Bishop's Song (10 page)

It kept running the next try.
Apparently, the eighth time is a charm
, Bishop thought.

After he was sure everything was working, Bishop put the truck in gear and did a quick 100
-yard test drive. He spun the wheel hard, returning to pull up close to the plane.

Hustling
, he threw his pack into the back and strapped on his chest-rig. An extra set of maps went flying into the cab.

“Okay, we’ve got transportation. I’m going to drive it to that airstrip and spend the night. I’ll see you tomorrow for phase two of the operation
. I’ll turn on my radio around noon. Contact me before you try to land,” he instructed Hugh. “Don’t forget about me, and tell Terri and Hunter I love them. Now GO!”

“Good luck,” Hugh replied as he throttled the propeller.

Bishop stepped back, keeping an eye on the approaching locals while the pilot turned the plane around in the median and then began
gaining speed as he rolled down the pavement.

A minute later, the
red truck followed, Bishop watching the men behind him growing smaller in the rearview mirror.

As he drove west in the eastbound lane,
Bishop watched the plane fade until it was nothing but a small speck in the sky. The successful start to the plan, combined with his rebellious driving on the wrong side of the road, left him feeling pretty good about the day.

At one point
, he considered moving over to the proper side of the highway, but dismissed it.
I may still get to make that trip with Terri to visit England, and this is good practice
, he mused.

After five minutes of putting distance between himself and the scene of
his crime, he pulled to the shoulder and began to study the map.

As best he could tell
, the airport they had flown over was 25 miles south of his current position, a casual Sunday afternoon drive before society had fallen. Now, he would have to navigate a cautious route through unfamiliar territory. The fact that the map wasn’t detailed enough to show every county road was troubling. He was in unfamiliar territory, and unlike Tennessee Williams, he couldn’t count on the kindness of strangers.

He knew to avoid the major roadways, as they would be the most likely
points of congregation for any people in the area. Recalling Hugh’s comment about the airfield being part of a state park, he decided to focus on getting in that general vicinity, hoping there might be directional signposts or other helpful landmarks.

Continuing west, he had covered three miles when an overpass appeared ahead. He again stopped, stepping out to scout the area with his rifle optic, but found nothing of consequence. It wasn’t an exit
, and he detected no movement.

Avoiding off
ramps and their promised blockade of stranded relics was appealing, a hard lesson learned during the bug-out from Houston so many months ago. Images of those starving people, so desperate they used insects to thicken their soup, filled his mind. He shivered at the memory.

On the other hand, taking the truck off-road entailed certain risks. Busting an axle, getting stuck
in the sand, or damaging a critical component of the drivetrain would put the mission at extreme risk.

Why is everything twice as difficult as before
?
he questioned, the query a reoccurring conceptual theme. A man had to be twice as cautious, take twice as much time and worry twice as much to accomplish even the most mundane tasks. When hunting in the mountains, progress was slow because a busted ankle meant death. When sharpening his knife, extra care was mandated – the smallest wound could mean death by infection in a world without antibiotics.  

Forcing the melancholy from his mind, he pulled the truck to the shoulder again
, dismounting with a rifle. Despite the discomfort of driving while wearing a full load vest, he decided to don it and his body armor – just in case. Sometimes safety overrode bulk and awkwardness.

He had selected a fighting load for this trip - lighter on food and water, heavy on ammo. If things went to plan, he’d only be without resupply for a day, so nourishment wasn’t a primary concern. His chest-rig held eight full magazines of 5.56 NATO rounds, exactly 224 shots for the
ACR rifle slung across his chest.

Night vision
(or NVD), sidearm, knife, net and a few other essentials rounded out the heavy load. Everything else was in his pack, the risk of being separated from that critical cache always in the back of his mind.

The Arkansas highway department hadn’t been mowing the borders of the interstate, and the weeds were thigh high.
I’m going to complain to my congressman
, Bishop mused as he stepped off the pavement and into the growth.

He slowly climbed up the embankment
, making his way to the roadway crossing the interstate, stopping at the crest to scout both directions. Nothing. Weeds, woods and wilderness were all that filled his gaze.

The next step was to walk the once-grassy area between the interstate and the country road crossing above. He didn’t want to hit a big rock or fall into a hidden ditch. The area was flat and smooth, no apparent truck-traps waiting to ruin his day.

Satisfied he could forge his own exit ramp without any issue, he returned to the idling truck and began gradually progressing across the uneven ground. A few minutes later, he pulled onto the county road and turned south.

While getting
off the wide-open spaces of the federal highway provided some relief, the rural road was hardly a panacea of tactical security. He had simply swapped terrain suited for long-range engagements for surroundings that fostered close-in encounters.

Wooded land, dense with undergrowth
, covered the rolling hills. Visibility was less than 100 feet in most directions. Compounding the issue were the curves and undulations of the road. Every pinnacle of a rise could deliver an unwanted surprise, every turn hiding what was around the bend.

There was also the uncertainty of
the best driving speed for the truck. A slower pace gave him more time to evaluate his unfamiliar environment while haste made the truck a more difficult target. He settled on a deliberately cautious speed. The lack of traffic convinced him that the locals didn’t expect intruders and thus would not be prepared with an ambush.

You’re being silly
, he chided himself.
You have no idea if these people would be hostile to you. Your imagination is running away to dark places without any cause.
Still, he proceeded with caution due to the unknown rather than any perceived threat.

“I need local information,” he
thought aloud. “It would sure help to understand the native mindset.”

The road was working its way downward, a gradual slope that eventually reve
aled a bridge at the bottom. The ancient wood and iron structure wasn’t aligned well with the pavement, and Bishop had to slow the truck even more for a smooth crossing. Glancing at the water below, he spied two youngsters with fishing poles along the bank of a large creek.

The two juvenile fishermen seemed as surprised to see Bishop as he was to see them. In a flash, they both threw down their poles and scampered into the
cover of the bush.

Bishop stopped the truck, right in the middle of the bridge, unsure of
his next move. He had progressed too far from the interstate to turn back, and there was no way to know if another route existed. The ten gallons of gas were by no means an infinite supply, and there was always the possibility of a chase or getting lost wasting his precious fuel.

The two boys reminded him of a scene from a Mark Twain novel.
Minus any straw hats, both wore rolled up overalls and plaid shirts. He guessed the lads to be in their very early teens. Obviously, their parents had taught them not to talk to post-apocalyptic strangers.

They had
run in the same direction he was headed, which meant depending on how far away their home was located, they might be issuing a warning of the approaching truck even now. Bishop had visions of a father, uncle, and older brothers rushing in a house, all of the men grabbing their shotguns to protect their family.

He had to continue
; he had to take the chance.

Rolling across the bridge, he
drove at a slightly faster pace. He saw the break in the forest up ahead, a mailbox announcing the homestead was close. He pushed down on the gas even further, intending to race by – praying no one was going to shoot at him.

The house was old,
its faded clapboard in need of a good scraping and coat of paint. Two large elm trees, trunks so thick a man couldn’t wrap his arms all the way around, provided shade for the front yard. The grass was short; the surroundings appeared well cared for. The two boys were there, standing next to an older woman wearing a gingham skirt covered by a pink and white checkered apron. A look of pure terror crossed all of their faces.

I need local knowledge
, he thought. Hitting the brakes brought the truck to a complete stop in the middle of the road. As he glanced back, the woman drew the two lads close to her, wrapping her arms around them in a protective gesture.

“Mister, we don’t have nothing worth
stealing,” she yelled.

Bishop thought about his response for a
moment, shouting back, “I mean you no harm, ma’am. I’m just wanting some information.”

There was no response.

Slowly, he stepped down from the truck and walked a few steps into the yard. Movement at the corner of the house caught his eye, and he snapped the rifle up in a fluid motion just as a small billy goat rounded the corner.

“Please don’t shoot Gertrude!”
shouted one of the boys, breaking away from the woman and rushing to hug the animal.

Bishop lowered the rifle, heart pounding
like thunder in his chest. After a few breaths, he announced, “I’m not from around here, and I’m afraid of getting lost. I’m heading toward a town called Martinsville,” he lied. “Is it close by? What’s the town like?”

The question
s, combined with the livestock’s survival, seemed to relax the woman. Her hold on the remaining boy relaxed, her hands moving to wad the apron at her waist.

“Yes. It’s not far.”

At first, the short answer annoyed Bishop. Then he realized the lady was still terrified. So were the boys. He did his best to smile and relax his body posture. “Ma’am, I’m just as scared as you are. I’m a stranger in a dangerous world, and it’s got me on edge. If you could provide me with some basic directions, I’ll be on my way.”

“These are troubling times,
mister. You’ll forgive my lack of manners and hospitality, but we’ve been robbed twice in the last three months. The last time they shot my man and almost hit one of my grandchildren. We’re all out of trust and goodwill.”

“I don’t blame you… I’ve experienced the same
, and it has me a little jumpy. Is your husband okay?”

He regretted the question immediately. Any villain would of course want to know if there was a man about. The woman’s expression flashed with more fear, but then she relaxed.

“He’s still alive, but I don’t think he’ll last long. We don’t have any medicine, and there’s no doctor here about. Even if I had the gasoline to run him to town, the clinic there closed down months ago.”

Bishop nodded, the situation about what he expected. “Is there anything I can do? I’m not a doctor
, mind you, but I’ve seen more than my share of gunshot wounds lately.”

“
The shot ran through his thigh. We got the bleeding stopped, but now he’s running a fever, and there’s pus. I don’t think the wound would be fatal if not for the infection.”

On his load vest was a medical kit containing a bottle of broad
-spectrum antibiotics. They were more valuable than gold and ammunition combined.

“Ma’am, I’ve got some pills that might help your husband. I can’t be sure, and
as I said, I’m no doctor. I’m willing to trade them for some information.”

She didn’t know how to respond at first, a
lmost as if she were already resigned to a death sentence for her mate and couldn’t consider negotiating with the interloper. Her next words betrayed as much. “I’ve just been trying to keep him comfortable. It’s all I can do.”