Holding Their Own VII: Phoenix Star

by Nobody, Joe

  The speedy two-seater zipped past, apparently unflustered by his attempt. Again, the tail lights faded, finally disappearing from view.

  That’s a bad tactic, he realized. Swerving a pickup at 80 isn’t wise. Would have probably been worse if I’d hit them. Bishop let off the accelerator, letting the truck coast to a stop.

  Sitting in the middle of the interstate, the Texan pondered his options. The attackers could keep up their little game of cat and mouse all night. Eventually, they were going to get lucky and put a bullet into a critical engine component, tire or worse yet, Hunter or Terri.

  On the other hand, hiding wasn’t an option either. Terri was growing worse every moment, and eventually Hunter would require nutrition. He could park the truck and go after them on foot, but that would leave his family exposed.

  “Maybe a fast as hell ride isn’t so stupid after all,” he whispered. “Maybe I should trade in this beast for a fast-mover when I finish paying my debt to society.”

  In a flash of blue paint, the ‘vette appeared at the peripheral of Bishop’s headlight, speeding directly at him without using its own lights. When it was close, the Corvette switched on its high beams, nearly blinding him. Sparkling flashes showed from the passenger window as the speeding car blew past. He was sure he’d heard a round impact somewhere in the bed.

  Engaging the accelerator, Bishop floored it, knowing he had very little time before the nimble attacker turned around and made another pass.

  A green sign announced an exit ahead. At the last moment, Bishop steered off the interstate and up the ramp. The thoroughfare was littered with relics, but he managed to squeeze through, cross over the intersecting road and continue down the entrance ramp without stopping. Pulling off the shoulder and into the weeds, Bishop hid behind an abandoned 18-wheeler. At least there would be some metal between the road and his family. He jumped out of the pickup and hustled to use the big hauler’s rear axle as cover.

  Evidently, his evasion had surprised the attackers. Ready for them to appear either on the main road below or behind him on the ramp, Bishop was going to give them a little of their own lead-laden medicine. But they never showed.

  He stood ready for what seemed like half an hour, listening, watching and waiting on the blue car to charge. Terri’s moan through the still open driver’s door brought him back to reality. Maybe they decided to give up, he pondered.

  He scanned with the night vision, then the thermal imager. Nothing. He decided they had headed back for Santa Fe.

  He paced around the truck once, checking for any bullet holes, happy the gas tank wasn’t leaking. He considered starting for El Paso again, this time using the night vision to drive. The idea was quickly dismissed. They would catch him again, and it only would take one lucky shot to destroy his life. There had to be a better way.

  Anger swelled up inside the Texan. The bad luck of the snake bite was just nature behaving badly. It happened. These punks and their go-fast were either bored or wanted to loot his truck.

  The stress was overwhelming Bishop’s good sense. Logic and wisdom evaded him, replaced instead by an animalistic desire to execute the men trying to kill him. Bishop became the hunter; his prey was blue.

  Jay was fuming mad. Rojas’s poor marksmanship was making his hangover worse. “Jesus, bro, how many shots does it take to hit one f’ing truck? We’re going to use more gasoline stopping this guy than what’s in his tank.”

  “Dude! Chill! If you want me to drive while you shoot, then let’s trade places,” responded the equally frustrated passenger.

  They both fell silent, staring out the front glass at the entrance ramp where their quarry had disappeared. Both ignored the two bullet holes in their car, courtesy of Bishop’s pistol.

  “He can’t go anywhere but back down onto the interstate,” Rojas commented, “That road up there is completely blocked going both directions.”

  “He’s gotta move sometime. We’ll spot his headlights over the hill. I’m going to buzz him one more time on the passenger side where he can’t shoot at us. Do you think you can at least hit a tire?”

  “And how am I supposed to do that? Hang out the window and shoot while you’re going 120?”

  Shaking his head in disgust, Jay responded with a demeaning tone. “No, stupid shit, I’ll roll down my window, and you fire the AK in front of me. Here, practice one time.”

  The electric buzz of the window motor sounded. Rojas lifted his battle rifle, first banging into the console and then almost cracking the barrel against the windshield. He finally managed to point the weapon through the opening, holding it slightly above Jay’s arms as they rested on the steering wheel.

  “Yeah! Like that.”

  Jay glanced at the dashboard clock, growing inpatient and fiddling with the wheel. “Where the hell did he go?”

  “I don’t know, man. Blast past the exit, and I’ll check it out. We don’t want him getting too far ahead of us.”

  The Corvette accelerated, Jay having to utilize his headlights to avoid the rusting hulls of once operative machinery, now strewn about the highway. As the overpass drew closer, a shadowy form stepped from behind one of the support columns, white flashes sparkling in the glare of the roadster’s high beams.

  Bishop was pulling the trigger, the red dot of his optic centered on the ground directly between the approaching headlights. It was stupid to aim for the car. The angle, speed of the target, and narrow profile lowered the odds of hitting anything critical. Instead, he was shooting low and in front of the oncoming speedster, knowing many of his rounds would skip off the pavement and into the machinery spaces of the engine compartment, or better yet, strike a tire. He might even get lucky and bounce a round into the fuel tank.

  Jay knew instantly they were in trouble. Whacks, thuds and ringing metal told him bullets were striking his beautiful ride. When the windshield cracked and then spider-webbed, his heart began to race. Rojas was trying to return fire, struggling to get the AK out the window.

  Jay glanced down at the speedometer, noting he was already climbing above 70. He could still see out one small section of the front glass, and he aimed the nose right at the man firing at them.

  Bishop waited as long as he could, daring the charging car to venture his direction. He bounded two steps toward the concrete pillar just as the blue streak flashed by, missing the support by mere inches.

  “I’m going to flip around,” Jay yelled at Rojas. “Get ready!”

  His friend didn’t answer. “Hey!” Jay shouted as he slowed to turn the car around. Still no response. He reached over to shake his partner, and Rojas slumped forward against his seat belt.

  Slamming on the brakes, Jay flipped on the dome light and started trying to find out what was wrong. “Dude! Dude! Where are you hit?”

  His hands patted Rojas up and down, feeling for blood – hoping to initiate some reaction. The frisking pressure caused the passenger to slump, his neck twisting slightly toward the driver. Half of Rojas’s head was missing.

  Jay freaked, screaming at the grotesque sight, his repulsion quickly replaced by insane rage. The need for revenge pushed sanity from his thoughts. His eyes narrowed and then darted away from the horror that was his best friend as he contemplated his next move. An image of the smart ass truck driver centered in his mind’s eye.

  The speedster’s tires burned rubber as he accelerated out of the turn. The powerful engine growled with a deep purr as torque was applied to the back wheels.

  Jay wasn’t worried about raiding Bishop’s truck, his own fuel usage or anything else. His brain was alive with the frenzy of murderous fury, bombarded with wrath for the man who had blown his friend’s head off.

  Again, Bishop appeared beside the column, the M4 pushing rhythmically into his shoulder as fast as he could re-center and pull the pain-lever. Some of the bullets produced sparks, visible in the dark space between the onrushing headlights.

  Jay had just topped 60 when the left front tire blew. The loss of pressur
e caused the car to swerve, his natural reaction to let off the gas pedal. He then made a common mistake, overcorrecting the sensitive steering. The ‘vette spun, a molten layer of liquid rubber forming between the road and the tires. Slick as grease, the loss of traction made the vehicle as uncontrollable as if it were crossing a sheet of ice.

  Bishop watched the car spin into the median, jump the opposite lane, and flip over. The blue racer finally skidded to a halt, resting on its roof and encompassed by a cloud of dust and smoke.

  Bishop lowered his rifle, the violence of the wreck shocking. “Spectacular,” he whispered, changing to a full magazine.

  Watching the dust settle around the now-disabled attacker, Bishop was sure no one could have survived such an event. Approaching cautiously, relief flooded his mind.

  “And now switching to the eyewitness traffic copter - John, what is going on out there on I-25?” he said, doing his best television announcer imitation.

  “We’ve got two young fuck-sticks who tried to mess with an old dog,” he replied to himself, using a different voice. “They got their hotrod shot out from underneath them, and now the evening commute south of Santa Fe is going to suck mule ass. Our viewers can expect a significant delay because of these two pricks. I suggest everyone flip off these punks as they drive by.”

  He pulled the flashlight off his vest, holding the M4 with one hand and shining the light inside the Corvette. “Oh, fuck,” he whispered as he found only one body inside. The driver-side door was open.

  Bishop’s head snapped up, immediately extinguishing the light. “Terri… Hunter,” he groaned, rushing toward the truck.

  Jay’s nose was bleeding, a result of the airbag exploding into his face. The flow down his neck and chest was further enhanced by a long cut over one eyebrow.

  For all of the violence associated with the wreck, he was in surprisingly good condition. The newer model Chevy had surrounded him in a virtual cocoon of airbags, shielding his body from significant injury.

  Quickly recovering from the shock, he’d managed to open the door and crawl out. Some voice of survival told him the shooter would be coming to check on his victims, so Jay had staggered off, searching for a place to hide.

  Like Bishop had reasoned before him, he identified the relic 18-wheeler as the best possible cover and made for the rig. It took him a moment to rectify the odd sound as he half-stumbled behind the big truck – a baby was crying.

  Despite the rage, shock and pain Jay was experiencing, the sight of Bishop’s pickup and the sound of the crying child made it all come together. He scurried for his new ride home.

  He pulled the driver’s side door open, the interior illuminating with the dome light. There was the upset infant, the rest of the cab appearing empty. Not wanting to drive with a screaming kid next to him, Jay went around to the passenger side and proceeded to unhook Hunter’s restraints. Bishop’s voice stopped him cold.

  “Leave my kid alone, shitbag.”

  Jay, partially obscured by the open door, snatched at the pistol in his belt. Before Bishop could react, the gun was pointed at Hunter’s head. “Back off!” Jay yelled, “Or I’ll kill your kid.”

  Bishop’s brain went into analysis paralysis. He was twenty feet away, the red dot centered between his target’s eyes. There was no way he could miss, but would his victim’s neurons still command that finger to pull that trigger? He couldn’t take that chance.

  “Walk away, and I’ll let you live,” Bishop hissed.

  “Bullshit. I ain’t going nowhere, old man. I’m taking this pretty truck back with me. You move off, and I’ll leave your kid here. Fuck with me, and I’ll kill his noisy little ass and then pop you.”

  “What about me?” Terri’s voice sounded from the back seat.

  Jay jumped, startled by the presence. Bishop saw the gunman’s arm sway, just enough that he knew the weapon wasn’t pointed toward his son. He fired.

  The dome light illuminated the cloud of red mist exploding from the back of the skull. By the time the M4’s trigger had reset, the kinetic impact of Bishop’s bullet had pushed Jay’s head toward the sky. He fired again, and again, the hammer like blows punching Jay’s already-dead body over and back – away from Bishop’s family.

  Bishop rushed up, kicking the pistol off into the weeds. It wasn’t really necessary, very little of the foe’s head remained intact.

  His heart demanded he put eyes on Hunter, returning quickly to soothe the nearly hysterical child. Using a soft voice and gentle touch, the father calmed the baby - somewhat. Terri was his next priority.

  Groggy, still sweating, and nearly out of her mind, his wife was unharmed from the gunplay. “What’s going on?” she asked, unsure of what was reality. “I’ve been having horrible dreams.”

  “It’s okay,” he reassured. “I’m taking you to a hospital. They’ll fix you right up.”

  “Okay,” she replied and then closed her eyes.

  Bishop wasted no time returning to the southbound interstate and fretting over the fuel gauge.

  The heater-warmed water seemed to placate Hunter’s needs. That, and a quick roadside diaper change had kept the lad reasonably happy. The baby’s eyelids had finally fallen shut when the headlights illuminated a highway sign indicating El Paso was 28 miles ahead.

  In the past two hours, Terri hadn’t gotten any better, but appeared to be no worse. After Hunter’s bottom had been cleaned, Bishop had checked her pulse and temp, both seeming about the same as before. Her entire arm, from the elbow on down was twice its normal size. She had swallowed a couple of mouthfuls of water, but refused any food.

  The idea of approaching another large town directed his concentration to the road ahead. He had bypassed Albuquerque via a loop that avoided the core of the city. New Mexico’s largest population center didn’t appear to have fared any better than the rest of North America given the limited view in his headlights.

  Now El Paso loomed ahead, and he had two primary problems. The first was negotiating the town itself. The incident with the Corvette was still fresh in his mind – a telling reminder that desperate people still existed. He would just have to drive and fight his way through whatever the Texas city threw at him. There was no other option.

  The second issue was the military. During his last visit, he’d encountered Army checkpoints and patrols, and he didn’t want to be arrested before even reaching the base. The MPs might take him into custody and just leave Terri and Hunter on their own. Even if he managed the front gate, there was no guarantee they would treat his wife. Again, he found himself in the frustrating position of having no option.

  He exited I-10 and headed north along a wide surface road that led to Bliss’s front gate. He was a little taken aback that he didn’t see a soul, uniformed or not, after the GPS informed him that he was within one mile of the base. Maybe it’s the late hour, he thought.

  He was driving without headlights, using the night vision to navigate the city streets. Four blocks from the base, he pulled over, relieved that he had made it this far.

  He locked his rifle in the camper shell, his throat tightening when he realized it would probably be the last time he held the weapon – a tool that had served him so well. But marching up to the front gate at Bliss carrying a long gun wasn’t a great idea.

  He replaced the comfortable rifle sling with a baby sling, configuring the unit to hold Hunter on his back. His son fussed as Bishop disturbed his sleep, moving the tiny body from car carrier to papoose. With the tot secured, he then rousted Terri. “Time to get up. We’re here.”

  “Where?” her sleepy voice inquired.

  “The hospital…. sort of.”

  “I can’t walk, Bishop. There’s no way.”

  “I know. I’m going to carry you, but you need to help me as much as possible.”

  “Okay… I’ll try.”

  With his help, she managed to sit up. If it hadn’t been for the desperate circumstances, the effort to get his wife out of the truck would have bee
n comical. Cradling her like a baby, he kicked the truck’s door closed and began the short hike to the front gate.

  “I feel like we’re on our honeymoon, and you’re carrying me across the threshold,” Terri mumbled.

  The first two blocks were uneventful. Rounding a corner, Bishop paused, puzzled by the scene in front of him. There were lots of people in front of the base, most milling about or clustered in small groups here and there.

  For a moment, he thought he had stumbled into a protest or riot, but that fear quickly faded. The crowd ahead was calm… almost happy. Sounds of casual conversation and merriment drifted down the street – hardly the background noise of an angry mob.

  He continued, ready to reach for the pistol on his belt and wondering how pissed Terri would be if he had to drop her in order to fight. As he got closer, he noticed there were soldiers mixed in with the throng of civilians. There were even people eating food! What the hell was going on at Fort Bliss?

  A few people looked up when they noticed him, the sight of a man carrying a mature woman and a baby a little out of place. He approached the front gate and shouted to the two men resting on the wall of a sand-bagged guard post.

  “My wife has been bitten by a rattlesnake and is dying. I need help, please.”

  The two enlisted men looked up, one of them grabbing an M16 and sauntering over. “I’m sorry sir, but we are unable to provide medical care for civilians.”

  “Is General Westfield still in command at this base?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Call him. Tell him Bishop is at the front gate. Tell him Terri is dying.”

  The guard recognized the names. He couldn’t put a finger on it immediately, but something in the man’s tone told him this wasn’t any sort of trick or game.

  Bishop fully expected the soldier to raise his weapon and take him into custody. Instead the private nodded and returned to his position. Maybe I’m not as notorious as I thought, Bishop reasoned. That will change quickly once Westfield finds out.