Paul Kirk - Devastation Point

“C’mon.”

“Copy that, Mac,” said Marty.

“Is there still something up there?” asked Rhonda.

Each figured Connor had some plan in mind, though their skepticism suggested confidence was not in large supply.

“Count me in,” said Jackson.

“Yeah, me too,” said Roger.

Jude simply shook his head and followed.

“I’m comin’,” said Cody.

“Shut up and get movin’ guys,” said BB. Impatient, he carried his Bennelli twelve-gauge pump ready to fire, scanning the area. With care, he followed the rest up the steps.

“Who made you fuckin’ king?” muttered Jackson walking beside him.

BB ignored him and the team climbed the stairs until they stepped onto the burnt porch remnants. They all noticed a large jumble of burnt debris. A white-hot fire had burnt the place to the ground many years ago.

“We need to clear out about fifteen feet into that clusterfuck. Right about there.” Connor pointed into the mess.

“How?”

“We move shit around, Cody, that’s how.”

“Oh.”

“Let’s get shakin’. Shouldn’t take more than ten minutes.”

Marty jumped in with Roger and BB, tossing blackened boards and wiring behind them. Jackson and Jude gathered together to move a collapsed piece of charred roof joist that still had slate shingles attached. Once out of the way, they moved several hunks of metal that used to be appliances, light fixtures and second floor beams.

“Cody, keep a sharp eye out around us, all compass points. No distractions, understood?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You’re primary guard for us right now.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I’m gonna prep dinner, Mac,” said Rhonda. She touched Cody’s shoulder with affection and moved to a clear spot off the porch. With care, she pulled several large containers from her pack.

“Sounds good, Rhonda,” said Connor, “Thanks.”

“Roger, give me those two food containers in your pack.”

“Sure, honey.” Roger stopped assisting and moved to the edge. He handed over the containers and kissed his wife before returning to help move a blackened refrigerator.

“Rhonda?” said Connor, taking a brief break.

“Yeah, Mac?”

“I’ll bring some Jasmine rice up for you in a few minutes.”

“Is that right?”

“Yep.”

“Hmm…” Rhonda was not convinced.

“Have some confidence, Rhonda.”

“I do. But remember, I haven’t had fried rice in a long time.”

“Well, you’re in luck right now.” Connor rejoined the removal process and a path was carved to a particular spot designated as their end goal.

“Almost there guys.”

“Sure hope it’s worth it,” said Jackson. He wiped his brow with a bandana, studying the fabric soaked black with dusty soot.

“The first shot of Jack’s for you Jackson.”

“I hear that, sir!”

With BB’s help, Connor pulled a crumpled metal cabinet upwards from where it had lodged into a recessed spot in the main floor of the kitchen. A chipped porcelain sink and burnt fridge were already moved and nearby. Once the cabinet was extracted, there was an obvious entrance into a dark hole beneath the surface—a basement. The team stood around the hole, peering in. Connor’s excitement became contagious.

“Good as gold, now. Jackson, give that light. All you, click on and come on down to door number one.” Before climbing down, Connor checked on Cody. He was satisfied that the boy was keeping a roving eye around the neighborhood. Turning back to the dark hole, he slipped low, disappearing into the dirt basement. The entranceway was cramped and a wafting smell of dirt, mold, and decay billowed upward. Marty followed, ducking his head to negotiate the heavy floor beam that had set the far edge of the hole. He too, slid deep into the dirt basement below. The rest of the team followed.

“There’s all kinda stuff down here, Mac,” said Marty. He flashed his light around and across the cluttered assortment of items near the base of the stairs. Closer at hand, he grabbed several cans of LA Choy Chicken Chow Mein off a tilted shelving unit. He shook the can near his ear.

Behind him, BB did the same with a can of Spam. “We know this stuff’s still good.” The faded label was viewable in the light. “Spam can last a thousand years in these conditions.”

“You got that right, BB. Hey, this Chinese food might still be good,” said Marty. He tried to read the barely legible label of the LA Choy searching for a date stamp.

“Your call, Surf Boy,” said Connor, “That crap has sat out in the elements for quite some time. And I got stuff that’s better.” Focused, Connor pushed his way through a maze of boxes and past an old Singer sewing machine. He stopped at a long wall at the far end of the basement. Quickly, he moved several old toolboxes and a few fishing rods out of the way.

“I found soap here. Irish Spring!” said Roger. In the corner near the shelving unit, he crouched to snatch up a few green boxes. The mice or rats had gnawed at one bar, but the remainder was intact. Excited at the find, he stuffed several bars into his pack. He was the most fastidious of the team concerning hygiene aside from Connor.

“Quit with the incidentals and get over here for the grand opening, c’mon!” said Connor.

Each to his preference, the team seized what they thought was of value off the shelving and shined flashlights toward the far corner. Connor was digging around at chest level on the left edge of a wallboard.

“Surf Boy, grab that other end. You’ll see a small wooden latch chest high.”

“Copy that.”

“It’s only camouflage cover.”

Tossing the large board to the side, their flashlights revealed a recessed steel door with a heavy combination lock. Bending down, Connor blew dust off the lock and dialed in the combination. He slipped the lock and turned to face the men.

“Now, so we’re clear, I have first dibs on my goodies. What’s left you guys can take as much as we can carry.”

“Yep.”

“Alright.”

“Copy that.”

“They’ll be stuff we’re going to bring no matter what, like the Coyote packs.”

“Okay.”

“Jackson, first order of business is some good whiskey to celebrate.”

“Yes, sir!”

“It’ll be located over to the left, far corner, blue plastic container.”

“Okay.”

“See it?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I’ll leave it to you to find the paper cups, too.”

“Will do, Mac.”

“C’mon, let’s get this party started.”

Connor pulled the door open to a small suction sound. “Hey, how ’bout that, the vacuum might’ve held a bit.” Peering inside the dark entrance, he noticed several lights flicker around the sidewalls of a room, twelve foot by fourteen foot in size. One light, near the far end, stayed on while the rest flickered and died. The faint light provided about twenty watts, enough to provide a decent feel for the size and volume of what was inside. It was packed to the ceiling on each side of a small thruway. Mostly, blue containers like those used for clothing storage, were visible though there was an open section that served as a work area. Another light flickered and stayed on.

“I’ll be damned. Never thought any of those battery lights would’ve lasted this long.”

“Wow, Mac!” said Marty.

“Yeah, stuff here’ll give us some breathing room and much needed resupply,” said Connor, pride evident in his voice.

Jackson pushed his heavy frame past Connor and Marty standing at the entrance. “Excuse me, but I do believe there is a bottle of Jack in that corner calling my name.”

“Have at it, Jackson. Hurry up, in fact.”

“Wow,” said Roger. He let his flashlight roam across the boxes. Edging up with BB to the entrance, he stared surprised at the organized stacks and rows.