Paul Kirk - Devastation Point

“Dunno, Mac,” said McLeod.

Marty sent Rhonda, Cody, Jude and Jason off the overlook with urgency. They slid back carefully from the edge until out of direct view. Connor turned to Roger. “Roger, you’re solo close cover. McLeod, keep an eye out.”

“I’m on it, sir,” said Roger.

“Sure thing, Mac,” said John.

Connor settled in next to Marty only to catch him swearing hard under his breath.

“Surf Boy? What’s up?”

“Men, a shitload of ’em! All armed. Horsemen. Multiple white trucks on the move. They’re coming across that bridge there. See?”

“Where?”

“Left. Ten o’clock.”

Connor grabbed his binoculars. Quickly, he motioned John onto the overlook and into the discussion. McLeod settled next to Connor, intrigued. The sounds of gas combustion engines carried faintly on the wind as it came across the river and up onto the Mount Washington overlook.

“That’s the West End Bridge,” said Connor.

“Okay.”

“Wow. I see it now. That’s a shit slew of men. They’re purposed and organized, like a functioning unit of some kind.”

“Yep.”

“Not any military unit that I know,” said Connor.

“Nope. See what they’re doing?”

“Yeah, they’re clearing the bridge. Might take ’em awhile. I make out at least forty running trucks, all white, behind them. No wait, there’s more trucks. Look at the size of that cavalry… damn that has to be over 200 men easy… shit.”

“Mac!” Marty had continued his scan of the bridge, near the edge where men had clustered.

“Talk to me, Surf Boy.”

“Those men! They’re from Cleveland. I think that’s Phoenix’s army.”

“Phoenix?”

“Yeah. The boss man of Cleveland.”

“I know who Phoenix is, Surf Boy. But we’ve never had a visual. So, how can you be sure?”

“I recognize those guys wearing the brown and orange headbands from the Hall of Fame.”

“I see.”

“I put enough fuckin’ bullets into them people, yeah.”

“Okay. You know… that is Cleveland’s colors. Fuck me, what’s his army doing here? I wonder if he’s with them?”

“They’re hunting for us, probably,” said McLeod. His brow was furrowed deep in thought.

“Why’s that, John?”

“Well, we know they were probably tracking us since before Youngstown,” added John, “I’m guessing we missed one or two of them damn trackers early on. So they’re still comin’.”

“But an army? That large? Give me a headcount, Surf Boy.” All three studied the bridge activity. The bridge was far enough away, in excess of a thousand yards as the crow flies, that the assessment took some time.

“I see well over 600 men and about 250 horses and about sixty pickups. And there’s some bikes and quads skipping around, too. It’s them,” confirmed Marty, “What do you wanna do?”

Connor studied the activity on the bridge. Realizing the implications, his anger built. For a few seconds, he made an effort to clamp down hard on the emotion, but found this impossible. “They killed Amanda… right ?” asked Connor. The seething anger on his face was unmistakable, scary. The sudden drop in voice tone made it clear a vicious and wild animal was seriously pissed off and mighty hungry.

“Mac?” asked Marty, concerned. This was the first glimpse of true anger he had seen in his travels. And, based on the grim fury locking Connor’s jaw tight, he was planning on imputing some serious damage.

“You okay, Mac?” asked McLeod. Gently, he placed his hand onto Connor’s shoulder, but pulled it quickly back when met with a cold, killing stare. With effort, Connor regained control of the fury, returning the binoculars to his eyes. His deep breathing slowed. The transformation was fast, impressive.

“Wow. You’re mastering the fury and anger to harness it into purposeful action,” suggested John McLeod, in awe.

“ Fuck you , John… and your psycho babble.”

“No offense.”

“Just shut the hell up and listen. Here’s what we’re going to do. We’ll not jeopardize the team.”

“Copy that,” said Marty, waiting.

“We leave now and head on to my cache. I still think it’s worth it. We’ll have to make a much better effort to cover our tracks. Especially those damn horses, which is probably how they were able to track us. They figured out it’s us. Damn. We’ll need to move more quickly.”

“Okay,” said John McLeod.

“Copy that, Mac.”

“Let’s move out.”

They crept off of the overlook and updated the team as they made their way up Grandview Avenue. Passing the second of three overlooks atop Mount Washington, Marty walked closer to Connor and matched his stride.

“I feel the same way, Mac.”

“And what way’s that ?”

Marty refused to be intimidated. “I miss her, too.”

“Yeah.” Connor rubbed his hands across his face and continued walking. “Fuck.”

Nearing the third overlook one hundred yards further down Grandview Avenue, Connor pulled the team to a stop. Gathering around, he decided they needed an update on the progress of Phoenix and his army. He issued orders with an intensity that all team members noticed.

“Marty, BB, scope that army and bridge out some more. Jason, Jude, own the horses. Figure out a few ways to reduce their footprints if possible.” He had an inspiration while thinking about the problem. “Hey, can we put tennis shoes on them? Maybe just the soles? You know, like horseshoes?”

“What? I dunno,” said Jason.

“Well, start thinking ’bout it. Camouflage, dammit. We need to disappear fast or we might be screwed by our own horses.”

“Yes, sir.”

“BB, Marty? We need to know where those men are heading and if there are any choice targets that we might be able to take right now to slow ’em down.”

Marty’s smile spread ear to ear at the suggestion; the glint in his eyes was unmistakable. “I might be able to help out on that point.” BB grinned at the comment.

John studied the bridge far off in the distance. “Mac? Taking potshots now might alert them to where we’re at, don’t you think?”

“No John, I don’t think so. It could be anyone taking a shot at them… and from here, this is a serious long ball shot. They wouldn’t expect it.”

“It is a longshot. But, yeah, I could do it,” said Marty, “And I don’t do potshots , John.” Marty gently touched the barrel, smiling.

“No offense meant, Marty.”

“Oh, I am hoping they remember me some.”

Connor watched the transformation as Marty shifted into full sniper mode. “I’m sure not opposed to letting them feel it again, Surf Boy. Plus, I’d like it to sting real fuckin’ hard, if the timing’s right and you don’t mind doing me that favor.”

“Gotcha. Copy that, Mac.”

“If you can figure out who that Phoenix bastard is take ’em out.”

“It’d be my truest fuckin’ pleasure.” Marty crawled to the outward edge of the platform with BB right behind him. Unable to resist seeing for himself, Connor slid closer and took position to their right. All three settled onto the outlook avoiding the long, deep three-quarter inch crack skewing diagonally across the concrete. Ignoring any concerns about shooting platform stability, they slipped tight against the bottom of the safety rail. Marty readied his weapon and, based on the long range to targets, he extracted his laser range finder from his pack and handed it to BB. Then, he pulled out two small leather-wrapped rice bags roughly sewn into six-inch long tubes; he preferred to use them to help steady his long shots. Resting his weapon on the rice, he listened to BB’s range measurements concerning the men bustling about on the West End Bridge. BB shifted to the spotting scope. Marty knew it was going to require some skillful shooting, at the edge of his established experience.