by Nobody, Joe
“It’s kind of obvious, my love,” she smiled. “You’re letting your beard grow as a disguise. You’ve been cleaning your rifles and filling mags with ammunition. I’ve seen you prepare for dangerous SAINT missions before. I may be a little off my game, but I’m not blind.”
With a shrug of his shoulders, Bishop responded, “Pete did ask me to find a supplier for his eateries. I thought while I was in the area, I might head on down to Bourbon Street and see if I could lay eyes on our old friend… maybe get his address so we can send him a Christmas card this year.”
Instead of laughing… or scolding him for having the worst sense of humor on the planet… or joining in on the lighthearted banter, Terri turned away.
Seeing her reaction, Bishop moved toward his wife, placing a caring hand on each of her shoulders. I really screwed that up , he thought, wondering how to invoke damage control.
When she turned to face him, he was again surprised. Rather than pain, or fear, or insult, Bishop saw nothing but unadulterated, hellish rage in his mate’s eyes.
“Kill him,” she whispered, her voice in a low growl. “I don’t care how, but I want you to execute that monster. Vengeance may be the Lord’s, but that walking sack of pure evil must be eliminated. I know you’re not an assassin… I know this goes against that wonderful creed of yours… that moral core inside you that I’ve been in love with since we met. But just this once, just this one time, I’m asking…. No, I’m begging you. Kill him dead. Leave no doubt. Gun him down. Cut out his heart. Piss in his dead mouth and feed his guts to the rats. Then, come back to me and tell me this nightmare is over.”
Taken aback by her harsh rhetoric, Bishop could only nod his agreement. “That’s the plan,” he finally mumbled, then adding, “but I still have one big concern. How are you going to get along while I’m gone?”
“Hunter and I are going to stay with Aunt Diana while you’re away. She wants my help on drafting a new immigration policy, and since we were so involved at Forest Mist, she’s asked for my help. I’ll be surrounded by her security team twenty-four hours a day. I’ll be fine.”
Bishop was careful with the front door, closing it softly so as not to disturb his wife or son. The last of his kit was loaded in the pickup. He was eager to refill his coffee and then hit the road.
He stepped inside Hunter’s room first, the father kissing his own fingers and then gently touching the top of his son’s head to transfer the kiss. “I’ll be back a in few days, little man,” he whispered.
Next was the master bedroom. He knew from Terri’s breathing that she was still in dreamland. For the first time in weeks, his wife had slept through the night. Watching her rest so peacefully only reinforced the need for his mission. I hate to wake her , he thought.
Knowing she would be more upset with his leaving without a goodbye than having her sleep interrupted, he gingerly sat on the edge of the bed and waited.
Her eyes popped open with a start, her alarmed response yet another justification for his trip. Before Forest Mist, Terri had always been slow to wake, enjoying her beauty rest. With any luck, she would again be able to welcome back the sandman very soon.
“You’re all packed?” she yawned.
“Yes.”
Reaching up to pull him close, she said, “I can’t ever remember a time when I was glad you were leaving,” she began. “Now, with this mission, I’m eager for you to go and take care of this. Am I just as wicked as Ketchum Jones?”
“No, of course not. You deserve peace, my love. I’m going to give it to you.”
She kissed him and then released her hold. “Go. The sooner you leave, the sooner you’ll be back to me. And Bishop… I love you.”
“I love you, too,” he said, giving her one last peck.
Without looking back, Bishop left, strolling with purpose toward the front door. He had just managed the porch’s bottom step when he heard someone clear his throat.
Looking up while reaching for his pistol, Bishop recognized Nick standing beside the pickup. “What the hell?”
“I’m going with you,” the big man announced, nodding toward the two extra duffel bags now tucked in the bed.
“No, you’re not… I mean… well…,” replied a flabbergasted Bishop.
“I told Diana last night that I couldn’t let you go and do this alone. You and Terri have meant more to us than you know. You are my friend, Bishop. I’m going, and that’s all there is to it.”
“But, but, you can’t get involved in this, Nick,” the West Texan protested. “This could get really, really ugly. If Washington found out that a high-ranking, Alliance official was crossing the border….”
“On Diana’s desk is a sealed envelope. It contains my letter of resignation, dated today. If the worst occurs, I’m nothing more than a wayward, Alliance citizen .”
Stunned at the unselfish gesture of his friend, Bishop was at a loss for words. Sure, he was happy to have Nick along. The man was one of the deadliest warriors walking the earth. That being so, he was also one of the most critical resources in the entire Alliance government. Bishop was touched, flattered, and speechless.
Nick continued, “Every time the Alliance has had a desperate need, you and Terri have answered the call. I can’t stand around here scratching my ass while she suffers. And I can’t let you run off alone and try to fix this by yourself. We will go together and put that son of a bitch in a hole or die trying. Now, are we going to stand around here burning daylight, or are we heading east?”
“Do you know anything about mudbugs?” Bishop grinned, motioning Nick to get in the truck.
“What’s the plan?” Nick finally asked as the duo approached the Louisiana border just east of Beaumont. They had been driving all day, both men deep in thought as they passed through the desert, into the Hill Country, and then finally the entering the coastal plain.
Bishop had been reassessing his objective now that his buddy had joined the trek to Louisiana. Rubbing his eyes in an attempt to stay awake, he decided it was time to discuss some plans. “Do you remember that stunt we pulled up in Fort Stockdale a few years ago?”
Blinking, it took the big man a few seconds to recall. “You mean when I dressed up like a hobo?”
Nodding vigorously, Bishop answered, “That’s the one. That little disguise was extremely effective. I was thinking we might try the same thing.”
“Are their homeless people in New Orleans?”
With a shrug, Bishop replied, “Every city… even in the Alliance… has homeless folks. Given what I’ve heard about our neighbor to the east, there should be plenty of vagabonds roaming the streets of the Big Easy.”
As with any proposed strategy, Nick took his time weighing the pros and cons. “It would certainly make it easier to move around if we could fit in. From what I’ve heard, Blackjack owns that town and a couple of strangers walking around in their full battle rattle might draw unwanted attention.”
“It’s the best scheme I could come up with,” Bishop offered. “At least until I get the lay of the land. No one wants to get close to bums and beggars. The ‘beautiful’ people avoid them like the plague.”
“I wish you had filled me in on this idea before we left,” Nick stated. “I would have left my designer jeans at home.”
Bishop grinned at the mental image of Nick in fancy pants… with his trademark combat boots. “First of all,” he began, “I didn’t know I was going to pick up some hitchhiker bumming a ride. That aside, I was smart enough to do a little scouting beforehand. I think I can fix us right up.”
Within a few miles of crossing into the Pelican State, the two men began to see a marked difference in their surroundings. On the Texas side, Interstate 10 had been mostly void of abandoned vehicles, the Alliance having launched an initiative years ago to keep the roadways clear of debris and relics.
No such effort had been undertaken on the other side of the border.
In fact, it appeared as though some of the locals were using the highw
ay as a spare parts yard. Many of the cars and trucks they passed were on sitting on blocks, missing wheels and tires. Some of the remnants had their hoods open, probably to access batteries, hoses, and belts.
The thoroughfare was also home to a considerable amount of natural debris.
Piles of dead leaves swirled in anger as Bishop’s truck rolled past. More than once, he had to slow down to avoid a fallen tree limb.
Bridges were another concern. It had been years since any maintenance had been performed on any crossing. Both men had been horror stories about barges pulling loose from their moorings and slamming into supports. They held their breath as the crossed the Atchafalaya Swamp and its eighteen miles of elevated roadway.
Twice, Bishop had stopped the pickup directly in the middle of the pavement, some obstacle ahead alerting him to the possibility of highwaymen or some other form of ambush.
The first case was an overturned semi-trailer. Nick, with his thermal optic, had quickly declared the area secure. While the blockage forced the pickup dangerously close to the bridge’s rails, there were no “hot” signatures indicating bushwhackers.
The second obstacle was a bit more complex, several cars and trucks having been involved in a mass accident. The mesh of tangled metal was so elaborate, the two men had been required to dismount and clear the area on foot. “Reminds me of when we first met,” Nick had noted, recalling the intersection in West Texas that was controlled by two different gangs. “That was a good day.”
Their only other stops were to refuel, relieve their bladders, and to take turns driving. Terri and Diana had emptied their pantries in preparation for the trip, the travelers feasting on jerked beef, hunks of cheese, raw veggies, and several links of smoked sausage.
It was well after sunset by the time they were approaching Baton Rouge. Bishop had wanted to avoid the capital and take a series of back roads for a detour. Nick had disagreed. “It’s the home of their provincial government. It’s probably one of the safest places around. We should drive straight through and save time.”
What neither man had remembered was that the terrorists destroyed the Horace Wilkerson Bridge in the early days of the downfall. A hand-painted sign detoured them toward the old bridge less than a mile away. Again, it was a white-knuckle crossing over the Mississippi River.
Once they got into to Baton Rouge, they began to notice a few other vehicles on the road. Despite the late hour, Nick noted several sets of headlights here and there. “Signs of intelligent life, Captain,” he teased.
“Beam me up, Scotty,” Bishop countered. “I don’t like it down here.”
By the time they were again surrounded by rural forests and farms, both men were too exhausted to drive. “Let’s find a good spot to hide and get a few hours of shuteye,” Nick suggested after a contagious round of yawning. “We’ll make better time in the morning.”
Exiting the interstate, it was only a few miles before the headlights illuminated an abandoned home. After Nick had verified the dilapidated structure was indeed empty, Bishop pulled the pickup around to the back and shut down the engine.
Both Texans were asleep a short time later.
Bishop awoke just after dawn, his spine stiff and legs achy from sleeping behind the wheel. Nick had a small fire working, two cups of hot water warming over the flames. “Coffee?” he asked after his partner had exited the truck.
“Really? Do you not know me at all?” Bishop grinned, stretching his arms skyward while rotating his hips.
“No, I was asking if you had any coffee, dipshit,” the larger man laughed. “I figured since you worked for the King of Java, you’d have a ready supply.”
Grunting, Bishop nodded and stepped to the back of the truck. He knew exactly where his stash of ground beans had been packed. “This is more valuable than ammunition,” he chided, producing a plastic baggie of dark granules.
“Damn straight,” Nick smiled. “I can kill with a knife, but I’m as helpless as a newborn in the crib without a cup of joe. Now if we only had some cream and sugar.”
Shaking his head, Bishop returned to the pickup’s bed. “What do I look like? Your waitress? How in the hell did you ever survive in the field before I came along?” he teased, producing another bag of raw sugar and a small jar of white cream.
“I need to talk to Pete,” Nick grinned as he accepted the condiments. “He needs to fire your ugly ass and hire a proper security type like me. Hell, he can even pay me in coffee, cream, and sugar.”
“Not even Pete has that much java,” Bishop countered. “Besides, those planks you call feet might be able to fill my shoes, but in the brains department, you’d introduce too much empty air.”
The banter continued while the two men sipped their cups, both enjoying the caffeine and camaraderie. At one point, Bishop shared Pete’s concerns over a looming coffee shortage.
“No shit?” Nick questioned. “First, that Blackjack asshole slaughters a bunch of Alliance citizens, then he fucks up our supply of liquid caffeine. This guy must really have a death wish.”
Shrugging, Bishop replied, “My boss will figure something out. After all, any ex-Philly cop that becomes one of the richest men in all the Alliance isn’t going to let a little setback like this mess up his business. There’s more to Pete than meets the eye.”
“Sometimes luck is more important than skill, I guess. Look at you. There’s no way you should still be walking around,” Nick joked.
Chapter 10
Bishop had done his homework.
Months ago, he had met a Beltran Ranch hand who frequented Pete’s. His handle, for some unknown reason, was Stampede Smith, or “Stamp” for short.
Known far and wide for his cooking skills, Stamp had made no secret that he hailed from the Big Easy. After a few beers, it wasn’t uncommon for the cowboy to toast New Orleans, often describing it as the “… great lost mecca of culinary excellence.” Bishop had always dismissed such high-brow bragging as nothing more than hogwash tied up in a bow… that is until just a few days ago.
Stamp had moved to the Lone Star State just a year before the collapse. Evidently, the combination of an ex-wife and a punishing divorce settlement had driven the man to flee his beloved New Orleans. America’s West, from the early pioneer days to the present, was full of such men and women. The wide-open spaces and the sparse population had always renewed downtrodden spirits with the promise of a new beginning. For others, there was the welcome relief from being sardined by their neighbors.
While that had been some years prior, Bishop had considered the man’s knowledge about the Big Easy to be about the best he was going to acquire. The worldwide web really didn’t exist anymore. Travel guides were difficult to find, especially recent editions. The apocalypse, for better or worse, had returned word of mouth to its former prominence as a research tool.
It was Stamp who had recommended Bishop and Nick’s next stop. “Just before I left town, a new outlet mall had opened at this intersection,” the cowhand had stated, poking the Texan’s map with a stubby finger. “I specifically remember it because it was so far from the edge of the city… a good ten miles outside of civilization. I stopped there to buy work clothes before heading west.”
“Why do they call him Stampede?” Nick asked after Bishop had recounted their conversation.
“I asked him that,” Bishop grinned. “He said it was because every time he took his turn cooking in the bunkhouse, there was a stampede for the food.”
In addition to his culinary expertise, it seemed that Stamp had an excellent memory. His account of the new retail area was perfect, down to the last detail. After steering the pickup off the interstate, Bishop spotted the sprawling discount mall just a mile from the freeway.
The parking lot was empty, now filled with weeds, blown debris from the surrounding woods, and piles of glittering, shattered glass. While the shops clearly had been looted, Bishop was hopeful that enough clothing remained to create a wardrobe suitable for a pair of vagabond drifter
s.
Pulling around to the back of the elongated, single-story structure, Bishop shut down the engine and teased, “Break out the checkbook, dear. It’s time to go shopping.”
With rifles in hand, the duo walked to the public-facing side of the mall, the faded signs of several name brand outlets swaying gently in the breeze. The first thing Nick spotted was a row of rusting shopping carts sitting next to the sidewalk. “Let’s grab a couple of those. Every fashionable homeless person I’ve ever seen has a prerequisite cart of possessions.”
Pushing their buggies along, next they entered a clothing store. Insects, rodents, and even some of the local birds had moved into the former home of slightly irregular haute couture.
Piles of shirts, pants, and other items were scattered everywhere. The interior looked like a cyclone had torn a path directly through the displays. After checking a hoodie near the front entrance and finding the cloth nearly rotten from exposure to the elements, Bishop motioned Nick toward the back of the store where the rain hadn’t reached the merchandise.
They found the stockroom, several racks of men’s clothing hanging neatly and sorted by size. “We’ll rough them up and get them dirty later,” Nick suggested. “For now, we need to collect multiple layers and colors for our mismatched wardrobe.”
Given his enormous frame, Nick took longer to accumulate the makings of his new look. After nearly an hour of searching, the two men decided that they had accomplished the first phase of their mission.
Next, the duo entered the employee break room. It, too, had been thoroughly pilfered, probably by stranded, desperate motorists looking for any sort of food or drink they could scavenge.
The two visitors from Texas, however, weren’t interested in nutrition. “We need knickknacks… souvenirs… little trophies that a displaced person would collect during his wanderings.”
Each man chose a crusty coffee cup. Plastic utensils, found in a drawer by the sink, were also added to the treasures.
Having picked the first store clean, the two men then pushed their carts to the next establishment. There, inside the manager’s office, Nick found a dog-eared blanket and quickly added it to his collection.
