by Joe Nobody
For several months, there had been talk of moving the center of government back to Austin, but so far, the council had resisted the relocation.
“I wonder if Diana will sacrifice that principle to get reelected?” he whispered, negotiating the streets.
Frowning, Bishop cursed himself. “That’s not fair,” he mumbled. “Stop being an ass.”
With the town now in the rear-view mirror, Bishop accelerated his pickup through the arid, West Texas countryside. As he ventured deeper into the solitary, desert landscape, his mood seemed to improve.
He was just under a mile from the turnoff to his ranch when the Texan spotted something unusual alongside the road. Immediately slowing the truck over concerns of ne’er-do-wells lurking in the vicinity of his property, Bishop pulled to the shoulder. He’d been ambushed more times than he could count.
Pulling the hunting rifle from the backseat, Bishop hurriedly steadied the weapon on a fender and stared through the high-magnification optic.
He could discern two men and a large, grey pickup parked next to the lane leading to his ranch. They were wearing uniforms and white hardhats while milling about his driveway’s end. “What the hell?” he mumbled.
The trespassers appeared to be utility workers, but that didn’t make any sense. His property wasn’t served by the electrical company, nor was this remote stretch of road bordered by any poles or sagging strings of black wire. The Texan was positive that Alpha’s water mains ended their subterranean service more than 30 miles behind. What were these guys doing here?
Scratching his chin, Bishop thought about returning to Alpha and enlisting Grim or Butter as backup. That course, however, was quickly dismissed. There were only two interlopers. They hadn’t noticed his presence. This might all be completely innocent.
Five minutes later, Bishop cut off the road and into the desert. It had been a while since he’d suited up with a full combat load.
His load vest and weapon felt good across the Texan’s shoulders. Being ready for any situation brought a reassuring confidence to his core.
It took him less than 15 minutes to bounce through the rock fields, scrub, and gullies. Again, he paused, using a small outcropping of stone to steady the large rifle.
The trespassers were still there, leaning against the grey truck’s fender like they were waiting for something. For a moment, Bishop thought their pickup might have broken down, and the duo might need help. Was it a coincidence that their vehicle had failed right on top of his lane? Doubtful.
Bishop chose his angle carefully, approaching from the rear of the heavy truck. The vector not only allowed him to sneak up on the two idling gents but also gave him the opportunity to verify there wasn’t anyone else around.
“Good morning,” he greeted, 20 feet behind the uninvited guests.
Both strangers jumped with a start, pivoting to see the Texan holding his AR10 along with an impressive amount of combat gear strapped all over his body. “Can I help you boys?” Bishop continued.
“Um … we’re … we’re with the utility company, sir,” the older man stammered. “We mean no harm.”
“This is private property,” Bishop said in a no-bullshit tone. “Is your truck broken down?”
“No sir,” managed the other worker, his voice cracking with stress. “We’re waiting on the semi hauling the new tower out of Fort Davidson.”
“Tower?” Bishop asked, tilting his head to one side.
“Cell tower,” continued the guy who was obviously the supervisor. “We are installing one of the new units today. It will have enough power to connect Alpha with the old national park at Big Bend.”
Bishop relaxed, but just a little. The two men in front of him were far, far too freaked to be any sort of ultra-serious threat. Still, it was better to be safe than sorry.
“I own this land,” the Texan continued after digesting their words. “I’ve never authorized anyone to install shit. Are you sure you’re in the right neighborhood?”
The younger of the two reached for his pocket, the move bringing Bishop’s rifle snapping to his shoulder before the utility worker’s fingers managed to disappear behind the cloth. “Don’t do it,” the Texan hissed.
For a moment, Bishop thought the young man was going to piss his pants, the fellow’s bottom lip quivering in fear. “I was just reaching for our GPS, sir. Please … please don’t kill me.”
“Fine. Go ahead,” Bishop nodded. “Slow like. Real, real, slow.”
As promised, the man produced a small, silver box. With measured movement, he held the screen in Bishop’s direction to prove the device was no threat. “So?” the Texan asked.
“We’re at the right location, sir,” the man continued, nodding toward the screen as if that proved his statement.
“I think there’s been a huge mistake, boys. I never gave permission for any tower or other equipment to be affixed to my property. I think you should both head on back to Alpha and get to the bottom of this. Sounds like to me some clerk needs his ass chewed.”
With his hands still in the air, the senior man said, “I don’t think the Alliance asked for permission, sir. According to the paperwork I’ve seen, they invoked the right of Eminent Domain to create this new system. If you’d be so kind as to let me get the paperwork from the truck, I’d be happy to show you.”
Nodding, Bishop watched as the boss retrieved a folder from the cab. Approaching slowly, he held it out for the Texan’s inspection. As Bishop began to scan the documents, the supervisor continued. “I understand your concern, sir, but consider this. One of the major stalemates for improving infrastructure early in the recovery was that we tried to obtain permission for our projects. Even now, years after the fall of society, so many properties do not have established owners. Requesting consent has often been a futile and time-consuming undertaking.”
Bishop had little tolerance for government overreach, but the worker’s explanation rang true. The Texan’s eyes darted between his captives and the official-looking papers, his face forming a deep grimace. It was possible, he supposed, that the Alliance needed to be able to work quickly and efficiently to restore and create utility service. He might have been able to take a more temperate stance, but just then, he spotted a decree from the council, complete with Diana’s signature and the GPS coordinates that bordered his ranch. “Well I’ll be damned,” he grumbled. “That’ll teach me not to appreciate Diana’s meatloaf. Hell has no fury like a woman scorned.”
Lowering his rifle, Bishop took the high road, “It’s okay, guys. I’m not going to shoot you. In fact, my apologies for the scare. A man just never knows these days.”
Relieved that they were no longer in danger, the two laborers seemed to accept Bishop’s explanation. “The most dangerous part of our job is dealing with landowners,” the supervisor said, accepting the Texan’s offered handshake. “Thank God you’re one of the more reasonable types.”
After a few exchanges about the tower, and locating it just to the side of Bishop’s “driveway,” the Texan left the two utility workers and began the hike back to his truck.
He hadn’t managed more than a quarter mile before the sound of a powerful diesel engine drew his attention. There, rolling steadily down the pavement, came a huge semi complete with the metal latticework of a tower on its flatbed.
“Progress,” Bishop spat, watching the semi pass. “I’m going to go back to Alpha and let my government know how unhappy I am about this.”
His mood had changed by the time Bishop arrived back at his pickup. Pulling off his gear, the Texan questioned his next move. What would the tower hurt anyway? he pondered. Is there really any harm?
In fact, it might be a positive. He and Terri rented in Alpha, partly because he wanted the security of his wife and child being among friends and neighbors while he was deployed on SAINT missions. Would having cell service eliminate some of the couple’s angst? If Hunter became ill in the middle of the night, could they call for help? If there was trouble
at the ranch, could she send out an SOS via smartphone?
“Maybe progress isn’t all that bad,” Bishop grumbled, putting his rifle back into the truck. “Maybe you’re just being an old troll and need to square your ass away.”
Bishop was no longer in the mood to hunt. Still, he needed time to think.
Starting the engine, he thought to return to Alpha, but then had a quick change of heart. “I wonder if Pete’s Place has any coffee brewing?”
While it was rare to find the bar’s owner on site, the now-legendary watering hole still held the comfort of a warm, inviting environment where a man could sit and think. Bishop decided he’d drive to Meraton instead.
The empty spaces of West Texas passed by the truck’s windows as he meandered down the two-lane road. Despite having made the drive hundreds of times, Bishop still found the scenery refreshing. This was a stark and barren land, yet it had a natural beauty that was difficult for outsiders to appreciate at times. “If you can make it here, you can survive anywhere,” he whispered.
It was just past 9 AM when he rolled into Meraton, the vendors busily preparing their stalls and shops for the market’s opening hour.
As he exited the truck, Bishop was presented with a dilemma – should he take his rifle, or leave it in the truck?
Not long ago, he had bumped into two of Sheriff Watts’s newest deputies while carrying his long iron down this very street. The local officers hadn’t been very happy to see him, or more specifically, his carbine. While trouble had been avoided that day, the lesson had been a difficult one for Bishop to digest. Times were changing, and he wasn’t keeping up.
After a short reflection, Bishop decided to leave the AR10 locked in the cab, choosing instead to tuck his .45 sidearm into the back of his belt. He didn’t have much faith in pistols, thought they were nearly worthless in a serious fight. Still, it was a reasonable compromise given the hour. It certainly beat going unarmed. “This old hound still has a few teeth left,” he grunted, adjusting the firearm to a comfortable spot.
As he rounded the corner to Main Street, Bishop was again confronted by change. What once had been a hodgepodge collection of tables, cardboard boxes, and folks selling from the beds of their pickups and wagons, was now two streets lined with brick and mortar stalls, open air store fronts, and other signs of an evolving retail environment. “Amazing,” he whispered, walking past The Manor and its one of a kind gardens.
Even Pete’s had changed.
Bishop was shocked to see a new addition had been constructed in the empty lot next door, a large, neon sign replacing the small, analog version that had adorned the enterprise since Pete had opened shop. “Progress,” he mumbled, stamping toward the ornate, front door.
At the entrance, he paused, reading a notice that proclaimed the bar was now serving breakfast from 7 AM until noon. “I guess progress isn’t all terrible,” he said. “Two eggs and some peppered bacon sounds damn good about now.”
There were a dozen customers inside, all of them scattered around the new dining area that more than doubled the size of the interior. The bar was empty, but that would probably change as soon as the market closed.
Bishop had to admit, the place could no longer be called a hole in the wall. Pete was obviously doing well.
For the last two years, rumors had been circulating across the Alliance about Pete’s business ventures. The barkeep himself had told Bishop about his expansion plans not long ago. Now, the word was that the retired Philadelphia detective had grown his empire to include multiple breweries, two wine bottlers, and a host of distilleries throughout the territory.
Pete was supposedly heavily into real estate development, investing in transportation and lumber, and had even been seen at the recently liberated Plantation down in Mexico.
In fact, the former mayor was so busy, he hadn’t run for reelection last year.
“Good for you, Pete,” Bishop whispered under his breath as he admired the remodeled surroundings and ambled toward a seat in the back. “I can’t think of anyone who deserves success any more than you, old friend.”
Before Bishop had even scooted his chair up to the table, a pretty girl appeared at his side. “Menu, sir?” she offered with a smile.
Shaking his head, Bishop said, “I’d just like a cup of coffee and the bacon and egg special, please.”
“Right away, sir,” she nodded while scribbling his order on a small, green pad. A moment later, she was hustling toward the kitchen.
It seemed no time had passed before she was back with both a cup and a steaming pot of joe. After she’d filled the mug to the brim, Bishop asked, “How often does Pete make it back these days?”
Tilting her head, she finally figured out what he meant. “You mean the owner? He’s here today … or at least he was when I clocked in. Is there a problem, sir?”
“Oh, no. No problem. Pete and I are old friends, and I haven’t seen him in a while. If he’s in town, I’d love to say hello. Tell him Bishop is here, if he’s still back there.”
“Yes, sir.”
It was less than a minute later when Bishop heard Pete’s voice boom from the direction of the kitchen. “Bishop? Are you sure he said, ‘Bishop?’”
The old bartender’s balding head appeared from the back, his face lighting up in a huge smile. “By the Lord in Heaven, is it you?” he spouted, rushing toward the patron’s table with open arms.
The two men embraced, patting each other on the back and both saying something about how good it was to see the other. Pete turned to the waitress and said, “Bring me a cup, too. Would ya, Candy?”
Pete’s coffee arrived at the same time as Bishop’s meal, but that didn’t stop either of them from trying to catch up.
Pete wanted to know about Terri, Hunter, Butter, Nick, and practically everyone else the two men had in common. Bishop, on the other hand, was curious about Pete’s growing empire, as well as the crème de le crème of interesting stories the bartender had added to his repertoire.
For an hour, they sat and talked, Pete filling in while Bishop chewed, the waitress doing an excellent job of keeping both of their cups brim-full.
“I’ve opened up Pete’s Pub, Pete’s Pizzeria, Pete’s Pit, and a host of other new places. Heck, we’re even going to have Pete’s Palace soon. Give the people a good meal at a fair price, and they’ll come back,” he beamed.
Rubbing his stubble, Bishop joked, “Maybe I should go into the restaurant business. I could open Bishop’s Bakery… sell doughnuts and scones to all of Nick’s hard-chargers.”
Laughing, Pete continued, “You’ve got more important work, my friend. By the way, that was some good work you guys did down in Mexico. The Plantation is going to change the entire economic forecast for this year,” Pete stated. “When I heard what had happened, I just knew it was you and your team that pulled it off. What a win for everyone.”
Bishop nodded his agreement, his verbal response conclusively colored by melancholy. “Yes, that was a good one. I’ve decided to hail it as the pinnacle of my career. You see, I’m turning in my resignation today.”
Stunned, Pete just sat staring at his old friend, unsure how to respond. Finally, “So, I take it Nick told you that the SAINT teams were going to be phased out?”
It was Bishop’s turn to frown. Pete was no longer on the council – how did he know?
The bar owner smiled at the Texan’s puzzlement. “I might not be officially part of the government anymore, but that doesn’t mean my ear isn’t to the ground. To be honest, I don’t blame you for calling it quits. I can’t see you accepting a position as the Dean of Applied Violence at some training academy. You’re a man of action.”
Shaking his head, Bishop had to chuckle at Pete’s impression. Subconsciously rubbing his arm where Castro had nearly powdered his bone, he said, “Or … I’m a guy who knows good and well that his luck isn’t going to hold out forever. I’ve been shot three times, broken two bones, had my wife kidnapped, and damn near drowned dow
n in Galveston. A man starts looking over his shoulder for the Reaper after a while … wondering when he’s going to catch up.”
Pete dismissed the explanation, unwilling to accept Bishop’s excuse for resigning. “Maybe,” he mumbled, clearly not buying what was being sold.
“Anyway,” Bishop continued. “I’m going to be looking for gainful employment soon. If you hear of anything that would be a good fit for an old, slow, worn out shooter, let me know.”
This time, the customer’s words generated a deep, belly laugh from across the table. “Don’t be ridiculous,” Pete replied. “You’re going to come work for me. I need men like you.”
Bishop nearly choked on his coffee, taking nearly a full minute to compose himself. With knotted eyebrows and a hopeful voice tempered by more than a hint of skepticism, he responded, “You do? Men like me? I don’t get it?”
