Devastation

by Paul Kirk

  CHAPTER 1.11-Sub-hunting

  Besides the coveted cigarettes, their recent encounter with Marty’s cohorts had netted Amanda and Connor nine additional twelve-gauge shotgun shells. They would spend the next few days searching for a new shotgun to replace his old Mossberg although he had carried the weapon all the way from Sydney and was loathe to part with it. But the slide action had jammed the week before and, although he had stopped for three hours to disassemble the weapon and check all the moving parts, he was unable to determine the specific cause of the malfunction. From that moment, the weapon became a liability. Connor Mac no longer trusted the weapon and that lack of total trust led to a lack of confidence. The lack of confidence could well be the cause of his or Amanda’s death if they didn’t find a dependable weapon to replace it.

  It would be difficult to part with the Mossberg—it had served him faithfully for so many years. But he had little doubt that he would come across a suitable replacement quickly. Civilian weapons were not in short supply. On the contrary, there were thousands—probably hundreds of thousands—available for the taking. What was rare, extremely rare, was available ammunition. Shotgun ammo, 9mm, .45, .223 Remington, 22LR and 30.06 cartridges were the favorite choices of scavengers. These calibers of ammunition had been the first to go when the Sickness hit. Finding it now was highly unlikely though it still existed. The problem was that it existed in secret caches all over the United States and only dead men knew locations.

  “You okay, Mac?”

  “Sure,” he answered. Amanda knew there was something wrong, but didn’t want to push it. Mac would either talk about it or not, regardless of any attempt to draw him out. What she didn’t know was that this was something he wouldn’t talk about. He couldn’t describe his own feelings to himself, or maybe when he did, it felt irrational to him. The facts were that the weapon had jammed, that you can’t trust a weapon after it jammed, and that there were plenty of other weapons around if you knew where to find them. What bothered him about the situation, what he was unable to put into words, was the attachment you can develop with a weapon that has rarely, if ever, strayed out of reach twenty-four hours a day and 365 days a year for so many years. It’s not a connection that’s easy to give up, whether or not it’s rational.

  They didn’t often walk and travel side by side. Their movements were normally a series of leapfrogs—she moved 200 yards ahead of his covering position and found cover, and he moved to another covering position 200 yards ahead of her. At the beginning of the day, Connor had said that they could walk side by side and she hadn’t questioned this—she was too happy with the prospect of sharing his company. Unfortunately, she'd found that his demeanor today was unusually surly.

  He often used these walks to further advance her military education, but today he offered nothing and this put Amanda in a funk of her own.

  Connor had, without explanation, vetoed her request to explore the area, specifically an apartment complex they'd passed less than an hour ago. She had learned to trust his judgment, but was curious about his reasons. “Why couldn’t we just take a small detour and check out a few of those apartments, huh?”

  Surprisingly, his anger was immediate. “How fucking long have I been doing this? Huh?” he yelled, their faces mere inches apart.

  “I don’t know, Mac,” she answered, intimidated by the rare display of negative emotion.

  “Long enough to have seen hundreds of military situations!"

  "Umm..."

  "If it wasn't for my military training, we’d both be fuckin' dead by now!” He walked away quickly, his body language forbidding her to follow. He stopped at the edge of the wooded area they were traversing and surveyed the broad field beyond.

  Amanda waited in place for a few minutes before joining him. He was breathing heavily from the recent emotional encounter, but as she recognized this, his breathing settled into a more normal rhythm.

  “Mac, what’s wrong?”

  “Nothing.” His eyes continued to scan the field, refusing to face her.

  “C’mon, Mac, please. Something’s eating at you. Tell me,” she pleaded.

  “I need a new weapon to go with my M4. I can’t trust the Mossberg anymore and I have a bad feeling that I’m gonna need a shotgun soon. Close quarters, broad spread. Point and shoot. That Mossberg has saved my life on more than one occasion, but I gotta ditch it...I just can’t trust it anymore.” He lifted his binoculars and continued to scan the field. “Over the years, I’ve learned to trust this feeling. It’s like my mind is seeing something I’m not. Like some kinda convergence pattern or something—I dunno. But I’m alive now because I’ve never ignored that feeling.” He dropped the binoculars from his eyes and looked at her. “Never.”

  Amanda dropped her gaze and absently rubbed the wooden stock of her Remington, comforted by the silky smoothness. “Okay, Mac. We’ll find one for you. One you’re happy with.”

  Connor turned to her and smiled. “Snuff, how about we do some sub-hunting?” The anger was gone and, after three months together, Amanda recognized that this was one of Connor’s ways of apologizing. He nodded for her to glance across the wild soyfield and she sensed his building enthusiasm. He knew that sub-hunting was one of her favorite hobbies.

  “Sure, Mac,” she answered. “On one condition.”

  “What’s that?”

  “That you quit calling me ‘Snuff’.”

  Connor laughed, the last remnants of tension easing out of the air.

  “Sure, Snuff. And light up now, if you want. You won’t have a chance for another smoke for at least five, maybe six hours. We’re gonna have to shift to urban assault mode. Full prep. See what you learned.”

  “Yes!”

  The prospect of treasure hunting in the plush subdivision neighborhoods was almost too much for Amanda. Indeed, she found such exploration tantalizing in that all the homes were so neatly arranged into organized packets of opulent wealth. Granted, most would have been picked over by some prior hunters and scavengers, and, taken over by weeds and rot, but you never knew what you might find. A bottle of wine. A pack of smokes. An absolutely glorious can of Chef Boyardee ravioli.

  “Prep for entry.”

  She watched Connor strip off his top shirt and fancy lightweight bulletproof vest. He slipped out of his gray T-shirt, crouching to dig in his backpack. The smooth striations of his shoulder muscles fascinated her and she again noticed the slicing white scar near his right scapula as well as the pucker marks of several old bullet wounds near his left shoulder and bicep.

  "I like when your shoulder and arm muscles move, especially with no shirt on."

  "What's that?" Distracted by the task at hand, Connor pulled a clean T-shirt from his pack, sealing the smelly one in a plastic bag for later washing. Once again, Amanda found that white scar exceptionally sexy. It was like a beacon of pain, not quite fully healed and, before she realized it, she’d come to stand directly behind him.

  “Umm, Connor Mac, I’d like to get something out of the way first, if you don’t mind.”

  Crouching, Connor did a spin turn in the soft, grassy soil, looking into her eyes.

  “Yeah, what’s that?”

  Amanda gently rested her rifle on the ground, sliding her backpack off her shoulders. Quickly, she removed her bulletproof vest, standing before him. Urgent, she began unbuckling her belt.

  “I need you to do me one very big favor.”

  “Yeah?”

  Unbuttoned, Amanda slowly started to wiggle, in an attempt to slide off her jeans.

  “I want you to do what you did last night. You know? But, umm, maybe harder and quicker right now, if that’s okay.”

  Grinning broadly, Connor stood, slipping his hands to her hips. She continued her attempts to slide off her jeans. Softly, he spoke.

  “Hey, keep your pants on, Snuff. Please. Much as I want to, this area’s not fully secured. Let’s save it for later tonight.”

  “Umm.”

  “I promise I’l
l make it up to you.”

  “Hmm, you sure? Not now? Really?”

  “Yeah…not now, but, please, …hold onto that thought.”

  “Oh...okay.”

  CHAPTER 1.12-A Better Path

  “That Connor MacMillen is one bad fuckin’ dude,” whispered Major O’Malley. Colonel Starkes was reasonably certain that he hadn’t realized he had spoken aloud into his microphone.

  “What’s that, major?”

  “Nothing, ma'am.”

  “Shamus, take us east—follow the interstate,” ordered Colonel Starkes. Her voice came over the intercom clearly.

  “Yes, ma’am,” he answered. The men onboard tried to settle into comfortable positions.

  “Take the most probable path for an able-bodied man who’s extensively survival-trained and can easily sustain himself living off the land. Connor Mac’s competency in achieving this is not in question. In fact, I’d be safe to say he’s probably better at it than any man here." She ignored Scott's challenging grin and his raised eyebrow. Turning back to their pilot, she ignored his smirk as well and laid out her orders. "Make a best assessment, Shamus. I might suggest you keep large bodies of water, streams, lakes and major highways as focal points during travel. Nicole confirmed he favors the woods near highways, but he avoids large groups of people, so avoid any evident population centers. He’ll likely avoid most of them anyway unless he needs particular supplies. Let’s also assume he has some working knowledge in avoiding nuclear plants and their potential windfall exposure.”

  “Okay,” said Shamus.

  “I’d project a conservative amount of distance covered per day—say five to seven miles. There will likely be occasions when he stops for more than a day. The way I figure it, Connor MacMillen travels carefully—he wouldn’t use anything motorized and he'd avoid any unnecessary exposure. He might have used a horse or a bicycle, but I have my doubts about that—there’s too much exposure there. He'd want to remain out of sight and that's better guaranteed on foot. Keep in mind that his military background confirms stealth is his primary factor during any mission. But, and this is critical, he’s had about twelve months head start. Can anyone give me any ideas of his present whereabouts?”

  “I’ll check the maps, ma’am,” answered Major O’Malley. No one else ventured an opinion.

  “Shamus, coordinate with Jimmy for feasible refueling stops along the way. Gather input from Scott and GT. Let Jimmy know of our current scenario—since he’s so good at logistics, he should have some valid input.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Major, I’m gonna take a nap. Don’t wake me unless this bird is falling outta the sky.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” answered Major O’Malley. He removed a Hershey bar from his breast pocket and offered it shyly to Nicole.

  “Thanks,” said Nicole, blushing. She opened the wrapper, broke a piece from the bar, and offered it to Major O’Malley.

  “Thank you,” he said, taking the offered piece of chocolate.

  Colonel Starkes fell asleep with the image of their awkward romance blossoming in her mind.

  CHAPTER 1.13-Marty on the Hunt

  Marty sensed a human presence, recently gone. He was sure he was in range of Connor Mac and Snuff after the past three days of intense, but cautious tracking. He was confident he’d narrowed the gap. Unfortunately, the trail was not obvious very often—Connor Mac and Snuff were damn good at covering their tracks. He figured both were military trained in evasion tactics.

  "Dammit!" The question burdening him at the moment was whether his quarry had gravitated northeast or southeast. In studying the ground nearby, Marty admitted to some frustration.

  “Who the hell is this guy?”

  Frustrated, he’d caught no obvious or distinct signs of them after locating the farmhouse they’d stayed in two days ago. Though not certain the farm was used by Connor Mac, he was pretty sure it was their most recent encampment for several reasons. One, he’d found a fresh Marlboro cigarette butt half-burned in the fire, and being that smokes were very hard to come by and that Buzzy had just been separated from his hoard, he was pretty sure the farm was where they’d hidden out. Two, he found a well-hidden latrine suggesting two people had spent one day in residence. He smiled when he considered this tidbit of knowledge. Only a fully combat-trained veteran would bother to make, and carefully hide, a latrine after only one day’s use.

  When he skirted the interstate, Marty discovered from the road signs that he was within a few miles of Fort Wayne, Indiana. Never having set foot in this part of the country before, he found it distastefully flat. He missed the snow-topped mountains of his home state of Washington. He flicked his blonde hair away from his eyes. The August sun was beginning to weigh heavily on his mind.

  He had followed a secondary road for the last few hours. That was where the faint trail had led him, but he had lost the last thread a little while ago and was no longer confident his quarry had passed this way.

  To complicate matters, he approached a “Y” in the road, both branches heading in an easterly direction, but neither showing any clue of what path may have been taken. Deciding to take a break, he sat down in the shade of a tree near the road, opened his pack, and removed a Slim Jim. He opened it and took a bite, savoring the burst of flavor and chuckling with the knowledge that the processed food was more than half a decade old. The fork in the road made him think of his dad who had loved the old Yankee’s catcher Yogi Berra. His dad was fond of quoting Yogi who had once said, “when you come to a fork in the road, take it.”

  Laughing at the quote, Marty finished the last bites from his Slim Jim and took a long pull of water from his camelpak. He considered backtracking to see if there was something he'd missed before, but he'd yet to fully explore the potential clues the intersection might offer. There were three cars near the intersection. One was parked in the emergency lane as if it may have had engine trouble or simply ran out of gas and was pushed to the side. The other two were involved in a traffic accident—a head-on collision specifically. The violent collision had deployed the airbags on both vehicles, but there were no bodies in the cars, so it may not have been fatal.

  It was the contents of the parked car that surprised Marty. This car was parked on the shoulder of the branch of the “Y” pointing southeast. He opened the driver’s door and there, on the dashboard, was a cigarette butt standing on end, jammed in a small hole punched into the dash. Another two cigarette butts were laid down in front of it, as if pointing the way. He smiled at the implications, realizing that Connor Mac must have anticipated his predicament at the intersection and had just sent him an invitation.

  CHAPTER 1.14-Bait

  “Snuff?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Before we start exploring the subdivision, I need to let you in on a few things.”

  “Like what?”

  Connor tightened the last Velcro strap of his level three bulletproof vest. “There’s something I shoulda told you yesterday. I think we’re going to be meeting another possible member of our team over the next few days.”

  “What do you mean, Mac?”

  “Remember Marty?” asked Connor.

  “You mean the sniper guy I almost shot?”

  “Well...yeah.”

  “What about him?”

  “I have a feeling—”

  Amanda glanced around quickly, gripping her weapon fiercely and assessing her current tactical status. “You think he’s gunning for us?”

  “No, no, Snuff. Relax—I didn’t mean to make you jumpy. I said possible team member, okay? It’s just that I left a few clues that only an expert tracker could find.”

  “You did what?”

  “Well, most of the clues I left were meant for an expert level tracker. However, the last one was as obvious as the nose on your face. The more I think about it, it’s my guess he’ll be here within the next day or two.”

  Confused, Amanda took a long drag from her cigarette, studying the subdivision in the d
istance. She took another moment to think. “You think this Marty might help you get to Pittsburgh? Is that it?” she asked. Her feelings were hurt, but before she continued on a roll, Connor stopped her.

  “No, Snuff. Listen, I need you. We're a good team. But, remember, you said he was good. I thought he was good, too. And I felt the spark, you know?”

  “A spark?”

  “I thought maybe if he could track us, he’d be worthy enough to consider as a part of our group. Having a third member, someone we could trust, gives us much more flexibility and safety. C'mon, don’t be mad Snuff. It’s not a reflection on you at all—obviously, I trust you with my life.”

  “You think this guy can hang?”

  “Yeah, I do,” said Connor. “I’ve trained enough men in my lifetime to recognize that he’s got what it takes. I rarely see it. He was tremendously out of place with that group of lowlifes. He probably just hooked up with them to feel more secure in a group or was seeking some human interaction.”

  “What’s that have to do with us, Mac? We don’t owe him anything. He’s an asshole just for hanging with those guys. It doesn’t speak very well of his judgment.”

  “Come on, Snuff, he was just trying to survive like the rest of us. Who would you be hanging with if I hadn’t come across you?”

  “What do you like about this guy so much, Mac?”

  “Well, first off, if he has the skillset to track us, he'd be a definite asset. And, he's in possession of an excellent sniper rifle and has the sniper mindset of watch and learn and keep damn still while you do it. Those are seriously valuable skills in today's world."

  "I know."

  "And he was fresh and poised—not like the crew he was hanging with. I don’t think he was with them for very long.”