Paul Kirk - Devastation Point

“You’re cold, and wet!”

“I am most definitely not cold right now.”

“Yeah, well, your face and hair is.”

“Oh, my face, yeah, maybe my face.”

They kissed and stayed that way for a moment, before Andy lowered her to the bench and gently held himself above her, brushing back the hair from her eyes. Terry slipped her hands from his shoulders and let them settle on his hard triceps.

“I love you, T.”

“I love you, Andy.”

“You don’t have to worry about keepin’ me happy.”

“Oh, but I will.”

“I’ll work hard to make you happy, T.”

“You won’t have to work at it most times, you know that.”

“Well, I aim to please.”

“That you do, buster.”

“Shall I carry you off into those woods and show you?”

“Hmm, as much as that sounds good, let’s eat, I’m starving.”

“Hmm, yeah, me too. C’mon.” Andy stood, holding out his hand. Terry took it and was quickly raised, as if she weighed nothing more than a feather.

“What’s for dessert?” Andy asked.

Wrapping an arm around his waist, they walked toward the cottage, each happy for what the bright future seemed to hold. “I got a little something I’m cooking up.”

“I make four guards on the main gate towers. Their weapons are probably all full autos and the tower appears to be reinforced. The guards are relaxed—talking to each other, but they continue to scan the area while they talk. Over.”

“Understood, Top. What’s your take, Surf Boy?” asked Connor.

Marty had silently slipped into his current location and made himself comfortable in his sniper nest. He was on a slight elevation that permitted some viewing access into the town. There was little likelihood he would be discovered—his location was in the midst of a small but dense copse of trees, hidden from the gate tower view. He was amazed that the leaders in the little town of Perryopolis hadn’t removed this bunch of old oaks—they were the only substantial cover on the hillside for more than a thousand yards. But then again, he was 200 yards out from the gate. At the moment, he was scanning the gate towers and the visible buildings beyond. He discovered something unusual and adjusted his binoculars focus to be sure.

The radio squawked again. “I repeat, Surf Boy, what’s your take? Do you copy?”

Marty reached for the radio without losing sight of the town. “Sorry, Mac,” he said, “I copy. I’ve located two snipers—they’re sitting in second floor windows in town, one on each side of the main drag. They’re about fifty yards inside the gate. Over.”

“Copy that, Surf Boy. Give me details, over.”

“They have hunting rifles. I’d say a Marlin 30/30 on the left and a long gun, probably a Winchester, on the right, both on homemade tripods. Four guards in the gate towers, but nothing else. There’s some civilian population moving around. Over.”

“Copy that, Surf Boy.”

“I think those snipers are there as reinforcements for the gate tower guards—they would have excellent coverage if there was a breach. Over.”

“Do they have spotters? Over.”

“Yeah,” answered Marty. He took a second to adjust the focus of his scope. “They’re a chatty bunch—clucking away like hens. They’re well placed though—set back from the open windows. Over.”

“Do you have clear shots to everyone? Over.”

“Sure,” said Marty. His position on the hillside was higher in elevation than any target he had. “I got elevation—it’d be a piece a cake. All I need is the green light and they’re history. Over.”

“That’s good to hear, Surf Boy.” Marty was surprised to hear John McLeod’s voice over the radio. There were five radios operating at the moment, all tuned to channel three and set at a low volume. Marty had one, John McLeod had one, and there was one for each of three groups, one of which was headed by Connor. The three groups had taken hidden positions as close as possible to the gate towers. Route 51 disappeared over a hill to the north about 900 yards from the gate towers and McLeod and the rest of the team were beyond the hill, waiting for the order to move.

“BB? Rabbit? You guys have anything to add? Over.”

“This is BB. There’s an area to the left side of the gate that drops down in a steep creek bed. Beyond that, the other side’s stacked with hundreds of tires—they’re wrapped tight with thin cable—about fifteen feet high. There’s a high fence around a single-story warehouse. Over.”

Connor turned to Captain Daubney. “Those gates are serious, captain.”

“Yes they are, sir.”

They had witnessed the gates opening twenty minutes ago when a group of three men exited, heavily armed. Edging toward Marty’s sniper nest, they took easy aim and shot and killed a four-point white tail that had wandered into an area that they must have considered within range. Wasting little time, they had dragged the carcass down the hillside onto the road where they picked up the deer by tying its hooves around a stout branch. Two of the three men carried the deer and the third never stopped scanning the area, seeing everything in 360 degrees every ten seconds or so. He continued this process until they were inside and the gate was closed.

It was serious—the gate. The double doors were each twenty feet high and eight feet wide, framed with angle iron and covered by a half-inch thick plate. According to Mickey who had taken three years of civil engineering prior to the Sickness, the doors weighed in excess of one ton each. Despite that, they had opened without the protest of squeaking hinges. The hinges were numerous and varied—it appeared as if whatever was available was applied to holding the massive weight. Tires were used to assist the opening of the gates—two twenty-inch tires, one on each side of each door. These served to relieve the stress from the overburdened hinges and lessened the energy needed to move the massive doors.

If this wasn’t enough, inside the doors was a secondary gate made from three flatbed trailers. They measured forty feet long and eight feet wide. The bottom one sat on its wheels and moved by means that were hidden from view. A continuous steel apron that reached to within a couple inches of the ground protected the flatbed’s tires and void areas between. The flatbed carried two more flatbeds, one stacked atop another, but on their sides and reinforced with additional steel plate, mismatched to cover the entire bed and without any pattern in mind. The first gate was formidable, the second impenetrable.

“They’ve created an excellent killing field, too,” said Connor. This was a walled-in community and the perimeter, at least the amount Connor analyzed, was cleared of all vegetation for about seventy-five yards. There was no easy way to sneak up on this place.

“Colonel, those gates have seen some abuse. Look at those battle scars—there’s more dents and scorch marks than you’d think possible for that town to have survived. Yet Perryopolis has remained pretty prosperous despite all that,” said Captain Daubney.

“Yes, it has, captain.”

“I would assume that the southern gate is similar in strength.”

“Yes, I would think so,” answered Connor, studying the structure with binoculars. “There’s plenty of activity within that enclosed town.”

“I saw it, too, colonel,” he said, referring to the glimpse they got inside when the gates were opened briefly. “Whatcha thinkin’, sir?”

“All the vegetation has been cleared around the perimeter of the fencing as well. I don’t think it will be that easy to sneak up on this place.”

“Yes, sir. And the cornfield to the east was just harvested.”