Paul Kirk - Devastation Point

Cautiously, he arrived near the area that was his best guess of where the shots had come from. Using fairly good cover from which to assess the situation—he was at the front corner of a house and hidden from view by a tall row of hedges a few feet away—he scanned the surroundings.

Several dead bodies lay strewn near the house across the street. It was apparent in their placement that the dead men had focused their assault on the garage area of the home. The vinyl siding around the side door of the garage was riddled with bullet holes, but there was no evidence of any other fatalities.

A body lay half in the driveway and half in the street. An old man kneeled next to the body, shoulders shaking, presumably with grief. After ten minutes of surveillance, Marty was reasonably sure that there were no immediate threats in the area.

He edged toward the grieving man. Four feet away, he cleared his throat.

The old man spun to face Marty, trying desperately to rise. Marty stepped toward him, rifle aimed at the old man’s chest. “Stay on the ground, old man.”

“What the fuck do you want? You killed my boy Joey. You here to finish the job? Well, go ahead, you prick! I’m the last one left!”

“It wasn’t me, old man. I didn’t kill anyone here.” Marty scanned the area without losing sight of the old man, circling him slowly. Other than Joey in the driveway, there were six other bodies in sight. There was one within ten feet of the garage door, another in the middle of the street, and a third on the front lawn. Three more were slumped on the ground near a vehicle. There were weapons next to every body and Marty kicked the rifle next to Joey out of his father’s reach. “What happened here?” asked Marty.

The old man ignored Marty, crawling back to his son. Pulling a dirty handkerchief from his shirt pocket, he wiped the blood from Joey’s face. Marty prodded him with the barrel of his rifle. “Hey, I asked you what the fuck just happened here.”

“They killed Joey. He didn’t do nothing.”

“Yeah, I’m sure he was all angels and butter bread. Except, I’m thinking he and his friends were outgunned.” Marty pushed the rifle barrel into the old man’s chest. “Start talking… what happened?”

“There was two of ’em. Nobody saw ’em going in the house, but Joey heard ’em in there. The rest of the guys talked Joey into setting a trap for when they came out. Only it didn’t work.” He paused, staring at his son.

“Talk to me old man, before I blow a hole in you.”

“The boys didn’t expect no fight. Never had one before. But these two knew what they were doing. They come outta that door with guns blazing.” He took his son’s cold hand. “Joey’s the last of my boys.”

Marty backed away from the old man, toward the garage door. He turned and trotted into the backyard, closely studying the ground for signs of a trail. He had caught the scent of the egress from the battle. He hopped a four feet high cyclone fence and trotted in a northeast direction across an empty field. He was almost positive that the two people who had killed the men were Connor and Snuff. He had regained their trail. His hunt was fresh again.

“Are they ready, Sarge?” asked Major O’Malley.

“Yes, sir, they’re formed up on the front lawn.”

“Let’s do it.”

Major O’Malley and Captain Daubney followed Sarge onto the front porch. There were several controlled fires on the expansive front lawn that helped visibility. The men were grouped together in a random fashion, closest to the porch and glancing surreptitiously at Major O’Malley’s armed men. The unit appeared to be as nervous as Sarge’s men, neither group quite comfortable with the other.

“Listen up!” yelled Sarge. “These two gentlemen are Major O’Malley and Captain Daubney. Pay attention!” The men and women on the lawn calmed. “I respect these men. They’re United States Army officers under orders from the President. That’s right, you heard me, the President of the United States. They’re good men who could have killed us outright, but instead they’ve offered us a choice.”

The men and women on the lawn were not happy about the recent events and their combined voice was one of dissension.

“Quit your grumbling, dammit! I’ve had a chance to talk with these men and I trust them.”

“Whatta they want?” asked Carl, a heavy-set man standing close to the porch.

“They’re trying to find a man named Connor MacMillen. He goes by the name of Connor Mac. Anyone know him? Has anyone ever heard of him?”

Carl spoke again. “What if somebody knows him? Why the hell should we tell them, anyhow?”

Major O’Malley stepped forward. “We need to speak to Connor MacMillen about matters involving national security.” This was met with soft laughter. Captain Daubney twitched and started to raise his weapon.

“At ease, captain,” said Major O’Malley, sensing the movement.

Recognizing the element of danger, Carl put his palms outward in front of his chest. “Okay, hey I got the message, alright? Just asking is all.”

The tension in the crowd relented and Sarge spoke up again. “Listen guys, these men are willing to take our group in with theirs at some point. It’s a good move for us and I’m thinking of joining up with them. This isn’t mandatory—you can go your own way if you want to, but they’re more organized than we are and it’s likely that our lives will improve if we join up with them. Now, Major O’Malley’s question is if anyone here has ever heard of Connor Mac?”

A new recruit, standing further back near the street, spoke up. “What’s it worth to you?” he asked.

Major O’Malley studied the confidence of the slim stranger. “It’s probably worth a bottle of good whiskey and a few packs of smokes if you have something I can use. Maybe a quarter ounce of gold.” The men and women began to chatter about the reward while the man who had asked the question made his way to the bottom of the porch steps.

“You have something, Buzzy?” asked Sarge.

“Yeah, maybe. But not for no damn bottle of whiskey and stale smokes.”

Major O’Malley felt an electric jolt hit his stomach. The new man moved with a sense of confidence in his knowledge of Connor MacMillen. The major leaned in close as the man came onto the porch.

“If you can lead me to this Connor Mac, I’ll give you a whole case of whiskey and two cartons of smokes,” offered Major O’Malley.

“That sounds good. For starters,” said Buzzy. He glanced at Captain Daubney and the M-4 in his hands. “How about one of those weapons?”

“No. You can’t have one of our weapons,” answered the major. “In fact, I’ve offered you a very lucrative deal and if you don’t start talking, I’ll shoot you where you stand.” All of Major O’Malley’s friendliness evaporated and Buzzy swallowed hard, nervously focusing on the porch railing, unable to meet the major’s intense gaze.

“Well, I know him.”

“How?”

“My crew—the guys I was running with before I ran into Sarge—we tried to talk with him a couple weeks ago.”

“And?” prompted the major.

“The fucker stole my smokes. Kicked our ass is what he did.”

“Go on,” said the major, barely able to contain his excitement.

They had set up camp in a partially burned-out home at the end of a short road three miles from the subdivision recently vacated. Amanda was alone, stirring a feline stew with a wooden spoon. Adding a handful of wild carrots, scallions and some fat, live grubs, she wondered if she should invite Mac in for a sit-down meal. The stew smelled wonderful, simmering in the pot that rested on the propane grill in the backyard. She’d been surprised that there was still some propane in the tank. Most people left their tank valves open and, over the years, the tanks had slowly drained dry. The smell of the stew permeated the air; the generous dash of garlic salt discovered in one of the cabinets lent a strong scent to the stew. On the verge of signaling to Mac to join her, she heard his birdcall signaling a newcomer was near. She covered her anxiety by stirring the soup more vigorously.