Holding Their Own VII: Phoenix Star (32 page)

“Shit, Terri, I don’t have any way of treating a snake bite,” he fussed. “Of all the things.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t see it,” she croaked.

Pushing down the panic that was welling up, he found himself looking around for something, anything to help
his gravely ill spouse. His mind was a blur, trying to recall any small tidbit of information that might help. On the few occasions when a ranch hand had suffered a bite, he had been driven immediately to the hospital in Alpha. There weren’t any such facilities nearby… at least not any that he believed would be functional.

He then cataloged what the venom was doing to his wife’s body, a desperate mental process born of helplessness. The
hemotoxic substance was attacking her on many fronts. One vague memory that stood out was something about the destruction of red blood cells. Was there anything he could do to help her fight off the poisonous invasion?

T
erri had been brewing pine needle tea, a beaker of the yellowish liquid residing on the counter. It was their primary source of vitamin-C. Didn’t they give orange juice to people who had just donated blood? Would the tea help?

Bishop gave her a drink, having to support her head while she sipped a few mouthfuls of the tepid brew.

He tried to get her to consume more, hoping
it would help her body fight off the venom. She moaned and frowned, refusing to cooperate. “I don’t want anything in my stomach right now.”

Hunter stirred, fussing and cranking for a moment. Bishop realized he had another problem – there was no way to feed his son. Terri couldn’t nurse with the venom flowing through her system. His scowl deepened… if she
didn’t pull through, what would happen to Hunter then?

He paced back and forth, his eyes darting between his wife and child. He tried to recall Terri’s odds of surviving, but couldn’t remember the percentages. He did know that cellulitis could be an issue even if her body overcame the venom. She might lose the arm from secondary issues… or worse.

Forcing himself to slow down, he again reviewed every bit of knowledge he’d ever seen or heard concerning rattlesnake victims, but it wasn’t nearly as in-depth as he needed. Was her recent pregnancy a factor? Did breast feeding raise or lower her body’s ability to heal itself? How long before she could safely feed Hunter? There simply weren’t any answers. “Get the victim to a hospital,” he mumbled, repeating the treatment prescribed by every source he could recall. “I don’t have a fucking hospital handy,” he growled.

Or did he? His mind’s eye filled with a map, judging El Paso about 220 miles directly to the south. Fort Bliss was there… and the base hospital.

Hunter fussed again.
He’s going to be hungry soon. How in the hell do I feed him?
They had packed a single baby bottle with a couple of spare nipples. Bishop had seen Terri give Hunter pure water once. At least he could keep the kid hydrated.

I’ve got to take her to Fort Bliss
, he reasoned. There was no other choice.
If I drive like a wild man, and we don’t run into any trouble, I can get her there in just over three hours.

Bishop grimaced, knowing the MPs
would arrest him on sight. He would most likely be put on trial and then hanged or shot. Nick probably hadn’t had time to clear his name.

Bishop glanced over at his wife, her breathing rapid and skin covered in perspiration. He then looked at Hunter, the child’s eyes bright and blue, watching his father’s every move. “I love you both so much,” he whispered, and then turned to get the truck ready for what would most likely be his final trip.   

The pickup was basically ready. Always worrying about the need to retreat or flat out run away, he’d refilled the last of the fuel, and secured the hitch shortly after their arrival.

The only
preparations really required to bug-out quickly included repacking the cab with a little food, water and other necessities, rearranging the space while he was at it. Those tasks passed quickly.

He prepared the baby bottle with water, thinking to warm it using the truck’s heater. Hunter couldn’t hold a bottle yet, so he’d have to drive and feed at the same time - if the kid got too upset.

He moved Hunter to the front seat, leaving the back open for Terri to lie down. He took her body armor and the spare, constructing a small wall of Kevlar around the baby carrier. It was the best he could do.

He carried Terri out of the camper and helped her get comfortable in the back with a pillow and blankets. He twisted the seatbelts to hold her in place as best he could. Her wrist was now almost twice its normal size, the swelling above her elbow. Her pulse was double-time quick.

“Where are we going,” she asked as he tucked her in.

“I’m taking you to Bliss,” he responded, “You remember the hospital there
, don’t you?”

“I hate that place, Bishop,” she replied weakly. “You died there. Where’s Hunter?”

“He’s going to ride up front with me. That way I will be able to take care of him, if necessary.”

“Okay. Tell him I love him,” came her drowsy reply.

Bishop knew his wife was really sick, her easy acceptance of Hunter’s new riding accommodations so uncharacteristic of her often overly-protective, new mommy instincts.

And then he was pulling out of the lane and onto the New Mexico highway. He turned south for Fort Bliss.

Santa Fe, New Mexico

August 7

Jay walked out of the bedroom, pissed to high heaven over a pounding headache and upset stomach. He padded slowly to the home’s huge family room and studied the multitude of bodies scattered on the eclectic collection of sleeping accommodations - couches, chairs and inlaid oak floor. “Where the hell are you, Rojas, you slimy fuck? I’m going to kick your ass,” he whispered, a look of sincere murderous intent gleaming behind his eyes.

Rolling his muscular arms in small circles, another bolt of throbbing torture shot through his temple, seemingly coming to rest at the base of his skull. He issued a low noise, part growl, part grumble
, and then moved behind a recliner.

A slight form lay in a snoring heap
on the nearly horizontal chair, covered with a dirty blanket. Jay reached down and pulled off the cover, unmasking a disheveled head of long blonde hair. “Shit… you ain’t Rojas… just one of the bitches.”

He nearly tr
ipped over the next body, a low groan escaping from the topless girl, most of her body draped over a footstool. “Another bitch… nice rack… have to remember that one.”

The ta
rget of his ire was finally revealed sawing logs on the loveseat. Jay grabbed the dude by the ankles and twisted hard, Rojas flopping onto the cold tile floor.

“What the fuck!” the Latino yelled, standing quickly. “What is your problem, bro?”

Jay stepped into the smaller man, poking him in the chest with his index finger. “That blunt you sold me… that was some nasty ragweed shit. I’m about to toss my cookies, and my fucking head feels like it’s gonna explode.”

Rojas didn’t back down, “I told you not to smoke that
weed and drink that white lightning at the same time, asshole. It wasn’t my product that fucked you up, it was that poison shit Hook is selling. That dude don’t even rinse out his tub between batches. Go fuck with him if you wanna play badass with somebody.”

Another pile of blankets rustled, and then the face of a g
irl appeared. With blinking, bleary eyes, she squinted up at the two men and protested, “Can’t you two shitheads go fight somewhere else?”

Rojas moved
one step and backhanded the girl, the sharp slap eliciting a yelp and harsh stare. She threw off the covers and stood up quickly, a large butcher knife accompanying the menacing expression painted on her face. “I ain’t your bitch, motherfucker. Now I’m gonna bleed you.”

The Latino took a step toward the girl, but Jay’s arm shot out and grabbed his shoulder. “It ain’t worth it, dude. Besides, I need some fresh air. Come on.”

Before he turned, Rojas looked the young woman up and down and inhaled. “Maybe you should bathe, bitch. Someone might be interested in fucking ya if you smelled a little better,” he sneered.

She took a step forward, but Jay was already pulling his frien
d away from the halfhearted taunt. The two men moved to the sliding glass doors leading to the pool deck and what had been a golf course just beyond. The once pristine swimming hole was now a half-full murky, swamp-like slime pit, the manicured fairways and greens overgrown and hardly discernable.

Jay scanned the area for a moment, its
decay enhanced by his throbbing skull. The home they now occupied wasn’t theirs. When everything had gone to hell, Jay and his buddies had laid low, stayed high on some quality weed, and worked out while watching their Santa Fe neighborhood unravel. It had never been a particularly safe place to live, and as soon as the locals figured out the cops were no longer enforcing the law, complete anarchy had erupted.

When they had swallowed
their last crumb from the pantry, he and his buddy had pulled the two AK47s out of the closet. Rojas’s brother was a dealer, and the weapons had been stashed at the apartment for a rainy day. Desperate for food and feeling a little badass, they had set off on foot to cure the munchies.

The only time the
y had fired the weapons was a couple of years ago, a weekend trip to the desert with a few boxes of shells. That boredom-induced adventure, combined with hundreds of hours of video games, was the full extent of their combat training.

It was enough.

The capability for violence in the suburban neighborhood had already been exhausted. The drug dealers, gang leaders, and other generally unscrupulous thugs in the area had fought among themselves, an out of control spiral of violence taking a heavy toll. By the time Jay and Rojas had ventured forth, most of the residences were empty, most of the businesses looted or burned. The stench of the mounting body count permeated the air.

Really having no option, the duo ventured further and further away from their barrio, thinking the higher scale neighborhood
s might have more to offer in the way of bounty.

And they were right.

Their first firefight resulted in a hasty retreat. A convenience store owner was holding out, waiting on law and order to be restored. The Pakistani man had lived many years in his own war-ravaged country and had experienced lack of support from the authorities firsthand. His extended family and he were bound and determined to defend their little business.

Flushed with adrenaline and
emboldened by their mere survival of the encounter, Jay and Rojas had managed to exercise their battle rifles with a few wild shots and then scurried off. The high they experienced was unlike any drug either had ever ingested. For some, combat is a powerful narcotic.

Only hours
later their bravado resurfaced, and they engaged and again withdrew in defeat. Giddy, excited and hungry, they succeeded on the third attempt, gorging themselves on snack food, candy bars and warm beer while the unfortunate owner and his two sons bled out on the floor.

Neither one of them would have ever been valedictorian material, but they were pretty intelligent fellows in a street smart sort of way.
They were young, strong, and reasonably perceptive. Like so many men of their age, they believed themselves immortal, invincible. Small victories encouraged more aggressive behavior. Both learned very, very quickly. Over the next few months they roamed the south side of Santa Fe, identifying targets of opportunity and basically taking what they wanted.

It was the shiny, late model Corvette that
drew them to their current accommodations. They had just successfully followed another looter back to his hideout, butchering the unsuspecting scavenger and fleeing with his ill-gotten gains. Heading back home, they entered a gated community of upscale mansions, complete with iron rod fences and security cameras.

“Dude, check out that
‘vette. That’s my favorite color,” Jay had announced, pointing through the once forbidding bars.

“Let’s go take it
for a spin,” his friend prompted, a distinct glint in his eye.

Shooting open the gate had been easy, despite one of the ricochets barely missing Jay’s knee. Ho
pping the fence had been child’s play. When the homeowner appeared on his front stoop with a shotgun, killing him was automatic. The homeowner’s wife escaped out the back door, never to be seen again.

They located
the sports car’s keys on a counter. The gas tank was full. The joyride was legendary. The mansion now theirs.

From that
point forward, rather than trek for resupply, they drove. Word quickly spread among the young people that Jay and Rojas had their shit together. The expensive car and deluxe accommodations elevated their social status. The duo quickly became urban legends, and a gang of sorts formed over time.

Not that there weren’t any challengers. Many had tried to stop, kill, usurp or replace the two
ever more aggressive men, but their luck had held. It wasn’t all random fortune that kept their gang at the top of the food chain.

Their endurance was superior, burning the energy of youth while older men suffered from malnutrition, an overabunda
nce of caution, or outright fear. Rather than endlessly run the basketball court or football field, Jay and Rojas expended their stamina fighting running gun battles and outlasting their opponents. Slaughter, domination and control had become their sport. After a year of nearly constant violence, the fighting skills of the two young men and their associates were the equal of any rifle platoon in any army.

Still rubbing his temples, Jay inhaled the outside air. “We
gotta get those fuckers to take a bath, man. It stinks in there.”

“No shit, bro. Let’s take a seat and figure out what we’re going to do tonight.”

As both of them made for a nearby patio table, Jay stopped midstride and tilted his head.

“What?” his partner asked.

“Do you hear that?”

The smaller man turned his head, trying to figure out w
hat his friend was referring to. It became clear a few moments later. Their eyes met briefly and then focused immediately on the interstate half a mile away. They watched without comment as a pickup sped down the six-lane highway, tearing ass and heading west.

“Dude! Check it out! A running car… that means gasoline.”

“That means a chase! Grab the AKs… Let’s go!”

Bishop exhaled when the city of Santa Fe finally began to thin out. He was burning through gasoline at an unbelievable rate, keeping the pickup above 80 where conditions allowed. He glanced in the mirror, Terri’s damp, matted hair and pale complexion reaffirming his decision to try for Fort Bliss at any cost.

The light was fad
ing, and he deemed it wise to travel with the headlights. For the hundredth time, he calculated their fuel burn, the GPS reporting the declining miles to the programmed waypoint of the military base’s front gate.

A glance across the console showed a calm Hunter. The infant seemed lulled by the truck
’s motion, completely unaware of his mother’s condition. Again, thoughts of raising the boy by himself flooded Bishop’s mind, pushing the gas pedal down a little further. Terri could do okay without him if things went badly at his trial – the boy was better off with his mother.

T
he appearance of high beams behind him was a surprise. Not only was another running vehicle a rare sight outside Alliance territory, the fact that someone was catching up with him was unbelievable. At this speed, it would take a very determined driver to be closing with the truck. He instantly sensed predators, and he was the prey.

Bishop considered slowing down, briefly pondering a complete stop. Neither option seemed overtly better than continuing his current co
urse and pace. He had no idea how many men were in the pursuing vehicle. Whoever it was, any confrontation at highway speeds would either be limited or risk a serious accident. Cars impacting, rolling or crashing at over 80 mph would be as deadly as any gunfight. He hoped the people behind realized that fact. The followers continued to close.

A bright, sky blue Corvette pulled alongside. The passenger, a long haired young man brandishing a pistol, motioned for Bishop to pull over. The Texan flipped the
kid a bird.

“How stupid are these guys,” he mumbled to himself. “Their ride is half as light as this truck. If they want to play bumper cars, bring it.”

When it dawned on the chasers that Bishop wasn’t going to cooperate, the passenger made an exaggerated show of chambering a round into his pistol. Motioning one more time for Bishop to pull over, the guy then pointed the handgun at the pickup’s front tire.

“Give me a break,” Bishop whispered.

The cab was filled with howling wind as Bishop hit the electric window switch, air and noise buffeting the interior through the opening.

“What’s going on?” Terri mumbled from the back seat.

“Just some kids trying to get us to pull over,” Bishop responded over the din. “No problem.”

The .45 took a bit of concentration to aim, Bishop putting on
a show himself. He didn’t have time to play games with the local hoodlums; he didn’t aim for any tire.

When the kid looked up and saw the pistol, he didn’t react like Bishop th
ought he would. Instead of being overcome with fear, the dumbass actually fired a shot at the pickup.

The 1911A preferred by the Texan held eight rounds in the magazine, one in the chamber. Bishop started pulling the trigger as fast as his left index digit would respond.