Paul Kirk - Devastation Point

“Hmm… I am calm.”

“Calmer then.”

“Get me across this damn bridge.”

“Workin’ on it.”

A few miles of slow travel had led them through the outskirts of a small city called Emsworth and near Manchester until they approached an onramp of the West End Bridge. From all appearances, the bridge was structurally sound.

Watching Larry stroll back to the bridge, Phoenix exited the truck, moving around with suppressed energy. Serving as his primary guard, Sinclair jumped from the truck bed as well and landed with barely a sound despite his huge bulk. Staying close, he kept a few steps behind Phoenix, eyes alert for imminent dangers in this unknown territory. His sawed-off Remington 870 would create quite an impressive close-range spread, if need be.

“Make sure you point that away from me, Sin.”

“Always, sir.”

Phoenix angled up to a battered Sheetz convenience store fifty yards from their convoy. Ignoring the thirty or forty brown rats running around the entrance, he decided to take a closer peek inside. Sinclair jumped in front of him, making a point to go first once Phoenix’s intentions were clear. Smiling, Phoenix graciously waved him forward. After clearing the store, Phoenix slipped in through the crumpled doors and simply stared at the smashed coolers, racks and shelving. Despite the mess, the place had been cleaned out of every usable scrap of value. He wondered what the rats still found interesting.

“Not much of a convenience store anymore, is it Sin?”

“No, sir.”

“Think I’ll take a short nap. It’s cooler in here.”

“Yes, sir.”

Phoenix settled atop the counter, brushing a few empty wrappers and dust from the top. He rested the Judge on his chest and settled into a deep sleep while Sinclair patiently stood at the door. About an hour later, Phoenix woke, stood, pissed in a corner and strolled past Sinclair.

“Let’s hope those lazy bastards are done by now.”

“Yes, sir.”

Phoenix found Larry returning from the bridge.

“Just comin’ to find ya,” said Larry.

“The bridge clear yet?

“Not quite. Close. Being cleared as quick as we can.”

“Not quick enough.”

Phoenix turned and headed toward his truck. He needed a fresh cigar and decided to wait there, as good a place as any. Settled in and leaning back with the door open, he heard the men atop the ramp yelling orders, clearing the bridge. Absently, he rubbed his crotch a few times, angry at not bringing at least a few of the newer young girls on the mission, for ‘moral support’ for him and his men. His thoughts drifted quickly to the young girl supplied to him by Luke at the mill. She certainly was a feisty one. Too bad she’d tried to run away on wobbly legs. Mentally kicking himself, he’d forgotten the important lessons learned during his short war with Erie and the eventual conquest. Brutal men needed sexual release to maintain control. His men were getting a bit edgy in the heat. But, shifting focus, he studied the sweat dripping from the dirty face of Larry Reed, who had followed him to the truck.

“Where’s progress now exactly, Uncle?”

“We’re ’bout three quarters of the way clear.”

“And where, pray tell… are the Twenty-first, Eleventh, and Fourteenth brigades at this time?”

“Still traveling with Luke.”

“I know that! Where are they located, exactly?”

“They’ve sifted through the city from the north since mid-morning. They’re on the Liberty Bridge. Town side.”

“You’re fuckin’ sure we’re still on Connor MacMillen’s trail?”

“Quite possibly, yes.”

“And he and that Rat Pack team of his are the same people that hid out at the mill?”

“Yeah. Luke’s sure of it. The horses make tracking ’em easy, he says.”

”Where they hell’s my update?”

“Luke’s set to provide an update on channel twelve in ten minutes.”

“Good. Bring me up to speed, ya hear? I’m gonna take a look myself to see what the fuck’s going on up there. Maybe motivate the men.”

“Yeah. But, you might, ah, be safer back here.”

“C’mon, unc, you worried ’bout me?”

“Nah, but I’d rather you sit back and let the men get it done.”

“Uh, huh. But maybe I don’t give a fuck right now.”

“Your call—”

“Damn right it’s my call. Alright. I’ll sit tight. Let me know.”

“Thank you.”

“Grab a beer or two for your walk back. You’re sweating like a pig, uncle.”

“Ah, yeah, that I am.”

Phoenix exited the truck, too irritated to stay inside. He looked into the truck bed as Larry dropped the tailgate and snatched two bottles from one of the last fifteen cases of homemade beer. Larry grabbed a third bottle and held it out. Phoenix stared.

“What?”

“Take one ya bastard. Or is it too early in the day for you?”

Phoenix took the beer and turned toward his driver and guard. He took a moment to study Sinclair, who was coming around from the front of the vehicle, and Titmouse, staring out the windshield with his hands on the wheel.

“You two sad fucks, grab a few beers while you wait.”

“Yes sir,” said Titmouse. He popped open the driver’s door and headed back to the tailgate.

“Sir?” asked the guard, “I’ll pass. I’m still on duty.”

“Sin, if I need you, you’ll do just fine with three or four beers in ya. You hear me?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Besides, I got Larry. See? Relax. Have a beer. I don’t like to drink alone.”

“Yes, sir. Thank you.”

“Don’t mention it. Ridin’ with me today would drive any man to want a drink.”

“That’s probably true,” said Larry. Smiling, he made his way to the bridge to check on the progress of the log-sups.

“Target acquired. That scout is ex-military or advance recon from back in the day. Moves pretty good.”

“I see him, Surf Boy. Yeah, the one in the green shirt and black pants near the Jersey barriers?”

“Yeah.”

“Take ’im.”

The shot rang out before Connor finished the last word. Peering through binoculars, he watched the man drop hard on the concrete. The man’s chest exploded in a bright blossom of red on green.

“Chose targets at will.”

Marty fired four more shots, expertly operating the bolt of the M40A1. Each completed shot triggered a shift in target acquisition focus so smooth and unparalleled that it seemed as if each shot was already a predetermined event. Connor watched each man crumple to the ground while the rest of the men scrambled back down the onramp.

“Impressive.” At this first true display of Marty’s prowess, Connor acknowledged the remarkable skill and training involved in making each shot. Clearly, Marty was all that he’d suggested he was, though there was never really any doubt.

“Thank you.”

“Go, go! To the West End Bridge!”

In one fluid motion, Marty slipped a new magazine into the M40A1 after blowing off imaginary dust. Carefully, he glassed the bridge with his riflescope and settled into target acquisition mode. BB served as spotter, providing range, windage and target selection updates.

“See that tubby man with the bandana? I think he’s running the bridge clearing operation. How about him, Mac?” asked Marty.

Connor studied the man wearing an orange and brown bandana. “Got ’em. Yeah, near the overturned rig. He’s definitely running the show.”

BB shifted to the overturned rig and began range and windage updates. “Take him, Surf Boy.”

“Hold on.”

“What?”