Paul Kirk - Devastation Point

“Where do you think Phoenix is now?” asked Marty. He came closer after hearing his name mentioned.

“I’m not sure, Surf Boy. Way I figure it, they’re probably trying to regroup somewhere on Route 51 heading south like us. We tried to throw ’em off our trail with hoof prints and footprints leading in other directions, but I’m sure their trackers figured that out quick enough. Hey BB?”

“Yeah, Mac?”

“You estimated, what, those tracks might slow ’em down for about an hour?”

“Yeah, if that.”

“I figure they’ll try to regroup at the Route 51 intersection,” suggested Connor.

“If I may speak some of that ‘psychobabble’?”

“C’mon, John. Say what you have to say.”

“Psychologically, they’ve had some serious setbacks in the last twenty-four hours, especially this evening. Several major negative emotional disruptions have occurred that even a psychopath like Phoenix will have to accommodate. And, I venture to say this was probably the first night that army’s ran straight through without setting camp. Sleep deprivation may come into play.”

“Yeah, go on,” said Connor.

“If they’re sending men up that road, um, Route 51, trying to catch us like you thought and they had to redirect those trucks and equipment off side roads and back on, yeah, that intersection of Route 51 and Brownsville Road is a good spot to reconvene for so many men. Of course, I imagine they’ll send an advance unit of those horse riders once it’s light out.”

“I agree. I’ve been wondering why they didn’t use them after we took our shots at them in Pittsburgh. Any other thoughts?”

“I think Phoenix’s army was in full tracking mode back in town. They hadn’t met up with any resistance or a force to challenge them,” said Captain Daubney. BB nodded in agreement.

“Good point. Sure, but it had to have pissed them off,” said Connor.

“Oh, I bet it did. But, I bet Renaldo’s little stunt did more to piss him off than Phoenix has experienced in a long, long time. A true psychological blow to his frail ego,” said John.

“Colonel,” interrupted Mickey. He lowered his nightvision binoculars and held them out for use, “put your eyes on either side of the road that leads to that gate, sir.”

“Whatta ya got, Top?” asked Connor, reaching for his binoculars.

“There’s bodies hanging from pikes on each side of the road leading up from the town, sir.”

Connor focused on the gate. It was nearly a quarter a mile away, its distance and the darkness making his task more difficult. Though he found it tough to make out any details about the gate, it looked formidable. As his eyes adjusted to the limited lighting and the strange contrast of nightvision images, Connor discovered what had caught the first sergeant’s attention.

Twenty hanging corpses came into focus. Ten hung on long pikes spaced about thirty feet apart on each side of the road and though further details were sketchy, Connor got the impression that these hanging bodies were skeletons.

“Hmm,” said Connor, “Doing an end-around this town will take too long. But passing through Perryopolis might be more difficult than I had expected.”

“So what do you want to do, sir?” asked BB.

“We do what we do best. We recon. We find an acceptable solution. Let’s move.”

“Where’s that damn Rat Pack?” asked Phoenix. He rested on a green army cot near the main doors of the McDonald’s restaurant. The faint light of dawn was better there.

“They’re heading south on Route 51,” said Larry Reed.

“Where’s Luke and his team?”

“I put ’em on ice like you asked. They’re sittin’ in that Slater funeral home across the street. Probably catching some shut eye waiting for mess.”

“An apt place for ’em. Good.”

“He’s not happy ’bout it, nephew.”

“Fuck ’im.”

“Blistering him out there last night in front of his men probably didn’t help matters,” suggested Larry.

“You his mother now?”

“No. Just givin’ it to you straight.”

“Luke needs to be reminded that I reward for success. He had his chance.”

“Yeah, well, he’s developed a loyal following since we left the city. The men seem taken by him, his single-minded drive and passion. His skills.”

“It’s why I put ’im third in charge, but he, and the men, need to be reminded that I only reward results, something that skinny wolf-faced bastard failed to deliver.”

“Well, that’s true.”

“Anyway, how we situated?”

“All trucks and gear accounted for… we got—”

“Uncle?”

“Yeah, Phoenix.”

“No sugar-coating. Lay it all out for me. Full report.”

“Okay.”

“Walk with me.” Phoenix stood, grimacing slightly. Larry Reed pretended not to notice. A slender man sitting on a milk crate behind the cot stood along with Phoenix. The shotgun in his hands was a natural extension of his movements. The Sig Sauer in his shoulder holster was within easy reach. Phoenix waved him away. “Stay here on this one, Tippy.”

“Yes, sir.” Tippy Cup sat down, grateful for the respite.

Phoenix and Larry Reed passed through a cluster of log-sups near the doorway. They were deep in the middle of planning the next phase of the expedition. Pointedly ignoring his uncle’s limp, Larry forced himself to walk as normally as possible and pushed out of the busted door of the dilapidated McDonald’s. Positioned on the corner of Brownsville Road and Route 51, it made for an excellent regrouping after the bungled night.

Most of the time, Larry was able to ignore the pain in his thigh and was pleased to see that the second bandage placed on the wound seeped very little blood. Keeping a slow pace, they walked toward the mess tent in the back parking lot. He heard his stomach growl at the thought of food. An hour past dawn, the men nearby made concerted efforts to appear alert and energized, despite their fatigue. They also took great care to ignore the stilted walk and occasional outright limp of Phoenix or the short, sometimes hesitant step of Larry. No men dared to sit and eat within sight of either man until, or unless, the order was given to make camp. All around, the men not yet assigned to the mess hall tried to appear busy, prepping for the upcoming southern march. They were under the impression that they would continue after the men that had disrupted their night’s sleep.

Larry studied the overcrowded intersection to his left. The brigade commanders were reorganizing men and equipment efficiently into full brigade strengths. The men controlling horses sought space for the task, most drifting toward the asphalt of a large gas station and the parking lot nearby. Commander Kaiden was especially charged up, berating a man who had stumbled directly in front of him. The trucks and other vehicles were converging and organizing in the road, pointing south. Larry pointed.

“Take a look around, Phoenix. The men need sleep. So do you.”

“You tellin’ me what I need now?”

“That foot needs rest.”

“Fuck it.”

“Yeah, that’s exactly what your foot needs to heal.”

“It’s been treated. So is your leg.”

“Sure, Phoenix.”

“I’ll not let my foot slow me down finding that Rat Pack.”

“No, I guess not. Only, the thing is, when we do find them, you’ll be so damn weak, disabled and delirious from a foot infection that you won’t recognize Renaldo or… Gabriella, when we shove them naked in front of you.”

“The hell I won’t.”

“You gotta listen here, nephew! You’re going up against a team that’s like nothin’ we’ve seen before.”