration was lost to the volume of the whining engines.

Colonel Starkes studied the digitized photograph attached to the report and was surprised to find that Nicole’s drawing of Connor MacMillen was perfectly on target. In a photograph transmitted by a deteriorating satellite, Hannah Starkes recognized the aura of a man for whom, had she met him prior to H5N1 and during his military career, she would have immense respect. She was surprised to discover that this was important to her.

Colonel Starkes caught Shamus’ eyes and twirled her finger in the air in a non-verbal command to lift off. The bird immediately left the ground and banked sharply over the trees to the east, the passengers busy with their own thoughts about Colonel Connor P. MacMillen.

The raw data that she had assimilated agreed perfectly with the photograph. This man was a born leader. He had survived H5N1, traveled from the west coast of Australia to the United States in a world turned upside down by the Cuckoo Flu. He was certainly making his way somewhere. He had a destination in mind—apparently, somewhere south of Pittsburgh. She needed to find this man. He had not only survived H5N1, but also was able to breed.

Besides the coveted cigarettes, their recent encounter with Marty’s cohorts had netted Amanda and Connor nine additional twelve-gauge shotgun shells. They would spend the next few days searching for a new shotgun to replace his old Mossberg although he had carried the weapon all the way from Sydney and was loathe to part with it. But the slide action had jammed the week before and, although he had stopped for three hours to disassemble the weapon and check all the moving parts, he was unable to determine the specific cause of the malfunction. From that moment, the weapon became a liability. Connor Mac no longer trusted the weapon and that lack of total trust led to a lack of confidence. The lack of confidence could well be the cause of his or Amanda’s death if they didn’t find a dependable weapon to replace it.

It would be difficult to part with the Mossberg—it had served him faithfully for so many years. But he had little doubt that he would come across a suitable replacement quickly. Civilian weapons were not in short supply. On the contrary, there were thousands—probably hundreds of thousands—available for the taking. What was rare, extremely rare, was available ammunition. Shotgun ammo, 9mm, .45, .223 Remington, 22LR and 30.06 cartridges were the favorite choices of scavengers. These calibers of ammunition had been the first to go when the Sickness hit. Finding it now was highly unlikely though it still existed. The problem was that it existed in secret caches all over the United States and only dead men knew locations.

“You okay, Mac?”

“Sure,” he answered. Amanda knew there was something wrong, but didn’t want to push it. Mac would either talk about it or not, regardless of any attempt to draw him out. What she didn’t know was that this was something he wouldn’t talk about. He couldn’t describe his own feelings to himself, or maybe when he did, it felt irrational to him. The facts were that the weapon had jammed, that you can’t trust a weapon after it jammed, and that there were plenty of other weapons around if you knew where to find them. What bothered him about the situation, what he was unable to put into words, was the attachment you can develop with a weapon that has rarely, if ever, strayed out of reach twenty-four hours a day and 365 days a year for so many years. It’s not a connection that’s easy to give up, whether or not it’s rational.

They didn’t often walk and travel side by side. Their movements were normally a series of leapfrogs—she moved 200 yards ahead of his covering position and found cover, and he moved to another covering position 200 yards ahead of her. At the beginning of the day, Connor had said that they could walk side by side and she hadn’t questioned this—she was too happy with the prospect of sharing his company. Unfortunately, she’d found that his demeanor today was unusually surly.

He often used these walks to further advance her military education, but today he offered nothing and this put Amanda in a funk of her own.

Connor had, without explanation, vetoed her request to explore the area, specifically an apartment complex they’d passed less than an hour ago. She had learned to trust his judgment, but was curious about his reasons. “Why couldn’t we just take a small detour and check out a few of those apartments, huh?”

Surprisingly, his anger was immediate. “How fucking long have I been doing this? Huh?” he yelled, their faces mere inches apart.

“I don’t know, Mac,” she answered, intimidated by the rare display of negative emotion.

“Long enough to have seen hundreds of military situations!”

“Umm…”

“If it wasn’t for my military training, we’d both be fuckin’ dead by now!” He walked away quickly, his body language forbidding her to follow. He stopped at the edge of the wooded area they were traversing and surveyed the broad field beyond.

Amanda waited in place for a few minutes before joining him. He was breathing heavily from the recent emotional encounter, but as she recognized this, his breathing settled into a more normal rhythm.

“Mac, what’s wrong?”

“Nothing.” His eyes continued to scan the field, refusing to face her.

“C’mon, Mac, please . Something’s eating at you. Tell me,” she pleaded.

“I need a new weapon to go with my M4. I can’t trust the Mossberg anymore and I have a bad feeling that I’m gonna need a shotgun soon. Close quarters, broad spread. Point and shoot. That Mossberg has saved my life on more than one occasion, but I gotta ditch it… I just can’t trust it anymore.” He lifted his binoculars and continued to scan the field. “Over the years, I’ve learned to trust this feeling. It’s like my mind is seeing something I’m not. Like some kinda convergence pattern or something—I dunno. But I’m alive now because I’ve never ignored that feeling.” He dropped the binoculars from his eyes and looked at her. “Never.”

Amanda dropped her gaze and absently rubbed the wooden stock of her Remington, comforted by the silky smoothness. “Okay, Mac. We’ll find one for you. One you’re happy with.”

Connor turned to her and smiled. “Snuff, how about we do some sub-hunting?” The anger was gone and, after three months together, Amanda recognized that this was one of Connor’s ways of apologizing. He nodded for her to glance across the wild soyfield and she sensed his building enthusiasm. He knew that sub-hunting was one of her favorite hobbies.

“Sure, Mac,” she answered. “On one condition.”

“What’s that?”

“That you quit calling me ‘Snuff’.”

Connor laughed, the last remnants of tension easing out of the air.

“Sure, Snuff. And light up now, if you want. You won’t have a chance for another smoke for at least five, maybe six hours. We’re gonna have to shift to urban assault mode. Full prep. See what you learned.”

“Yes!”

The prospect of treasure hunting in the plush subdivision neighborhoods was almost too much for Amanda. Indeed, she found such exploration tantalizing in that all the homes were so neatly arranged into organized packets of opulent wealth. Granted, most would have been picked over by some prior hunters and scavengers, and, taken over by weeds and rot, but you never knew what you might find. A bottle of wine. A pack of smokes. An absolutely glorious can of Chef Boyardee ravioli.