Holding Their Own: A Story of Survival

by Joe Nobody

Bishop pulled supplies out of the truck and disappeared into the barn. He took an old feedbag and cut it into a square. He cut three strips of four-inch wide paper. He took the smokeless gunpowder, a staple of his reloading bench, and poured a small line down each strip. He rolled the papers tightly the same way a cowboy rolls a cigarette. After he had made his gunpowder cigarettes, he took a knife and cut them into small sections. He put a small piece of tape on each end and soon had a nice sized bag of very big firecrackers – minus any fuses.

  Ben came into the barn as Bishop was cleaning up, and told Bishop he had something to contribute. He crawled into the loft and came down with a five-gallon can of kerosene. Bishop smiled. “Perfect.”

  Everyone met on the porch and had a bite to eat. Maggie had just returned, and everyone rushed over to see how the first phase of their plan had worked. She hugged Ben and then broke into a wide, beaming grin. “Message delivered with a smile and a cool drink.”

  Bishop had six magazines for the big .308. Each held 20 rounds, but he only loaded them with 19 because they jammed less often that way. He took his .45 sidearm and four extra clips for it. Ben and Terri took him to the lane where they had first parked to spy on the bridge and dropped him off. He kissed Terri and disappeared into the woods without another word.

  Ben and Terri drove to the ferry and arrived right at dark. Terri spread around Bishop’s firecrackers exactly according to Bishop’s instructions. When she was done, Ben took the kerosene and poured it on the large stack of wood. He unhooked the mooring chains and watched as the big hulk of steel slowly started drifting down the river toward the bridge.

  Bishop made it to the observation point Terri and he had used the first night. He found a good position that offered him cover and yet had a clear view of the bridge. He deployed the bi-pod on the rifle and settled down to where he was in a comfortable shooting position. He adjusted the scope and checked the range. The bridge was right at 725 meters, or about eight football fields. The .308 had numerous documented kills at over 900 meters, so the range was well within the capabilities of the cartridge. The rest was up to him. He pulled out his notebook, making sure his flashlight was not visible outside of his hiding spot. He was loaded with 169-grain match hollow points, so he flipped his notebook to the page where he had recorded the history of that cartridge with this specific rifle. He thought the angle downhill was less than 15 degrees, and the humidity was about 75%. This all translated into a holdover of 59 inches, meaning he would have to hold the crosshairs 59 inches above any target.

  Bishop knew he was going to have many targets, so he adjusted the elevation knob, counting the number of clicks very carefully. When things started happening quickly, he would only have to concentrate on the crosshairs, not the holdover.

  The river had a bend right before the bridge, and Bishop could see it perfectly. He went through the order of targets three different times until he got used to the pattern and the feel of the rifle. He could see the Bradley with its machine gun on top. Next to it was one of the Humvees with a big .50 on top of it. The second .50 machinegun was at the west end of the bridge.

  He waited about 30 minutes and was beginning to think the barge was not going to make it . . . or something had gone wrong for Ben and Terri. He was watching the river beyond the bridge when he saw the edge of the barge come around the bend in the river.

  He sat down the NVD and picked up the rifle. He found the barge more from the reflection of all of the campfires than from actually being able to see its shape. He waited until it had cleared the bend, raised his aim to an additional 38 inches high, and ever so slowly squeezed the trigger.

  The rifle roared and pushed against his shoulder, but he didn’t wait to see the effect. He centered the crosshairs, raised the muzzle, and let a second shot go at the barge in less than a second. The bullet flew over the bridge at supersonic speeds, and everyone there heard a crack from its sonic boom as it passed overhead. The first bullet hit the deck right in front of the stack of kerosene-soaked wood. The heat of the bullet would have ignited the fluid, but when it hit the barge’s steel plate, a spark flew, and the woodpile ignited.

  The men on the bridge were confused. Everyone thought they heard a shot from the south, but the mass in the river was to the north and floating toward them. The fire spread quickly, and the outline of the steel barrels became clearly visible. The man in charge on the bridge saw the barrels and the fire, and thought his team was about to be hit with a large bomb. He started screaming for everyone to shoot the barge.

  Bishop saw the Bradley turret start to turn toward the barge. This move exposed the back of the man operating the big machine gun. Bishop sent the shot and watched the man flop and fall over. His next shot was at one of the Humvees. Just like the Bradley, the man on top was spinning the Ma Duce toward the burning barge. Bishop centered and sent another one. He missed, but centered, breathed and sent another round. This one hit his target. The third .50 caliber was dispatched with a single shot. Bishop’s firecrackers started popping off, and to the men on the bridge, it sounded like someone was shooting from the barge.

  Bishop intended on going after the snipers in the trees next, but as he scanned the bridge, he saw a perfectly silhouetted line of men side-by-side, firing at the barge. He lined up and started firing at each one in rapid succession.

  After he had either hit or scattered the men on the bridge, he started looking in the trees for the snipers, but couldn’t locate them. He figured they were always present, but perhaps they switched positions nightly.

  While he was searching, he saw movement and was very happy to see about 30 men charging the bridge from the east. He moved to view the other end and saw about 15 men charging from west. He went back to the east, and saw a target shooting at the charging crowd. Bishop centered on him and sent one his way. The man fell over instantly as did the next guy, who tried to climb up on the Bradley, reaching for the machine gun.

  Bishop felt, more than heard, the bullet go past his head. He rolled to his right immediately and knew his sniper friends were indeed on the job tonight. Bishop rolled twice and then stopped. He prayed they didn’t have NVD. He then belly crawled forward 10 feet. Another round hit right at his original position, so he didn’t think they could see anything but his rifle’s muzzle flashes and were shooting at where they had seen them last.

  He decided to check on the bridge again and saw the rushing groups of men were meeting in the middle. The bridge now belonged to the people.

  As he was watching the celebration on the bridge, he noticed two men moving quickly toward him through the woods, leap frogging from tree to tree. He fired two shots, but missed both moving targets. He dropped straight back along the river about 40 feet and took cover in a shallow ditch. He was scanning with the NVD when he saw one of the men rise up and pop off two rounds in his direction. Every few seconds, the man would rise up and fire. His buddy is trying to get behind me and cut me off.

  Over the next 15 minutes, Bishop and the two pursuing snipers fought a ferocious running gun battle through the woods. Almost every tactical move known was attempted by one side or the other. Bishop tried every trick he knew and a couple he thought of in the heat of the moment. The two snipers were clearly experienced in small arms combat and kept pressing their advantage in numbers.

  The only things that kept Bishop alive for those few minutes were the NVD and his focus. Despite all his efforts, he was slowly, but surely being cornered against the river. He knew if they managed to pin him, he was dead. Several times bullets would rip into the tree he was behind missing him by inches. His return fire had at least nicked one of the men because he heard a yelp and cursing after that exchange of gunfire.

  At one point during the gunfight, Bishop was on a knee, peeking around a large pine tree, when his vision filled with white flecks, and it felt like his face was on fire. His initial reaction was “I’m hit,” but he felt okay except for the blood running down his cheek. As he checked his face for injury, he pulled
several splinters out of his cheek and forehead. Some were over two inches long and if he had not had on his shooting glasses, he was sure he would have been blinded by the near miss.

  He was out of options and beginning to think it was over. They had his back to the riverbank with one sniper on his left and the other to his right. If he retreated any more, he would be completely exposed on the open sandbar. He figured he had one option left. He reached in his rig and found the pouch with the smoke grenade, pulled the pin and threw the device a few feet in front of him, waiting until it started billowing white smoke. The smoke trailed south along the river, and Bishop crawled along underneath it. As soon as the white smoke had shielded him a reasonable distance, he turned and moved quickly away into the woods.

  He didn’t know if the snipers were going to continue their hunt after losing him in the smoke. Their side had lost at the bridge, and he hoped self-preservation would override any desire to continue after him. He slowly retreated back into the woods and headed for the old barn.

  Terri picked him up on the road as planned. He was covered in sweat and still breathing hard. He drank a full bottle of water without pausing and wouldn’t look at Terri.

  “You okay?”

  “Yeah, I’m fine. We need to get out of here.”

  “You were late. What happened?”

  “I’ll tell you about it later, Babe. Let’s just go.”

  They returned to the farmhouse. Bishop washed himself off and cleaned his rifle in silence. Ben and Terri both tried to strike up a conversation, but it was clear Bishop just wanted to be alone with his thoughts.

  It took him several hours to settle down, and when the rush had worn off he suddenly felt exhausted. Despite feeling weary and knowing Cooter was on guard, his sleep was troubled that night – his mind flashing images of men’s bodies jerking and falling in the crosshairs of his scope. He didn’t know it at the time, but those images would never leave him, always seeming to return in the dark of the night.

  Head for the Border

  After their successful bank robbery, The Force left Cleveland, always traveling south and west toward Mexico. They waited until reaching southern Indiana to take inventory of their haul and found they had done very well. They used pawnshops, gold buyers and other below the radar exchanges to slowly dump their gold and other loot for traveling money along the route. For the most part, they had kept to themselves and as far away from the law as they could.

  When the terrorist attacks occurred, they had been trapped on the east side of the Mississippi in Memphis for almost two weeks. They had slowly converted part of their booty to cash at the city’s pawnshops, allowing them to stay in upscale hotels where they ate very well. When the bridges opened, they worried about trying to cross with the van and being inspected by cops, so they sold it to a junkyard and purchased the nicest 4x4 pickup truck they could find for cash. The five big guys of The Force could not all fit comfortably in a single truck, so a cheap, but reliable sedan was added to their convoy. The heavy loot was put in the back of the pickup, and they purchased a hard cover to secure it.

  As they made their way across the heartland, they ran into trouble several times. They almost lost their treasure twice, with one episode resulting in two dead men in Arkansas. Spence was not stupid, and he knew that civilized society was crashing around them. They were in a small town when they decided they needed more equipment and much heavier firepower than they were currently carrying. Spence, being an ex-Marine and former policeman, knew his weapons. In addition, three of the four crew had seen combat in Iraq or Afghanistan. They used a technique, similar to the one they used at Fort Knox in Cleveland, to crack the gun safe of a large sporting goods store in Oklahoma.

  The Force wanted to get to Mexico and retire with their riches on some sunny beach where women and booze were cheap and plentiful. They had been tracking across northeast Texas when they saw an old man driving alone down an isolated road in a farm truck.

  “Turn around – I just saw gasoline go by!” Spence yelled.

  The driver of their truck braked and turned around quickly, leaving their comrades following in the sedan wondering what the hell was going on. The truck accelerated and began to close the gap. The old farm truck was a heavier vehicle than The Force’s pickup, so running it off the road was not an option. Spence had his driver pull up beside the old man so he could stick his pistol out the window and wave for him to pull over. It eventually took a shot across the farm truck’s windshield before the frightened man pulled over and stopped.

  Spence got out of his pickup and waved his pistol, motioning for the old man to get out. As he opened the door and slowly climbed out, Spence noticed that the license plate on the truck was from Mexico and decided to find out what he could from the old guy.

  “Good afternoon. We were wondering if you had any tequila to trade.”

  “No hablo ingles,” he replied, raising his arms.

  “Oh, come on now, we don’t want to hurt you, we just want to trade. Are you hungry? Need anything?”

  One of The Force walked up and said, “Queremos comercio?”

  The old man smiled and relaxed just a bit. Spence told him to lower his arms and that helped even more. He motioned to the back of the truck, and with Spence’s nodded approval, he proceeded to dig around and pull out a bottle of tequila.

  Spence laughed and told one of The Force to go get some of their food. He looked at the old man and rubbed his stomach in a circular motion as if to inquire, “Are you hungry?”

  The old man smiled again and nodded his head rapidly up and down.

  Between their limited Spanish and their new friend’s broken English, they found out that civil war had broken out in Mexico. The old man described drug cartels, remnants of the Mexican Army and a few police forces fighting for control. He described situations that made the US look like Disney World.

  After they had extracted as much information as Spence thought they could, he gave the man a bag of food and motioned that he could be on his way. Happy to be released, the old man smiled and started walking back to his truck. Spence raised his pistol and shot him twice through the chest.

  One of The Force commented under his breath, “Spence, man, that was some cold shit right there, dude.”

  “Fuck it – we need the gas. Somebody get the siphon hose, and let’s see how much is in that piece of shit - get the food back, too.”

  Spence was mad. They had gotten this far, and now he was thinking their plans would have to change. Maybe the man was exaggerating? Maybe he was just telling them all of that stuff about Mexico to keep them out of his country? No, he thought, I believe him.

  As they drained the gas out of the farm truck, Spence moved to the side of the road and stared across the landscape. We need someplace to hole up and find out what is going on.

  West of the Brazos

  Bishop and Terri stayed at Ben and Maggie’s the next day and started west just before the sun went down. They crossed the river with just enough daylight left for Bishop to examine the bloodstains on the bridge. The evidence of the previous night’s battle only added to his melancholy state of mind.

  Something seemed wrong with Terri this morning, and he was worried about her as well. She had been vomiting, and he was concerned about some type of stomach bug, given all of the different sources of water and food they had consumed. She thought it was just nerves, but agreed to let him know if she experienced any other problems.

  As soon as they could, they got off of the two-lane highway and started making good time on country roads. They were headed almost due west, a course that pointed them straight at the high population areas of Austin and San Antonio. Bishop wanted to avoid these regions at all cost, and after the events of the last 30 days, Terri understood why.

  When they were approximately 80 miles east of Austin, they ‘hung a lewie’ and headed straight south. They hadn’t seen any other cars, and as they traveled up the rare hill in that part of the state, Bishop was al
ways looking for lights in the distance.

  Houston had been without electricity for several days before they left, but there was no way of knowing about other cities. If other towns still had electrical power, it could mean less desperate people, and probably some level of government law enforcement or security. Maybe even gasoline. Bishop kept hoping to see lights in the distance.

  Ahead, he noticed a mailbox and power lines, branching off the main line running above to the road. They had been passing the occasional rural home without incident, and Bishop didn’t think anything of it. More out of curiosity than concern, he always scanned the properties as they passed. When he looked over this time, he noticed a flashlight beam moving sporadically in the front yard. Terri saw it as well, and slowed the truck as a precaution.

  Bishop, peering through night vision, could see what appeared to be a middle-aged woman in a nightgown with her back to a tree. She held the flashlight in one hand and had a large butcher knife in the other. In front of her were two good size dogs and while Bishop was watching, one of animals jumped at her as she slashed back with the knife.

  Purely out of instinct, Bishop raised his rifle and shot one of the dogs. Terri, unprepared for the noise from the gun, jumped and exclaimed “Shit!” Bishop saw the other dog run off. The lady looked toward the truck, shone her flashlight in Bishop’s direction, and he waved. She waved back, and then took her knife and moved toward the dead animal at her feet. Bishop’s jaw dropped at what he saw next. The lady dropped to one knee and began to skin the dog. Bishop shook his head and then watched as she expertly began to remove the hide.

  “Terri, let’s go.”

  “Is she all right, Bishop?”

  “Yes, she is fine. I think she might want us to join her for dinner, but I’m not hungry. Let’s get moving.”

  As they traveled through the night, they didn’t see another light or vehicle. Bishop considered moving over to a larger, faster highway that was paralleling them south, but decided against it. They had developed a routine that they used at every intersection and rise. Terri would stop the truck, Bishop would dismount and scout over the rise or around the intersection. It was becoming more and more difficult to maintain their discipline since they never yet encountered anyone else.