Paul Kirk - Devastation Point

“I know, Mac, but it had to be asked.”

“John, you should know me better by now.”

“It had to be said, Mac. You’ve spent five solid years getting back here. The effort and motivation it took to do that—to make it this far—is incredible and a testament to your skills and determination. I only wanted to gauge where your head is, okay?”

Connor’s expression toward the man softened. “You don’t need to worry, John. We’ll ensure the safety of our unit one way or another. You have my word on that.”

“I know that, Mac. But, I wanted to hear it stated out loud.”

“Well then, you just did.”

“Okay. And, so you know, I feel better asking it even if I pissed you off.”

“No John, I guess you had a right to ask.” Connor placed a hand on John’s shoulder as they walked.

On safer ground, John laughed. “Did you see those sorry bastards at the Olive Garden?” asked McLeod.

Near the end of the first hour of their march, they passed a strip mall full of human activity. They passed several restaurants, all located close to the road; Denny’s, Pizza Hut, Red Lobster, Burger King, Olive Garden, and Applebee’s. Each was in various stages of decay or destruction. On the other side of the massive parking lot and furthest from Route 51 were a line of stores; Payless Shoes, Toys ‘R’ Us, Macy’s, Bed Bath and Beyond, Office Depot, Radio Shack, and several other smaller stores that either didn’t have signs or the signs were too small to read from the road.

“Yeah, I saw them. What the hell were they doing?”

A large bonfire had been burning in the parking lot beside the Olive Garden. A group of twenty people, a few of them women, danced around the fire in various states of undress and were oblivious to the passing of Connor’s group.

“I wonder if it was some ritualistic mating dance,” said McLeod. “Maybe it was only a bunch of drunks. I saw two people walking outta the Olive Garden with bottles of wine in their hand. They probably discovered remnants in the wine cellar and were throwing a party. Do you think we should’ve warned ’em?”

“What? About Phoenix and his approaching hoard? No, let ’em fend for themselves. Any group that size that isn’t more discreet about their partying deserves what they get.”

They continued their walk and passed a car dealership. Pleasant Hills Chrysler said the sign. The cars in the lot were lined up waiting for consumers that wouldn’t come. They were brand new vehicles—the white stickers were visible in the moonlight. Someone had taken the time to throw a concrete block at a windshield, shattering it and denting the hood, and Connor wondered why someone would have expended the effort.

“Do you think that’s callous of me, John? Would you have preferred that I warn those people?”

“No, not at all. I think you would give them warning if you had the time to explain the situation. But you don’t know their attitude regarding strangers and you’d waste too much time trying to explain the danger to people who appear unable to understand it. Your first priority in this case was, and should be, the people under your command.”

Connor nodded, not needing confirmation that he made the right decision, but happy to hear it all the same. He spoke into his radio. “Rear guard, this is Mac. I’d like a status report. Over.”

“This is the rear guard, Mac. All’s quiet one click back. Over.”

“Surf Boy, is that you? Over.”

“Copy that, Mac. Over.”

“You were given orders to stay with the main force, soldier. Over.”

“Yeah, Mac, sorry about that. I feel fine. Besides, I’d rather be running overwatch—it’s my specialty. Over.”

“Okay, Surf Boy, but no more than an hour before you get your ass back here. Over.”

“Copy that, Mac. Out.”

“Do you think that’s wise, Mac? Letting Marty disobey a direct order?”

“I don’t know, John. Marty was with me before we joined you guys. All I know is that Marty’s not a soldier that would willfully disobey. He wouldn’t defy my orders if they pertained to something important. I think he sees it more as helping out and, in this case, knows his capabilities better than I do. If he gets tired, he’ll come in.”

“I see. Okay.”

Another hour brought them to the crest of the hill overlooking the Monongahela River. At the bottom of the hill was the Elizabeth Bridge, spanning about five hundred feet across the river. From the top of the hill, about a mile away, it seemed intact and Connor hoped that was the case—it would take them too long to detour to another bridge.

“Front guard,” said Connor into his radio. “This is command. How close are you to that bridge? Over.”

“About a hundred yards, colonel. Over.”

“If everything’s clear, go check out that bridge and report back with its status. I’m interested in knowing if anything’s gonna hold us back. Over.”

“Copy that, sir. Give us five minutes. Out.”

Connor and McLeod continued their fast pace, waiting patiently for word about the bridge’s condition. Connor went through his options if the bridge were impassable. He decided that his best bet would be to follow the river upstream and cross into Donora by way of the bridge along route 136.

When he had decided that would be his path, his radio squawked. “Colonel, this is the front guard, sir. Do you copy? Over.”

“Yeah, I copy. You have a status report for me? Over.”

“Yes, sir. No hostiles seen in the area. There’s a couple cars blocking the bridge. But a few men would be able to muscle one of ’em outta the way. That would leave enough room for the horses, sir. Over.”

“Okay, nice job. Listen, I want you guys to wait for us on that bridge—we should be there in about ten minutes. While you’re waiting, I want one of you to stand guard and the other to figure out a way to destroy the bridge after we cross. Understand? Over.”

“Yes, sir, I copy. Out.”

McLeod considered Connor’s request to the front guard. “Mac, that’d be great if we could destroy that bridge. How far away is the next one?”

“The Mansfield Bridge is downstream, closer to Pittsburgh, but it’s a good ten miles away. Route 136 goes over the river about six or seven miles upstream. Either way, it’s a good distance outta their way. And, the condition of those bridges is questionable. They might be destroyed or otherwise impassable. If we could make this one fall into the river, it would buy us a shitload of time.”

“I guess that would depend on if we have enough explosives to destroy the bridge.”

“Well, that’s the other thing—I’m not sure I wanna use our explosives. Maybe we’ll find a different way to take out the bridge, John. Though I can’t imagine how.”

“Are you suggesting that you put your front guard on a problem that can’t be solved?”

“Not at all. They’re at the bridge and we’re not. They may as well search for ways to destroy the structure—the worst they can tell me is they couldn’t find a way. The best they can do is have a solution to the problem when we arrive. Do I think that’s likely? No, but funnier things have happened.”

They increased their pace by tacit agreement. In minutes, they had arrived at the bridge. The front guard turned out to be Edgars and Rice.

“Colonel,” said Edgars, “we haven’t found anything that could destroy the bridge, sir. Not unless we use our remaining explosives.”

“Okay, keep looking.” The first sergeant joined them on the north end of the bridge. “Top, I need your help.”

“What’s up, colonel?”

“I’d like to find a way to blow this bridge, but I don’t know if we have enough explosives. Got any ideas?”