Bishop's Song (22 page)

Bishop scanned I-40 with his optic, dawn threatening to bath
e the interstate in light at any moment. It was as he’d anticipated being this far east of Little Rock, completely void of any traffic, motorized or human.

While that was a positive development, it was offset with bad news. There wasn’t a single abandoned car or truck in sight.

“How far do you estimate we can see?” Deke asked, resting his sore back and legs on the knoll they had selected for cover.

“I’d guess three quarter
s of a mile in each direction,” Bishop replied. “It’s just our luck to vector in on a completely barren stretch of road.”

Deke sighed, unlacing his boot and
pulling it off. “I suppose that beats the hell out of cresting the rise and bumping into a thousand starving zombies.”

“I suppose.”

After removing both boots, Deke began rubbing his feet. “I don’t know if I feel any worse pulling that fucking red wagon of yours than I would have humping that load on my back.”

“Both would suck, and clearly, we’re not done walking yet.”

Bishop pulled a drink from his Camelback, the tepid water doing little to make him feel better. “Which way – east or west?”

“Flip a fucking coin for all I care. My dogs are barking, my spine is compressed
, and I can’t feel my right knee anymore.”

“
Wimp. That was just a stroll in the park. At least it’s not 110 in the shade with sand blowing in your face.”

Deke grunted, “You Texans… always think you’re so damn rugged. Fuck that shit. You’re hurting as badly as I am, you just won’t admit it.”

Bishop laughed, but wasn’t ready for a confessional. He liked Deke, respected him enormously, and enjoyed the man’s competitive spirit. No way he was going to admit how badly he felt. “I don’t have a coin to flip. Do you?”

“No, I thought I would use my American Express card on this trip. They have a great rewards program, you know.”

Bishop chuckled, still studying the roadway below, as if he expected something to change.

“Tell you what,” he began, “Let’s head east, away from Little Rock. I’m also game for walking along the road for a bit. It will make it easier going.”

“Now there’s an idea,” replied Deke, pulling on his boots.

The two men reached the flat surface of the highway a few minutes later, the open expanses making them feel somewhat exposed. It was Bishop’s turn to tow the cart, a task he managed while studying the map.

“Far as I can tell, the nearest town is 11 miles ahead. It’s just a speck on this map, but if we don’t find a truck to hijack in the next seven or eight miles, I’m going to start lobbying to turn around and head back east.”

Visions of Martinsville and busting the roadblock with apples filled
Deke’s mind. “I’m good with that.”

While the walking was easier, their pace remained slow. Bishop estimated he was carrying 35-40 pounds
on his back, another 15-20 with weapon and kit. Deke was equipped with about the same load. Despite both men being in excellent physical condition, their quest was taking a toll on their bodies and minds.

The
y spied the first relic at just over a mile. An 18-wheeler was pulled to the side of the road, the contents of its trailer scattered all over the pavement. Bishop had seen this kind of thing before, looters ransacking any building, vehicle or storage area, desperately looking for sustenance.

This specific example involved PVC pipe with
an assortment of sizes, lengths and fittings strewn for several yards. Deke grunted, “If I pried open a trailer and found the first ten feet were loaded with something I couldn’t eat, burn, or trade, I don’t think I’d waste the time or energy clearing the whole thing.”

“Desperate people aren’t always logical. Malnutrition does crazy shit to the brain. Nothing shocks me anymore.”

The duo kept walking, the next mile markers becoming both their goal and a torturous reminder of their slow progress.

“I ran out of gas once
, a long time ago, out past Bumfuck, North Carolina. I had to walk 15 miles to find gas. It didn’t seem so bad at the time,” Deke reminisced.

The next vehicle they spotted was a high-dollar German sports sedan. Someone had smashed the dashboard and removed the
stereo, as well as pried open the trunk and hood. “Can you eat radios?” Deke questioned, not really expecting an answer.

The
pastoral view over the next rise actually improved Bishop’s spirits. A long valley stretching off into the distance greeted the two. The outline of several vehicles was evident despite the morning sun obstructing their line of sight. Shading his eyes with his hand, Bishop looked at Deke and grinned. “A target rich environment.”

And it was.

Two miles and four relics later, they spotted the pickup. It wasn’t as new as Bishop’s first theft, but appeared to be a sturdy ride. One tire was completely flat, the others low. The key was the gas tank.

Bishop scooted under the rear bumper, praying no one had damaged the goods. The tank appeared untouched.

“Let’s see if we can get this baby started. I’m sick of walking.”

The cab was unlocked, all glass intact. Bishop found a piece of paper lying on the driver’s seat, a handwritten note. It read:

To anyone who finds my truck, my name is Steve Kitchener. I thought I had enough gas to make it to my sister’s house in Memphis. I did not. I’m going to walk the rest of the way. You can reach me at any of the following telephone numbers, if the phones ever start working again. God help us all.

“I hope you made it
, Steve,” Bishop mumbled, handing the yellowed paper to Deke.

Their second break of the day was due to the owner’s
hope of someone recovering his ride. A single key was left in the ignition.

“Only use half a gallon of the gas. If we can’t get it started, we’ll have to try another one,” Bishop directed.

The battery change went off without issue, as did the refueling. Holding up crossed fingers in the air for good luck, Bishop hit the key.

Like before, a lot of hard cranking and sputtering filled the air along I-40. On the fifth attempt, the engine fired and then died. A few moments later, the motor caught and kept running, a large cloud of black smoke signaling the unused machine’s protest at being disturbed.

“Go ahead and fill ’er up,” Bishop said with a huge grin on his face. “Check the oil and do the windshield while you’re at it.”

Flipping his mate
the finger, Deke set about pouring the rest of their precious gasoline into the tank.

And then they were driving, Bishop again using the wrong side of the road after a quick
U-turn.

“Beats the hell out of
hoofing it,” Deke commented, his attitude now much improved.

“I hope Grim likes the color. He’s so sensitive about such things.”

It took the truck thieves almost an hour to find their way back to the rest area. An unmarked intersection, wrong turn and Bishop’s keeping the speed low to conserve their limited gas resulted in a much longer drive than either had anticipated.

Grim was nowhere to be found when they first pulled into the parking area, only showing himself after his two partners exited the cab.

“I was thinking about shooting up that truck on the spot, but then decided to wait and see if it was anybody I knew,” he teased. “What took you guys so long?”

“We ran into a
busload of strippers, and they needed our help,” replied Deke. “We were going to come back and get you, but Bishop and I decided we could handle it ourselves.”

“Ha. Ha. Ha,” came the much
-anticipated rebuttal. “You two were most likely chased off course by two little old ladies with umbrellas. Then you probably got lost.”

Deke ignored the counter, looking back at the direction Grim had come. “Why were you hiding, Grim? Did a raccoon wander through the rest area and freak you out?”

And so it went, back and forth. The three men sat about unloading the disabled clunker, transferring their goods to the new chariot, each complaining that the other two weren’t carrying their share of the load.

“I’m going to miss this old girl,” Bishop mused
as the last of the cargo was lifted. “She carried us through a lot.”

Grim grunted, his expression making it clear he harbored no emotional attachment to a machine.

After everything was loaded, the men decided to catch some sleep, Bishop and Deke suffering due to their extended stroll. Showing a rare bit of sympathy, Grim offered to take a double watch so the two walkers could get some extra shut-eye.

“I need you guys on top of your game,” he observed. “That way you won’t slow me down.”

Wolfing down a quick meal, Bishop reached a speedy decision regarding his temporary sleeping quarters. The driver’s seat was substituted for a picnic table, his poncho used as a sheet and his pack as a pillow. He dozed off, half-listening to Grim tease his boss about being out of shape and getting old.

Eastern Arkansas

July 10, 2016

As the trio of rescuers progressed across northern Arkansas, the landscape quickly changed from rolling hills to flat, featureless prairie. Miles and miles of endless fields stretched across the horizon, the domination of agriculture
only occasionally interrupted by a small patch of woods or towering grain silo.

Bishop’s
predisposition to avoid both areas of population and traveling via the more popular thoroughfares was based on experience gained over a year ago - when anarchy was young and full of vim and vigor.

It soon became obvious
to the team from Texas that lawlessness hadn’t aged well – a toothless old beast whose look was far worse than any bite.

Other than the chance encounter at the Toad Suck Dam, it
appeared as though society had neither the energy, nor the will to do much more than to bleed out from her injuries.

The few people the travelers did encounter barely acknowledged their presence, once it was determined the three
strangers riding in the truck weren’t a threat… not that the statistical sampling of the area’s residents was overly large.

After leaving the rest area, the first
locals they encountered were a family riding in a horse-drawn wagon. When the father had recognized the truck’s now-rare engine noise, he had reached immediately for the weapon at his side, relaxing as soon as he was satisfied he wasn’t the target.

Another couple, working a garden plot near a small farmhouse was only briefly visible, the
truck zipping past in the fading light of dusk. Still, there had been zero sign of aggression.

Bishop decided it all made sense - t
hings had changed. Months without gasoline, electricity or plentiful nourishment had no doubt served to modify the behavior of the local population. The few folks they did encounter barely acknowledged the team’s passage. No one tried to raise any barriers to their progress.

They m
ade good time, despite keeping the pickup truck at 40 miles an hour or less. Regardless of the lack of threat, they proceeded cautiously, scouting every intersection and bridge, avoiding towns wherever possible, always wary of meeting their fellow human beings.

Rivers were still an issue
. Having been raised in West Texas and living in the Lone Star State most of his life, Bishop wasn’t accustomed to the sheer volume of streams and large waterways they encountered. To him, it seemed like every few miles brought another bridge that had to be properly cleared, each crossing a chokepoint offering those with nefarious intentions a prime spot for ambush or other mayhem. Still, no bushwhackers were found.

And then the map, terrain and
landscape all combined to inform the trio that they had arrived at the mighty Mississippi River.

As Bishop stood gazing at the distant landmark, he couldn’t help but feel a sense of awe.
Mankind had sought to enslave the river, to restrain her freedom with shackles of dams, levees and dikes. Men wanted a servant, a beast of burden controlled and demur. Despite a seemingly endless number of projects, billions of dollars, and some of the finest minds available in the Army Corps of Engineers, the great river would have none of it. Every so often, she would shake off the chains of slavery, humbling those who sought to be her masters, running free and making all lesser creatures flee before her might.

Perched
on the hood of the truck, his vantage allowed for a panoramic visual of the moonlight reflecting across the surface of the distant waterway. He couldn’t help but feel a kindred spirit with the river, his mind comparing the similarities between the waterway’s plight and that of human liberty.

How often had governments attempted to restrain their subjects with the yokes of law, tax and subordination, all with the intent of creating a beast of burden – controlled and demur? Weren’t
those restrictions and regulations the same as the works of earth and concrete that sought to force the river into captivity? Was the collapse as inevitable as the rising waters sure to devastate with the flood of anarchy?

The Texan snorted, carrying the analogy further. Like the river beyond, men had
overcome the restraints erected to confine them. Throughout history, rule of law had been overwhelmed, as easily breached as the levees below, the resulting destruction just as poignant. Was he now living in such a period? Wasn’t this recent upheaval of society like the floodwaters unleashed by the river? Wasn’t lawlessness just as inescapable? When rule of law was eventually reestablished, would man have learned his lesson this time and not crowd the river of freedom that energized men’s souls?

Bishop shook his head, deciding his species probably would not
mend its ways.
We might be smart enough not to rebuild along a river, but the wisdom to ensure true freedom still eludes us.

He then reconsidered the verdict, the harsh sentencing
to eternal conflict and struggle pronounced by a one-man cynical jury. Here, today, there was evidence to the contrary, the undeveloped land Exhibit-A in the trial playing out in his thoughts.

Where he
stood, there was nothing but sandy soil, trees and low grasses – a reserve left to Mother Earth out of respect for the waters beyond.
Evidently
, Bishop decided,
Man is capable of learning, eventually showing respect, and keeping his distance from the waterway
. With only a few exceptions, like the concrete bastions fortifying the major cities, there were no homes, businesses, or roadways immediately next to all-powerful flowing water.

Although pre-collapse news reports often show
ed video of small towns, neighborhoods and farms being inundated with rising water, for the most part, mankind did not rebuild after these great floods.

It was along this unclaimed border that the
rescuers approached the crossing at Memphis, vectoring from the north so as to avoid the population directly to the west of the Tennessee metropolis.

To the south, Bishop could see the dark s
kyscrapers of Memphis. The wall of tall buildings provided an eerie backdrop to the rollercoaster-like arches of the I-40 bridge, a passage for their river crossing – if the trio made it that far.

Just as
Matt had said, military vehicles blocked the 3-lane interstate roadway heading eastbound into the city known for its blues music, prize-winning barbecue, and southern hospitality. Bishop had expected to encounter lines of vehicles waiting to enter the metropolis. What they actually found were a few pedestrians milling about, exchanging glances with a bored-looking group of sentries screening those who were attempting to head east.

“It looks like time to become thespians, boys,” Gr
im announced, lowering the optic, he’d been using to study the troopers beyond.

“The West Texas traveling road show presents,
‘How to Succeed with Infiltration Without Really Trying,’ starring yours truly, the one and only William Deke-speare.”

Bishop nodded
without comment, his reaction to the humor dulled by a tingling network of nerves creeping toward his core – a symptom commonly felt when he was preparing to do something dangerous. “If we keep cool heads, everything will go just fine,” he said, more to reassure himself.

“It’ll be okay, Slick,” Deke said, patting Bishop on the shoulder. “We have pulled off better impersonations than this before. You should see our friend Grim in a dress, playing the part of a Muslim woman
. Academy Award material it was. I swear it.”

Grim, not
recognizing Deke’s attempt to bolster the team’s confidence, looked up and frowned, obviously deep in thought. “That was the mission we lost that kid from Florida, wasn’t it? What was his name again?”

Deke’s
eye roll was clear, even with only moonlight. He waved Grim off, mumbling, “When we get back, I’m going to enroll your grumpy ass in sensitivity training or some shit.”

With the
ir scouting completed, the three men sat about preparing for the next step. Grim and Deke immediately began donning the uniforms and other critical items necessary for their roles, most of the costumes provided by Matt.

Deke
set about changing into the MP uniform. Just as Matt had predicted, the fatigues hung loosely off his shoulders, the pants baggy around his waist. By the time the contractor was finished, Bishop believed that if he had met the man randomly, he would have believed he was a military policeman.

The
play’s script, created on Matt’s back porch, was simple. Deke, posing as an MP, would tell the soldiers at the checkpoint that he had been pursuing Grim, now his prisoner. According to the real MP, the black market exchange of rationed items such as food, gasoline, ammunition and medical supplies was a common problem within the territories controlled by the military.

Furthermore,
the ex-soldier had stated that things occasionally got so out of hand, the military would pursue those involved. Often, the smugglers had a wide-ranging market, which meant law enforcement would have to travel great distances in order to catch those profiting from the underground economy.

“They should let you through,”
Matt had predicted. “While I never personally was assigned such a mission, I did know other officers who were.”

While they had
tried to anticipate every possibility, Bishop was still concerned. Their story and disguise was thin and could be easily penetrated by any of the soldiers manning the checkpoint. Arriving at such an early hour, they were depending on tired eyes that weren’t paying close attention. Deke’s ill-fitting uniform, was just one example. While it was reasonable to believe that most of the soldiers working in the area had lost weight and thus their uniforms would be baggy, Deke was well fed, healthy, and showed no signs of protracted periods without proper nourishment.
He doesn’t exactly look like he’s missed any meals
, Bishop thought.

They waited until almost midnight, the bewitching hour. Given their approach
through the backwoods, they had to backtrack a few miles in order to drive the truck up to the roadblock as if it had arrived from the wilderness of the West. There were six or seven soldiers milling around, their posture and body language relaying calm demeanors.

Bishop’s eyes darted here and there, taking in more details as they closed the distance to what they believed was the most dangerous leg of their journey. He immediately noticed one
of the Humvees. Parked sideways on the pavement was the model that had been mounted with the 50-caliber machine gun on its roof. The mere presence of this most feared of weapons caused his heart to race, only to relax slightly when he determined the belt-fed blaster was unmanned.

“It doesn’t look like they’re expecting much trouble,” Bishop
said to Deke while they were still too far away to be heard.

“
Hungry people probably don’t put up much of a fuss,” replied Deke.

“Neither do civilians against th
at Ma Duce mounted on top of that Humvee,” noted Bishop, referring to the M2, 50-caliber machine gun.

“I was trying to ignore that
; thanks a lot,” grunted the voice from the bed.

In their planning, they
had hoped that there would be a queue. The best-case scenario would have been dozens of people desperately waiting to pass through the checkpoint. Bishop wondered if they had made a mistake, the tactic of waiting until such a late hour now not seeming so crafty.

Closer to the
checkpoint, the headlights illuminated a white line painted across the pavement. Someone had neatly lettered “STOP” in large, white letters. Bishop applied the brakes, the front tires resting on the demarcation.

Just as he had feared, the appearance of a motorized vehicle drew the attention of
the sentries. A younger soldier started to advance toward the truck, evidently taking his turn to investigate new arrivals. He was called back, an older man, probably a sergeant, deciding that he would “Take this one.”

Hi
tching up his pants and straightening his blouse, the NCO approached with his weapon at low ready, passing by the driver’s window to inspect the bed of the truck where Deke sat guarding the captive Grim. Their supplies were covered by the tarp, several crisscrossing strands of paracord securing the cover.

After satisfying himself that there was nothing overtly dangerous in the bed of the truck,
the guard approached Bishop’s window, keeping his distance and stopping a few feet away.

“State your business
,” the man barked, the volume an obvious attempt to broadcast authority.

“You need to talk to the guy in the back,” Bishop
calmly answered, jerking his thumb toward the rear of the bed and defusing the sergeant’s bluster. “I’m not in charge.”

Tilting
his head as if considering the answer, the soldier shrugged his shoulders and then proceeded to take a step back and look up at Deke. Again, he spouted the same challenge.

“S
ergeant, I am with the 377th MPs. I am returning to complete an operational order issued by the Memphis Regional JAG. This man,” he stated, pointing at a handcuffed Grim, “is my prisoner.” Deke then handed the man his ID card.