Devastation

by Paul Kirk

  “Yes, sir. Colonel?”

  “Yes, captain?”

  “What about using the horses for the rear guard and front guard?”

  “No. We’ll walk the horses to keep them as quiet as possible. We don't want to come up on any surprises or alert any unknowns if we can help it. Okay, let’s move out.”

  They were all tired, some more than others, but the action of walking at a quick pace re-energized them. The cadence of the horses’ hooves on the pavement was soothing to the group and there was little talk during their trek.

  Route 51 was a wide four-lane road through the South Hills of Pittsburgh, meandering lazily through what had once been suburban neighborhoods mixed with commercial strip malls. Connor’s intent was to continue this brisk pace for five hours through the night, stopping only for five minutes every hour. He projected that this general speed would put them close to the small town of Perryopolis near dawn. If feasible, they would camp for a more significant rest of two or three hours near there before moving on to Uniontown.

  Connor knew this road well, having traveled this way many weekends over the past fifteen years. Easily, he pictured what would be around the next bend or over the crest of the next hill and, usually, he was right, though the images in his mind didn’t include the aging and abuse of the scenery due to the neglect of the past five years. Nature had certainly taken the opportunity to reassert itself in the overgrowth and decay. It was sad to see the burn piles and mounds of bones, sometimes five or ten feet high, in parking lots or empty fields—efforts of a surviving population to rid the area of the dead.

  This was the way to the cottage; a modest dwelling left to him by his father fifteen years ago and located in Farmington, Pennsylvania, a little town nestled comfortably in the Laurel Mountains. His family had always called it the “cottage”, though there was nothing Hansel-and-Gretel-esque about it. Originally, it was a two-story modified A-frame with two small bedrooms on the top floor and a living room with a fireplace, a bathroom, and a large kitchen on the ground floor. But a few years after his father had died, Connor expanded the ground floor on each side of the house creating two huge additional bedrooms and an elevated porch that wrapped neatly around the perimeter of the house. He hoped that the house was still there. He hoped that his family inhabited it. When these memories threatened to overwhelm him, he suppressed his rising emotion and refused to think about anything other than his current tactical environment.

  It was a relatively warm night, the dullness of the full moon indicating the haze of humidity and the portent of an uncomfortably hot day to follow. Connor glanced behind him when he heard one of the horses approaching. John McLeod led his horse with BB and Marty close by, unwilling to allow any greater distance to separate them from their packs.

  “How’s it going, Mac?”

  “Okay, I guess. I’m trying to figure out our next move. Have you heard anything from the rear guard?”

  “No, other than nobody appears to be following us—at least, not closely.”

  “I guess that’s good news. I’m hoping that Top’s explosion slowed them down from a psychological perspective and more than simply the debris blocking the road. Additionally, I know Marty and BB gave them more to think about. That army has to be moving much more cautiously than we are at this point. We gotta put some miles between them and us.”

  “Yeah, Mac, I agree. The more miles, the better. Besides, I don’t think this pace is bothering anyone yet. Everybody understands the importance of moving quickly.”

  “We gotta good group here, John. Nobody shirks their responsibilities—even the kids pitch in without complaint.”

  “Well, they certainly understand the life-and-death struggle going on. At least, at a subconscious level. Gabriella and Renaldo have certainly lived most of their lives with the threat of death hanging over their heads. And they’ve come this far with only the comfort of one another the past few years. I’ve suggested to Rhonda and Roger that they not question those children about their past—eventually those children will open up about it, but I suspect that won’t happen for a while yet.”

  “They’re extraordinary kids, John. Cody had something of a taste of what the other two experienced. Have you seen the way Gabriella has taken a shine to Mickey?” They both turned briefly to catch sight of the burly first sergeant carrying the little girl piggyback style. Renaldo was walking close by, eyeing Mickey warily, but the big man ignored the boy, choosing instead to stay close to his backpack, carried by Jason’s horse a few feet away. The little girl was sleeping peacefully, her head lying comfortably on Mickey’s broad back.

  “I don’t think that girl could be more comfortable if she were on a feather bed,” said McLeod and Connor chuckled in agreement. “Mac, do you think there’s hope for us?”

  “Hope? How do you mean?”

  “I don’t mean for the human race. The human race will probably survive for a long time, but so will human tendencies—the bad stuff and the good. I ask the question about our group specifically. The people with us here and now.”

  “I'd put the eighteen men in our group up against anyone else. And Rhonda and those three kids can carry more than their own weight. The only problem is that Phoenix has a well-equipped force of five or six hundred men bearing down on us—I don’t like the odds."

  "Yeah. That is a problem."

  "It's a problem we're dealing with pretty well, I’d say. Less than twenty-four hours ago, I didn’t know that sick fuck was on our ass, John."

  "I'll admit that seeing that army in Pittsburgh was a bit of a shock. The implications were stunning."

  "It was that. But right now, we know Amanda's alive and we need to concentrate on getting to that rendezvous with Starkes without Phoenix getting too close to our ass. We certainly can't bring this shitstorm down on Starkes at the rendezvous. I'm thinking we might need to gather up some allied forces to slow Phoenix down."

  "Allies? To go up against Phoenix and that army?"

  "Yeah. Somebody has to take that maniac down and fast or he'll carve up every small town he meets—besides, I owe him one." Connor's voice turned deadly at the last statement.

  "Where would we find such a fighting force right now? Captain Daubney tells me that Starkes has only gathered up and trained about a twelve hundred men as a full-military unit. She's got a thousand protecting Mt. Storm and another two hundred at Camp David. It would take too long to position any of her men back out here after we rendezvous. Besides, Phoenix is probably adding troops along the way. We haven’t asked anyone to join us, Mac. He’s probably telling anyone they come across to join or die. The miscreants will likely see the prospect as a positive change in their life—a safer existence. But anyone who would find Phoenix and his army repugnant wouldn’t have much of a choice if it were join or die. And, even if Colonel Starkes were willing to commit more men, Phoenix would be on us before they could arrive. That is, if she would issue the orders."

  "Well, I have some ideas on the subject."

  "Such as?" asked John.

  "I need some more facts before I'm willing to talk out loud about it, John. My strategy is still evolving in my mind. And around here, there’s only one place that I can go where there might be allies I trust.”

  “In the mountains?” asked McLeod.

  “Correct. In the mountains. I used to know some very good people there before the Sickness hit. If some of those people are still alive, there may be a formidable fighting force there—if the right leaders are in place.”

  "And they would come to your aid? Simply by you asking?"

  "It's a strong possibility."

  "I see. You truly think so?"

  "Like I said, John, I need more facts on what's going on up there on the mountain."

  John thought on the topic for a few seconds. "And your family's there." He knew he was taking a risk to bring up the subject, but his psychological training and curiosity made him broach the issue.

  Connor's voice turned deadly. "John
, I would not jeopardize the men under my command just to see my family."

  "I know, Mac, but it had to be asked."

  "John, you should know me better by now."

  "It had to be said, Mac. You've spent five solid years getting back here. The effort and motivation it took to do that—to make it this far—is incredible and a testament to your skills and determination. I only wanted to gauge where your head is, okay?"

  Connor 's expression toward the man softened. "You don't need to worry, John. We'll ensure the safety of our unit one way or another. You have my word on that."

  "I know that, Mac. But, I wanted to hear it stated out loud."

  "Well then, you just did."

  "Okay. And, so you know, I feel better asking it even if I pissed you off."

  "No John, I guess you had a right to ask." Connor placed a hand on John's shoulder as they walked.

  On safer ground, John laughed. “Did you see those sorry bastards at the Olive Garden?” asked McLeod.

  Near the end of the first hour of their march, they passed a strip mall full of human activity. They passed several restaurants, all located close to the road; Denny’s, Pizza Hut, Red Lobster, Burger King, Olive Garden, and Applebee’s. Each was in various stages of decay or destruction. On the other side of the massive parking lot and furthest from Route 51 were a line of stores; Payless Shoes, Toys ‘R’ Us, Macy’s, Bed Bath and Beyond, Office Depot, Radio Shack, and several other smaller stores that either didn’t have signs or the signs were too small to read from the road.

  “Yeah, I saw them. What the hell were they doing?”

  A large bonfire had been burning in the parking lot beside the Olive Garden. A group of twenty people, a few of them women, danced around the fire in various states of undress and were oblivious to the passing of Connor’s group.

  “I wonder if it was some ritualistic mating dance,” said McLeod. “Maybe it was only a bunch of drunks. I saw two people walking outta the Olive Garden with bottles of wine in their hand. They probably discovered remnants in the wine cellar and were throwing a party. Do you think we should’ve warned ‘em?”

  “What? About Phoenix and his approaching hoard? No, let ‘em fend for themselves. Any group that size that isn’t more discreet about their partying deserves what they get.”

  They continued their walk and passed a car dealership. Pleasant Hills Chrysler said the sign. The cars in the lot were lined up waiting for consumers that wouldn’t come. They were brand new vehicles—the white stickers were visible in the moonlight. Someone had taken the time to throw a concrete block at a windshield, shattering it and denting the hood, and Connor wondered why someone would have expended the effort.

  “Do you think that’s callous of me, John? Would you have preferred that I warn those people?”

  “No, not at all. I think you would give them warning if you had the time to explain the situation. But you don’t know their attitude regarding strangers and you'd waste too much time trying to explain the danger to people who appear unable to understand it. Your first priority in this case was, and should be, the people under your command.”

  Connor nodded, not needing confirmation that he made the right decision, but happy to hear it all the same. He spoke into his radio. “Rear guard, this is Mac. I’d like a status report. Over.”

  “This is the rear guard, Mac. All’s quiet one click back. Over.”

  “Surf Boy, is that you? Over.”

  “Copy that, Mac. Over.”

  “You were given orders to stay with the main force, soldier. Over.”

  “Yeah, Mac, sorry about that. I feel fine. Besides, I’d rather be running overwatch—it’s my specialty. Over.”

  “Okay, Surf Boy, but no more than an hour before you get your ass back here. Over.”

  “Copy that, Mac. Out.”

  “Do you think that’s wise, Mac? Letting Marty disobey a direct order?”

  “I don’t know, John. Marty was with me before we joined you guys. All I know is that Marty’s not a soldier that would willfully disobey. He wouldn’t defy my orders if they pertained to something important. I think he sees it more as helping out and, in this case, knows his capabilities better than I do. If he gets tired, he’ll come in.”

  "I see. Okay."

  Another hour brought them to the crest of the hill overlooking the Monongahela River. At the bottom of the hill was the Elizabeth Bridge, spanning about five hundred feet across the river. From the top of the hill, about a mile away, it seemed intact and Connor hoped that was the case—it would take them too long to detour to another bridge.

  “Front guard,” said Connor into his radio. “This is command. How close are you to that bridge? Over.”

  “About a hundred yards, colonel. Over.”

  “If everything’s clear, go check out that bridge and report back with its status. I’m interested in knowing if anything’s gonna hold us back. Over.”

  “Copy that, sir. Give us five minutes. Out.”

  Connor and McLeod continued their fast pace, waiting patiently for word about the bridge’s condition. Connor went through his options if the bridge were impassable. He decided that his best bet would be to follow the river upstream and cross into Donora by way of the bridge along route 136.

  When he had decided that would be his path, his radio squawked. “Colonel, this is the front guard, sir. Do you copy? Over.”

  “Yeah, I copy. You have a status report for me? Over.”

  “Yes, sir. No hostiles seen in the area. There’s a couple cars blocking the bridge. But a few men would be able to muscle one of ‘em outta the way. That would leave enough room for the horses, sir. Over.”

  “Okay, nice job. Listen, I want you guys to wait for us on that bridge—we should be there in about ten minutes. While you’re waiting, I want one of you to stand guard and the other to figure out a way to destroy the bridge after we cross. Understand? Over.”

  “Yes, sir, I copy. Out.”

  McLeod considered Connor’s request to the front guard. “Mac, that'd be great if we could destroy that bridge. How far away is the next one?”

  “The Mansfield Bridge is downstream, closer to Pittsburgh, but it’s a good ten miles away. Route 136 goes over the river about six or seven miles upstream. Either way, it’s a good distance outta their way. And, the condition of those bridges is questionable. They might be destroyed or otherwise impassable. If we could make this one fall into the river, it would buy us a shitload of time.”

  “I guess that would depend on if we have enough explosives to destroy the bridge.”

  “Well, that’s the other thing—I’m not sure I wanna use our explosives. Maybe we’ll find a different way to take out the bridge, John. Though I can’t imagine how.”

  “Are you suggesting that you put your front guard on a problem that can’t be solved?”

  “Not at all. They're at the bridge and we’re not. They may as well search for ways to destroy the structure—the worst they can tell me is they couldn’t find a way. The best they can do is have a solution to the problem when we arrive. Do I think that’s likely? No, but funnier things have happened.”

  They increased their pace by tacit agreement. In minutes, they had arrived at the bridge. The front guard turned out to be Edgars and Rice.

  “Colonel,” said Edgars, “we haven’t found anything that could destroy the bridge, sir. Not unless we use our remaining explosives.”

  “Okay, keep looking.” The first sergeant joined them on the north end of the bridge. “Top, I need your help.”

  “What’s up, colonel?”

  “I’d like to find a way to blow this bridge, but I don’t know if we have enough explosives. Got any ideas?”

  “Let me work on it, sir.”

  “Maybe you should unload Gabby for the time being.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Mickey gently woke the young girl and sent her off to Rhonda. He grabbed his pack from Jason’s horse and began walking back and forth along th
e length of the bridge, searching for a solution to the problem and waiting for additional orders.

  “Form up, men,” said Connor. “Listen up! Everyone!”

  They all came together at the north abutment of the bridge.

  “Major McLeod, I want you to coordinate the crossing of the bridge. Assign a detail to move that car far enough to allow your horses to pass. Take this group five hundred yards beyond the south end and scope up the hill. I wanna know the second anyone starts coming down there. Top, Captain Daubney, BB, and Edgars, I want you here giving me your best advice about destroying this bridge.”

  “We’re gonna blow the bridge, colonel?” asked Daubney.

  “I don’t know yet, captain. It depends on what you guys can tell me. Study the structure, boys. You got five minutes—after that, we put our heads together and see what we can come up with.”

  They spread out in different directions, BB and Captain Daubney ran quickly to the north, the first sergeant, Edgars, and Connor headed toward the south end. In the middle of the span, Mickey set down his pack, opened it, and withdrew a sturdy nylon cord with which he fashioned a makeshift harness. He looped it through his legs and under both arms. He attached the other end of the cord to the steel pipe atop the concrete barrier and quickly disappeared over the side of the bridge. BB reached the north abutment and disappeared under the bridge, but Daubney continued to run north where the road turned nearly ninety degrees and began its ascent of the hill they had just traveled. He stopped about a hundred yards up the hill where he turned and studied the bridge, his location giving him a better perspective of how the bridge was built.

  It was a single span over-arched bridge, common around the area for four-lane roads carrying heavy traffic. It had done its job for several decades and while it had once been well maintained, it hadn’t seen a coat of paint for at least five or six years and was beginning to show the signs of neglect.

  The men convened in the middle of the bridge after five minutes. Connor and BB helped Mickey to the road surface. “Thanks, colonel,” he said—almost shyly. “Thanks, captain,” he added. He shook himself loose from the harness and untied the nylon rope from the steel pipe.