by Nobody, Joe
“We don’t allow trespassers,” snapped the contender to Bishop’s right as he pointed the end of a broken machete directly at the Texan’s throat.
As Bishop’s eyes darted between the two vocal threats, the third man moved to inspect the contents of his cart. “I’m just passing through,” the downed man asserted in as strong a voice as his throbbing mouth could muster. “Stay away from my stuff.”
“Or what?” chuckled the largest aggressor.
“Or I’ll kill all of you,” Bishop responded, his hand now inside of his coat and closing on the grip of his own blade.
The challenge, issued by a dazed man balancing on one knee, elicited a round of laughter from the three tramps. Rather than being insulted, Bishop was glad to buy his head just a little more time to clear.
The imposter understood that he was in trouble. The men surrounding him were obviously at the top of the homeless community’s food chain, apex predators in their own environment. They had survived the mean streets, been smart enough to avoid Ketchum’s wrath, and had stayed under the radar of the bigger, badder fish. They had also managed to get dangerously close to his person and had lived to tell about it. No doubt that wasn’t easy to do.
The man with the machete was the priority. His companions would find it difficult to kill with a fist or kick. A blade, no matter how dull or broken, was another story.
Using his carbine was out of the question in this part of town, as was the pistol on his belt. The echo generated by gunshots might draw unwanted attention if Blackjack’s crew was close. No, this was going to be a knife fight.
“Hey! Look at this!” sounded the man who had been moving toward Bishop’s cart.
All eyes turned in the direction of his voice, the two remaining bums watching as their friend pulled Bishop’s load vest from under a stack of newspapers, his expression that of a gold miner who had just discovered a huge nugget in his pan.
The distraction was all Bishop needed, his cutting edge clearing his coat and slamming into the machete holder’s thigh in a single motion.
A howl of pain roared from the victim’s throat as Bishop launched a ferocious kick at the other ambusher’s knee.
Bishop’s boot landed squarely on the inside of the largest ’s contender’s kneecap, a sickening crack signaling that some critical component in the bum’s limb had surrendered. As the hefty attacker struggled to maintain his balance, Bishop managed to find his feet, springing up and squaring off against that machete.
With his leg burning with the fire of a stab wound, the hobo wielding the broken knife somehow managed to avoid falling. As Bishop reached his full height, the bleeding man’s eyes opened wide and crazy. It was impossible to tell if the mugger’s reaction was indicative of fear, insanity, or a pure lust for combat.
Faster than Bishop would have thought, his enemy slashed violently with his shortened machete, the jagged tip of the broken steel slicing through the old overcoat that covered the thespian’s gut.
As the momentum of the swing took his opponent off balance, Bishop stepped in close and sent his own blade flashing toward the man’s chest.
The thrust found flesh but didn’t sink as deep as Bishop desired to obliterate the threat. His knife, deflected by rib bones and cartilage, sliced through skin and muscle, but didn’t damage any vital organs. Again, a guttural scream of pure agony arose from the vagabond’s throat as his feet instinctively back peddled, his brain demanding that he get away from the instrument responsible for so much pain.
As Bishop stepped closer and coiled for another strike, the cart-looter’s shoulder slammed into the imposter’s back, sending both men sprawling to the sidewalk.
Cursing his stupidity for ignoring the third adversary, Bishop tried to draw air back into his lungs as he rolled across the concrete.
Despite his bad knee being unable to hold any weight, the largest of the trio managed to dive and land on the Texan’s leg as he struggled to stand. The cart-looter soon joined his friend, lunging from his knees in an attempt to pin Bishop’s knife arm to the pavement.
Kicking and punching at the same time, Bishop desperately tried to free his weapon. The two arms clutching his leg felt like steel straps, his oxygen-deprived blows unable to deliver enough punishment to dislodge the man on his arm.
For a brief moment, it was a stalemate, neither of the homeless fighters willing to release his grip on Bishop’s limbs, the Texan unable to free himself.
That all changed in a blink, however, when the man Bishop had cut and stabbed gathered his wits and hobbled back into the fray.
Bishop noticed the glint of the sun flash off the machete’s blade as its wounded, bleeding owner raised the weapon for a downward stroke aimed at his head. Just as the edge began to descend, a streaking, shadowy shape whipped across Bishop’s field of vision, slamming into the only standing man.
Nick’s shoulder splintered the machete holder’s sternum, his massive body at a dead run before launching into a diving tackle that would have impressed even the most ruthless NFL linebacker.
A moment later, the man pinning Bishop’s knife hand to the pavement was literally lifted into the air and thrown aside like a discarded child’s toy.
With his knife arm free, Bishop didn’t waste any time, delivering a brutal strike to the base of the heftier brute’s neck and severing his spinal cord. Death was instantaneous.
Kicking the corpse on his legs aside, Bishop bounded to his feet and spun around to face any remaining challengers.
Nick was sitting on top of the face-down man who’d been searching Bishop’s cart. With one hand on each side of his victim’s jaw, the ex-Green Beret pulled up and twisted with an irresistible amount of strength. A grotesque “pop” announced the attacker’s neck had been snapped.
Moving to the third bushwhacker, Bishop raised his blade for another strike, but then stopped. The man at his feet was already grey in color, blood covering his pants and chest from the stab wounds. He was also coughing up mouthfuls of blood, probably from the damage inflicted by Nick’s bone-crushing tackle.
As the big man joined Bishop, the third hobo expired at their feet.
“You okay?” Nick asked between deep breaths.
“Yes, I’m good. I had that, you know,” Bishop panted, trying to fill his own lungs with oxygen. “I had it under control.”
“Oh, I know,” Nick played along. “I just didn’t want you to have all the fun. Gotta earn my pay, right?”
“Thanks anyway. Probably saved me some wear and tear on my knife,” Bishop replied, a slight smile forming at the edge of his lips.
“Let’s drag these bodies out of sight. No sense in giving Ketchum’s boys an excuse to get nosey.”
Chapter 12
It took another forty-five minutes before the white hats found the warehouse. At first, Nick wasn’t sure it was the right place. It wasn’t disguised, nor had Ketchum wasted any effort trying to hide his stash.
After critiquing its value as a stronghold, Bishop admired Blackjack’s choice of headquarters. The facility had been a maintenance yard in a previous life, dusty signage hanging from a high, barbwire-topped fence indicated it had belonged to the Louisiana Department of Highways.
A security fence surrounded a large, paved lot that still housed a handful of white dump trucks, each with the state emblem embossed on the door. Two road graders, a half-dozen small white pickup trucks, and one massive machine that Bishop assumed was used to lay blacktop were all part of the state’s stored equipment.
The real prize, however, was a tanker truck.
Gleaming brightly in the sunlight, the shiny, stainless steel tank was attached to a newer semi-tractor, an apparatus that Bishop had seen filling the underground tanks at gas stations before the collapse. “I’ll bet Blackjack is using that beauty to transport fuel from his barge,” the security professional whispered. A line of red, five-gallon cans near one of the valves reinforced his gut feeling.
“The warning sign on the back indi
cated it was designated to haul diesel. I bet our pal Ketchum found a cache somewhere and is using that tanker to distribute the fuel to his people,” Nick replied, patting the optic on his rifle as he turned to inspect the rear of the facility. “Time for us to part ways, Mr. Homeless Vagrant.”
“Well, make yourself useful, Sir Social Outcast,” Bishop teased, “and keep a look out for any above or below ground tanks on the property. That kind of intel could be very valuable.”
Bishop moved away from his friend with the gait of a man who had taken fire and never recovered. The improvised limp naturally slowed his pace, allowing him longer to take in the sights without raising any suspicions. Every few steps, he paused to have a brief conversation with himself, mumbling gibberish like baseball stats from the Houston Astros. The con proved to be quite ingenious. In addition to closely examining the lot, the extra few seconds of theatrics allowed him to get the entire lay of the land. He spied a long, single-story, block building covered by a flat roof. Several garage bays were visible, as well as what appeared to be a small office complex and a separate, metal structure used for storage.
Blackjack’s military training had obviously served him well in the selection of his fortress. Fallow ground, modest-sized sheds and unimposing outbuildings surrounded the warehouse and the immediate vicinity. Thus, clear fields of visibility and lines of fire spread out unimpeded in all directions. At least a hundred yards of open pavement stretched between the fence and the nearest building… if anyone could ever get through the barrier undetected in the first place. Bishop believed that accomplishing that task, even at night, would require someone who could walk on water.
Evidently, the former state agency had experienced issues with looting or vandalism before the downfall, the metal fencing over ten feet high and topped with outward-angled razor wire that was clearly designed to discourage climbers.
The bottom of the barrier was set in concrete, as were all the supporting posts. Unless someone took the time to cut through several of the thick links, the fence was nearly impenetrable. Bishop had little doubt that anyone producing a pair of wire cutters in the general area would receive a ballistic greeting before the first snip had been made.
The hum of a gasoline generator was the first clue that the facility was occupied. A touring sentry, patrolling along the roofline while armed with a high-powered rifle and large scope, was the second. After carefully studying the scene before him, Bishop detected another pair of guards stationed by the heavy main gate. Finally, a row of expensive vehicles and fancy motorcycles adorned the far side of the complex, none of them covered with post-apocalyptic dust, all of them giving the impression of having been recently driven.
Having mastered his bogus limp, Bishop passed by as if he had no interest in the compound in the slightest. Only his eyes were directed toward Ketchum Jones’s post, his parting gaze taking in every detail he could absorb.
During his seemingly awkward trek, Bishop detected the fresh smell of canine waste twice, both instances within a few feet of the fence. “How sweet,” the wanderer cooed, his voice barely audible, “Blackjack’s men have taken in a puppy, probably a cute little thing with jaws like steel, snarling teeth like little red riding hood’s wolf, and a nose like a bloodhound. Together, man and beast have been patrolling the property’s perimeter, probably under the guise of darkness.
At the next intersection, he waited for his roving buddy to catch up. After a few minutes, the big man appeared, motioning for his partner to continue his senseless wandering until they were out of sight.
Finally rejoined behind a partially collapsed building three blocks away, the two men began exchanging notes. Despite Nick having shuffled along the far side of the complex, his impression matched Bishop’s. “That’s going to be a hard nut to crack,” the ex-operator observed. “Ketchum may be an evil bastard, but he’s not stupid.”
“Dogs, snipers, and patrols, oh my. Not good,” Bishop nodded.
“What do you want to bet that there are reinforcements close by?” Nick offered, his eyes now traveling around the neighborhood.
“Probably so. I know I spotted a walkie-talkie on one of the guard’s belts back at the apartment building,” Bishop nodded.
“And yet,” Nick sighed, “there is no one around here for them to worry about. Those survivors out in the suburbs don’t care about what is going on in the city. They only want to grow their gardens, hunt, and fish. I did notice a few other homeless people wandering around, but even those three that jumped you were not enough to cause Blackjack’s crew any serious problems. In fact, I get the sense that Ketchum must have had security issues right after everything went to hell, but now his team has become lax… almost careless. We might be able to use that to our advantage.”
“So far we’ve only initiated what could have been a natural accident or bad luck. Maybe it’s time we got a little more overt. Perhaps we should let Ketchum know somebody is after his ass,” Bishop suggested.
Shaking his head, Nick responded, “Not after him , but after his organization? My limited experience with the criminal element is that they are a paranoid bunch. Maybe we should be a little more obvious? Make Ketchum wonder if some opponent is trying to elbow his way into his illicit domain? Take over his spot at the top of the criminal food chain? If he thinks we’re after him, he’ll vanish down a rabbit hole. If he thinks his business is the sought-after prize, he might stand and fight.”
Smiling, Bishop offered, “Competition is always a good thing, right? Doesn’t the free enterprise system thrive on that? I bet he shows his ugly mug if he thinks his operation is on the line.”
Nodding, Nick glanced around and announced, “We’d better be heading back. We don’t need to be spotted hanging around here, especially if something happens in this area tomorrow.”
Bishop agreed, pivoting his buggy to head back the way they had come. “Home, James,” the makeshift vagabond commanded, the flourish of his hand that of a man of means.
The two homeless thespians avoided Ketchum’s complex on the way back to their newly acquired loft, traveling three blocks to the east and acting as if they were foraging for food or anything of value. The route also took them far away from the three dead men they’d left at the vacant lot.
They hadn’t traveled more than a half mile when Nick hissed, “We’re being followed.”
“Blackjack?” Bishop answered.
“Can’t tell. Twice I’ve seen a shadow back there. Whoever is behind us is keeping their distance, but I’m sure someone is tailing us.”
Halfway up the next block, Nick motioned toward a small city park. “Cut through there.”
The two-block-long green area was overgrown, out of control shrubs and unkempt grass having run rampant since the downfall. As the Alliance men edged closer, a small width of sidewalk appeared, the paved path cutting through the middle of the densest foliage. Bishop could see the head of a statue in the middle of the park, the green-tarnished bronze figure barely rising above the canopy.
Without warning, the pair cut into the park with a burst of speed that would have surprised any spectator. Suddenly, the two feeble, homeless men had straightened and disappeared in a wisp of movement, their buggies leading the charge.
The park’s sidewalk was close, the dense underbrush cutting their visibility to near zero. “Keep going,” Nick advised as they reached the statue. “Let’s pop out on the other side and find someplace defendable.”
That plan was quickly foiled, however, the hustling imposters overhearing several voices ahead. “In here,” Bishop pointed, noticing a slight opening in the brush.
After pushing their carts several feet into the undergrowth, the two foreigners each took a knee, both men raising their rifles as they waited. They could hear low conversation in the distance but couldn’t make out what was being said. Regardless, it was clear that there were people all around them.
Three minutes passed, Nick and Bishop’s heads on swivels as the men scanned the ar
ea to the right and left of them. The park grew quiet, only the occasional rustle or whisper of noise betraying that there were still people combing the area.
A hiss sounded from the brush just as Bishop felt the sting of what he thought was a wasp or perhaps a large hornet. Swiping at the pain, he was stunned to brush away a dart-like projectile from his arm. Before he could warn Nick, the big man was hit in the thigh.
For a couple of seconds, Bishop considered the attack almost child-like. The dart, now lying on the ground next to his boot, was small and definitely not lethal. His opinion changed, however, when two more shots struck the Texan in the back. Nick was swatting away the pesky projectiles as well.
To the right, barely visible through the undergrowth, Bishop spied the small circle of what appeared to be a blowgun. It disappeared before he could work his barrel through the tangle of foliage.
As Bishop bent to pick up one of the little missiles, he spotted a liquid glistening on its needle-like tip. Almost at the same moment, he felt a rush of nausea cut through his gut. “Run. They’re coated with some poison,” he snapped at Nick.
Out of the scrub they burst, each man pushing a cart with one hand and pointing his carbine with the other. The gardens appeared deserted; no targets visible in the overgrowth.
At a full jog, they rushed through the park, both ready to take on any enemy that got in their way. All the while, both were aware of a nagging fear that was building inside. What kind of toxic substance had the darts been dipped in? What kind of poison was now surging through their veins?
Yet, neither man felt any serious physical effects of the attack. By the time they reached the far street, Bishop was feeling optimistic and was having trouble taking the attack seriously. “Probably a bunch of homeless teenagers trying to scare us off,” he offered to Nick.
They crossed the street, cut right at the next intersection, and continued to push their wire buggies for another block. At the next avenue, Nick held up a hand, signaling that he needed a rest. “What are we running for anyway?” the big man panted.
