Holding Their Own VII: Phoenix Star

by Nobody, Joe

  The two men he’d seen before with Dean were there, animated motions and gestures making it evident they were upset. Several other armed men were hustling to join them, many pointing toward the parking lot. “Shit,” Bishop whispered.

  And then they all began spreading out in a skirmish line - moving toward the camper.

  Bishop scanned for cover. The last thing he wanted was a gunfight, especially when the pickup and their only shelter was in such close proximity. If the truck got shot up, they were really screwed.

  He scrambled for a strand of trees that put their transportation out of the direct line of fire, running half bent at the waist and readying the carbine as he moved. The trunks could have been a little thicker, but they would have to do. Popping his head around, he yelled, “Hold it right there, fellas. I don’t want any trouble with you men.”

  The roughly formed squad of camp enforcers paused at his challenge, many of them glancing at the guy who evidently was Dean’s second in command. Their new leader simply waved them forward.

  Bishop shouldered his weapon, centered the red dot, and squeezed the trigger. The 5.56 NATO round traveled true to his aim, impacting Mr. Squad-leader’s leg right above the knee. The man went down with a yelp, collapsing onto the ground and rolling in agony.

  A few of the camp’s men hit the turf and aimed their weapons. Others, less experienced, just stood in the open with shocked expressions on their faces.

  Bishop gave them a moment to gauge his seriousness and then shouted across the open space, “I’m not going to warn you again. Hold your position, or I’ll start aiming to kill. My wife and I are leaving your wonderful camp just as soon as I get our rig ready. We’ll be out of here before you know it, so just stay put and chill. Trust me guys – it beats dying.”

  A conversation ensued while two men hurried to the lieutenant’s aid. While Bishop couldn’t hear the words, the topic of the debate was clear. Some of them wanted to advance while others were questioning the wisdom of continuing the assault. One man decided he’d had enough talking and leveled his rifle toward Bishop’s hide. He fired.

  The rounds missed Bishop and the trees, cracking harmlessly through the air toward the mountain. Shaking his head, Bishop centered on the shooter’s position and then reconsidered. “I’m going to give you one more warning,” he whispered.

  His M4 barked three successive shots, small geysers of grass and dirt erupting all around the shooter’s prone body. Waiting for the mountain-echo to die down, Bishop again warned his antagonists. “Seriously now guys, I don’t want to kill anyone today. Back off and stop horsing around, or I’m going to get pissed and start punching holes in your hides.”

  Bishop had to hand it to them; they weren’t completely stupid. Mr. Testosterone-Infusion didn’t fire back, and their advance halted. He’d stopped them! He was just about to congratulate himself on defusing the situation when he noticed all of the attackers were looking over his shoulder. Turning, he saw why.

  Terri stood next to the HQ building, Pastor Pearson acting as a shield. Her pistol was pressed firmly against the preacher’s neck. “Tell them to back off, or I’ll arrange a meeting with you and God,” she hissed.

  Nodding, the preacher yelled to the aggressors, “It’s okay, men. Stand down and return to the camp. I’ll handle things here.”

  Again, discussion ensued within the ranks of the elders. Bishop exhaled as they regrouped and then began trekking back toward the camp, their injured comrade being helped by two stout bookends.

  “Bishop,” Terri called, “I hope you’re ready. You know they’re already wondering if leaving their beloved leader to our good graces is a wise move.”

  “Almost ready,” he replied calmly, hustling back to finish the few remaining tasks.

  And then he realized the problem. The truck was so full of supplies, there wasn’t anywhere for the good pastor to ride. Boxes of clothing, canned goods, diapers, and other goodies filled both the cab and the bed. For a moment, Bishop considered tying Pearson to the hood like a freshly harvested deer, but then dismissed the notion.

  “This is going to take longer than I thought,” Bishop yelled back to Terri. “There’s no place for him to sit.”

  “Shit!” she called back.

  “Not in front of the baby or the pastor, dear,” he teased.

  He pulled the survival net from his rig, flattening it out on the parking lot. Next, he began stacking boxes on top of the camper’s roof, finally covering the supplies with the net. He had just started looping a strand of paracord through the net when Terri’s voice interrupted the tie down. “We’ve got company coming.”

  Bishop pulled the M4 around to his chest, thankful for the quick-adjust sling. A glance confirmed Terri’s report – there were people approaching from the camp.

  “Get behind some cover! Hurry!” he shouted, moving to block Terri from view.

  “They don’t have guns,” Terri replied. “As a matter of fact, I recognize one of the men – that’s the father of the bride.”

  “What?” Bishop was confused, but did confirm his wife’s observation of no visible firearms among the approaching citizens of Camp Pinion. As a matter of fact, the handful of people walking toward the HQ building were holding their hands above their heads in surrender.

  “What the hell?” Bishop commented.

  “Bishop! The baby!”

  “You there! The newcomers! We are unarmed. We want to talk,” came a voice. “Please, we just want to talk.”

  Bishop let them get closer, back to using the small strand of trees as cover. When they were within 100 feet, he answered, “Okay, that’s close enough. What do you want?”

  “Take us with you, please. We want to leave this place and go back to Crawford, even if it means starving to death. Please help us get out of here.”

  Bishop scanned the dozen or so people, his eyes searching for known faces of the security men or hidden firearms. What he saw was a bunch of scared, haggard-looking innocents.

  Turning to his wife, Bishop said, “Now what?”

  Terri was tired of holding the pistol, supporting Hunter, and keeping a sharp eye on her prisoner. “Let’s just shoot this asshole and resolve the whole thing. I’m tired, hungry, and sick of this mess. Let them all fight it out.”

  Bishop nodded, “Okay. Are you going to blow his head off, or should I?”

  For a moment, he actually thought Terri was going to do it. Evidently, Pearson did as well, a dark spot appearing down the man’s pant leg. Frustrated, Terri pulled her pistol back and looked over at Bishop. “That’s not our way, and you know it.”

  Keeping his eye on the camp, Bishop responded, “I’m glad you see it like that… but it is tempting. We’d be doing everyone a favor.”

  Before his wife could answer, there was more activity from the camp. Now a second group of men approached the wanna-be escapees. The new group was armed, several of them members of the bunch Bishop had just chased off.

  “Shit… shit… shit,” Bishop muttered, “Too many people around… too many guns.”

  He glanced over his shoulder and warned Terri. “This is going to get out of hand quickly. You take the preacher back inside and let him change his pants. Find a desk to get behind and lock him in a room or something. This might get really, really ugly.”

  Nodding, Terri said, “To hell with his pants. I change enough diapers already.”

  After making sure his wife was out of sight, Bishop double-timed toward the unarmed group, hoping to intercede. He was almost there when the leader of the armed elders started screaming at his co-residents, “What are you people doing? Get back to the camp – right now!”

  “We want to leave,” responded one of the men. “We’ve had enough of your overbearing bullshit and the preacher’s craziness.”

  “You can’t leave… nobody leaves. You all knew that was the rule when you came here from Crawford.”

  “We want to leave – even if we have to walk back. We want to go home.”


  “Are these people slaves?” Bishop asked, walking closer to the elders. Bishop’s arrival didn’t sit well with the armed men.

  The leader shouted, “This is none of your business, stranger – butt out!”

  “Are they prisoners?” Bishop continued.

  “They made an agreement, and it’s my job to make sure they honor it,” replied the young man.

  Bishop stopped walking, now less than 50 yards away from his antagonist. A few of the riflemen moved to form a semi-circle, slowly closing in on the Texan.

  Expecting such a move, Bishop made up his mind. He was committed, involved, and now part of how this was all going to end. Right there, in the field between the camp and the parking lot, it didn’t matter if this was what he wanted or not. His desire to avoid the situation meant nothing.

  He sensed a presence next to him. A man, one of the unarmed residents, bravely walked up and stood beside Bishop. He was soon joined by a second. “This has gone far enough. We didn’t sign up for some cult that married off our daughters and restricted our thoughts. We are all going to end up like the Branch Davidians in Waco - those poor souls who listened to that maniac Koresh. If you want to stay and follow Pearson, fine… just don’t try and keep the rest of us here.”

  “You’re wrong!” the elder yelled back. “Boyd Pearson is a prophet! How dare you bear false witness against him!”

  With a calm voice, the man at Bishop’s side countered, “Fine, if that’s what you want to believe, that’s your right. But you have no moral authority to force your beliefs on everyone else. Put down the guns, and let us go.”

  Working in the Middle East, Bishop had seen his share of zealots. The elder’s eyes glazed over like those of a man who couldn’t accept that his faith was being challenged, couldn’t deal with any reality that hinted at his being wrong. The man tensed, his knees bending slightly while his eyes began darting in rapid movements.

  “Don’t do it,” Bishop warned in a low voice. “Just chill out, dude.”

  The guard’s breathing increased, his eyes going wide and moving quickly. His hands were shaking. “No,” he moaned, and then a little louder, “No!”

  The elder and Bishop fired at the same instance. Bishop fired again… and then again, the third shot finally taking the gunman down. But he wasn’t the only one – the man at Bishop’s side toppled as well, clutching an ever growing pool of blood at his sternum.

  For a brief moment in time, the only sound in the valley was the echo of rifle shots bouncing through the stone formations. The elders all stood in shock, staring at the man’s body as if they didn’t believe one of their own was hit… unbelieving that one of their neighbors had challenged the pastor and caused bloodshed. Snarls began to form on some faces, others betrayed feelings of astonishment. Bishop put his hand on the remaining unarmed man’s chest, pushing him backwards.

  One of the elders raised his weapon to fire, and all hell broke loose.

  Bishop snap-fired a shot while going to his knee just as a bullet zipped over his head. He spread three more rounds on pure instinct, his mind vaguely mapping where armed men had been standing. He rolled right, firing at the flash of a muzzle and then centered on another man working the charging handle of a rifle for another shot.

  He entered a zone, a place where his mind charted the location of threats, reconciled movement, and pinpointed noise. Like the basketball guard who possessed court awareness and could shovel the no-look pass, Bishop instinctively knew where to aim and who to ignore. He couldn’t have explained how, but his eye mimicked the football quarterback - able to see his receiver through a forest of defenders. Natural ability, training, and the speed of movement kept him alive in what became a cauldron of mayhem, death, and confusion.

  People on both sides were screaming and running in all directions, absolute chaos and confusion erupting in the open space. Someone ran right over the top of Bishop’s prone body. He saw two others collide in their haste to escape the hailstorm of deadly lead piercing the air.

  A fountain of rocks erupted next to Bishop’s head, the skin-biting projectiles pelting his skull. Roll left. Fire. Scoot three feet. Fire again. Roll and move.

  And then he was on his feet running, trying to zig and zag toward the parking lot and the cover of the trees. Shots continued to fill the air, but he sensed they weren’t close. Screams, the moaning of someone wounded nearby – the bedlam of battle.

  He fish-hooked a course to the cover, whipping up the rifle to address anyone attempting to follow him. No one was.

  A small group of the unarmed campers was trying to run for the assembly hall and the cover provided by the cabins. Two of the elders were giving chase and gaining ground. Bishop centered on the lead rifleman and began firing in quick succession. The man staggered and went down, his partner diving for cover.

  Before Bishop could stop him, he watched in horror as one of the elders shot an unarmed boy. He heard glass break and a woman scream… and then more shots.

  “They’ll slaughter them,” he whispered. “They’ll kill every last one of them.”

  Glancing at the HQ building where he prayed Terri and Hunter were still safe, he fought the urge to gather his family and flee. It was the smart thing to do. The safe course of action. He’d already done enough.

  More shots and screams rang out in the camp, cries of blood, murder, and desperation filling the air. They’re trying to fight back, he realized. They don’t have much of a chance.

  Bishop spied two of the unarmed men rounding a corner. One now carried an axe, the other a shovel. While they couldn’t see it, Bishop’s angle told him they were about to run into three elders headed their way. He cast one last glance at the HQ building, shook his head, and shoved off, darting full speed for the camp.

  The elders didn’t see him coming. He fired two wild shots, accuracy while running almost impossible. But he’d only wanted to make them change direction before running headlong into their tool-wielding neighbors.

  Shots cracked past Bishop as he made the corner of the nearest cabin, finally protected for a moment by the heavy log construction.

  “Thanks,” said the guy with the axe. “Thank you for helping us.”

  “How many men can you gather quickly?” Bishop asked, gulping air and making sure no one was flanking them.

  “Four or five at least,” the shovel carrier responded. “Why?”

  “Go and get as many men as you can. At minimum I’m going to make this an even fight,” Bishop promised.

  The two hustled off, yelling out names of friends and neighbors as they ran up the street. Bishop popped his head around the corner, making sure none of the elders were in the area. He barely pulled his head back as bullets slammed into the wall, splinters of wood showering through the air.

  Bishop dropped to his knee, lowering his profile by a full foot and then sprayed five shots where he thought men would be. More bullets chewed into the logs, their volume of thwacks and thuds making it clear several more elders had joined the fray. That was good – they were focused on his position and not hunting other men.

  Time to move, he thought, rushing off at a low crouch to the next cabin, this time using the porch for cover.

  He played cat and mouse with the elders for a few more minutes, the Camp Pinion men trying to dislodge Bishop from his position. Finally, footsteps sounded behind him, the axe-man leading seven others to join Bishop’s position.

  “Come on, we’ve got to make it to the north side of the camp,” Bishop instructed. There is an old mine tunnel there – it’s full of weapons, ammo and food.”

  “What?” one of the newcomers questioned. “What are you talking about?”

  “Follow me,” Bishop ordered and took off at a trot.

  They hadn’t made it 100 feet when two rounds cracked past Bishop’s head. He dove for a utility pole, rolled twice, and fired several shots. He didn’t move, almost certain he hadn’t hit anyone. Finally concluding the shooters didn’t really want to fight, he
rose and waved for his small squad of men to follow.

  When they reached the edge of the camp, Bishop motioned for his friends to stay put. He pulled the thermal imager off his vest and quickly mounted it on the M4. A few rapid adjustments and he was scanning the tree line that blocked their path to the mine.

  Knowing where to look allowed him to find and dispose of the tree-bound sentry quickly. The guard on the cliff fell next. A mad rush, boots pounding the ground and heavy breathing, and then they were huddled together at the mine’s entrance.

  Bishop looked at the man holding the shovel and motioned for him to hand over the tool. He pulled a small roll of gray duct tape from a pouch, his hand a blur as he unwrapped several feet of the sticky substance.

  Pulling off his gloves, Bishop sliced free the roll. He wadded up a baseball-sized hunk and affixed it to the end of the handle. He produced a disposable lighter and flicked on the flame.

  In a few moments, a torch was burning brightly. “That tape will burn for several minutes. Go 150 feet into the tunnel. On your left, you’ll see a cage door. Use the axe to bust it open, and you’ll find a room full of weapons and ammo. Grab as much as you can carry and meet me back here. I’ll make sure no one cuts us off while you’re gone. Now hurry!”

  Bishop watched as the men rushed inside the mine and then turned his attention back to the camp. He couldn’t tell who was fighting whom, or how many were on each side. The occasional shot rang out, overriding the nearly constant background of shouting, running feet, and the general riot of conflict.

  After what seemed an eternity, he noticed the tunnel’s mouth glowing again, and then the first man appeared holding an AR15 and the torch. The others followed, each carrying at least one rifle and pockets filled with magazines. After the last had cleared the entrance, they all stood, looking at Bishop as if waiting for instructions.