Paul Kirk - Devastation Point

The guards continued to discuss John and his mention of other men, gesturing toward the crest of the hill, but despite their discussion, they never took their eyes from John for more than a second or two.

“John, the man with the two women is a good half mile from the gate. It might be a while. He looks important—everyone’s centered on him. He looks like he’s issuing orders to everyone. He’s wearing a white shirt with a gun in his belt. He’s got a wild head of black hair. A truck arrived and he’s getting in, six guys, all armed, jumped into the bed. They’re coming your way.”

“John,” interrupted Connor, “if you’re still okay with this, dip your flag forward.”

The flag dipped immediately, a definitive nod to McLeod’s continuing approval of the plan. John sniffed the air, smelling jasmine from somewhere to the left. He waited patiently, his thoughts drifting to his wife and the jasmine soap beads he’d bought her every year for her bath. He blinked hard, driving those thoughts from his head and focused on the here and now.

Movement at the top of the gate absorbed his attention. A man was being lowered by an intricate pulley system. He was standing alone in a metal basket large enough to hold four adults.

“That’s the guy I saw inside,” said Marty over the radio. “He’s probably one of the leaders or head of security.”

The speed of the basket was quite slow, indicating a high mechanical advantage. The basket reached the ground and the man stepped through the gate and approached McLeod without hesitation. His handgun was now tucked into a shoulder holster and his demeanor unsmiling and stern.

“His weapon is a Colt Python, forty-five caliber. Six shots. He doesn’t look very happy. Are you still good, John?” asked Connor.

The flag dipped again and everyone remained tense, hoping that John McLeod worked his negotiating magic. The man stopped ten feet away from McLeod and appraised him openly, unimpressed. He glanced around the area and up to the crest of the hill. He saw nothing out of the ordinary.

“Leave,” he said simply. “You’re not welcome here.”

“Alright, I will,” answered McLeod, tugging on the reins. Once his back was turned to the man, he mumbled a few strong words and lightly tapped the horse’s ribs with his heels. The horse moved forward toward the north, the way he had come.

“What did you just say?” yelled the man. He stood rigid, evaluating the situation with some confusion. John continued slowly away, ignoring the question. He heard the click of the handgun.

“What did you say to me, mister?”

McLeod stopped his horse, but didn’t turn. “Put that Colt Python down or ten of my men will fill you with holes you could shine a flashlight through.” He turned the horse slowly to face the man and smiled down at him.

“Right,” said the man. “You’re dead too if that happens.”

“Time will tell on that account.”

“You got some stones, mister. You have absolutely no idea who you’re talkin’ to and who I—“

“That sounds very interesting, I’m sure,” John interrupted, “but I know who I’m talking to. I’ve seen it all across the country. I’m talking to some backwater governor who won’t open a courteous conversation with a stranger.”

“Fuck you.”

“You see, you’re rude and you’re used to getting your way. You resort to profanity as a self defense mechanism and not even good profanity. By the way, purely for self-preservation purposes, if you shoot me, you die.” McLeod tugged the reins again and turned the horse.

The man began laughing and John reversed the turn to face him again. The man holstered his gun and continued his laughter, sounding somewhat maniacal.

“How many guns are aimed at me right now? You said ten?

“Give or take.”

“How many men you got with you? You got any women?”

“How many people you have in the quaint little town of Perryopolis?”

“You know this town?”

“A man with me does.”

“Where is this man?”

“Probably deciding which of your eyeballs he’ll put the first bullet in.”

“Right. Sure. You know, mister, I’ve come out here personally to meet every sad sack that’s come this way for the past five years. Except for a couple times, it’s never worth the trip.”

“Wow, and no one’s shot you yet? You must be so proud.”

“A few have tried. I took one in the shoulder a year ago and a couple years before that I took an arrow to the thigh.” He expanded his chest as if his past wounds imbued him with credibility.

“That’s nice to hear,” said McLeod. “I’m glad you survived. Have a nice day.” He began another exit.

“I should let you leave.”

“Yes, you should,” said McLeod. He turned slightly in his saddle and offered the man a small grin. “Let your boss know we had valuable information for you. But you pissed it away. We offered it for no more than safe passage through your town.”

“Hold up a second. What’s your name?”

“Don’t tell me you’re trying to make friends now?”

“What’s your name?” There was an edge to the man’s voice at his second request—he was accustomed to having his questions answered without hesitation. John turned his horse yet again, draped the reins across the saddle horn, and eased down to the ground.

“You first.”

“Hey! You’re good at this you know that? Seeking control. Did somebody teach you control’s a factor in any negotiation?”

“How about that. An educated man beneath that crude exterior.”

“What’s your name? I won’t ask again—trust me on that.”

“How about that… a man with a three-strike rule.”

“I repeat, I won’t ask again. When the dust clears, you’ll be dead and I’ll make it back inside.”

They stared as John waited for the man to introduce himself and the man waited for John’s next move.

“Are we done yet?” asked the man, impatient at the impasse.

“I’m still waiting to be properly introduced.”

“Right. Usually when two people meet, the approaching individual—in this case, you—coming into my town provides his name first.”

“I would agree. Usually, it’s good practice for that same man you are illustrating to leave when told to leave and that he’s not welcome.”

“That’s true that I said that. I’m changing my mind.”

“Well then, I’ll introduce myself. My name’s John McLeod.”

“I’m Commander Del Re.”

“Del Re? That means ‘of the king’ if I’m not mistaken. It’s nice to be introduced.”

“It’s impressive, Mr. McLeod, that you know that little piece of surname history.”

“Is that your real name or did you make it up?”

“It’s real.”

“You said ‘commander’. You run this town?”

“I do.”

“You’re not blowing smoke—you’re in charge?”

“I am.”

“Excellent. My estimation of you has increased exponentially.”

“That makes my day,” said Del Re sarcastically.

“I meant it sincerely.”

The commander waved away the compliment, but did seek to explain his actions. “I learned to never send a man out to do something if you wouldn’t do it yourself.”

John McLeod smiled and nodded. “I’d like to shake your hand and start negotiating a trade, if you don’t mind.”

“Okay. But hold on a second.” He raised his left hand, signaling the men at the gate with a fist before tapping the top of his head twice. “Your turn,” he said to McLeod.

“I’m gonna reach into my shirt pocket—there’s a radio there.”

“Go for it.”

McLeod slipped his hand into his coat and pulled out the radio. “We’re good for now, Mac.”