Paul Kirk - Devastation Point

“Aw, Mac,” said Amanda, crying.

She held the two presents to her chest and she reached to stroke his cheek. Connor took no notice; he was in another place, another time. Hesitantly, he reached inside the pack, withdrawing a small, velvet-covered box. He handed it to her unopened.

“This is for ‘T’.”

“T?”

“Short for Terry. Theresa… my wife. I… always called her that.”

The searing pain in Connor’s eyes overwhelmed Amanda. It was the first true glimpse into his soul. She stumbled toward the recliner, needing to sit, and tumbled in. Connor followed, waiting. For a moment, she stared at the box in her hand, unsure if she should open it. She didn’t want this to be happening, though she knew Connor. She had always suspected he was trying to regain family, but denied the suspicion internally, not wanting it to be true. It was logical, his driving need to return to the mountains southeast of Pittsburgh.

“I have to know if they’re alive, Amanda. I can’t not know.”

She nodded.

“I know it’s unlikely they survived, but I have to know .”

Amanda gently tapped the box top with her finger and lightly stroked the black velvet. She caught the pain in his eyes and realized that, in some strange way, the pain he felt was now her own. She opened the box and found an emerald necklace.

“It’s beautiful, Mac. It is.”

“You… you think so, Amanda?”

“Yeah, I do. It’s very pretty. She’ll like it. I know…”

The square-cut emerald hung on a long gold chain. It was at least a carat and built into a filigreed gold setting that had an elegant old-world feel to it. Gently, Amanda closed the box, returning the necklace. Connor took it and softly traced the box edges.

“I love her, Amanda. Like I love you. Her and the kids.”

Amanda wiggled from the recliner, standing. Touching the box once more, she grasped his hands in hers.

“I know, Mac. I figured as much. Now, I know for sure.”

“Don’t cry, Amanda, c’mon. It’s not what I wanted, you know that, right?”

“Sure. Yeah. I’m sorry. It’s just that…”

Trembling, Amanda spun around and ran out the back door. For a moment, Connor let her go and then followed. He found her near the small pond where they’d last made love. Leaning against a tree, she gently sobbed, refusing to turn at his approach. Connor stood a few feet away, at a loss for words. Softly, Amanda spoke. “We’ll find ’em for you Mac. For you. We’ll find out what happened.”

Connor approached, smiling gently. He wiped his eye before gently touching her cheek and brushing her tears aside.

“You know, Amanda, I dunno, times have changed since the Sickness. It’s a completely new messed up demographic. But, I’m making a promise right now that you can always stay with me if you want. No matter what.”

“Oh, Mac… we’ll find her. You and me.” Almost to herself, Amanda laughed. Deep down, she knew there had to be another woman in his life. “But, Mac… when I show up with you arm in arm, I imagine you might have some explaining to do.”

“Yeah, you’re probably right about that.”

“I got him, Mom! I got him!” exclaimed Liam. He ran toward the large, black bear and prodded it with his rifle, confirming death.

“Yeah, Liam, you got him,” she said, proud of her son. She took the weapon from his hands, confirming that the safety was engaged. Satisfied that the bear was dead, she spent the moment studying her son. He had grown quite a bit over the past few months. His slim shoulders were gaining width and his legs were increasing in muscle mass. He was definitely on the cusp of puberty and, while she was proud of the man he was becoming, she was sad about the loss of the child he once was. She missed his innocence.

“This bear’s mine, right?”

“Of course, he is,” she said. “You can do whatever you want with him.” She shouldered his rifle and squatted.

Liam pulled his knife and began skinning the bear—not an easy task for a twelve-year-old. Terry peered over his shoulder throughout the process, making sure he handled the knife comfortably.

Her son had made a good shot on the bear, one through the neck, and the bear had collapsed immediately, bleeding out in a matter of seconds. It was difficult to judge the shooting ability of anyone Liam’s age—they simply didn’t have the experience at handling a weapon. Ammunition was much too precious to waste with practice, so they had developed a system where the novice hunter was always accompanied by a seasoned veteran who flanked the beginner with gun ready in the not uncommon event of the new hunter’s shot missing its target.

Andy joined them around the dead bear, squatting by Liam and tapping him on the shoulder. “Nice shot, Liam. That bear never knew what hit him.”

Andy picked up the bear’s paw, studying the length and sharpness of the claws. “These bears can’t resist that honey.” He referred to the honey pot they had used to lure the bear.

“Can I have the hide, Mom?”

Terry stood and Andy did the same.

“Sure—it’s your kill, Liam. Your bear. You can do whatever you want with it.

“Okay. Good. I want to make a cold weather coat. For Daddy. He might need it when he comes home.”

Terry’s small steps toward Andy faltered at the comment.

“Ma’am, Jimmy found something else on Connor MacMillen.”

“What’s that, major?”

“He might have a reason why he’s traveling back to Pittsburgh.”

“Well, spit it out, major.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Connor was running overwatch for Amanda and Marty when he heard the soft sound. It was a subtle sound, almost lost in the mid-morning forest, until he realized the noise was a human voice. By best guess, they’d progressed about twenty miles east of the collapsing farmhouse since yesterday afternoon. They were making good time. That is, after Amanda’s most recent revelation prompted Connor’s sudden need for some solitude. He did most of his best thinking alone.

“What the fuck?” whispered Connor. He heard the same sound once again.

The past four hours shadowing I-80 toward Toledo had gone without incident and Connor had settled into a contemplative mood. Stumbling over a small root, he admitted to himself that he was feeling rather strange, an uncommon experience. He felt unready, unsure about the prospects of bringing a new child into this sad, collapsed world.

“What the hell is that?” he said under his breath.

Tensing, he heard another small groan to his right, combat training overtaking all idle thoughts. Shifting to full stealth reconnaissance mode, he slipped ten feet behind a small man expertly hidden in the brush next to a large elm. From his vantage point, Connor studied the man who was pointing a scoped hunting rifle at a gray-blue house forty yards in the distance. At times, the man’s body twitched and there was another groan.

It was a shock to hear the frustration in the soft moan. It made for a surprising change in forest dynamics. He crept upon the man and wedged the deck sweeper against the back of his head, pushing him into the loamy soil.

“You move, you’re dead. Got it?”

“Huh? Yeah.”

The force of the shotgun lessened.

“What the hell? Crap! What the hell you doing, kid?”

Connor flipped the boy face up in position beneath him. The boy stared, wide-eyed, trying to move his mouth to speak.

“My mom… my dad. They took ’em… they got ’em.”

Connor considered the young boy. He was no older than eleven, maybe twelve, and he had been scoping the house that was visible across the fencing of an old pigsty. There was definitely activity within the house now. Something was happening. Shouting and obvious signs of elevated violence leaked through the front windows.