Paul Kirk - Devastation Point

Connor crawled on his hands and knees the few feet to the fire, added another small log collected earlier, and returned to Amanda’s side. He glanced at Marty. “Were you still active when it hit?” he asked.

“Yeah.”

“Still recon?”

“Technically, yes. I guess I’d still be officially active if there was an operating military. Whatever that’s worth. I was on leave in my home state of Washington, near Seattle when it hit. It kicked ass all along the west coast.”

“Yeah, it was bad everywhere from what I’ve seen. What was your rank?”

“Captain. What about you, Connor Mac?”

“Colonel.”

“No shit, sir? Lieutenant Colonel?”

“Nope. Full bird.”

“Wow, sir. I’ve never seen a full bird so young.”

“Thanks for the compliment, I guess. I’d like to know why you’re carrying an M40-A1 SWS? It’s a beautiful weapon and all, but it’s heavy and it has a limited usefulness in today’s close assaults. To further complicate matters, I figure ammo’s impossible to find for it.”

Marty reached over to caress the barrel of his weapon. “I guess you can blame the Corp for me keeping it. You’d probably understand that, Connor Mac. Like your M-4, this weapon is who I am.”

“I hear that.”

“Once the bird flu hit,” continued Marty, “I found out I was missing it, you know? I had to find one. Because, by then, I was in a seriously killing mood.”

“I see.”

“It was surprisingly easy enough to find one. I wasn’t too far from the Seattle Armory and when I arrived there, it was under siege by a half dozen men, trying to arm themselves for the end or the world. When they rushed the front door, I picked them off, one by one, from a hillside two hundred yards away with a scoped .22. After that, I simply walked down the hill and knocked on the door.”

“No kidding?”

“There were three soldiers inside, young guys, two privates and a corporal. After I slid my military ID under the door, they let me in. They were scared shitless and had no direction. I told them to disable all the weapons bigger than a rifle, choose something for themselves, and leave. They didn’t realize that there would be more people coming to take the guns from the armory and that those desperate people would breach the door and eventually overtake them.”

“I see.”

“And I’m not short on ammo, sir—at least, not yet. I still have 173 heavy rounds packed and twenty more in the pockets of my jacket.”

“Wow! That much ammo’s gotta weigh a ton. Show me,” demanded Connor.

“Sure,” answered Marty. He pulled his pack onto his lap and carefully removed a thick black nylon bag. He unzipped the side of the bag and handed it to Connor using both hands. It was obvious that the weight of the bag was substantial.

Connor took the bag from Marty. “I’ll be damned,” he said after he had pulled a round from the bag and held it up to the firelight. “That’s fucking awesome, Marty.”

“Yes, sir, I know. And all of ’em are matched loads made by Dale Perkins in Dallas. You ever hear of him?”

“No.”

“His name’s golden when it comes to long range ammo. Each armory keeps 500 rounds for their snipers.”

“Why you still have so many?”

“Not so many now. I had almost 300 rounds weighing me down when I left Seattle. There was nothing left there for me any more… you know, after the Sickness, um,… after the Sickness… ah, after it took… um…” Marty stared hard into the fire.

“Marty?” said Amanda, concerned at his sudden change. “Are you okay?”

Marty turned their way, dazed and bewildered. His mouth opened and closed before he was able to speak any further. He wet his lips and his shoulders dropped.

“I lost… my wife Sandy. And my little girl—my Sarah.” Marty was weeping softly now, the tracks of his tears glistening in the firelight. He dropped his face into his hands. Amanda and Connor stared.

“I’m so sorry, Marty,” said Amanda, reaching out and touching his shoulder.

“Yeah, man, I’m sorry to hear that, Marty,” added Connor. Caught off guard, his voice held the weight of experience in losing a loved one.

Marty gained some control of his emotions and gestured to Connor for the black bag. Grasping it hard, he replaced it inside his backpack before glancing at them both.

“It’s done and gone, colonel. And not a fucking thing I can do about it.” The fire popped loudly as if it were an exclamation mark to Marty’s words.

“I know the pain, man,” said Connor. He leaned against Amanda and his eyes took on a faraway look. “I know the pain.”

Marty grabbed the brass fire poker and stirred the fire. He kept his back to them both, wiping his nose with his shirtsleeve, sniffling.

“I’m sorry, guys,” he said, clearing his throat. “I didn’t mean to start crying like a fuckin’ baby.”

“There’s nothing to be sorry about, Marty,” said Connor. Feeling the urgent squeeze on his shoulder, he turned to Amanda and she flicked her head toward Marty, her eyes suggested she should go to him, to comfort him. Connor nodded.

“I’m, uh, not used to talking about… about, um, Sarah. Sandy. Oh.”

Distracted, Marty prodded a log in the fire and did not hear Amanda rise and approach him. He continued trying to apologize.

“I, ah, um, sorry. I still get…”

Without a word, Amanda slipped in front of Marty. Face to face, she wrapped her arms around him in a strong embrace; stiffening, Marty turned toward Connor, not yet moving. After a moment, he gently wrapped his arms around her shoulders, letting his face slip into her thick, black hair. A brief moan escaped, before he straightened, placing Amanda at arm’s length. Connor stood, taking the few steps toward them. Softly, he placed his hands on Marty’s shoulders.

“Marty, there’s nothing to be sorry about. You’re a part of our team now. Your pain is our pain. You understand?”

“Copy that,” said Marty. His voice was just above a whisper.

“Amanda and I decided we want you to join up with us and that means that, at times, our lives will be in your hands. At other times, your life will be in ours. We’re a team and the only way this can work is if there’s complete trust in one another. When there’s pain, we’ll share that pain and when there’s happiness, we’ll share that.”

“Yes, sir. Thanks, colonel. Thanks, Amanda.”

“Okay then.”

“That’s all?”

“Those are the only ground rules you need to know. We can deal with any other questions as they come along.”

“Uh, huh,”

“Does that explain the rules of this unit sufficiently for you, Marty?”

“Yeah, it does, sir.”

“Good. We take four-hour night shifts. You’re first up. Wake Snuff when you come in.”

“Quit callin’ me that.”

“Major, please instruct Captain Daubney to secure the perimeter a hundred yards north of the FedEx. Tell Shamus to prepare for an Option Four emergency liftoff. Primary mission objectives remain in force.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Hannah? Can I come out to the FedEx?” asked Nicole. She tucked CJ into the small makeshift safety seat anchored next to her on the helicopter bay floor. He had remained asleep throughout the entire trip which had left Nicole well rested herself. The helicopter door stood open and Nicole studied the strip mall parking lot. A few abandoned cars were surrounded by weeds and trash and, at the far end of the lot, there was a thirty-foot high ‘burn pile’ of human remains, remnants of this community’s attempt to ease the effects of the accumulating dead.

“No, Nicole, I don’t think that’s a good idea. You should remain in the ’copter.”