Paul Kirk - Devastation Point

“Copy that, Mac,” said Marty. Thinking hard on the ramifications of the president’s letter, he was unaware he had spoken aloud.

“You have something or some knowledge, that they want, Connor Mac, simple as that,” said Rhonda.

“Meaning?”

Before answering, Rhonda sought her husband’s vote of support. Roger nodded, since over the years, he’d come to rely on her perceptiveness; he’d always valued her ability to pinpoint the crux of any issue.

“Meaning, you have key knowledge or some special skills or ability that the existing President of the United States desperately wants. See, it’s obvious from the letter that they’re expending a great deal of effort trying to track your whereabouts and, by some serious persistence, somehow they figured out you were near Toledo.”

“How the hell could they do that, in this day and age?” asked Connor, “I just don’t understand it.”

“POC,” suggested McLeod.

“What?” asked Amanda.

“Point of contact?” asked Marty.

“Yeah,” confirmed McLeod, nodding.

“Makes sense, that’s the way they found him,” suggested BB, “no doubt.”

“What do you mean?” asked Rhonda.

John McLeod stepped off the porch, gently taking the letter from Connor’s hands. Glancing at it before responding, he was deep in thought. Seeing the interest in reviewing the letter, Amanda passed around the duplicate copies from her pocket. Jackson, Jason and Jude read the letter together.

“They tracked Mac by his human contacts, following his trail across the United States,” said John McLeod. “Wow, in thinking on that, it sounds like a helluva logistical feat… I can’t imagine the resources and brainpower that must be involved.”

Rhonda nodded and continued with his train of thought.

“I agree, John. And that’d explain the blunt paper tracking mechanism. It’s the best they could do, though, I can’t quite figure out how they might’ve even done that. Something in the air, most likely? As it stands, there’s no radio communication anymore, is there? There’s no electricity to speak of, right? Besides, who the hell’d they talk to? How? And, in any event, before that matters a hill of beans, we need to know about this existing president and the ‘why’ that they’re going to all the trouble.”

“Yeah,” muttered Connor, “Good questions, Rhonda.”

The crew sifted through the implications surrounding the change to the day’s events. Connor shook his head and stood.

“Damned if I can figure it out, guys. This is screwed up is what it is.”

“Me neither, Mac. That is, if you’ve truly have nothing to do with the Flu or no knowledge in what the hell happened,” said McLeod.

“I’m tellin’ ya, McLeod! I got nothing to do with this shit,” said Connor, exasperated.

“But, there’s something you have going on, Connor Mac. I know it. Why else would they go to all the trouble?” asked Rhonda, “How many of these did you find, Amanda?”

“Four so far,” interrupted Cody, proud of his discovery.

“I wonder how many we’d find? Across what dispersal area?” asked BB.

“Hmm,” said McLeod, thinking hard, “Dropped from above? Interesting thought…”

Connor turned toward Rhonda, continuing their conversation.

“Rhonda, please remind me to find out what the hell you did before the Sickness, would ya? And, yeah I can see your reasoning, but damn it, I have no clue why they’d be making the effort.”

“Think on it, Mac. C’mon, you’ll figured out why,” suggested McLeod. When no immediate solution was put forth, the crew began to disassemble, each lost in their interpretations of the strange letter’s impact. They knew at least some decision would be made once all avenues and options were fully explored. That is, until Amanda jumped off the porch railing demanding their attention.

“Hold on, guys! Hold up! I think I know why they’re coming after ya, Mac.”

“Snuff?”

Gathering around, the crew watched Amanda. She walked to Connor, slipping her arms around his neck, before hugging him fiercely. The crew waited. Turning to face them, she softly slid her hand across her belly.

“Everybody knows that I’m pregnant. So, I’m thinking they want Connor Mac, because he can still make babies.”

“You’re, right!” said McLeod. He immediately grasped the feasibility of Amanda’s crazy suggestion. Jason jumped into the conversation.

“Yeah! Now that you mention it, that would make some sense. That’s right! I’ve not seen any young kids running around the past four or five years. And, we’ve seen plenty of the country and tons of people in our travels, haven’t we, Dad? Remember? We even talked about that same thing a few months back.”

“Yeah, Jason, I remember… hmm.”

“Oh,” said Connor.

“You may have hit on something requiring consideration,” said McLeod.

Rhonda jumped in immediately.

“You know, I’ve wondered about that myself the past few years, never seeing a baby… or anything younger than when the Flu hit.”

“But, that means… umm, that means,” mumbled Connor.

Rhonda gently approached Connor, placing a gentle hand on his shoulder.

“Yeah,” said Rhonda, “Connor Mac, you think you can tell us a little bit about the last few women you’ve spent some time with during the past year or two?”

“Aw, no shit.”

“I don’t trust him,” said Colonel Starkes, deep in thought.

Absently, she stared out the front doors of the Hall of Fame, standing at the escalators on the second floor.

“Care to elaborate, ma’am?”

It was early morning, September first, and seven days had passed since the dinner extravaganza put on at the Hilton. Presently, their daily breakfast was arriving up the entrance walkway delivered by a small, gas powered golf cart, and compliments of Phoenix. The slow, puttering of the golf cart engine had become a familiar sound at six o’clock each morning; something the men had grown quite accustomed to during the past week. From a distance of thirty feet or so, the colonel swore she smelled the cinnamon coming off the hot buns stored beneath the blanketed baskets. She walked down the escalators and through the main doors into the fresh air. Mouth watering in spite of herself, she made the effort to maintain a clear, objective analysis of the current circumstances.

“Are you seeing all this fuckin’ crap, Mike?”

Beside her, Major O’Malley took immediate note of the informal use of his name and atypical use of profanity, ignoring the breakfast wagon. The colonel had only used his first name a handful of times during the past few years. He shifted into high mental gear, alert and prepared.

“Ma’am? Care to elaborate?”

The major had come to recognize that now was probably one of those times when the colonel was expending a great deal of energy trying to refine military tactics or strategy. He knew she needed to express her convictions in the open air; it was times like these that he’d had learned to cherish, both for the sense of being her confidante, and for the intricate mentoring it gave him in the finer arts of military strategy.

“Yeah, major, I’ll fill you in, but only after sweet little Suzie there is finished doling out breakfast biscuits, flirting cute as hell.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Wow! What is it with men and the innocent school-girl look?”

The colonel shook her head in dismay. Major O’Malley knew no response was required and they both took to studying the effect the gorgeous nineteen-year-old, clad in a short plaid skirt and white blouse, had on the eager men gathering around the cart. Her giggling had the men smiling.