Pedestals of Ash (9 page)

Feeling just a tad guilty about his mini-spa treatment, Bish
op exited the water and picked up his rifle to scan the area. Nothing had changed. He smirked and began w
ringing out his socks and shirt
. Before long, he was ready to head off into the night
,
renewed in spirit
. Bishop paused and looked
back at the windmill, noticing how the moonlight silhouetted it against the evening sky. It was an image
he would remember the rest of his life.

The moon continued to set as Bishop made his way northwest. The terrain was starting to flatten out with only the occasional ridge or line of small hills hindering his progress. The landscape was well illuminated
by
what remained of the lunar glow
and a bright star field. Still, Bishop was a creature of routine
,
and he used the night vision more often than necessary to scout. This tactic involved a full three hundred and sixty degree scan as he didn’t want anyone to angle into his path or catch him unaware from behind. While the chances of blundering into any human being were low, there were some big predators
nearby
. The cats in this part of the world were not overly large, rarely top
p
ing 200 pounds. That was little
consolation,
as Bishop knew they were
10
times as strong as a man
,
pound for pound. As a teenager, hunting in the mountains, he had
watched in awe as a large
lioness
cli
mbed a steep cliff with a white
tail
deer in her mouth. The deer must have weighed
almost as much as the
cat,
and her seemingly effortless scaling was an impressive demonstration of power and grace. Running into one of the big felines could ruin your day.

The apparently lifeless desert was
actually
inhabited
by many dangerous
animals
. He remembered getting lucky when encountering a
rather large dog some months before
– an episode he didn’t want to repeat. A pack of ravenous canines would be a serious issue if they surprised him.

Bishop crested a low rise and kept close to a tall cactus to avoid silhouetting himself. He
took a knee and cradled the stock of the rifle against his shoulder
to see what the valley below had to offer. His scan rev
ea
led so
mething he hadn’t seen in the last few
days – the perfectly straight line of a major roadway. Bishop was surprised by the sight, but quickly realized he shouldn’t be. He had made good time and had traveled in relatively straight
lines. After verifying there was
nothing else of interest nearby, he detached the night vision from his rifle and pulled out a map from the zipper compartment of his load vest.

Bishop sprea
d out the map on a sizeable, smooth stone
and flipped on the night vision’s infrared illuminator. After focusing the eyepiece, he could read the map almost as well as
he could
in broad daylight.

The roadway in front of him must be I-10
,
and the thought of crossing
that highway made him shiver. Terri and he
had encountered the worst of mankind
trying to cross this
interstate on their bug out from Houston. The mere thought of doing so again made his stomach tighten up and the
back of his knees beco
me
cold
and clammy
.

Using the compass built into his watch, he picked the tallest peak in the distance and eventually triangulated a close estimate of where he was. According to the map, he was just less than 80 miles east of El Paso
,
and there wasn’t a significant town anywhere nearby. That, at least, was positive news.

A rumbling in his stomach indicated it was time to take a break and
put on the feedbag
. The desert night had cooled significantly
,
and he wanted to be as fresh and alert as possible before crossing the interstate below. After folding and storing the map, he reattached and focused the night vision on his rifle and scouted the area again. This time he was not only looking for trouble, but a place to hole up and take a short break. Slightly behind him, he spied a dense clump of vegetation close to an exposed formation of sandstone. The rock looked like it had pierced the desert floor from below, standing about
10
feet
high,
and pointing toward the southwest. It wasn’t perfect, but would have to do.

After finding a flat, barren patch of sand that was reasonably well hidden, Bishop stood silent
,
listening to the sounds of the desert
in conjunction with the regularity of his own breathing
. He sig
hed with relief as he removed
his pack and was tempted to do the same with his rifle. Caution overcame that brief moment of temptation, but he did sling the weapon around to his back. At least the weight would be on a different
part of his shoulder for a bit.
It took a few minutes to gath
er a nice pile of the sandstone
and create a
small, circular,
knee-high
wall
. Bishop wanted to cook something, but didn’t want the flame visible, especially given his elevation as compared to the surrounding countryside. The rock pit would hide the flame.

I
nside of his pack was a German i
nfantry stove. The small metallic device was about the size of a deck of cards and when unfolded, made a handy little cooktop. Norm
ally, these units were operated with
chemical pellets that burned for several minutes when ignited. Bishop wanted to conserve his fuel and decided to build a small fire from the dead kindling of a nearby scrub oak. The longer the fire was burning, the greater the odds someone would smell or see it, so after collecting his small bundle of firewood
,
he set about making sure everything he wanted to heat was ready before igniting the flame.

While he was preparing his food
, Bishop thought about the small
,
metal stove
.
Hundreds of thousands of them had
been distributed to the German A
rmy throughout the years. He imagined a small group o
f infantry, fighting on the icy Russian steeps, huddled
around while fixing a quick meal. Bishop despised the German leadership of the World War II era, confident that hell was a little more crowded with the souls of those evil men. He also recognized that the average German soldier was just another guy
,
handed a rifle and ordered to go fight. Bishop grunted when he thought about the German army from that period in history. The military man in him had to respect what they had accomplished. Despite the horrific actions of their leaders, their soldiers had been some of the most tenacious and resilient in history. Bishop knew his situation was nothing compared to what those men had endured during the retreat across
Russia in late 1944 and 1945 - t
emperatures so cold their rifles
became frozen and couldn’t be coaxed to fire
. Bishop remembered seeing pictures of German soldiers stuffing their uniforms with newspaper to provide some insulation from the arctic air. It had gotten so bad, heavy motor oil was freezing in the engine blocks, disabling machines. Bishop shuddered
,
thinking about the suffering on both sides of that conflict. His situation was actually not so bad when comp
ared to what those men had
endured
. He reached down and
pensively examined the
diminutive
stove, wondering how many times on
e of its kind
had provided just a little comfort to some poor soul thousands of miles away from home and missing his family. When yo
u peeled away all the political layers
, it didn’t matter what language the soldier spoke or what flag he saluted. The Roman Legionnaire was no different
from
the British Grenadier or the Sioux Warrior. The sacrifice,
misery
,
and anguish were always the same. Why did they do it? They had a purpose…a plan…a goal…a cause. There was some end game in their future - some exit strategy that allowed those men to car
ry on. Bishop inhaled deeply and deliberately
, forcing himself to refocus on the here and now. “
This is an important part of the message to the
p
resident
,” he thought. “
I have to drive this point home. The people need that exit strategy. They need to believe there is a way out.
”    

He unfastened
a side compartment a
nd extracted several small zip-
top plastic bags. In one w
ere a few handfuls of green spiked
needles
,
collected from a pinion pine. These, when boiled in water, would make a harsh tasting tea that was rich in vitamin C. Since sugar wasn’t available, Terri had discovered
that
a small bit of ground up wild onion would make the concoction palatable. The desert onions tasted like sweet lemons. The pinion had also provided pine nuts, which he had roasted and stored in salt some time ago. These seeds were slightly smaller than a peanut, with the same consistency. The salt made them taste
almost
like pretzels. His largest bag was full of deer jerky
,
and he picked a
good-sized
piece to enjoy with his meal.

A few hours
earlier
, Bishop had hiked past a patch of amaranth and took the time to extract
some
. The leaves tasted a little like spinach and could be eaten raw. While some oil and vinegar would have
made them
tastier
, the solo greens would have to do tonight.

After everything was set out, he gathered a small bundle of twigs and dried bark
,
about the
size of his fist. He set the fuel into the rock pit and used one of his disposable lighters to start a small fire. Afte
r the stick
s were burning, he
positioned the steel camping mug
onto
the unfolded cooktop and began to heat a cup of water
,
containing a mixture of pine needles with a pinch of wild onion. Bishop scanned the area around his temporary camp again, thinking about how just one pack of sugar would really help his tea. No matter, he needed the break and the nutrients. It didn’t take long for the water to begin bubbling, so a quick adjustment to the camp stove allowed a simmer. Boiling the tea would remove a lot of the vitamins.

It took 20 minutes for him to prepare his meal and far less time to feel the surge of energy flowing through his body. The
synergistic
combination of fire,
food,
and drink helped his outlook as well
,
and by the time Bishop had covered the small pile o
f smoldering ashes with neighboring sand
, he was ready to approach the dreaded roadway below.

Stalking to within one hundred meters, he found a small undulation that provided good cover and an excellent view of the interstate. He went prone and began to study what lie ahead. A first, he thought something was wrong with his night vision. From this angle, both east and
westbound
lanes were visible for a mile in each direction. He had expected the roadway to be packed with abandoned cars,
trucks and buses, similar to the scene
he had witnessed a hundred miles outside of Houston, but there were absolutely no vehicles whatsoever.

The more he thought about
it, the more it all made sense
.
The population density in this part of Texas wasn’t even close to the Houston, Austin, San Antonio area. People out here regularly kept their vehicles topped off
,
even during normal times
,
because of the distances between filling stations. When everything had gone to hell, the existing gas stations had probably not been overwhelmed as quickly as in the larger cities. It wasn’t uncommon for ranches and other businesses to have their own fuel tanks as well. Bishop remembered the large silver tank on the other side of the main house where the hands filled their pickup trucks before heading out to remote parts of the property.

It was with great r
elief that he casually ascended
the embankment and stood on the
eastbound
lane of the interstate
,
looking both ways. Nothing but empty pavement could be seen in either direction. Walking on the smooth surface would allow for a faster pace, and Bishop spun around, heading west.

The first sign of civilization Bishop encountered wasn’t a car or truck,
but a motorcycle. A country lane
crossed I-10 via an overpass and there, si
t
ting in the night shadow of the bridge
,
was a late year touring bike propped on its kickstand. The gas cap had been unscrewed and was hanging on the side of the tank via its tether. Bishop thought it was ironic that the mode of transportation likely to get the best mil
e
age was the first one he encountered. It wouldn’t be the last.