by Joe Nobody
Grim stood with his friend to one side, both men eyeing Hoss as he removed his shirt and then flexed his considerable mass for the crowd.
“Are you sure you want to do this?” Grim asked. “He’s just a tad bit smaller than a T-Rex.”
“The bigger they are…” Bishop stated, unbuttoning his own shirt.
“The bigger they are, the harder they kick your ass,” Grim teased. “Terri is going to be so pissed if I carry you back to Alpha without any teeth.”
Major Misery appeared at their side, “To work with my team, you don’t have to win. I’ll judge your qualifications by how long you last and the skills you display. He’s only killed two men. We were just a little slow in pulling him off on both of those occasions.”
“Any rules?” Bishop asked.
“No. No rules. No holds barred.”
And then it was time.
Major Misery moved to the center of the arena, and simply said, “Go.”
Hoss was clearly an aggressive fellow. Charging from his corner with a growl, he moved quickly toward Bishop with extended arms and the intent to grapple.
But Bishop knew better. He understood it would be over quickly if the bigger man managed to fix a hold on any part of his body. There was no way he could match the strength of the larger foe, but that didn’t concern the Texan.
Waiting until Hoss was almost upon him, Bishop ducked and sidestepped at the last moment, springing away from the outstretched arms of his opponent.
I have to wear him down, Bishop thought. These big guys are strong as hell, but it takes a lot of oxygen and energy to move that huge body around. Wear him down.
Bishop danced in a circle, moving to his right with the bouncing footwork of a prizefighter. Again, Hoss lunged, but his target wasn’t there.
For over three minutes, Bishop avoided the behemoth, cutting right, ducking left, or simply backing away. Hoss was growing frustrated and began taunting. “Come on, you little chicken shit. Stand and fight, pussy.”
Bishop ignored the words, instead focusing on the glistening coat of sweat that now covered his foe’s upper body. Hoss’s breathing was becoming labored, his footwork less certain.
After another minute, the crowd began to jeer, obviously bored with Bishop’s constant avoidance of the hometown favorite and reigning champion. Mumblings of, “He’s not going to fight,” and “What a coward,” rolled through the gathered mob.
On the next pass, Bishop again stepped to the side, but this time he didn’t scamper off. In a blur, two sharp blows landed on Hoss’s neck and head, immediately followed by a powerful kick to the back of the giant’s knee. The mob cheered the contact.
Hoss wasn’t unskilled. Sensing Bishop’s proximity, he snapped an elbow into Bishop’s hip, the numbing impact of the blow rolling the Texan across the ground.
Jesus, that hurt, Bishop thought, barely hobbling to escape the follow-on assault. His leg and side throbbed from the impact. I’ve been kicked by weaker horses.
Rage and adrenaline surged through Hoss’s body as he spun, reaching out to grasp Bishop’s arm. But the Texan wasn’t there any longer, moving off with his never-ending, annoying little two-step.
Confident his opponent had finally decided to fight, the giant charged in again, only to land a swinging maul on empty air. Bishop just slid aside, intent on making the big fella chase him around the ring.
After two more passes, Hoss was becoming confused, his adrenaline dump now burning off, his lungs struggling to provide the oxygen needed by his tremendous mass of muscle. Deciding to change tactics, he moved to the center of the clearing and simply stood in a ready stance, as if he expected Bishop to come to him.
“Have you had enough?” Bishop asked his clearly frustrated foe.
“Fuck you,” came the reply. “Come in a little closer, and I’ll rip your little piss ant head off.”
“Do I look stupid?” Bishop grinned.
Again, the onlookers grew impatient, their bloodlust completely unsatisfied. Unlike before, both Bishop and Hoss began receiving their share of catcalls and heckling.
“What?” Hoss said, half-turning to look at his one-time supporters with outstretched arms. “He won’t fight.”
It was the opening Bishop had been waiting for. With his opponent slightly distracted, the Texan took a single step and leapt, both boots landing in the center of the Goliath’s chest with an audible thud.
Both men went down, but Bishop was prepared, deftly turning away and regaining his feet first.
Stunned by the attack, Hoss only managed a knee before Bishop was on him with a vengeance.
Three rabbit punches struck the back of the big man’s head, quickly followed by another roundhouse kick that landed square on Hoss’s nose. The sickening crush of cartilage could be heard all around.
A shower of blood exploded from the giant’s face as he surged upward with a roar of pain, but Bishop had no intention of letting the attacker regain the initiative.
A savage downward kick landed on Hoss’s right knee, the edge of Bishop’s boot delivering the blow just above and outside the kneecap. Again, the Texan’s leg coiled and flashed, repeating the strike to the same tortured flesh and tendons. The hulk toppled in a howl of agony.
Bishop, recovering his balance, started to move in on the semi-prone man at his feet. The Texan’s expression was neutral, like a predator making to finish wounded prey. The effort was cut short by a shouted command, “Enough!”
Major Misery appeared between Bishop and his foe. “It’s over,” declared the local leader. “Stop.”
A passing flash of fear crossed behind Misery’s eyes. Face to face with the man who had impossibly bested his son, the older man saw something deep and primordial in Bishop’s glower. For a fleeting moment, he wondered if the Texan would stop… doubting his ability to halt the advancing stranger.
And then Grim was there, gently guiding Bishop away from the downed man and disgruntled multitude. Hustling his friend to the side, Grim’s only comment was, “What took you so long?”
Still panting hard, Bishop cleared the battle-lust from his vision while his lungs worked for air. “I need some water. Damn, that guy was strong,” he eventually responded.
As they made to leave, Major Misery stepped up. “You’ve got the job. Report here at 0600 hours tomorrow. The pay is two pounds of food, six ounces of that being beef, and two cartridges per day. Don’t be late, and I wouldn’t turn my back on Hoss for a while.”
Word of the Texas Star and the fantastic strides accomplished by the people of East Texas had reached the council a week before Grim and Bishop’s arrival.
Terri and her entourage had been visiting Houston, meeting with the military commanders and civilian authority that now controlled what remained of the nation’s fourth largest city.
The chairwoman had entered a nightmarish zone of human suffering, destruction, and general dismay. With 40% of the city having burned to the ground, or been bulldozed to create a firebreak, Houston no longer resembled the hometown that Terri remembered.
During the two-day marathon of meetings, presentations and tours, she had been deeply saddened. It was more than just the physical devastation that broke her heart. Seeing the hollow mass of humanity, the once proud citizens of the Bayou City, ripped her soul like nothing she’d ever witnessed.
Terri was reminded of old pictures and black and white news reels of German cities after World War II. And it wasn’t just the piles of blackened rubble and stretches of flattened lots – the people had that same blank expression of helpless defeat on their faces.
When the topic of feeding the multitudes arose, Terri had inquired about the status of Galveston and the potential for seafood to fill the ever-increasing void of food.
It was then that she had learned of the Texas Star, an inspiring tale of survivors adapting to overcome, and according to some sources, thrive.
The story had actually been interesting for more than just the potential of stocking the p
opulation’s pantries.
Transportation was essential to the recovery, not only to haul goods where they were needed, but also to move people, equipment and spare parts.
Like the American West of old, the Alliance had initially considered the railways and waterways as major arteries of transportation. But the limited supply of diesel was the hamstring, especially with the massive effort underway to plant the seed corn recovered from Riley, Texas.
One solution no one had exhaustively researched was steam.
It had been decades since the iron horses of the first railroads had thundered across the land, their stacks boiling with black smoke from scorching wood or coal. Now, with modern fuels being refined at a fraction of previous production, the concept of utilizing the few remaining relics from that bygone era had commanded the Alliance’s attention.
According to the stories Terri heard in Houston, the operation in East Texas was quite sophisticated and organized. A steam engine was said to pull cars full of people, homegrown produce, beef, chicken, and lumber from the Great Piney Woods of East Texas to Galveston Island.
There, the bounty of the sea, harvested from the shorelines and a few operating fishing boats, was traded in an open-air market called The Strand.
The scent of fresh fish, oysters, shrimp, and kelp followed the old locomotive on its return trip north, her cars full of the island community’s bartered goods.
“Another marketplace like Meraton would boost the recovery,” she’d informed Diana via the military’s long-range communications net. “I’ve heard enough down here to warrant further investigation. I think we should send in a team to find out exactly what’s going on.”
When Terri had reported the supposed use of wood gas to power the locomotive, the council’s interest had been piqued. The purported activity originating in the Great Piney Woods might further three directives: agriculture, energy, and transportation.
But, according to the reports, there were issues.
Like the days of old, bandits, desperados, and nefarious gangs had taken to raiding the trains, often holding passengers and crew at gunpoint and helping themselves to whatever cargo they could carry off.
The reaction was predictable, honest citizens on both ends of the run arming themselves and riding “shotgun” in an attempt to protect their livelihoods.
Over time, a third factor was rumored to have entered the drama - the barons. As the months passed, strong, aggressive men with resources and gumption began to establish themselves as local leaders. They organized, controlled, and manipulated the iron horse and its surrounding economy. Some were opportunists, simply in the right place at the right time. Others had already established themselves as local businessmen long before the collapse.
Regardless of the circumstances, the rail line was now said to be tightly controlled, having morphed from a solution benefiting many, to a thriving enterprise profiting a select few.
Given the disastrous experience at Brighton, it was decided to conduct a fact-finding mission before the council made any determination how to approach or integrate resources with whoever controlled the operation. Bishop’s team had been dispatched.
“Hunter and I will meet you in Galveston,” Terri had told her husband on the radio. “Bring me some good news.”
“Hey, I love trains. This might be a little fun,” Bishop had responded. “And you. Give Hunter a hug from his dad.”
After being hired, Bishop and Grim left the security compound, trekking the two miles back to their hidden pickup. Upon arriving in the area the day before, they had driven around for three hours before identifying a suitable spot to conceal the truck. Kevin and Cory were waiting on their return.
After debriefing the other two members of the team, they sat down to consume the campfire feast Cory had prepared.
“That setup is pretty brutal,” Grim began. “The pay is truly a starvation wage. I was trying to figure up what a few ounces of food and meat would come out to, and it wasn’t pretty, especially for a man doing a full day’s manual labor.”
Bishop nodded, “I agree, but that’s none of our concern. I might be tempted to get the Alliance involved if they were using slave labor of some sort, but they are paying for work performed. Maybe the business can only support that wage. And remember, no one is holding a gun to the workers’ heads and forcing them work to there.”
“But if the folks don’t have any option,” Kevin asked, “is it right to take advantage of them?”
Bishop didn’t answer immediately, staring into the blaze while gathering his thoughts. “That’s a good question, Kevin, one that has been debated in our country for years. I don’t know if you were old enough to pay attention, but before the collapse, there were always deliberations about the minimum wage. Some people believed that corporate executives and business owners were making too much money while their personnel starved. Others believed in the free enterprise system, where if employees were treated badly, they would go elsewhere.”
The youngest of the team nodded, “I remember some stuff about it, but not much. I was into Batman more than the nightly news.”
Bishop sighed, unsure how deep to delve into the topic. “I’m not sure where the Alliance will come down on the issue. My gut says government should stay out of it unless people are being physically harmed or enslaved. There’s probably some interference warranted where children are concerned as well. As long as a man or woman can walk away from a bad situation, they will. But the people will ultimately decide what their leaders do. That’s not our place or our mission today.”
Grim spoke up, seemingly more comfortable discussing something he could control. “So we work here for a few days, get a ride on the train, and then what?”
“We report back to the council with what we find. They can decide what to do with the information.”
“At least we won’t be chopping wood,” the ex-contractor noted. “I was worried there for a minute, though. I thought Godzilla was going to pound your ass.”
Bishop grunted, rubbing his sore hip at the memory. “He was a big ol’ boy. I’m sure you could have taken care of business without any drama.”
Grim brushed the air with a dismissive gesture, “That’s why I keep you around, Captain. To handle my light work.”
After a chuckle went around the campfire, Bishop became serious again. Focusing on Kevin, he said, “One of these days, you’re going to be part of the leadership. You’ll have to make decisions that influence people’s lives. I want to tell you… from my perspective… from what I lived through, that the less government is depended on, the better. The less it is involved in people’s lives, the better off we’ll be as a society. Yes, you have to help people who are down and out, but other than that, leave them to their own devices. The more I think about it, the more I blame the collapse on our illustrious leadership and political system and their constant interference and meddling in our lives. If your generation learns any lesson from this mess my generation made of the world, I hope that’s it.”
Kevin seemed sincere, but confused. “Why, sir? I’m not sure I understand the connection between the government’s role and the apocalypse.”
“Washington tried to make it too easy on people, Kevin,” Bishop replied. “They tried to fix everything, make everything right and just. They tried to make life easier for the people who voted for them, and that ended up being a huge mistake. Human beings aren’t meant to have an easy path. That’s not how we’re designed. We need to struggle, fight, have setbacks, and suffer consequences. When everything went to hell, the vast majority of the population wasn’t ready for their support system to simply vanish. They couldn’t handle it, and that made things tumble downhill far faster than they should have otherwise.”
“Do you really believe the fall was due to the people being soft and pampered?” Cory asked.
“For sure, it worsened the effects of the economic collapse,” Bishop nodded. “I knew my grandparents well. They survived the First Great D
epression because they were able to take care of themselves. If my generation had shared some of their skills, we would’ve hardly noticed the grid going down. Empty grocery store shelves? My grandparents wouldn’t have cared. No fuel? A minor inconvenience at worst. They were self-reliant because they had learned the hard way that they couldn’t count on anybody to bail them out. Not the government, not their neighbors, not the church, not anybody. If even half the country had been like them, this last collapse would’ve been nothing but a minor note in the history books.”
It was Kevin’s turn to stare into the flames for a moment. “I get it, Captain. You’re saying the government trying to make everything better for everyone spoiled them... made them soft and weak. I understand now.”
Grim reached over and gave Bishop’s shoulder a friendly shove, “See! The kid didn’t even see you fight today, and yet he still knows you’re soft.”
Galveston Island, 50 miles southeast of Houston, had a history of survival and adaption. The first permanent European settlement on the barrier landmass had been constructed by pirates, with Jean Lafitte operating his own little seaside kingdom, called Campeche, for almost four years. He declared himself “head of government,” and stayed until the US Navy provided an eviction notice: Leave or be destroyed. He left.
Throughout most of the 1800s, the city of Galveston had been the commercial center of Texas. A natural port with good protection and easy access to the Gulf of Mexico, the city had once rivaled New Orleans in exports of cotton and sugar cane.
As it expanded and prospered, a rich, often-colorful history of growth and culture emerged from the coastal community. All of that changed in 1900 when the most deadly natural disaster in US history struck the bustling city.
On September 8, a massive hurricane took aim at the island, killing up to 12,000 people by some estimates. The sustained winds of over 125 miles per hour would have been bad enough, but a 15-foot storm surge is credited with doing most of the damage. Practically the entire island was submerged in churning, angry waves of seawater.
