by Joe Nobody
There was a five-gallon can of diesel in a welded bracket on the back of the Humvee. Bishop tapped on the can and was surprised to find it full. He wasted no time in draining the fuel into the primary tank. The gauge on the dash didn’t seem to be working, and he had no idea how much fuel was aboard, but knowing at least five gallons was available, provided some peace of mind.
After both men decided they weren’t hungry, Bishop pulled the Humvee from under the outcropping and continued heading southeast across the barren landscape.
General Westfield and Special Agent Powell sat and listened as two different officers reported there was no sign of the leader of the free world or the visitor. The soldiers aligned with the Independents, as well as the two rogue Secret Service agents, had been killed in the ensuing firefight. But the skirmish had continued for some time because loyal units had mistakenly engaged each other in the confusion. The young MP had been discovered and was immediately debriefed, along with his sergeant. There was no sign of the missing Humvee.
Powell looked at the base commander and shook his head in disgust. “General, we obviously have to find the president if he’s still alive. General Wilson is dead, and the vice president didn’t make it out of Washington. The House and Senate are disturbingly vacant. There is no one to secede. There’s no Supreme Court Justice to swear someone in. As of right now general, I guess you are the acting President of the United States.
General Westfield’s head snapped up, and he stared hard at Agent Powell. “I don’t think so. I’m only a major general in the United States Army, sir. I’m not even in the top 100 to succeed the parking attendant at the White House, let alone run the country. I’ve never ridden on Air Force One, kissed anybody’s ass, or accepted a dubious campaign contribution. Clearly, I’m not qualified and wouldn’t want the job even if it were constitutionally sound. I’ll pass.”
Agent Powell had to admit he had zero authority to appoint anybody. He was also happy to hear General Westfield wasn’t a power-grabbing maniac. He had listened and heard enough to know that a very large battle was looming in Louisiana and didn’t believe the boss had approved the final orders yet. They had to find the president if he was still alive.
Yet another knock on the general’s door sounded. A scared shitless lieutenant nervously reported that two Blackhawk helicopters were making ready to search the area. The Secret Service was to have two men on board each aircraft. Agent Powell intended to be one of them.
The Humvee’s front wheels dipped hard into a rut that wasn’t visible until the very last second. Both passenger-one and Bishop were jolted forward and then slammed back into their seats as the heavy vehicle cleared the depression. The leader of the free world looked at Bishop and frowned. “Are you trying to hit every bump, sir, or are you simply blind?”
Bishop thought he was innocent of any bad driving and decided to defend himself. “This ain’t no Mercedes limo, sir, and this sure as shit ain’t Pennsylvania Avenue.” Right about then the left front wheel found a basketball-sized rock and proceeded to climb it. Both men were shoved right and then when the wheel cleared the obstacle, they were thrown left. The process was repeated when the rear tire performed the same trick. The chief executive had had enough. “I certainly hope you shoot better than you drive, sir. I should demand you return me to Bliss immediately so the assassin’s bullet can put a quick end to it, rather than be slowly bludgeoned to death out here. Have you ever driven a car before….SIR?”
Bishop loved it! Here he was, rubbing elbows with the Commander in Chief, and the guy was actually busting his balls. Not only that, he was pretty good. Rolling up his intellectual sleeves and preparing for battle, Bishop returned the salvo. “Sir, at least I drive my own car and hold my own rifle. Not everyone can afford hired help for the menial tasks. When, if I may ask, was the last time you planted the executive gluteus maximus behind the steering wheel of a car?”
The president laughed and then became thoughtful. “You know Bishop, that’s a good question. I can’t remember the last time I drove anywhere. I remember a bright red Ford Mustang convertible my father bought me for my 21st birthday. Oh how I loved to drive that car up and down those abandoned New Mexico highways. That was fun.”
The Humvee began crossing a rock field that made both men’s teeth rattle. It seemed the surface was trying to slam their bodies in all four directions at once. The president sounded off, “That’s it! I’ve had enough! I demand you pull this rolling torture chamber over, and let someone with more experience and competence drive.”
Bishop snorted, and then began looking around. After playing it just the right amount of time, he looked at the president and said, “I’d be happy to sir, except I don’t see anyone that meets the requirement.” The politician rolled his eyes at the remark and both of them laughed. After another jolting desert landmark compressed both men’s spines into the thinly cushioned, military issue seats, Bishop slowed down and decided to take a break.
The president mistook Bishop’s actions to signal a change in drivers. He laughed again and said, “Oh, I was just joking, Bishop. While I would surely enjoy the novelty of driving, I couldn’t do any better than you are, son.”
Bishop thought about the remark and sighed. Despite his better instincts, he made up a little white lie. “Mr. President, I would actually prefer if you took the wheel for a while. I’ve been up for more than 24 hours straight.”
For the first time since Bishop had been in the man’s presence, the chief executive’s face actually brightened up for a moment. The reaction was short lived; however, and he began shaking his head no. “I don’t know that I could, son. It’s been so long.”
Bishop waved his arm at the empty horizon, “Sir, it’s not like you’re going to run over anyone or have an accident. It there was ever anyplace to re-learn how to drive, it’s out here.”
“Well, you certainly have a point there.”
Bishop stopped in the open desert. There wasn’t any place to hide, but he didn’t intend to be here long. The two men were stretching their legs and backs when movement caught Bishop’s eye. He quietly said, “Sir, please get your rifle…but do slow slowly.”
The older man looked startled and started to ask what was wrong, but Bishop put his finger up to his lips and made the “Shhhhhh” noise. The president then followed Bishop’s arm as it pointed in the distance, and he strained to see what had Bishop’s attention. Finally, movement caught his eye as well, and he spotted a hefty Texas jackrabbit about 200 feet away. The animal had moved ever so slightly, but was now sitting on its hind legs with long pointed ears searching the area for predators.
The man looked back at Bishop with a puzzled look on his face. Bishop mouthed the word, “Dinner.”
The president braced the M4 on the open door of the Humvee, as Bishop watched him try and recall how to fire the weapon. Both men were happy when the trigger was pulled, and the weapon’s report went echoing across the desert. I sure hope no one hears that, thought Bishop. The rabbit, however, didn’t move. The president steadied his aim while muttering, “Missed...damn it,” and soon the weapon bucked again. This time, the dust directly to the left of the target splashed into the air, and the animal scampered off.
With great disappointment, the hunter started to lower his rifle, but Bishop motioned for him to wait. Sure enough, the rabbit bounded about 20 times and then stopped. After another few seconds, both men watched it rise on its back legs and look around. Bishop whispered, “They aren’t too bright. Take your time, and try to hit him in the head. There will be more meat left that way.”
The third shot was good, and the animal fell immediately. “I got him!” Bishop thought about the excitement in the president’s voice and wondered if the man had ever been hunting before. He decided he would ask later, if there were time. The president started to walk across the open space to his prey, but Bishop insisted they drive in case the sound of the shots drew unwanted attention.
Chapter 13 – Meraton Rescue<
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Meraton’s main street was filled with more excitement than even the oldest residents could remember. Two pickups full of armed men from the Beltron ranch had arrived. They rolled into town, truck beds brimming with men holding onto ten-gallon hats with one hand and rifles with the other. While waiting for everything to be arranged, Pete’s was experiencing a boom in business.
David had returned with the Beltron crew. He reported to Terri that Samantha had lost the argument over who was going to Alpha and who was staying behind to help Mr. Beltron run the ranch. Mr. Beltron had asked David’s sister to stay, and that request had won her over. Sarah didn’t want anything to do with returning to her alma mater, and had happily stayed behind too. David hurried off to see his grandfather and say goodbye.
Pete had managed to gather up five men who either had family in Alpha or had lost relatives in the raids from the neighboring town and wanted to settle a grudge. Reluctant family members hovered around the soon to be departing warriors, trying to either lend support or talk them out of the endeavor.
Terri, Nick, and Kevin were in the gardens of the Manor getting their gear and kit together. A friendly debate had been in progress as to whether or not to stop by the ranch on the way. Terri knew Bishop had cases of ammunition in the bat cave, as well as several rifles. Nick, despite wanting to utilize Bishop’s additional firepower in the upcoming fight, didn’t think they should take the time, or chance pissing Bishop off. It was finally decided that they would “run what they brung,” and head directly to Alpha.
Betty was trying to organize a last minute, hurried food drive of sorts for both the Meraton men and the needy members of Diana’s church. Given the lack of notice and communications, she was doing surprisingly well. The lobby of the Manor was the central gathering depot, and twice she had to shoo off Beltron ranch hands from eating all of the gathered supplies.
Diana, true to her military training, had assumed a command position. She was standing in the bed of one of the Beltron trucks, attempting to organize the chaos. Using a borrowed pad of paper from Pete, she was taking note of the number of men, weapons, and supplies being gathered. As Nick and Terri exited the gardens, Diana hopped down from the bed and approached with a scowl on her face. “What’s wrong?” asked Terri.
“I don’t want to appear ungrateful, but I’m worried about this. Some of these ranch hands have less than 20 rounds for their rifles. Three of them are in Pete’s trying to bolster their courage with hard liquor even as we speak. One man from Meraton has never fired his shotgun before. I don’t think they realize this isn’t a cowboy movie fight at the O.K. corral. They are going into a war zone and are unprepared.”
Nick tried to reassure her, “Diana, I understand your concern, but you can’t tell me your church members were ready for World War III when it all went to hell.”
Diana interrupted the big man, “And a lot of them died.”
Nick paused for a moment and then tried to reassure her, “Those ranch hands look mighty tough to me, and like any group of men entering battle, they will perform based on what’s inside of them. You can’t control that, Diana. Every single one of them volunteered to be here. They know what could happen.”
Diana looked around at the swarm of activity and then back at Nick. “I know...I know. I guess I’m a little burned out on sending people to their death. I should just chill and be happy we are getting some help.”
Twenty minutes later, the Meraton militia rolled out of town in three pickup trucks. The gathered townsfolk stood along both sides of Main Street, waving their goodbyes and yelling out “good luck,” “love you,” and “hurry home.” Many of the observers stayed right where they were, watching the small convoy head west until the trucks were only small specks on the horizon.
Pete reached in his pocket and pulled out the shotgun shell he had borrowed from old man Parker. He hung a “Back in 30 minutes,” sign on the bar door and walked down one of the side streets paralleling Main. A few turns and blocks later, he came to a smallish blue-gray shingled sided home with two goats tethered in the yard. He didn’t even bother with the front door, but walked around to the shed in the rear. “Josh, it's Pete; you home?”
Josh’s head showed around the corner of the building. “Hey, Pete. What brings you out this way?”
Pete sauntered up and shook hands. Josh was in his mid-60s, tall and thin with a scratchy, gray beard and hair. Pete had always thought Josh both looked and acted like the patriarchal Clampet from the old television show The Beverly Hillbillies. Several people in Meraton thought the same thing, and the man’s nickname around town was “Jed.”
Josh was a widower and one hell of a nice guy. Once a week or so he would show up at Pete’s Place and have a single shot. A few stories would be exchanged along with a joke or two, and then he would tip his hat and say his goodbyes. Josh had also volunteered for the town posse, serving whenever asked.
The older gent was a retired oilfield worker from Midland, Texas. Pete asked him one time why he had moved to Meraton. Josh had just smiled and said that Midland was getting too crowded for his taste. By accident, Pete had found out that Josh reloaded his own ammunition. One night while sweeping the floor of the bar, Pete found a wallet. The driver’s license inside told him it belonged to Josh, and after closing, Pete had set off to return it to its owner.
Pete had knocked on the front door a few times with no response. He chanced around to the side of the home and saw a light burning in the back shed. Naturally, Josh was thankful Pete had returned his billfold. After a few jokes about how empty it was, the tall man offered Pete a tour of his workshop. That’s where Pete saw a lot of interesting equipment, some of it for reloading.
Pete handed Josh the shell and explained the situation with Mr. Parker. “I don’t know what we can do Josh, but I’m not going to sleep well at night, worrying about him shooting one of those kids.”
Josh nodded, “There’s a whole herd of youngin’s running around down at that end of town. I think that Gomez family has six or seven just by themselves. Don’t the Hutchinson’s have another one on the way, too?”
Pete nodded, “Yes, I saw her at the market the other day. She’s due in March, I think. That will be their third, if I remember right.”
Josh looked at the shotgun shell Pete had handed him. His weathered fingers toyed with the plastic case for a bit, and then in a “eureka!” moment, his fist snapped closed around the brass head. “I’ve got an idea, Pete.”
After motioning for Pete to follow him into the shed, Josh went directly to a workbench and plucked a handheld tool from a drawer. He held the shell in his hand and worked on the folded plastic opening at the top. In no time, he turned the shell on its side and dozens of small round lead pellets poured out onto the bench. Pete watched, fascinated, pretty sure he knew where this was going. The pellets were called “shot,” and flew out of the end of the barrel into the target. They were what did the damage.
Josh went outside and looked around the yard for a bit, finally settling on a bare piece of ground not far from the driveway. He reached down and scooped up a small handful of sand and carried it back to the bench. After painstakingly removing any rocks larger than a pinhead, he refilled the shell with the powder-like sand before moving to a different section of the workbench. He placed the shell into a press- like device and pulled down on the handle.
After retrieving the shell from the press, Josh held it up to the light and admired his handiwork. He handed it over to Pete and said, “This wouldn’t harm a baby sparrow outside of 20 feet. It will go boom and make a lot of smoke and noise, but anyone more than 20 feet away is as safe as if they were in their mother’s arms.”
Pete took the shell and looked it over. He couldn’t tell any difference from the original, except it felt a little lighter. He didn’t think old man Parker would notice. “Okay Josh, I like the idea. Now we have to think up a way to replace his box of shells with these non-lethal ones.”
“If he has a full box,
it would take me about 30 minutes to pull the swap. Can you get me those shells for that long?”
Pete thought about it for a minute and nodded. He propped his leg on the bench, settling in to tell Josh his plan.
A short time later, Pete was seen walking toward the Parker house for the second time that day. He paused at the mailbox again and shouted, “Ben. Ben, you still home?”
As before, movement could be seen inside. “Pete? Did you forget something?”
Pete opened the gate and took a few steps toward the house. He stopped about mid-way and said, “Ben, meeting with you this morning got me to thinking. I double-checked your old bar tab, and I overcharged you. I owe you a drink or two, my friend. I was in the area and wanted to let you know. I run a square business and don’t want to cheat anybody.”
Ben took a second to reply. “Well thank you, Pete. I appreciate an honest businessman. We could use more of that in this country. What time does the bar open?”
“I’m heading back there now. If you want, I’ll wait, and we can walk together.”
Ben nodded vigorously, happy to have someone to talk to and free drinks to boot. “I’ll be right there.”
As the two men strode toward Pete’s place, they passed by a man leaning against a streetlight, reading a book. Josh lowered the old novel and smiled as he watched the duo entered the bar. Josh immediately headed in the opposite direction.
A short time later, Josh returned to Ben’s house and laid the modified shells right where they had originally rested on the table. He opened the double-barrel’s breech and replaced the two rounds that had been inside. As he closed the weapon and sat it next to the doorframe, he thought, “We did a good thing today, as long as he doesn’t have any spare ammo around.” Josh quietly left the house and sauntered home.
