Paul Kirk - Devastation Point

Amanda remained silent while Connor reached into his jacket pocket and removed a newly opened pack of cigarettes. Slipping one from the pack, he took his time and slowly leaned toward a small burning ember in the fire to light it. Inhaling deeply, he blew the smoke toward the ceiling.

“Give me one, you lucky bastard.”

Connor knew she was on the way to getting over the day’s events.

“Huh? Oh, this? For a small kiss, you can have a whole pack. I have four—didn’t I mention that?” Connor began pulling other items from his backpack. “I secured a bunch of canned food and two D batteries that might work. And, we now have nine twelve-gauge shells, too. Guess those bastards didn’t like to share ammo, being as one of the guys had a piece of shit shotgun. Don’t know if the shells work, but maybe.”

“Really? You found four packs?” Snuff’s eyes lit up in excitement.

“Yeah,” Connor stared amazed at the transformation. “As you might imagine, they’re a wee bit stale.” The brightness of her crystal blue eyes beneath straight black bangs nearly decimated him.

“And you can have all four packs, if you dance for me again tonight.”

“C’mon, Mac, I’d dance for you anyways, if you asked. You know that, you sonofabitch.” Her voice had softened considerably and she shifted to face him. He smiled.

“Yeah, and somehow, I think you might even outdo yourself tonight. But, you know that smoking… it’s a bad habit.”

“Tell me about it.” Snuff rose, standing before him. The fire highlighted the fine curves of her hips and the long, lithe muscles of her tall, slim body. She unbuttoned her light summer jacket, tossing it aside, before pulling the tan colored tank top over her head.

“Wow,” said Connor.

“Shhh…”

In awe, Connor watched. Undressing, Amanda had a natural animal grace that emphasized her flat stomach and the smooth curves of her buttocks and breasts. Hand faintly shaking, he lit another cigarette and offered it to her. He knew he was lucky to have this young woman, for whatever brief moment of time.

Nicole and Colonel Starkes sat on five-gallon buckets near the helicopter while the men formed a ring around them on guard.

“Where is he?”

“Who?”

“The father of your child.”

“He left.”

“Where?”

“Said he was going to Pittsburgh, south of it, a place he had in the mountains.”

“I need to find him.”

“Good luck on that. Oh, and if you do, tell him he has a son.”

“What’s the man’s name?”

“His name? Why the hell would I tell you that?”

“Because I’m here to help you outta this shithole.”

“Is that right?”

“Yeah, that’s right.”

“Huh. All right, okay then, he goes by Connor Mac. Don’t know his full name.”

“Sounds Irish. He’s Irish? That’s good—”

“Why’s that good?”

“Cause our latest viral studies suggest Irish genetics were the most successful subgroup at surviving the Sickness. They’re the most robust of any and all humans worldwide. Well, as far as we know.”

“Huh?”

“We’ve determined that the presence of gene marker K-64S1 provides optimal resistance to the H5N1 Avian plague. Or, the Sickness or Cuckoo Flu as everyone likes to call it. This gene marker’s rare and only evident in individuals of strong Irish descent.”

“Huh? Whatever that means… but hell, I’m Irish. Full blood my Dad’s side.”

Colonel Hannah Starkes studied the young women before responding. She certainly was striking in her natural Irish beauty. The large almond-shaped eyes, blue-gray, were accentuated nicely by the straggly, red-blonde hair. Her cheeks were lightly peppered with freckles around her thin nose. Her teeth were perfect.

“I can tell. You have the look. Based on your genetics and your smarts, it’s probably why you’re alive. By the way, you seem quite healthy and, I must admit, rather striking, even dirty and wearing scraps. Huh… it does seem that all survivors seem to have an inherent ‘attractive’ quality, particularly as defined by western standards of beauty.”

“Uh, thanks, I guess. You have any real food?”

“Sure. As much as you want.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, are you breast feeding?”

“When there’s milk to give, yeah. Haven’t eaten real well in three days. So… there’s not much.”

Colonel Starkes stared at the small baby swathed beneath a dirty pink blanket in the woman’s arms. With a gentle tremble to her hand, she lifted the coarse cloth to take a better look, exhaling in relief.

“The kid looks healthy though.”

“I know, right? Doesn’t seem to bother him, not eating real good for a few days. Seems like he almost expects it… probably has some ‘tough’ gene crap in him, like his daddy.” Nicole hesitated before further speaking her mind. “Umm, you know… I’m still scared shitless. Why all the men and that big black helicopter?”

Colonel Starkes gave Nicole what she hoped was a gentle, reassuring smile. Calmly, she answered. “Well, what you’re staring at is the only known ’copter operating in the States. That’s an H-92 Superhawk. And, flying here to San Fran from Mt. Storm was a logistical nightmare, let me tell you. The men are mostly active military, except GT, Scott and Shamus. That’s those three refusing to wear army issue. We found that trio in Baltimore, on a boat in the inner harbor, if you can imagine. They were doing some fishing. We had to convince them we were for real… after they captured four of our ops trying to board their boat.”

“Ops?”

“Hell, it took a full week’s supply of fresh food and four bottles of Glenlivet to let them know we were serious in recruiting them.”

“Recruiting?”

“Yeah, see, Shamus, the big one there with the pointed goatee? He knows how to fly that Superhawk. And GT, the guy with the thick glasses and tribal tattoos next to him can fix anything on it given time. Scott, well, he’s kind’ve got a knack for ‘finding things’ when they’re needed. See him? He’s the black-haired one with green eyes thinking he’s Mr. GQ.”

“I see—”

“If you can keep a secret, I’ll let you know that they’re a seasoned team of heavy hitters from back in the day. Retired. Retired early from Uncle Sam’s covey of covert specialists.”

“Oh.”

“Look at them three standing there next to that big monster of a man, Major O’Malley. He’s my right hand man. Major’s smart as hell.”

Colonel Starkes nodded toward her second. By unspoken signal, the huge man with the green eyes, bright shock of red hair and bushy red mustache started toward the helicopter to grab a go packet containing a few hunks of cheese, crackers and a can of soda. With keen interest, Nicole followed his movements.

“You know, I haven’t seen anything in the air for five years. I mean nothing. Kinda scared the crap out of me seeing you land last night and track me down into my hidey-hole—it was unreal.”

Colonel Starke’s expression softened. She felt a compelling need to explain. “Infrared. We have infrared capability. Well, some, anyway. But, you know, you had a good hidey-hole. Three exits and two hidden knives, plus a shotgun. The way I figure it, you’ve probably made good use of them livin’ so close to I-80.”

“Ummm.” Nicole nodded.

“By the way, nice try with Mickey. If he weren’t a hand-to-hand combat expert, you would’ve gotten the better of him. He said you were a wildcat. That’s high praise from Mickey—he doesn’t talk much.”

Nicole hugged her baby tighter in her arms, getting colder with the late night chill. Colonel Starkes recognized the gesture, removing her army jacket to gently drape it around Nicole and the baby. They sat quietly for a moment while the men surrounding them stole surreptitious glances in their direction.