Bishop's Song (14 page)

Bishop delivered a
blistering 90 rounds in less than 30 seconds, shredding bark, snapping branches, and spraying mud. He wasn’t sure if it was the cloudburst or the lead-burst, but he achieved the desired effect – the other guys stopped shooting. Their advance halted.

An eerie quiet fell over the forest
, nothing but the falling rain daring to make a sound.  Engaging in gunplay with a couple of guys with bolt action deer rifles was one thing; running into someone who knew how to spread suppressive fire with a high capacity weapon quite another. The momentum of the attackers stalled.

“
Mark, you okay?” a voice called out.

“Yeah, I’m fine, but Jake’s hurt,” another responded.

“What the fuck is going on… who…” quipped another shaky voice.

Bishop analyzed the situation. He couldn’t shoot low anymore. They were too close and most likely would regroup in a few moments. He could fade away into the forest behind, but they wouldn’t give up trying to find him. If the truck
were discovered, his plan would be jeopardized. If he were cornered, that would suck even more than losing his ride. A lucky shot into his head would really suck.

He didn’t want to kill these men, even if he could
manage that feat while being so badly outnumbered. They had been stupid and surprised this first time; he doubted if they would repeat the same mistake.

“I’m not one of the poachers,” he called out. “I bumbled into your fight with them by accident. I’ve got no quarrel with you men. Let’s talk.”

For a moment, Bishop didn’t think anyone was going to respond, but eventually they did.

“Who the hell are you?”

“My name’s Bishop, and I’m from West Texas. I flew in on that airplane you probably saw buzzing around yesterday. I’ve got a job to do and ended up here by accident.”

“Bullshit!” sounded from the right, the grunted response soon followed by a smattering of other mutterings that Bishop couldn’t make out. He decided to push a little harder.

“I’ve been shooting low on purpose. Like I said, I’ve got no fight with you people, but if we don’t reach an understanding, I’m going to raise my aim. There’s no sense in anyone dying today. Let’s not be stupid.”

Again, the wind carried a variety of low voices through the rain, impossible for Bishop to judge the overall reaction from the other side. Finally, a clear shout reached through the storm.

“Okay, let’s talk. I’m coming out,” declared an older throat. Then a man appeared from the center of the attacker’s spread, walking slowly to a clearing 40 yards in front of Bishop’s hide.
There’s the leader
, the Texan determined.
That took a pair of gonads to walk out like that
.
Gotta give him credit for guts.

It could be a trap
, he realized.
Could be a ploy to get me out from behind these rocks.

Bishop hesitated a moment, deciding the risk involved in exposing himself was probably worth it.
These guys aren’t all that sophisticated and, after all, talking was my idea.
He stood and moved from behind his stone shield, ready to dive back if shots filled the air. No bullets came.

He
paced into the clearing, stopping 30 feet from an older-looking fellow sporting a full, but trimmed salt and pepper beard, and wearing a baseball hat with the park’s name embroidered across the front. The man he faced was perhaps 60 years old, but it was difficult to tell with the bill of the cap and the rain jacket’s hood. Muddy boots, filthy pants and a bolt-action 30-06 hunting rifle rounded out Bishop’s first sight of the ranger.

To the men of the forest,
Bishop was no doubt a spectacle. The desert colored vest, covering the bulge of body armor beneath, was bristling with magazines and pouches. The ACR was an unusually shaped weapon, its ferocity recently demonstrated. Fighting knife, radio, bush hat and bug-eyed combat glasses rounded out what must have been an intimidating sight to the host.

“My name is Frank Pearson
,” the man began. “I’m the head ranger… or at least I
was
the head ranger here at the park.”

The man’s voice was steady and low, and Bishop respected him instantly. Most people in Frank’s situation, would show
frayed nerves. Nodding, Bishop responded. “I was following the two poachers when they ran into your team. When they hightailed it back past me, I got stuck in the middle. I was trying to warn you off.”

“What are you doing here? What do you want?”

Grunting, Bishop smiled and answered, “I know this is going to sound funny, but I’m on a rescue mission. My team and I are on our way east to retrieve the wife and child of a dear friend. The airfield at your park was picked to be our forward operating base. We had no way of knowing what the situation was here on the ground.”

Looking around, Frank asked, “There’s more of you?”

Shaking his head, Bishop decided to be honest with the man. “No, not yet. The rest of my team was supposed to fly in this morning, but I’m thinking the weather has delayed them. I came in first to scout and establish a position on the ground.”

“Are you military? Work for the government?”

“No… well… it’s a complex situation. I don’t work for the US government, but it’s a long story.”

Frank studied Bishop, the man’s gaze boring into the Texan’s eyes. A decision was eventually reached, signaled by a slight nod and then an extended hand. “
First, let’s agree not to shoot at each other.”

Bishop
walked forward and accepted the handshake, smiling at his new acquaintance. “Fighting is never the right way if there’s any other solution.”

Frank turned to the woods, shouting, “Come on out
boys; it’s over.”

Before long, Bishop
was surrounded by a group of men who moments before had been trying to kill him. Despite the reassurance of their leader, all of them stayed behind Frank, eyeing the newcomer as if he carried the black plague.

One man was holding a rag against his head, blood soaking through the cloth. Bishop started to ask if the guy was badly hurt when one of the others commented, “He slipped in the mud and fell.”

Relieved at not having wounded the gent, Bishop started to make a joke when another man’s head snapped up, looking over Bishop’s shoulder. A shot ripped through the air.

There is an instinct… a reflex of sorts
, developed by those who have experienced combat. No amount of training can hone the reaction, no amount of practice can guarantee the skill. Bishop didn’t consciously think about the whizzing bullet or its source. In his mind, a line appeared on a mental diagram, connecting the metaphysical dots between the sound of the discharge and his weapon.

As Bishop pivoted, the
ACR was coming up, the motion smooth and practiced like a professional golfer’s swing or the serve of a tennis pro. Fluid. Snap. To anyone watching, it was a blur. 

His eyes registered the rifle first, then a second weapon came into focus. A thousandth of a second later, he knew
one of the poachers was working his bolt, the other just taking aim. The empty chamber was ignored, the black hole of the soon to be fired barrel completely filling his vision.

The
ACR’s stock was against Bishop’s cheek before anyone could inhale to shout a warning. The red crosshairs centered naturally, his eye and hand following the imaginary line already plotted and processed. He squeezed the trigger.

The empty shell casing was arching through the air, when the rifle barked again… and again… and then again.

The first target stood stunned, his eyes wide with shock as his knees began to buckle. The other man’s head was looking at the sky, a round catching him directly in the chin. He simply fell onto his back.

“Fuck!” cursed Bishop,
already rushing toward the two fallen men.

As he kicked
away their rifles, his voice filled with pure anger. “Why? You ignorant fucks, why? Why did you come back, damn it! You were free and clear!”

A quick check told Bishop what he already knew – both men were dead. He stayed on his knee beside the second victim, waves of nausea racking his core. His anger flowed at the dead man lying beside him, “How fucking stupid! You idiots! What were you thinking?”

Of course, there was no answer.

Bishop felt a hand on his shoulder. He looked up to see Frank’s eyes, filled with understanding of the moment.

“Why?” Bishop asked, the pain bleeding through with the single word.

“These two have been getting bolder and bolder over the last
few weeks. I think they were becoming really desperate. Maybe all of us standing around, exposed and talking was just too good a target to pass up.”

Shaking his head at the senseless act, Bishop finally stood and looked
at the circle of men gathered around the bodies. No one would look him in the eye. “I didn’t want this,” he pleaded. “My God in heaven, I didn’t want to kill today.”

Despite the
sympathetic postures surrounding him, Bishop’s rage continued to build. He stomped off, heading back to his boulder-fort to pick up his empty magazines and poncho.

After giving Bishop some time to cool down, Frank approached and offered, “We’re heading back to the lodge now.  Why don’t you come back with us and get dried out
? We’ve even got a little food if you feel like eating.”

The Texan’s first reaction was to decline the invitation, his mood guiding him to sulk and isolate. A small inner
voice reminded him of the mission, of how being on the right side of the locals would help things go smoothly.
Maybe establishing relations will avoid any more bullshit killing like just happened
, he reasoned.

“Thank you
,” Bishop responded. “It would be nice to get warm and dry. Building a fire today might be a bit of a challenge.”

Men began building litters, chopping
down saplings for the supports. An hour later, a column formed, two of its members being carried to their graves, a third wondering when the killing would stop.

Petit Jean State Park, Arkansas

July
5, 2016

It was still a beautiful place. Despite the many months without funding, support or other benefits of society, the park’s main lodge could only be described as stunning.

Sitting at the end of a valley with
Petit Jean Mountain to the north, the placement of the main building was inspired. Bordering on a steep canyon wall, the vista stretched for miles down the gorge, beautiful hardwoods covering the gently sloping Arkansas hills for as far as the eye could see.

Bishop scanned the area as the column cleared the forest trail and entered the main grounds. The hotel, pool, main dining area
, and parking lot appeared untouched – ready for the fall tourist season and those drawn by the changing colors of autumn foliage.

As he
examined in more detail, a few things seemed out of place. Stacks of firewood were abundant, as were men with weapons – the lookout stationed on the hotel’s roof probably not required before things went to hell.

Children ran here and there, childhood games of tag or hide-and-seek keeping the little ones occupied
, the muddy ground making the games more interesting to some. Bishop spied another oddity, two women cooking over a campfire while a third carried more kindling to feed the flame.

“Most of the guest
s canceled their reservations after the terrorist attacks,” Frank noted, hanging back to speak with Bishop. “Those that were already here, we offered to let stay after the news reports stopped, and the electricity didn’t return. Most didn’t, wanting to return to homes and family.”

Bishop stopped walking, glad to give his back and feet a rest. The head ranger continued, “About three weeks after contact with the outside world ceased, one of our rangers came into the park and announced that the entire world had
gone nuts. He kept calling it apocalyptic, and we all thought he was exaggerating. He said he had driven his family into town to get supplies, and they had been attacked. He described roving gangs, like you’d expect to see in LA or Chicago. They all had guns, and what few people remained were scared shitless of them. They tried to take the few gallons of gas he had left.”

Nodding, Bishop said, “I understand. I’
ve seen it before, and it doesn’t even have to be a town or big city. It seems like anytime there is a group of people in trouble, the wolves start preying on the sheep. It’s probably always been that way, probably always will.”

Frank considered his guest, seemingly deep in thought. “It wasn’t just one guy. The stories started mounting
, and the electricity never came back on, no television or radio – nothing. It was like the whole country had gone dark and silent.”

“In a way, it did – and not just
because of the electricity. I was in Houston with my wife during that time. Even though we were living in a big city, we had no clue what was going on. We could see the fires, night after night on the horizon. It was spooky… real spooky.”  Bishop shuddered, thinking back about those times and then shook himself to clear the memories. “When the army finally rolled in, it split our little neighborhood apart. We were barely holding on as it was, and when half the people said they were leaving to go live under martial law, we decided to bug out.”

Frank nodded, his expression showing familiarity with the situation. “We had meeting after meeting about doing the same. The problem was, no one could think of a better place than here at the park. Our job
had been to protect the resources here, to preserve them for the future. You can imagine how difficult a decision it was to start consuming what we’d worked so long to foster.”

Bishop’s eyebrows rose, having never thought about that aspect before. “I bet it was a tough call,” he agreed.

Frank motioned for Bishop to follow and then continued the discussion. “The next issue was the stragglers. At times, it seemed like the whole countryside was full of people wandering around aimlessly, eating anything they could find. Some groups were docile, almost lethargic; others were violent and aggressive. I remember driving down the road and finding a family with a fire and sleeping bags camped right in the middle of the pavement. They were living like wild animals.”

As they talked, the men strolled
toward the bodies of the two poachers. Bishop took a moment to study the men he’d just killed.

Both of the victims appeared traumatized beyond having been shot. The dead men
were thin, their waistlines sunken narrower than their hips. Dirty, long fingernails, yellow teeth, and oily, uncut hair confirmed his suspicions. Bishop said, “You mean like these two guys? It looks like to me they were barely staying alive before they took a shot at us.”

Frank
put his hand on Bishop’s shoulder. “I knew these two, ran into them a few times before everything went to hell. I had them arrested three years ago for poaching on park property. They were scum then, and the fall of society didn’t help that one bit. We’ve been skirmishing with them for weeks. They were hard drinking, shiftless lowlife - without any family or foundation. Come on, let’s go stand by the fire and dry out.”

“I see you brought me another mouth to feed,” sounded a female voice from behind. Both men turned to see a middle-aged woman approaching.

“Mary, this is Bishop. We ran into him on the 3-mile trail while we were hunting the trespassers. Bishop, meet Mary, the matriarch of our little community and my wife.”

Mary sized Bishop up without offering her hand or any greeting. There was a stormy look in her eye
, a suspicion no doubt enhanced by the two dead bodies lying at the men’s feet. “How long is he staying?”

The woman’s tone was clearly hostile, but Frank pretended not to notice. “I’m not sure, Mary. Why don’t you ask him yourself?”

She glanced at Bishop, shook her head and then walked off without another word. After she had passed beyond earshot, Frank said, “I’m sorry. She hasn’t been the same since everything fell apart. She has a son who lived outside Chicago, and we haven’t heard from him in months. It eats at her every single day.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Bishop replied. “You two, of all people, should understand my mission. I’m
on my way to retrieve loved ones and reunite a family.”

Frank’s eyes never left Mary, watching his wife as she approached another man and str
uck up a conversation. “That’s a noble cause, for sure,” he said to Bishop. “You’re right. I do understand, down to my bones I understand. The world may have lost civilization, but I lost the sweetest girl this side of Little Rock.”

Their discussion was interrupted by Bishop’s watch alarm, signaling it was time to turn on his radio and monitor a specific frequency
– the agreed upon procedure to make contact with the plane. Glancing up at the still overcast sky, he knew it was pointless, but followed the plan just in case. Nothing but static filled his earpiece.

Frank noticed the act, glancing up as well. “How many men is the plane bringing in?”

“There will be three of us on this little adventure. I hotwired an abandoned truck on the interstate and drove it down here. The plane is bringing enough gasoline and supplies for a pretty long drive.”

Scratching his chin, a hint
of slyness crept into Frank’s voice. “I’m not trying to be nosey, but is there enough gasoline in Texas to support an endeavor like this? No offense, but you are better fed, equipped and organized than anything or anyone we’ve seen since it all fell apart.”

Bishop chuckled at the observation
, warming his hands by the fire, the heat slowly drying the mud on his pants. “It’s a long story, but essentially several small towns in West Texas have banded together and formed a union of sorts. We’ve managed to get electrical power and limited refining of gas and diesel up and running.”

“Are you going to retrieve everyone’s family members?”

“No,” Bishop shook his head in dismay. “I wish we could, but that would be impossible. The guy we’re doing this with is a special case, and our ruling council approved the operation.”

Frank seemed to take his time absorbing it all, turning his back to the flames and scanning his community. “I thought we were doing well here,” he commented. “It sounds like we’re behind the curve.”

“You are doing very well here, at least from what I’ve seen in other parts of the country. I think we’ve gotten lucky, and circumstance put the right people in the right place. Your people are eating and secure, and that’s a lot better than most folks I’ve encountered.”

“Frank,” a voice called out, “If you want some of this pork stew, you’d better get over here. It won’t last long.”

“Okay,” the head ranger responded, “we’ll be right over.”

“Pork stew?” Bishop asked, a frown on his face. “You have hogs around here?”

“Wild hogs… they’ve saved our butt. We would have obliterated the local deer population in a matter of months were it not for Mary’s feral pig cuisine. What was a major pest before the collapse is now keeping us alive.”

Bishop had read news stories about the problem, the animals destroying millions of dollars of crops and property every year. Some of his co-workers at
HBR had even gone on hog hunting excursions for fun. “Do you have bacon?” he asked with a bit of hope in his voice.

“No,” Frank replied laughing.
“There’s no fat on’ em, and thus no bacon. To be honest, they’re not nearly as appetizing as domestic porkers, and that’s why we make stew out of the more mature animals. The big ones taste like ass; the younger ones are more palatable, almost tasty.”

Looking up at the still-gray sky, Bishop thought he should take advantage of a hot meal, even if it wasn’t favored by the Maître d’hôtel.
I’ll still tip well
, Bishop mused.
At least the dude was honest about it.

Actually, Frank had undersold the stew. Wild onions, potatoes from a neighbor’s legacy garden, and a few spices Bishop couldn’t identify made the meal superior to anything he carried in his kit. Water was served from a metal bucket, a community dipper filling plastic cups covered with their handwritten names. Bishop stuck with his Camelbak, not having a cup and not seeing any spares.
Besides, you never drink the water
, he told himself

Sitting apart from the main gathering, his host had been mostly quiet during the meal. After tipping his bowl and
sipping the final bit of broth, Frank sat back and admired the view for a few moments. Bishop had the distinct impression the man was building up something important to say.

The lodge guest didn’t have to wait long. Nodding at Bishop’s load vest, Frank came out with it. “What caliber is your weapon?”

“It uses 5.56 NATO or .223 Remington. It was originally designed to replace the army’s M4 platform, so it uses the same magazines and ammo.”

Frank’s eyebrows raised at Bishop’s answer. “We’ve got two AR15 rifles, but we only had about 50 rounds, and that went quick after the trouble began. Now I’m
relegated to a shotgun, a few rounds per deer rifle and a couple of handguns, and that won’t last long. We used a lot of our ammo inventory today.”

The hint was subtle,
and Bishop decided not to take the bait. Frank was wanting some of Bishop’s precious ammo, and he couldn’t blame the man. He was doing exactly what Bishop would do if the roles were reversed. But, the concept of giving a man… a man he didn’t know all that well… the tools that could hinder his operation didn’t sit well with the visitor from Texas.

Bishop nodded, sympathetic to Frank’s situation. “Ammo is the new currency in some places. A town near
where I live had a marketplace where everyone bartered, and there was nothing more valuable than brass and powder.”

Again Frank paused, Bishop assuming the fellow was working up the courage to ask for a gift - bullets. He was wrong.

“I know of something that might be of value to you and your team. It’s a risk on my side, but if you’d consider bartering some of those rounds, I could offer a trade.”

Bishop’s eyebrows
raised, now curious what Frank had up his sleeve. “Go on.”

Frank chuckled, “I can see I’m sitting across from an experienced horse trader
.” His voice then became serious. “I know of a man that lives about 15 miles from here, on the other side of town. He just recently returned home from the army. I’m not sure why, but he was involved in a big operation along the Mississippi river. He was a military policeman and might have valuable information, might be useful to you.”