Holding Their Own XI: Hearts and Minds (29 page)

The drive into their old neighborhood was spooky to say the least. It seemed like every block brought back some memory or recollection, most centered on those early days following the collapse.

The bank branch where Terri had worked was the worst, most of the glass windows broken or cracked, waist-high weeds growing in the parking lot. Every business nearby was in practically the same condition.

Some structures had suffered worse fates. Bishop stopped counting the burned-out skeletal remains of grocery stores, gas stations, and restaurants after a few miles.

While the Army had been working on clearing the millions of stalled, abandoned vehicles that clogged every major traffic artery, suburban areas had been low on the priority list. Twice Bishop had to change his route, the roadway impassable due to hulks of rusting trucks, vans, or cars.

There were, however, some signs of life.

The couple saw children playing in a yard, another home sporting clotheslines heavily laden with laundry. Bishop even encountered the occasional car or truck on the roadways.

Small columns of cooking-fire smoke darkened the horizon here and there. At one point, the aroma of a BBQ came drifting through the cab.

Three blocks from their home, Bishop yet again had to backtrack. A large pine tree had fallen, blocking the paved lanes.

“Looks like that’s been there for a while,” he informed Terri. “Notice all the smaller branches have been removed? Probably for firewood.”

Then the truck turned onto their street.

The first thing Bishop noted was the overgrowth of grass, weeds, and shrubbery in what had once been a well-manicured subdivision. “These people should take better care of their yards,” he quipped to Terri. “Real estate values are going to plummet.”

“Wait until I speak with our neighborhood association,” she answered, never taking her eyes off the passing houses.

All of the homes had another thing in common.

On the side of each, in bright orange spray paint, was a symbol. It reminded the Texan of New Orleans after Hurricane Katrina.

A simple checkmark seemingly indicated the home didn’t contain any residents, dead or alive. A number probably noted how many people were living in the structure. A number with a circle was evidently a body count. There were a lot of circles and check marks.

Bishop’s old yard wasn’t any different, his once-sculptured bushes now covering significant portions of the windows, his “grass” almost waist high in places.

“Did you forget to pay the yard crew?” Bishop asked, pulling into the driveway.

“I thought you were paying them,” Terri replied, but her heart clearly wasn’t in the banter.

Bishop glanced over, hoping to reassure his wife. Terri didn’t notice, her gaze absolutely fixated on their former home. “It’s bigger than I remember,” she whispered.

Jumping down from the cab, Bishop retrieved his carbine from the backseat. “Give me a few minutes to make sure we don’t have any uninvited guests.”

It suddenly dawned on Bishop that he didn’t have a key… had no idea where the original would be. Finding the back door partially open solved the issue.

The first thing he noticed was the clutter. Leaves and other debris covered the floor at the entrance, a thick layer of dust adding to the sense of a place that hadn’t seen human occupation in a long time. The Texan checked for any signs of footprints in the thin film that covered the floor. He found none.

A musky odor overwhelmed him as he stepped in, a combination of mold and dampness waffling just inside the entrance.

The kitchen had obviously been ransacked, every drawer and cabinet open, the contents strewn across the floor. The refrigerator door was ajar, the shelves absolutely bare. Glass crunched under his boots as the Texan bent to retrieve a sizable hunk of his favorite coffee cup.

A rustling sound from the den had Bishop’s carbine snapping to his shoulder, but it was only a squirrel shocked by the sudden appearance of a higher predator in its adopted abode. Exhaling as he watched the critter’s fuzzy tail disappear through the broken glass of a window, he returned to clearing the rest of the house.

Other than the kitchen, most of the homestead looked untouched by looters. A few things were out of place, but it was obvious that food had been the primary interest of the intruders.

Two windows were shattered; one by a downed tree limb provided the primary squirrel entrance ramp, the other broken by some unknown force. The carpeting around the missing glass was dark with mold and soil.

Dust was on every horizontal surface, thick and undisturbed. Cobwebs were also in abundance.

After clearing the home, Bishop returned to the driveway and informed Terri it was safe to venture inside.

“How bad is it?” she asked with a worried expression.

“Not as bad as I thought, but it is a mess… especially the kitchen.”

“Looters?”

“Only in the kitchen. A couple of windows are out, so the bugs, squirrels, and moisture have ruined the carpet.”

Terri looked at her home, doubt flashing behind her eyes. “Is it safe to take Hunter inside?”

“I’m not sure. It smells pretty bad, probably mold… but other than that and the broken glass, there are no overt dangers.”

Terri again scanned the structure, indecision governing her expression. At one time, the home had been the primary focus of their lives. Scrimping, saving, and doing without had been the couple’s motto for months as they struggled to realize the American dream. The fact that a horrible recession was roaring through the economy at the time had made the effort even more intimidating.

Terri could still remember the day when the bank had finally approved the mortgage. Bishop had been out of the country, gallivanting off to some distant land to guard an oil well, or something similar. She had somehow managed to hold off celebrating, waiting patiently by the phone until he called so that she could share the good news. They had whooped and hollered for a full five minutes via the static-laced, long distance connection.

After signing more documents than either had anticipated, the couple had poured their hearts and souls into creating a home out of a building. They had only been able to afford a fixer-upper. The place had good bones but needed a ton of work.

Then, in what seemed like the blink of an eye, the world had gone to hell, and they had been forced to leave most of their worldly possessions behind.

Peering up at Bishop with fear, Terri said, “I don’t know if I want to go in. I’m thinking you were right… this might be a bad idea.”

“Up to you,” Bishop answered as warmly as he could. “We can turn around right now and head back to Alpha if you want.”

Her eyes darted between the structure and her husband, a tennis match of contemplation governing her thoughts. “You know I wanted to raise our children on this street,” she said in a far-away, hushed tone. “I always thought we would grow old together in this house.”

“If the recovery continues to roll along, we still might,” Bishop replied. “Isn’t that why we’re here?”

“I don’t… I don’t know, Bishop,” she stumbled. “I thought so, but now that I’m here, I’m having second thoughts.”

Terri exited the truck after handing Bishop his wiggly son. Hunter, as always, was fascinated with his father’s rifle sling. While mom scanned the home and continued to weigh the decision, Bishop took in the neighborhood, looking for any other residents.

Two of the homes further down the street appeared to be occupied, pathways of flattened grass leading to the pavement. “I wouldn’t want to be a lawnmower salesman,” Bishop informed his son. “No one is going to waste gas money on trimming the lawn for a very, very long time.”

Terri called out, “Bishop, I’m going in. Will you come with me?”

“Of course, my lady,” he replied, smiling at his wife’s stubborn determination.

She inhaled sharply when the kitchen came into view, but it wasn’t the mess of broken plates and scattered utensils. No, what had fixated Terri’s gaze was a collection of old family photographs still hanging on the wall.

Her mind wandered back to that day when they had made the decision to get out of Houston. There simply hadn’t been room in the truck to pack everything. Water, food, and ammunition had been the top priorities.

Terri took a step closer, her hand gently brushing the dust from one of the frames. “Hi, Mom, I’ve missed you,” she whispered.

“We’ve got more room in the truck now… if you want to take some of our belongings back west,” Bishop offered.

Like she hadn’t heard him, Terri’s gaze continued around the room and then she moved toward the center of the house.

With Hunter bouncing on his hip, Bishop followed his wife, wanting to be close at hand, but trying not to press.

“It seems so big,” she mumbled at one point, then reversing that observation later. “It feels smaller than I remember.”

Bishop could understand the flood of emotions. His reloading equipment, still on the garage workbench, had elicited a similar reaction. The master closet had been the worst.

Terri again became fixated, holding a piece of china that had rested proudly on a living room shelf. “This was my grandmother’s,” she told Bishop as if he was a stranger in her home. “It’s the only heirloom I have of hers.”

“Bring it back with you,” he offered.

With a flash of anger, she pivoted and held the precious object at arm’s length, her hand shaking with rage. “I can’t bring the whole house full of memories with me. I can’t pack up a life that no longer exists. Stop saying that.”

The Texan retreated, deciding she needed some space. He wasn’t angry, just worried. Hunter, hearing the tone of his mother’s voice, was frowning as well.

The two males skulked outside, Bishop wading through the high weeds to check the outside of the home and give mom some time to adjust.

Terri appeared a short time later, her expression making it clear she regretted the earlier outburst. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I don’t know what came over me. You were being sweet.”

“No problem. I’m just worried about you; that’s all.”

They couple exchanged a hug, and then Terri took her son and snuggled him close.

“What now?” she eventually asked.

“I need to patch up the two broken windows and get rid of the moldy carpeting. We are supposed to make our claim in the morning, so we’ll have to figure out someplace to sleep tonight.”

Turning to face the house, Terri said, “I don’t want to sleep in there. It smells musty and stale, and I don’t think it’s good for Hunter to be inside for extended periods of time. Let’s pitch the tent in the backyard. We can camp out just like my cousins and I used to do when we were little girls.”

“Sure,” Bishop answered, looking around with a frown. “It’s not like we’re going to hurt the grass or anything.”

“It will be like coming home, but not. This whole trip is just weird anyway. Why not top it off with more strangeness?”

Nodding, Bishop stroe for the truck. “I’ll get Hunter’s playpen, and you can set it up on the back porch. I’ll get started on my domestic duties after he’s all set.”

Chapter 11

There was a line at the county annex building where Bishop and Terri were to claim ownership of their property.

Already troubled by the exposure to their former lives and exhausted from sleeping on the ground for a second straight night, Terri peered at Bishop and suggested, “Is it too late to forget about the whole thing and head back to Alpha?”

“Let’s go,” Bishop responded immediately. “Ready, willing, and able.”

For a moment, she actually considered it. Then her commitment to Diana returned to her thoughts. Sighing, she shook her head. “In for a penny, in for a pound.”

Taking turns carrying Hunter, the couple slowly followed the line as it snaked its way into what had once been where citizens of H-town stood to renew their driver’s licenses and other automobile related issues.

As they idled in the cue, Bishop grinned at Terri. “Do you remember when the pre-collapse legislators used to have all those arguments about new spending bills and budgets? They were always debating about where the money would come from to pay for some new law or program. You’d hear them going on about Senator So-and-so’s new bill was a great idea, but some other program would have to be cut to fund the latest, greatest need.”

“Yeah, I remember those sound bites. In the end, our esteemed elected officials would always end up raising taxes to pay for whatever seemed so important at the time. They always called it a balanced budget, but in reality, it should have been called an expanding budget,” Terri vented.

“This line reminds me of an idea I once had,” Bishop continued. “How about you use your influence and political capital to convince the council that we need a ‘balanced time,’ amendment to the Republic’s Constitution?”

Terri frowned, sure that the heat had taken its toll, having absolutely no idea of his meaning.

“It would limit the government’s intrusion on a citizen’s time to only three days per year. Whatever new law is passed, whatever bureaucracy is created, an individual’s time is protected as an inalienable right. One of my biggest fears is that we’ll end up right back where we were pre-downfall. I remember spending hours in line to register the car while you spent days trying to figure out our federal tax returns. If you wanted to protest property taxes, you lost a day of work after wasting several evenings figuring out the confusing letter they sent in the mail. Then there were the safety inspections, state taxes, and God help you if you wanted to build a new room onto your house. It required weeks obtaining all of the permits and inspections. All that’s not even counting Social Security, health insurance, and jury duty. Voting was another lost day because of the long queues. It just never ended.”

Terri rubbed her chin, pretending to take him seriously. “I see what you’re saying, but how would you measure and enforce something like that?”

Bishop was ready with an answer, “Time is money, right? So this new amendment would hit them square in the pocketbook. Just like business expenses are deducted from your tax bill, you get to charge the government back for the time you spend executing all of their bullshit. Whenever someone wants to pass a new law, the politicians will have to take into account not only how much the new program will cost, but how much tax revenue they will lose from people standing in line. After a while, they’ll be forced to cut older programs because no one will have any ‘gov-time’ to fill out their stupid forms and wait their turns to be helped.”