Devastation

by Paul Kirk

  "Fuckin' trucks," he grumbled.

  Several times throughout the day, his temper was evident. The advanced team was trying to remove a cargo van from their path. Both axles were busted and jammed into the concrete. Phoenix had walked over to the cargo van that was giving the advance team some trouble on the north side of Pittsburgh. Calmly explaining to the empty cargo van that it was in the way and needed to move, he pointed the Judge at the van and then placed five .410 shells into the windshield, fender and driver door, while the workers scrambled for cover. Satisfied, he reloaded and returned back to his pickup, waiting for the log-sups to clear the area.

  “Fuckin’ vans.”

  After the most recent incident, Phoenix settled into the passenger seat of the truck with Titmouse, the driver. Sinclair, on guard duty for the day, stood in the bed with his loaded shotgun, mindful of Phoenix's wrath. Larry Reed approached to stand next to the passenger door, hands on the roof. Reports of Phoenix’s erratic behavior had reached him.

  “What’s going on?”

  “I’m bored outta my fuckin’ skull, that’s what’s going on!”

  “Huh. We’re coming up on the West End Bridge now. There's some more vehicles and debris we need to clear. You okay with that? Or want to find another way?”

  “Screw this shit!”

  “Yeah? Well, to keep you interested, Luke said to tell you they’re on the trail of this Connor MacMillen and getting closer by the minute.”

  “They see ‘im?”

  “Not yet, but he’s confirmed their trail leads across the Liberty Bridge.”

  “Where’s that? This place got more fuckin' bridges than it does people.”

  “It’s that one there, over to the left. See it?”

  “Yeah.”

  "If this is Connor MacMillen, then he and his men are now outside of downtown and heading away from our position. Luke’s ‘bout ready to cross the Liberty Bridge."

  "Okay. And?"

  “Once we cross this West End Bridge, we can loop around the other side of some tunnels and meet up with Luke and the Brigades and hunt them down from there.” Larry pointed again for reference at the bridge in the distance. Meanwhile, he studied his nephew closely, gauging his current volatility.

  “How close is Luke to ‘em?”

  “Less than a mile or so, he thinks. He stressed that we need to be careful at this point. Don’t want to spook ‘em going after ‘em too hard.”

  “Ahh, he’s a pussy sometimes. Make it happen, uncle.”

  “Will do. How ‘bout you try to stay a bit more calm, would ya please?”

  “Hmm...I am calm.”

  "Calmer then."

  "Get me across this damn bridge."

  "Workin' on it."

  A few miles of slow travel had led them through the outskirts of a small city called Emsworth and near Manchester until they approached an onramp of the West End Bridge. From all appearances, the bridge was structurally sound.

  Watching Larry stroll back to the bridge, Phoenix exited the truck, moving around with suppressed energy. Serving as his primary guard, Sinclair jumped from the truck bed as well and landed with barely a sound despite his huge bulk. Staying close, he kept a few steps behind Phoenix, eyes alert for imminent dangers in this unknown territory. His sawed-off Remington 870 would create quite an impressive close-range spread, if need be.

  "Make sure you point that away from me, Sin."

  "Always, sir."

  Phoenix angled up to a battered Sheetz convenience store fifty yards from their convoy. Ignoring the thirty or forty brown rats running around the entrance, he decided to take a closer peek inside. Sinclair jumped in front of him, making a point to go first once Phoenix’s intentions were clear. Smiling, Phoenix graciously waved him forward. After clearing the store, Phoenix slipped in through the crumpled doors and simply stared at the smashed coolers, racks and shelving. Despite the mess, the place had been cleaned out of every usable scrap of value. He wondered what the rats still found interesting.

  “Not much of a convenience store anymore, is it Sin?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Think I’ll take a short nap. It’s cooler in here.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Phoenix settled atop the counter, brushing a few empty wrappers and dust from the top. He rested the Judge on his chest and settled into a deep sleep while Sinclair patiently stood at the door. About an hour later, Phoenix woke, stood, pissed in a corner and strolled past Sinclair.

  “Let’s hope those lazy bastards are done by now.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Phoenix found Larry returning from the bridge.

  “Just comin’ to find ya,” said Larry.

  “The bridge clear yet?

  “Not quite. Close. Being cleared as quick as we can.”

  “Not quick enough.”

  Phoenix turned and headed toward his truck. He needed a fresh cigar and decided to wait there, as good a place as any. Settled in and leaning back with the door open, he heard the men atop the ramp yelling orders, clearing the bridge. Absently, he rubbed his crotch a few times, angry at not bringing at least a few of the newer young girls on the mission, for ‘moral support’ for him and his men. His thoughts drifted quickly to the young girl supplied to him by Luke at the mill. She certainly was a feisty one. Too bad she’d tried to run away on wobbly legs. Mentally kicking himself, he’d forgotten the important lessons learned during his short war with Erie and the eventual conquest. Brutal men needed sexual release to maintain control. His men were getting a bit edgy in the heat. But, shifting focus, he studied the sweat dripping from the dirty face of Larry Reed, who had followed him to the truck.

  “Where’s progress now exactly, Uncle?”

  “We’re ‘bout three quarters of the way clear.”

  “And where, pray tell...are the Twenty-first, Eleventh, and Fourteenth brigades at this time?”

  “Still traveling with Luke.”

  “I know that! Where are they located, exactly?”

  “They’ve sifted through the city from the north since mid-morning. They’re on the Liberty Bridge. Town side."

  “You’re fuckin’ sure we’re still on Connor MacMillen's trail?”

  “Quite possibly, yes.”

  “And he and that Rat Pack team of his are the same people that hid out at the mill?”

  “Yeah. Luke’s sure of it. The horses make tracking ‘em easy, he says.”

  ”Where they hell’s my update?”

  “Luke’s set to provide an update on channel twelve in ten minutes.”

  “Good. Bring me up to speed, ya hear? I’m gonna take a look myself to see what the fuck’s going on up there. Maybe motivate the men.”

  “Yeah. But, you might, ah, be safer back here.”

  “C’mon, unc, you worried ‘bout me?”

  “Nah, but I'd rather you sit back and let the men get it done.”

  “Uh, huh. But maybe I don’t give a fuck right now.”

  “Your call—”

  “Damn right it’s my call. Alright. I’ll sit tight. Let me know.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Grab a beer or two for your walk back. You’re sweating like a pig, uncle.”

  “Ah, yeah, that I am.”

  Phoenix exited the truck, too irritated to stay inside. He looked into the truck bed as Larry dropped the tailgate and snatched two bottles from one of the last fifteen cases of homemade beer. Larry grabbed a third bottle and held it out. Phoenix stared.

  "What?"

  "Take one ya bastard. Or is it too early in the day for you?"

  Phoenix took the beer and turned toward his driver and guard. He took a moment to study Sinclair, who was coming around from the front of the vehicle, and Titmouse, staring out the windshield with his hands on the wheel.

  “You two sad fucks, grab a few beers while you wait.”

  "Yes sir,” said Titmouse. He popped open the driver's door and headed back to the tailgate.

  “Sir?�
�� asked the guard, “I’ll pass. I’m still on duty.”

  “Sin, if I need you, you’ll do just fine with three or four beers in ya. You hear me?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Besides, I got Larry. See? Relax. Have a beer. I don’t like to drink alone.”

  “Yes, sir. Thank you.”

  “Don’t mention it. Ridin' with me today would drive any man to want a drink.”

  "That's probably true," said Larry. Smiling, he made his way to the bridge to check on the progress of the log-sups.

  SECTION 8: A Hellfire, Tailshaft Bearing and Secret Cache

  CHAPTER 8.1-Travel at 2550 Feet Per Second

  “Target acquired. That scout is ex-military or advance recon from back in the day. Moves pretty good.”

  “I see him, Surf Boy. Yeah, the one in the green shirt and black pants near the Jersey barriers?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Take ‘im.”

  The shot rang out before Connor finished the last word. Peering through binoculars, he watched the man drop hard on the concrete. The man's chest exploded in a bright blossom of red on green.

  “Chose targets at will.”

  Marty fired four more shots, expertly operating the bolt of the M40A1. Each completed shot triggered a shift in target acquisition focus so smooth and unparalleled that it seemed as if each shot was already a predetermined event. Connor watched each man crumple to the ground while the rest of the men scrambled back down the onramp.

  "Impressive." At this first true display of Marty's prowess, Connor acknowledged the remarkable skill and training involved in making each shot. Clearly, Marty was all that he’d suggested he was, though there was never really any doubt.

  "Thank you."

  “Go, go! To the West End Bridge!”

  In one fluid motion, Marty slipped a new magazine into the M40A1 after blowing off imaginary dust. Carefully, he glassed the bridge with his riflescope and settled into target acquisition mode. BB served as spotter, providing range, windage and target selection updates.

  “See that tubby man with the bandana? I think he’s running the bridge clearing operation. How about him, Mac?” asked Marty.

  Connor studied the man wearing an orange and brown bandana. “Got ‘em. Yeah, near the overturned rig. He’s definitely running the show.”

  BB shifted to the overturned rig and began range and windage updates. “Take him, Surf Boy."

  “Hold on.”

  “What?”

  Marty shifted from the riflescope and grabbed his binoculars. “I see an older man coming on the bridge walkin’ towards him.”

  “What about 'im?” asked Connor.

  “Ahh, I think I might’ve seen that older guy," said Marty, "Yeah, yeah! He was part of the assault on the Hall of Fame.”

  “No kidding?”

  “In fact, I think he was leading some of it when all hell broke loose.”

  “Huh.”

  “I'm almost certain I took a shot at the bastard. Musta missed.”

  “Make amends.”

  “Copy that, sir.” Marty settled the Leopold scope reticule onto the nose of the man. Listening to his spotter for real-time data, he made adjustments to his shot.

  BB took his time to confirm tactical parameters. “Range: 1042 yards. Windage: four mph southwest."

  "Copy."

  BB continued. "Target stationary. He's settlin’ down on the truck fender. Hold! He’s movin’ again. At the bridge edge. Stationary. You got the shot. You got the shot…"

  “Copy.”

  "It'd be a heckuva shot, Surf Boy,” said Connor

  “Mac, just watch and learn.”

  Marty pulled the trigger and the 7.62mm caliber bullet travelled at a muzzle velocity of 2550 feet per second.

  CHAPTER 8.2-Dodging a Bullet

  "How much longer until you're done up here?" asked Larry Reed. He handed a beer to Henry Bristol, log-sup supervisor, and sat down atop the fender. Patiently, he waited for Henry to crack open his beer and fill him in.

  "Thanks."

  Larry stared at a burnt Cadillac nearby. Idly, he wondered if the occupants—or pieces anyway—were still inside until, a distant but distinct sound on the wind caught his attention. Intrigued, he thought he heard some gunfire above the sound of the three boats cruising upriver to the Point. Slipping off the fender, he walked toward the bridge edge closest to the city and considered the Liberty Bridge in the distance. He stood, taking in the sights with binoculars. He thought the city of Pittsburgh was probably once very pretty. Having never seen the city in person, he was interested in the congregation of boats below, as well as the men and activity clustered around the Point. He’d heard about the infamous “Point” in downtown Pittsburgh, since it was near where the Steelers and Pirates played, but thought it rather unimpressive.

  “Pittsburgh’s a shithole now.”

  On the other hand, he knew the activity at the river’s edge would be of some value to his nephew and he began to commit the scene to memory. By his best estimate, over 300 people were milling about and there were at least twenty-five boats accumulating in a fairly disorganized mishmash, tied up nearby. After further study, he designated at least fifty men as guards of some type. And, near the center of the action, he caught a tighter pack dancing in a frenzied, yet provocative sway and grind. Focusing, he spotted a few women, one in particular, conveying a heightened sexuality in her dance.

  “Wouldn't mind being over there…” Larry mumbled. He stared at the woman with the long, white blonde hair and took another swig of beer. Henry had followed him, though Larry had forgotten he was there.

  "Shouldn't be much more than another half hour at most clearing up this mess, sir," said Henry.

  "See to it."

  "Yes, sir. Thanks for the beer." Standing near, Henry slipped the orange and brown bandana off his forehead and used it to wipe his face.

  "You can thank Phoenix...his idea. Sorta."

  "Okay, I will." Henry had a clear question building in his mind, "Larr...we been friends since the nineties, right?"

  "Yeah?"

  "Can I ask you something that might be a bit outta line?"

  “Go on," said Larry. He braced for the question having some idea of the content. Already, he'd received strange looks from many of the men. The incident with Luke overheard by the brigade leaders had called his authority into question.

  To ensure this was a private conversation, Henry moved to stand in front of Larry. He glanced around and confirmed no one else was within hearing range. "What do you plan to do about that piss-boy Luke, huh?”

  Larry’s radio squawked. He glanced down at the radio and lifted it to his ear only to look up and watch Henry drop his beer onto the concrete and kneel in front of him. Blood poured from Henry’s neck, as he convulsed.

  "Larr—"

  "Get down, now! Sniper!” yelled Larry to all bridge workers. He spun around to assess the area, as he dropped and rolled toward the bridge sidewall. Gathering the radio to his ear, he listened to Luke and the brigade leaders frantic commands and orders.

  “Sniper fire! Eddie's down! Shit, Cheese is down! Take cover. Take cover. Under the ramp. Four men down. Repeat. Roddie. Sammy. Damn. Four down. Taking cover. Copy? Copy?”

  “Copy, Luke. Where? Where’s it comin’ from? Over,” yelled Reed.

  Two men crouched near the fenders of a Camaro on the far end of the bridge. They collapsed in quick succession. A third went down not fifty feet from Larry. He radioed Phoenix.

  “Phoenix! Do you copy?”

  “Go, Uncle. We ready yet?”

  “Taking sniper fire! Stay down. Luke and his team are hit! We got a bunch of snipers shooting at us! Over.”

  “Say again. Over.”

  “We got sniper’s hitting’ us on the bridge. Henry took one next to me. Luke’s team is taking fire. He's got four men down. I got five hit and counting. Over.”

  “Shit. Where’s it comin’ from?” asked Phoenix.

  There w
as an excited undertone to his inquiry, rather than concern. Larry provided the general direction of sniper fire and Phoenix jumped out of the passenger seat. He had been waiting for something exciting to happen.

  “’Bout fuckin’ time. C'mon, Sinclair!"

  Clearing his mind of boredom, Phoenix let his uncanny assessment skills kick in as he ran to the bridge. At the onramp, he visualized both bridges and the position of the dead men lying on the West End Bridge. He calculated trajectories and instantly gauged the range to the Liberty Bridge on his left. His mind began fixating on the higher ridge elevation across the river between the two bridges. This was the likely position of any sniper or snipers.

  “Fucker’s over there," he thought, "But only one man. On that top ridge. Gotta be. One man could do it. Triangulation puts him there. Not enough shots for more than one.” Confident in his assessment, Phoenix yelled to Sinclair, who had just caught up to him. “Go back to the truck and get me those damn binoculars, you fuck!”

  Sinclair spun and raced back to the truck, snatching the binoculars from the dashboard. He quickly returned and handed them to Phoenix who calmly studied the ridge. He located the possible semblance of a team hiding on a circular, man-made platform built atop an overhanging structure.

  “There you are, my love...there you are.” Phoenix lowered the binoculars slowly and smiled. “Find Smithy. Now. Tell him to bring his guns and spotter guy…ah, Ricky. Now!”

  Sinclair ran back toward the convoy.

  “I’m gonna kill you, you prick!” Phoenix yelled toward the ridge. He carried his Judge pointed at the ridge across the river as he took a casual and bold stroll up the on ramp. He knew the handgun was of little use, but pointed it anyway simply to appease his frustration. He ignored his men cowering under the assault. Stepping onto the main span of the bridge, he gained further confidence and stood with his left middle finger held high up in the air in the direction of Mount Washington.