Paul Kirk - Devastation Point

She hesitated for a second. “Mr. McLeod,” she said, “would you care for a cigar?”

John McLeod visibly relaxed and Connor matched his smile. Both were keenly aware of the group dynamics, Connor from training and leading men; McLeod from his deep background in psychology. Roger was unaware of the underlying drama. Connor caught Rhonda’s eye and realized immediately that she was no stranger to group interactions—she knew what she was doing.

“Thank you, Rhonda,” said McLeod graciously. He had a definite twinkle of excitement in his eyes, smiling.

“Connor Mac, now that your guest of honor has a cigar, would you care for one?”

“Yes, Rhonda, thank you. Be sure to offer McLeod’s men a cigar as well as everyone in our crew.”

“Our crew’?” mocked McLeod, smiling.

Connor ignored the reference to their earlier discussions. Everyone took a cigar— Cody was not excluded and Connor sensed that some subtle exchange had occurred between the boy and his parents; one that suggested Cody was being promoted into adulthood.

BB was the first to remove the plastic cigar wrapper, thanking Rhonda effusively. He expertly nipped the end with his Sawback Bowie to prepare the stogie for smoking. Marty was not far behind, using his Kershaw switchblade.

Every person carried a lighter—it was a basic survival tool—and they began lighting their cigars, some heating the end while spinning the cigar before drawing on it and others puffing away with the lighter held at the end, creating a dancing flame. Amanda mimicked Connor’s quick nip of the cigar end with his teeth and the slow way he lit the cigar, rolling it gently between his thumb and index finger. She was careful not to inhale, knowing she would cough and likely embarrass herself.

When conversation resumed among the group, the tones were more comfortable as if the cigar smoke mingled among them, somehow tying their lives together.

Connor and McLeod watched their crews get acquainted, enjoying the festive atmosphere. “Are you enjoying your cigar, McLeod?” he asked his new friend.

“It’s the best the cigar I’ve had in a long time.”

“When’s the last time you had a cigar?”

“I keep an eye out for them. But, about a year ago,” he answered with a grin. “Hey, Connor Mac? Where are you heading?”

Connor puffed slowly on his cigar, eyeing McLeod and ultimately deciding to trust the man. “We’re heading east, John—to Pennsylvania. A place in the mountains southeast of Pittsburgh. What about you?”

“We’re heading east, as well. The Big Apple for Jason and I. Baltimore for the others. We haven’t returned east in nearly eighteen months.”

“They’re heading the same way as you, Mr. Connor Mac,” said Cody, excitedly.

“Yeah, they are.” Connor smiled at his potential good fortune and studied the people who were no longer strangers. His eyes settled on the horses and the large packs carried by each animal. “So, John… what do you have to trade?”

“What did you think of Phoenix, ma’am?” asked Major O’Malley.

“He wasn’t what I expected major. He has an aura of natural leadership that’s very compelling in its own right.”

“Agreed.”

They spoke between bites of baby-back ribs, a favorite meal for both, but one that neither had enjoyed since the onset of the Cuckoo Flu. The command center conference table was brimming with trays and two small wooden kegs of ale, tapped for the occasion. The crew ate heartily, four men rotating to guard duty every half hour to give each his share.

“I thought pigs were extinct, colonel,” said Captain Daubney. He had only asked for a half rack—he wasn’t partial to ribs though he didn’t dislike them.

“Apparently,” she answered, “some have survived the Sickness. And that, captain, is a very good thing.” She took another bite. Smiling, she licked her fingers in appreciation before taking a small swig of tasty light, pale ale. The hops content was excellent.

“Damn, major, these ribs are good,” said Lieutenant Edgars, “And, the ale ain’t half bad.” He hailed from Lexington, Kentucky, the product of a second-generation farmer and the daughter of the owner of a brewery in Cincinnati. “My momma used to make homemade barbecue sauce—it was better than this, but not much. Sir, could you pass me another half rack?” he asked Major O’Malley.

The major lifted his mug and drank a full measure of ale while he eyed the lieutenant. He stopped briefly, wiped his hands and face on his napkin, and removed a half rack of ribs with a pair of tongs. “The only person I serve in this man’s army,” he said, placing the ribs on a clean plate, “is Colonel Hannah Starkes.” He placed the plate in front of the colonel.

“Why, thank you, major.”

“You’re quite welcome, colonel,” he answered. “The rest of you assholes,” he continued, turning to the others, “can fend for yourselves.”

The laughter was intense, a release from the stress of their days away from Mt. Storm.

“Hey, major,” said Captain Daubney. “I saw you serving Nicole.”

“In case you missed the memo, Nicole’s not part of this man’s army,” he answered quickly. “Besides, what red-blooded American could resist giving her anything her heart desired?”

The men greeted this comment with arm-pumps and Nicole blushed, but giggled at the display. CJ took notice of his mother’s bubbly laugh from his makeshift highchair by her side. Messy but happy, he slobbered over a large rib bone, face smeared in tangy barbecue sauce.

Loudly, GT, Shamus, and Mickey began extolling the virtues of the meat, each citing experience and expertise in the critique of the ribs to support their opinions. Edgars pitched in occasionally between his prodigious consumption. To go with it, each enjoyed drinking the crisp pale ale that accompanied the meal.

When the table settled, Burroughs asked, “Whatcha think Phoenix is gonna do for this big dinner he’s planning for tomorrow night, colonel?”

Colonel Starkes slowly rested a half-eaten rib on her plate and took another sip of ale. She stood, her actions demanding the full attention of the men. She glanced around the table, gathering her thoughts and wiping her hands with her napkin. “I want you all to listen up.”

She waited for a moment to be sure she had everyone’s ear. “First of all, we all owe thanks to Lieutenant Burroughs for testing this meal we’re enjoying. At the risk of his own life, he ate these ribs and drank this ale four hours ago to determine if it there was tampering in any way. He might have died if that was what Phoenix had intended for us.” She waited while the men around the table offered their thanks to Lieutenant Burroughs. Many glanced at their ribs with a newfound appreciation.

“Don’t forget, we took something of a risk in assuming that pig meat is safe from the H5N1 spectrum virus. Though, as an epidemiologist, I did run a few basic tests to clear the meat while we waited on the lieutenant’s digestive reaction.

“I want to make myself perfectly clear, gentlemen,” she continued. “We will not lose sight of the fact that we’re in a combat situation. It’s also an unknown environment. Our primary goal here is the continued safety of Nicole and CJ. Our secondary goal is to find Colonel Connor MacMillen. Understand?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Understood, colonel.”

Everyone, including Nicole voiced consent and understanding.

The colonel studied their faces, ensuring they all understood the full import of her words. Satisfied, she sat and resumed eating and the men who weren’t finished did the same. When she finished, Colonel Starkes wiped her hands, refilled her glass and calmly left the table. At the door to her quarters, she turned and faced the table.