Devastation Read online

  DEVASTATION POINT

  5 Years Post Viral Apocalypse

  By

  Paul R. Kirk

  Copyright 2014 Paul R. Kirk

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form, except for the inclusion of brief quotations in review, without permission in writing from the author.

  Edited by Daryl V. Del Re

  Cover Art Design by Damonza.com

  -This book is for my brother, Steven R. Kirk. You meant so much to me and died way too soon. May you rest in peace.

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  SECTION 1: The Hunt for Connor Mac

  SECTION 2: Marty Catches up

  SECTION 3: "Sex, Love, and Rock-n-Roll (Hall of Fame)"

  SECTION 4: Making Friends and Enemies after the Bird Flu

  SECTION 5: The Cleveland Hall of Fame Awaits

  SECTION 6: The Attack

  SECTION 7: A Map, Steel Mill and Missed Connections

  SECTION 8: A Hellfire Missile, Tailshaft Bearing and a Secret Cache

  SECTION 9: Rat Pack on the Run

  SECTION 10: A Vacation from Wedding Planning

  SECTION 11: The Battle at the Summit

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  CONNECT ONLINE

  DEDICATION

  COPYRIGHT

  ENDNOTES

  DEVASTATION POINT

  SECTION 1: The Hunt for Connor Mac gets Complicated

  CHAPTER 1.1-The Ambush

  “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.

  “Leave ‘im be, Dave,” said the Sniper. “Let’s just go." The sniper failed to hide a faint grin, but despite his amusement, he was noticeably more alert.

  “Fuck you, Marty! I ain't leaving him. This bastard’s mine!” Dave touched his neck, incensed at the blood on his hands. Furious, he snatched up the knife, prepared to launch his next assault. There was an uproar from the crew.

  “C’mon, Dave, he’ll fuckin’ kill you!”

  Dave was blind to that possibility. “Fuck you!”

  “You gotta know that, Davey,” taunted Connor.

  “Piss off!”

  “I haven't seen somebody move that fast in a long time,” said the Sniper, admiringly.

  “Yeah, so what! I’m gonna kill this little bastard.”

  “Dave. Dave. Just how ‘bout you save some face, huh? Admit you’re outmatched. C’mon, let’s move on. We don’t need this.”

  “You don’t know shit, Marty.”

  “Dammit! Just let ‘im go. It's not worth it.”

  “Fuck you, Marty! I run this crew.”

  Connor tracked the exchange with interest. Like watching a tennis match, turning his head to catch each volley.

  “Davey, c’mon, this guy’s probably a damn staff sergeant in this shit, aren't ya, Airborne? Huh?”

  “I’ll take that as a compliment, Recon. Or, if I may, Marty.”

  “Let’s just leave ‘im,” suggested Marty.

  “He’s mine!” said Dave.

  “Have Gizzy shoot ‘im, then. That’ll solve it.”

  Enraged, Dave attacked using a nicely deceptive right leg feint coming up and into Connor’s neck with a vicious, stabbing stroke. Connor shifted, accommodating the knife and body motion. He slammed an open right cross to the nose. Blood burst onto Dave’s face and he staggered. Dazed, he snorted, clearing blood pooling in the back of his throat. Dave appraised the situation, in no hurry to launch another assault.

  “C’mon, Davey, listen up! Stop before Airborne gets pissed and kills you.”

  Grudgingly, Marty nodded in Connor’s direction, a small sign of respect.

  “Sounds like a plan,” said Connor.

  Connor wore a tight smile, knowing a more deadly assault was coming. Fuming, Dave launched with clear intent to use his fifty-pound weight advantage. Connor took the impressive energy of the charge and transferred Dave into a nearby oak tree. Dave slammed horizontally against the tree, crumpling to the ground. The sound of snapped ribs and a grunt of escaping air told a clear story. Dave lay gasping, quite done for the moment.

  “I noticed you haven’t killed him yet,” said Marty.

  “Ah, I’d rather not have to fight the rest of the crew, including you, if I don’t have to. Killing Dave would kinda force the issue, wouldn’t it?”

  “I see your point.”

  Connor scanned the dirty and disheveled crew. “Listen, you guys, let me be on my way, okay? If we meet again and you guys need anything serious on the up and up, just ask. Name’s Connor Mac. Hear that? I’ll help you out, no questions asked.” He adjusted his backpack for comfort, preparing to leave.

  Marty interrupted. “Sorry, Airborne. Sorry, Connor Mac. Can’t let you leave. Unless you leave that pack.” Marty leveled the rifle toward center mass and moved his finger tighter on the trigger.

  “You’ll be dead if that finger goes any further, Marty.” Connor’s voice held calm conviction. Marty hesitated.

  “How you figure that?”

  “You’re good. But you’re not Snuff.”

  “Snuff?”

  “My traveling partner. I imagine that crazy fuck’s just about had it with my games. And, itching to do some shootin’ that’s for sure.”

  “What the fuck you talking about? You don't have squat out there.”

  “Huh, are you willing to chance that?”

  “I been scouting you damn near six hours. Circled you twice the last two. Area’s secure. Clean as a whistle.”

  “Your call, blue eyes,” said Connor. Leisurely, he wiped his nose, twice.

  “Let’s just waste ‘im,” said Gizmo.

  Taking the initiative, Gizmo approached Connor, shifting the M4 into his hands to fire.

  “Watch it, Gizzy,” said Connor, pointing and holding the pose, “You’ll be first when it goes down you keep at it.”

  “Fuck you, Connor Mac,” said Gizmo, continuing his progress, “I told Dave to let me handle—”

  Gizmo crumpled to the ground with a 30.06 caliber hole between his eyes and the back of his head missing. Everyone but Connor stared at the fallen figure, stunned. A single loud reverberation bounded through the woods and Marty dropped to the ground and rolled. He swung his rifle toward the direction of the sound and immediately swung it back toward Connor.

  “Save the ammo, Marty,” yelled Connor, palms up and out, “if you actually have any!”

  “I have one for you!”

  The crew ducked, seeking safe cover during the exchange. Connor smiled.

  “C’mon, Marty! The best firepower’s first to go. You know that, you fuckin’ Jarhead! Why’d I let you live? Huh?” yelled Connor.

  “You tell me,” yelled Marty. He sensed things were not as they seemed.

  “Because I pointed to Gizzy, that’s why! Shoulda been you, you know that! Damn, Snuff’s probably pissed, but now has sights on you and only you.”

  “Huh?”

  “Listen. You hafta know I’m giving you a break.”

  “That right?”

  “Call it military courtesy.”

  “Really? This Snuff can't have line of sight! Besides, you’ll go down with me.”

  “You don’t know Snuff.” Connor’s relaxed smile was incredibly bright. Some of the crew edged closer to the treeline. Connor noticed.

  “Ah, I wouldn’t move around too much just now, guys. It might be misconstrued as an attack. You know…towards me personally.” His easy confidence stopped most movement.

  “Just drop your weapons and packs, guys. Take a step or two back from ‘em for me, would you?”

  Grumbling and swearing, each resisted. Into the pissed off chatter, a furious scream announced that Dave had made it to a standing position, covered in his own blood. With a sigh, Connor simply pointed and Dave dropped to the ground with a small grunt. The last rays of sun began to fade, but were enough to highlight the bullet hole above his left eye, as he lay twitching. Once again, the air reverberated with the sound of a single bullet fired at medium range. Soon, night would come. Marty lowered his weapon, grinning. Connor nodded at Marty and moved toward the rest of the crew. Irritable but silent, the men dropped what they carried, except Marty.

  “Like I said, gentlemen, I’ll just be on my way. But thanks for the entertainment. I must admit,
I kinda needed it. There’s so little real action nowadays, since the Sickness. Oh, and sorry about Gizmo—he was probably an alright guy.”

  Connor scooped up each man’s pack, testing weight. He kept several heavier ones, discarding the light ones as having limited value. “Back up, you fuck,” said Connor to a man attempting to guard his pack possessively.

  The pure threat in his tone caused the man to jump. The men who’d lost packs were none too happy, but did nothing other than glare. Taking his time, Connor inspected the available guns, particularly the M4 in Gizmo’s hands.

  “As I thought. No ammo. What is it with the bad planning?”

  Connor checked the knives lying on the ground. He chose the nine-inch stainless Gerber for his own pack and tossed the remaining weapons deep into the woods. He found no guns of any intrinsic value except the one Marty carried. He knew he wouldn’t get that one without a fight. Besides, military sniper bore would be impossible to find nowadays, making the weapon worthless unless used as a club.

  “Thanks, guys.” Satisfied, Connor slipped past a scrawny black-haired man and walked backwards for the first twenty feet before easing around to head east.

  “You said we made four major mistakes in this,” Buzzy yelled. “What were the other three?”

  Connor faded into the woods, but decided to respond. His voice carried.

  “Well, I guess I’ll answer that just for fun. The first mistake is that you guys smell from a mile away. Truly, take a damn bath once in a while. We smelled you 400 yards out on your first approach into our neck of the woods. Remember, human shit smell carries on the wind. Isn't that right, Marty?”

  Marty remained silent, trying his best to not grin.

  “The second reason,” Connor continued, “is that ambush tactics are best used in conjunction with immediate and overwhelming force. But, as you can see here, Davey felt like the infamous fat cat playing with a mouse. This time, the cat died. And number three, save some damn ammo! The best-placed firepower usually wins.”

  The crew grumbled and swore, as Connor passed on his words of wisdom.

  “Oh, and as a bonus, I’ll let you guys in on a special little secret. You never, ever bring a sniper into a hostile situation. As you can see by Snuff's ministrations, they’re worth their weight in gold from afar.”