Paul Kirk - Devastation Point

“It shouldn’t be a problem,” said Connor. His voice was surprisingly calm.

“No problem?” asked Dave incredulously.

“No.”

“How you figure that? I got nine armed guys backing me up.”

“Yeah, I see that you do—”

“We’ll eat you for fuckin’ lunch,” said Dave.

The menace in his tone was palpable. He took another step toward Connor.

“Well, I’ve killed six at one time, big guy. Ten isn’t much different.”

“You think?”

“That is, depending on weapon use.”

“Weapons? You mean like this knife I’m gonna stick you with?”

“Nah… knives I can handle. It’s guns that’re more difficult.”

“That a fact?”

“You guys out of ammo? I see you and your men carry guns, but prefer knives.”

In disbelief, Dave turned toward his crew, an intimidating bunch. They were spread out, blocking any hopes of escape from the deer path into the deeper woods. Studying them, Dave realized most had guns on display, hanging by a shoulder strap or tucked in a belt, but knives were in their hands. He’d have to correct that. Good ammo was getting hard to come by since the Sickness set in.

“Can you believe the balls on this prick?” Dave yelled to the men.

“Fuck ’im. Bastard’s unarmed and talking shit,” yelled a skinny man with several missing front teeth.

Dave spat on the ground at Connor’s feet.

“You know, I’m surprised you’re still alive,” said Connor.

“ What ?”

“You took your eyes off your primary combatant too long. That’s reckless. It’s the fourth major mistake you made since you attempted this piss-ass ambush.” Connor’s voice was conversational, holding no malice.

“What?” Dave stared, amazed at the fearlessness.

“Open your ears, you prick. I said I’m surprised you’re still alive.”

“Wow. Fuck you, ya little prick.”

Connor smiled, taking a slow step backward to gain space, glancing at the hostile crew around him.

“Granted, you made it passed H5N1 and the Sickness, so you have some luck and genetics on your side.”

“And you sure as hell don’t.”

“But, since our little chat began, I’ve had six chances to maim you, three of which would’ve likely proven fatal.”

“Who the hell is this guy?” asked Dave.

“Kill the shithead. Quit fuckin’ around,” a voice in the crowd shouted.

“Yeah,” said another.

Connor shifted, allowing the setting sun to highlight the eight-inch blade in Dave’s left hand. The shift gave him a better view of the muscular crewmember that had just spoken. Connor made one final attempt to leave unmolested. “Listen, gentlemen. I’m just passing through. Okay? On the road back to Pennsylvania.”

“Right. You do that,” said Dave.

“Let me be on my way. Huh? No one has to die.”

“He’s too calm, Dave. Something’s up,” said a squat, barrel-chested man.

“Yeah, the prick’s either crazy or up to something,” said a skinny man with an ugly scar across his forehead. “I mean, shit, he ain’t even got a knife. What kinda asshole ain’t got at least a knife?”

“Maybe it’s in his pack. Or maybe he’s got somebody with him… yeah, that’d explain it,” said a tall, black-haired man, hovering in the back of the bunch.

“We’ll just see about that, won’t we now, Buzzy,” said Dave. He let loose a shrill whistle followed by a sharp double tweet. He smiled at his crew.

Dave glared at Connor. Connor was content to wait. Finally, the silence was broken.

“I’m thinking he’s military, Davey. Fuck, over half the stragglers we’ve met since the Cuckoo flu are military. Look how he’s standing.”

“Shut up, Gizmo,” said Dave. His eyes never strayed from Connor.

“I’m serious. I slid next to this tree and the little bastard noticed right away. He’s had some training, probably some Special Forces shit by the looks of ’im. Let me handle this.”

“Fuck you. Gizzy. He’s mine. And I got first dibs on whatever this asshole got in that big pack.”

Connor visibly tensed at a sound from the woods, unheard by Dave and the crew. He glanced sharply right and focused on the darker portion of the woods. He relaxed slightly and slowly adjusted his backpack straps for comfort, keeping an eye on Dave and his crew.

Several crewmembers noticed Connor’s apparent interest in the nearby woods. A few seconds later, a tall man emerged onto the path, as if he’d simply materialized. The man carried a scoped rifle with an easy sense of familiarity. He cleared the treeline and stopped, glaring intently at Dave. He was not happy.

“There now. There’s something,” said Connor. He studied the youthful face stained black beneath a green cap, which did little to hide his shoulder-length blond hair. Several small branches stuck haphazardly from an army jacket and various attachment points of the man’s fatigues. It was easy to sense the calm confidence of this new man. Connor realized the time for solid action had arrived.

“Looking at him, I’d say he’s probably the most proficient of your little ambush party, Davey .”

Connor split eye contact between Dave and the new guy, barely glancing at the rest.

“You knew I was coming out right here?” The man’s voice was deeper than expected, intense.

“Of course, Sniper.”

“How?”

“Maximum stealth approach vector, sun position, elevation, foliage, and wind direction given known terrain and target. Excellent choices representing good training. Probably outta Fort Bragg.”

“Huh.”

“And, I might add, your stealth tactics and target acquisition were top-shelf during the past three hours. Took some effort to avoid it until now.”

“Huh, right.”

“And, I must say, I’m certainly glad to see you right now. This little bonus makes our discussions a bit more smooth.”

“Fuck, he’s definitely military, Dave! I’m tellin ya, kill the bastard and quit playing,” said Gizmo.

The Sniper held up his hand, stopping the rising grumble of the crew. He studied Connor before speaking. “Interesting. You Recon?”

“No. 82nd. You?”

“Death from above, huh? I’m Recon.”

“Fuckin’ bedwetters.”

“Funny, I heard that ’bout the Airborne.”

Connor smiled. Slowly, he pointed east. “Listen Recon, I’m not looking to cause trouble. Just let me be on my way.”

“Can’t do that. Need the supplies. That’s what Dave here says and he’s in command.”

“Is that right?”

“We need to know what you’re carrying in that big pack. Looks heavy. We want to know what’s in it.”

“What’s in it is mine,” said Connor, instinctively adjusting his feet, extensive training already preparing him for the impending altercation.

“It’s mine now,” said Dave, charging forward and swinging his blade in a brutal arc. Stepping sideways, Connor slipped from the wicked mid-section slash. He stripped the knife from Dave’s hand with a tendon-bashing chop, grabbed the blade handle, and smoothly sliced Dave’s throat, carefully easing up to keep death from coming too soon. Connor lightly tossed the weapon at Dave’s feet, sliding out of range. Mesmerized, the crew watched, stunned.

“Didn’t your mother ever tell you not to play with knives?” said Connor, turning his grim smile toward the Sniper.