Paul Kirk - Devastation Point

“I’ll have their heads.”

“These guys are top-notch professionals. Serious pros with serious weapons and years of experience in this kinda shit.”

“You don’t know that!”

“Yes, I do! So do you. That explosion was brilliant! It was a perfectly timed disruption and you know it. That crater was not meant to kill, but to slow us down. If you’re not at your best, Phoenix, we don’t stand a chance. You need rest, manic mood or not, you hafta rest. So do the men.”

Approaching the food line, Phoenix and Larry ignored the men slipping out of the way. Once near, Phoenix was immediately handed a grilled goose leg, which he accepted unceremoniously. He bit off a large chunk and ate without passion. Larry was handed his own goose leg and immediately buried his face in the meat as they both exited the tent. Outside the tent door, Larry reached into a plastic bin and pulled out a jug of water.

“How far do you think that professional Rat Pack got away from us?” Phoenix lifted his left hand to mimic quotes around the word, sneering with sarcasm. He bit into the goose leg with more passion. Walking slowly, they returned and entered the McDonald’s restaurant.

“They’re human, they gotta sleep, too. So not far.”

“You think they ran all night.”

“Yeah, probably. I would.”

“Where you think they’re going?

“I dunno, Phoenix, several brigade leaders think these guys are heading to Washington, DC.”

“I see.”

“It’s on the right path.”

“Hunh. You think they’re going to hook up with Starkes somewhere on the way?”

“Don’t know. Though, the Bitch did fly over, as you might recall.”

“You pushing my buttons, uncle?”

“No, just not sugar-coating like you asked.”

“Good. Go on.”

“You think Starkes knows where this fuckin’ Rat Pack is? This Colonel Connor MacMillen?”

“It’s still only a possibility that the guys we’re huntin’ are Connor MacMillen and… I don’t know.” Larry Reed was not as sold on the fact that they were hunting this Colonel MacMillen, though Luke was sure they were on the path of the same unit that had interrupted their nighttime attack at the Hall.

“Uncle, I think this MacMillen was obviously here and so was the Bitch, as you so kindly pointed out. Perhaps they’re on the same path across country, don’t you think?”

“Not necessarily, I think that Bitch and her bird tracked us who was tracking a bunch of men, who could possibly be him, so, no, I’m not sold on the fact that they’re in any way connected. Though, based on what we know from Starkes’ brief stay in Cleveland, they are looking for him, too.”

“You gotta think bigger, uncle. Think strategy more than tactics for a moment. It wouldn’t have been so hard for Starkes to find us like she did. But much earlier, you know? It’s not like we’re leaving a small carbon footprint.”

“That’s true.”

“But at the same time, I’m beginning to wonder—”

“Wonder what?”

“Well, we don’t see one hair of that Bitch on this entire excursion until she shows up in Pittsburgh, right when we start to hone in.”

“Good point. That’s true. We shoulda heard from her before this.”

“I know. That’s what I’m thinkin’.”

“I see.”

“I think somehow there’s a connection we’re missing here. That’s why I’m sold that the guys we’re after are MacMillen and his Rat Pack friends. We should start thinkin’ of them as more of a coordinated team.”

“So how’s that change things?”

“Well, it makes me keep a closer eye in the sky as we track down our little rats for extermination.”

“Okay.”

“I want at least three RPGs ready to fire with men scanning the sky at all times. I will not be caught with my pants down again, you got me?”

“I do. That’s been a standing order since the hit.”

“Good. Now give me a full report of where we stand.”

“It’s not pretty.”

“War never is, uncle. Lay it out now for me.”

“We got fifty-one trucks left, all having switched over to their thirty gallon reserve tanks. Most switched this morning though a few got a gallon or so left in the mains.”

“What about the two fifty-five gallon drums?”

“Still got ’em.”

“Split the load across ten trucks and dump the containers.”

“Okay.”

“Each of the trucks got two spares and only six are without CBs now. We’re down to twelve quads. We can recover parts from the quads at the mill on the way back to rebuild possibly four. “

“The bikes?”

“Two of them gummed up. Other than that, all good. Finicky, but good.”

“The horses?”

“Lost five of the Fourth brigades to some kinda infection. One horse snapped his foreleg in a deep rut.”

“The infection contagious?”

“No.”

“That leaves us, what, 200 horses?”

“201. Correct.”

“How’s feed?”

“We’re good, they’ve been grazing, so no problem.”

“Now that it’s almost daylight, should we run some of ’em up ahead?”

“Yeah, probably, after everyone’s rested for at least… eight hours.”

“You make sense, uncle. Give the order for eight hours rest. Send three brigades dead on after the Rat Pack once they’ve rested. I agree with your assessment.”

“Thank you.”

“Set the rest of the men to follow an hour later. Feed the men full now and make sure to have ’em all eat again upon rising. I want them stuffed to the gills. Send the log sups out on the road immediately at the eight-hour mark to clear a path. They’ll stay an hour ahead of us clearing debris.”

“You got it.”

“When you’re done with that shit, come back and continue with the update. Bring Tippy Cup in for that.”

“Okay.” Larry turned to leave, but was stopped.

“Uncle?”

“Yeah?”

“My army’s the most supreme fighting force bar none in today’s new world order.”

“I know it.” Larry took a quick stroll toward the gas stations, waving several brigade leaders in his direction.

Phoenix was pleased to have eight hours of rest, though he still burned with an intense anger toward Renaldo and his sister Gabriella. Furious, he pressed hard against the gauze atop his left foot simply to feel the pulse of pain. “You’re not gonna make it to where you’re going alive, little Renaldo… I’ll see to that.”

“Ma’am, it’s 14:00 and we’re fifteen minutes out from our initial recon of the primary rendezvous at 18:00.”

“Thanks, major.”

The Superhawk banked sharply in elevation behind a large flock of crows.

“Coming up on the east side of Pittsburgh now,” said Shamus on the intercom.

“What’s this area? Nicole held the headset pressed to her ears, waiting for somebody to respond above the noise.

“Monroeville,” answered Shamus, “what’s left of it.”

Monroeville, in the eastern outskirts of the city proper was, essentially, a huge desolate wasteland, minimally covered in weeds and overgrowth. Nothing grew for miles around, and they all took the opportunity to scan the countryside from the side windows.

“It’s crap brown and dead as far as I can see,” said Nicole.

“Same on my side, “ said Amanda.

“There,” said GT.

“I see it,” said Scott.

“See what?” asked Nicole.

“The explosion and chemical burn that probably started this disaster and wasteland,” said GT.

Several huge silos, ten in all, were twisted, buckled, and scorched. A few were split wide-open at the bottom, as if dropped hard from 10,000 feet. Dried up orange streaks, large as two-lane blacktop, marked the path of the silo contents downhill.