by Nobody, Joe
The windows were all broken, many boarded up with sheets of weathered plywood. The interior was dusty, smelled of mold, and contained little more than a smattering of crumbling display racks, a handful of trashed cardboard boxes, and a healthy number of cobwebs.
Bishop had chosen the spot for three reasons, location, location, and location. There were excellent fields of fire in all directions while the second story provided a clear view of the surrounding area. The back door allowed for egress to their next fighting position.
It didn’t hurt that the walls fashioned from old, thicker brick and would provide some protection from incoming fire. Bishop realized that he was leading a skittish group of men that would be entering their first skirmish, so hunkering down in a semi-hardened fighting position should help them overcome their anxiety and return fire.
When the SUV approached within three blocks of their bastion, Bishop repeated his order. “Hold your fire,” he announced in a voice loud enough to be heard by the men below and alongside him. Then, without another word, he flicked off the safety and squeezed his own trigger three times.
Three perfectly round holes appeared in the approaching vehicle’s windshield, the five-inch spread exactly where the driver’s head should be. The SUV swerved and then slowed, a sure indication that Bishop had hit his target.
All eyes were fixated on the now-wounded vehicle as it continued to coast along. After a few more feet, it jumped the curb and bumped into a utility pole with just enough force to dent the bumper and crunch some of the grill’s chrome.
“Hold your fire!” Bishop repeated, his eye glued to his optic.
The passenger sprang out, a radio in one hand, a rifle in the other. A moment later, he scurried to the relative safety offered by the rear wheel.
“You let him go!” Charlie barked, a puzzled expression on his face.
“I want him to report that he is taking fire. Don’t worry; he’s got no place to go,” Bishop replied calmly, his eye never leaving the eyepiece of his scope.
While the West Texan couldn’t hear the passenger’s words, it was easy to imagine his broadcast. “We’re being shot at! Help! Somebody is shooting at us, and John is dead!”
After a pause of several seconds, the head of the survivor appeared around the back of the SUV, and he darted for the security of a nearby video store.
Bishop’s weapon spit hot lead again, striking his opponent before he was able to run five steps. As the thug’s body spiraled toward the concrete below him, the team leader barked his next command, “Go! Go get that radio, their weapons, and any ammunition you can find in that SUV! Now! Move!”
Slower than they should have reacted, two of Charlie’s crew darted from the first floor. It took them less than twenty seconds to scoop up the radio, two rifles, and several magazines of ammunition.
“Chalk up one for the white hats,” Bishop casually informed the nearby locals as he began studying the captured radio. “We can relax for a bit. They’re not going to do anything for a while.”
Three blocks away, Nick heard his friend engage. “The battle is on,” he whispered, listening as the echo of Bishop’s rifle shots rolled across the cityscape. “We’re committed now.”
A few moments later, a panicked voice squawked across Blackjack’s radio frequency. “Shots fired! Somebody just killed Marko! We are taking fire!”
“Where are you? What is your location?” questioned another man.
“We’re… we’re… we’re by that old department store on Havana Road! The shots originated from inside that building!”
“Get the hell out of there,” replied the man who was obviously issuing the orders. “We’ll send help.”
Just as Nick was wondering if it was Blackjack calling the shots, three more shots rang out.
“Joe? Joe? You there? Report!”
There was, however, no response. “I think Bishop just notched his gun for the second time today,” Nick whispered.
For the next two minutes, that same voice tried to raise Joe on the radio. Finally, after another period of silence, the head honcho returned to the airwaves and ordered, “Everybody meet up at the 610 underpass. Pull into that old ride-share lot and wait on me. I don’t want anybody approaching that levee alone.”
It was another few minutes before a different voice sounded through the radio’s tiny speaker. “We can’t get through Broadway. The water’s too deep.”
“Go around it and cut through the park,” someone offered. “The water isn’t over the curbs yet.”
“Yet,” a skeptical defender replied.
Evidently, the gang’s boss was listening to the exchange, his booming voice sounding angry as he demanded, “Get out and fucking swim through the water if you have to! We need all hands on deck at the underpass!”
Nick’s primary question about the exchange was answered with the next transmission, “Where the hell is Blackjack, Grinder? I sure as shit hope he’s on his way.”
“He’ll be there,” reported the guy who had been giving the orders. “Now shut your pie hole and get where you’re needed. Pronto!”
Turning to his runner, Nick asked, “Which direction is this 610 underpass they keep talking about?”
“South,” the lad stated, pointing just in case Nick didn’t know.
“Run over and let Bishop’s team know they’ll be coming from that direction. Hurry!” the big man instructed.
Bishop had already heard Blackjack’s name mentioned, the change in his expression noted by Charlie. “You okay?” the local man asked.
“I’m fine,” he growled. “In fact, I’m happy to hear that their lord and master is still in town. Let’s hope he leads from the front, and not from behind.”
“This operation seems like it is personal to you,” Charlie said.
“You have no idea,” Bishop mumbled, his eyes shifting back to scan the street.
A voice from below shouted, “Runner approaching. Hold your fire!”
A minute later, Nick’s breathless messenger stood beside Bishop, relaying Nick’s information.
As the young man explained Blackjack’s likely route, an idea occurred to the security man. Pulling Charlie and the kid close, Bishop pointed at the map of New Orleans. “Is Nick still here?”
Nodding, the runner confirmed the location, “Yes. He’s got his people spread out in two buildings at this intersection.”
Bishop studied the diagram for a second, and then a quick smile spread across his lips. Reaching for the police radio, he adjusted a knob and said, “Tell him to communicate with me on this frequency. Blackjack’s boys probably won’t be listening in, and even if they are, Nick knows to be careful about what he says.”
As the runner pivoted to return to the other unit leader, Bishop’s hand shot out and grabbed the kid by the arm. “Hold on a second. I don’t want to be that stupid. Here, let me write something down.”
Reaching into a pouch on his vest, he withdrew a small notepad and waterproof pen. Scribbling a few lines quickly, Bishop ripped off the page, folded the paper, and said, “Deliver this to Nick. If he agrees, have him transmit an acknowledgment on this channel. Understood?”
Again, the runner nodded his head, blurted out, “Got it,” and scurried away.
“What did that message say?” Charlie asked, his curiosity getting the better of him.
“I told Nick to let Blackjack’s army progress by his position unmolested… and then I offered a few suggestions once they had passed his unit,” Bishop smirked.
“You told him to let them go?” the now surprised local asked.
“Sure did. I want those guys to hit this building with everything they’ve got,” Bishop announced, his voice dripping with a thirst for blood.
The ride-share parking lot at the 610 underpass hadn’t seen so much traffic since weeks before the collapse. From every point of the compass Blackjack’s enforcers traveled, most of them navigating the kind of extravagant vehicles that afforded a far, far higher level of lu
xury than any of the occupants had been able to afford before the apocalypse.
The air vibrated with the rumble of motorcycle engines as dozens of bikers roared into the lot as well.
The first few to arrive were stationed at the gate by Grinder, their job being to make sure no one entered who wasn’t part of Blackjack’s organization. Lefty’s truck, having been employed as a Trojan Horse, was still fresh on everyone’s mind.
Adding the security checkpoint caused a traffic jam at the entrance, but Ketchum and his inner circle were confident the delay was justified.
For his part, Blackjack smelled a rat. While the reports of standing water continued to pour in, it didn’t seem as if the flood levels were rising all that fast. Grinder, who had been in New Orleans during Katrina, agreed.
“I think you’re right,” Ketchum’s lieutenant said. “The breach in the levee must not be very large. After the hurricane had drifted north, I remember thinking we were past the worst of it. Then, all of a sudden, flood waters surrounded us, invading homes and businesses everywhere.”
In the meantime, Blackjack called together his brain trust and began sketching out his battle plan. He would divide his forces into three groups, led by himself, Grinder, and a biker named Spike.
“I think we’re dealing with a couple of guys who have some military skills and combat experience. There are probably less than a dozen guns total, otherwise, we would have noticed them snooping around. They must see we’ve got a good thing going here, and now they are trying to chase us out of New Orleans,” Blackjack emphasized to his men. “We’ll plug the hole in the levee after we kill them.”
Given his training in the Army Rangers, Blackjack formulated a simple assault plan using a map spread out on the tailgate of a pickup. “We’ll hit them from three different vectors. Remember, the goal is for our people to lay eyes on that levee,” Ketchum instructed.
Forty-five minutes passed before Grinder returned to his boss. “We’ve got 120 men gathered right now. More men are still on the way, but who knows how long it will take them to get here.”
“That’s enough,” Blackjack replied. “Have them gather around.”
As word spread that the meeting was about to be called to order, Ketchum strolled with confidence to a jacked-up 4x4 suspended on massive mud tires. Climbing into the bed, he stood and waited until there were over one hundred anxious faces peering up, all of them hanging on his every word.
“I believe we are facing only a small number of men. They are trying to move in on our operation,” Blackjack began in a strong voice. “They might be some of our brothers who have turned traitor, or they could be strangers from out of town. No matter. We will put them down like dogs and then fix the canal.”
Pausing to make sure he was the sole focus of their attention, Ketchum continued, “We are going to walk north… to see where the explosion occurred on the levee. I’m convinced that it isn’t a big enough breach to cause a long-term issue. Once we have control of that section, we will bring in heavy machinery to fill the gap and then work to start the city’s pumps and dispose of the water.”
His speech continued for another three minutes, including strong words of support for Grinder and Spike. In the end, he added, “I know some of you believe we can’t fight a flood. I know many of you remember Katrina and the devastation that occurred when the levees surrendered that last time. To those who are thinking that way, I ask you to consider this – where would you go? What would keep you from becoming like human cockroaches who scurry around this city foraging for scraps of food? How would you fill your bellies? Where would you sleep? We have a good thing here, many of our lives better than before everything went to hell. Good enough to fight and die for. Good enough that others want to take it from us. Good enough that I’m not going to let that happen!”
There was a polite cheer from the gathering, several of the men nodding their approval while others offered vocal support of “Hell, yeah!” and “Let’s go kick some ass!”
Still, Grinder was worried. Blackjack might be one tough, smart, son of a bitch, but he couldn’t defeat water. Nobody, no matter how brave or skilled, could hold back a flood.
As Blackjack’s right-hand man scanned the faces around him, he wondered how many of the others felt the same way. I got a bad feeling about this , he thought. We’re charging headfirst into a wicked storm, and I’m not sure this is a fight we can ever win.
Divided into their three squads, Blackjack signaled it was time, ordering, “Let’s mount up and get this show on the road.”
An impressively long line of men began walking out the gate, weapons on their shoulders, pockets stuffed with magazines, hand grenades, and bottles of water. Few had packs, fewer still believing their current campaign would last more than a couple of hours.
Chapter 17
Nick grinned at Bishop’s note, his head shaking at the audacity of his friend’s thinking. “That’s bold,” he mumbled. “Risky, but bold.”
It then occurred to the big man that Bishop’s suggestion had more to do with killing Ketchum Jones than taking New Orleans away from the hooligans who controlled the city. “I can’t blame you,” he whispered. “I’d do the exact same thing.”
Finally reaching a decision, Nick turned to the runner and directed, “Spread the word, we’re going to let Blackjack’s people march right past us. Everybody is to find a good hiding spot and stay out of sight. Do not fire unless discovered.”
“I got it,” the kid replied, rushing off to deliver Nick’s orders.
After watching his communicator hustle away, Nick picked up his radio and switched frequencies. “Acknowledge the kill sack. Good luck.”
“Roger that,” Bishop agreed. Again, Nick smiled. His friend sounded almost happy.
On the other end of the transmission, Bishop bounded from his perch and began issuing orders. “We’re going to let them take this building. Once they are inside, we’re going to hit them from the north while Nick and his men hit them from the south. The idea is to leverage our resources… trap them in a vise and squeeze. Get moving; they are on the way.”
As his men rushed to vacate the former department store, Bishop spent the next several minutes assigning his people to prime positions. “Blackjack’s men won’t all go inside the building,” he explained to his troops. “They’ll set up around Jackson’s and send in a team. When they do, you pop up and give the guys surrounding the exterior everything you’ve got.”
“What about the men that manage to get inside?” Charlie asked.
“I’ll take care of them,” Bishop nodded. “I’m going to stay inside Jackson’s. I will be the bait.”
“But… but you’ll be killed,” the questioner mumbled.
“I’ll be fine as long as you guys do your part. Remember, when you hear gunfire inside the building, hit them with a full broadside. I want a blizzard of lead shredding every man out here. Nick’s people will be following them from the south and will tear into Blackjack’s ass like a rabid dog.”
After making sure everybody understood, Bishop pulled Charlie aside. “You’re in charge of these men now. You got this? I’m counting on you.”
It took the older gent a second to acknowledge his new responsibilities. “Yes, sir. I’ll do the best I can.”
“These guys trust you,” Bishop added. “And I need you to throw everything you’ve got into this fight… keep these men focused on our initiative.”
“We won’t let you down,” Charlie responded, his eyes now focused with determination.
Bishop mumbled, “Good luck,” and then turned and jogged back to the old building. Once inside, he stopped and removed his last hand grenade from his vest. Palming the heavy device, he then extracted a length of paracord from one of the attached pouches. “Welcome to Jackson’s Department Store,” he whispered. “Shopping here is a blast!”
He set the tripwire near the entrance, picking a spot that was dark and shadowed and not visible from the outside. A few minutes
later, the grenade was set where anyone opening the door would engage the booby trap.
Pivoting, Bishop headed for the wide staircase, returning to his previous nest on the second floor. There, he arranged his carbine and sidearm, adding the 12-gauge shotgun salvaged from the ambushed SUV that morning to his arsenal. A box of shells and a stack of magazines were stashed nearby for ease of use.
He had just finished reinforcing his position with bricks and chunks of concrete when Nick’s voice boomed over the radio. “They’re on their way. Count 100 to 120.”
As they approached London Avenue, Blackjack’s frustration began to build. His makeshift army was moving too slowly to suit the former Ranger, his men undisciplined and sloppy. It then occurred to the gang leader that he shouldn’t have expected anything different. The crème of his crop had been massacred in Forest Mist. These guys were the second string.
His personnel were great intimidators, brawlers, and enforcers. They operated well in small groups against helpless, petrified civilians who were easily intimidated. They would fight, that fact having been proven time and again both before and especially after the downfall. Still, they were irregulars, and none of them had any experience in force on force engagements any larger than a bar brawl.
That point was becoming more and more obvious as they approached the spot where Blackjack was sure the interlopers were hiding. His mercenaries trudged along like they were trying to get themselves killed, meandering along the sidewalks, clearly out in the open, their weapons far from ready. Their spacing was horrible, the crew bunching up in groups as they progressed. “Walking straight into the meat grinder,” he hissed. “They’ll learn – the hard way… and the ones that don’t…. It’s survival of the fittest.”
“Use the available cover, you fucking idiots,” he barked to those within earshot. “Use the rubble, doorways, anything that will conceal your carcass or stop a bullet. Do you want to end up like Marko? These people can shoot. Remember that!”
