Renegade - 13

by Joe Nobody

  The Korean offered Bishop a paper grocery sack, which contained three, clear plastic trash bags, identical to the ones Pete had used to stuff full of cash for Diana’s campaign donation.

  As Bishop unfolded them, he found the inside lined with money, mostly one dollar bills, in a haphazard pattern. “I used school glue to secure the notes,” Pug stated proudly. “If you stuff the inside with newspaper, I don’t think anyone will be able to tell without opening the bags.”

  It was a quality effort, and Bishop told his man so. “Excellent work, Pug,” he said, checking each container. “I was hoping for something that would fool somebody in the dark. This will work, even in daylight.”

  “Thank you, sir. If there’s nothing else, I need to get going. I’m supposed to relieve the night shift here in a bit.”

  The two co-workers shook hands, just as Terri emerged from the back of the RV. Pug took his exit and then the Texan showed Terri his man’s handiwork.

  “It looks like a massive bag of money!” she observed, taking an example from her husband and looking inside. “You’re not taking any chances with this, are you?”

  Bishop grinned, “Like I said, these guys think like I do. They’re good. Damn good. Besides, the last thing I want is to be blamed if Diana loses.”

  “So, you’re going with us to Wichita Falls?”

  “No. I have another errand I need to run, but I’ll meet you there this evening before Diana’s speech.”

  “Okay, my love,” she cooed, tiptoeing high to kiss his cheek. “I’ll see you there.”

  Joshua Gibbons was what some locals referred to as a renaissance mountain man. Most people, however, stuck with the more common handle of “outfitter.”

  Located at the very edge of the Alliance’s territory, Mr. Gibbons’ business was officially named the ‘Trading Post,’ and it was an apt branding. If there was something valuable you wished to buy, sell, or pawn, Josh Gibbons was the man to see.

  Outfitters were essentially a combination of pre-collapse pawn brokers, post-apocalyptic scavengers, and expert junk pickers.

  Fearless, violent, and highly skilled, most of the men who plied the industry made their living by venturing into the badlands that surrounded Texas and returning with “salvaged” valuables. These goods would be traded, bartered, or sold.

  Even the Alliance had used their services, although such transactions were always unofficial in nature. Outfitters were the post-apocalyptic black marketers, a sketchy, questionable crowd that operated somewhere between organized crime and legitimate enterprise. Law enforcement, for the most part, looked the other way unless complaints were received or overt crimes committed.

  Although no one in Alpha would admit it, these scavengers had played a role in the recovery. If a critical part was needed to restart an essential factory, and all other possibilities had been exhausted, an outfitter would be contacted. The price was often outrageous, but they typically delivered. No one wanted to know exactly where the needed item had been found, or what efforts had been taken to procure the object.

  Some outfitters specialized in finding people, others dealing only in survival equipment, such as tents, sleeping bags, packs, and other outdoor essentials. When ammunition had all but disappeared from the Meraton Market, people like Josh were said to have had cases of the stuff.

  Some, like Mr. Gibbons, would buy or sell practically anything that would make a profit.

  Bishop had visited the Trading Post on a few different occasions. Some time ago, a part on one of his reloading presses had broken, and after numerous attempts to jerry-rig a replacement, the Texan had given up and began what he thought was an impossible search.

  It was an old-time gunsmith in Alpha that recommended Bishop explore the assistance of such men. “Go see Josh at the Trading Post. I bet he can find your part.”

  In fact, Josh had the exact replacement in stock. It had cost Bishop nearly 100 rounds of 5.56, a small fortune at the time. But, in a world where factories no longer produced, the price had been worth it.

  Now, Bishop needed another specialty item.

  Located on the Texas and Oklahoma border, Josh’s establishment wasn’t much to look at and probably never had anchored a first-class department store.

  Forty miles west of Wichita Falls, at an intersection of two non-descript highways, Josh’s original business enterprise had been a combination junkyard, second-hand shop, and feed store.

  Rows of rusting, past-its-prime, farm equipment spread out behind the main building in a weed infested lot surrounded by a high barbwire fence.

  The primary structure itself wasn’t exactly attractive, a metal building with a red-stained roof that had clearly seen better days. Along both sides were a series of ad hoc additions and lean-tos, all of them stuffed to the gills with various pieces of machinery, outright trash, and some things that were difficult to identify.

  It was said that Josh often ventured into Oklahoma with a horse-drawn wagon, several hundred rounds of ammo, and a couple of the toughest men in the area. Rumor had it that the outfitter had salvaged everywhere from Oklahoma City to Muskogee.

  As Bishop slowed to turn into the Trading Post’s parking lot, he remembered the impressive security Josh had implemented around his establishment. Given the valuables known to exist inside, the visitor didn’t blame him.

  Corroding tractors, broken plows, relic harvesters, and other unmarketable implements had been towed from the back to form a barrier around the parking lot. Pallets, barbwire, and scrap lumber had been carefully integrated to form an almost impenetrable fence. The Trading Post was as much frontier fortress as business establishment. In another time, Bishop wouldn’t have been surprised to see Indians circling the walls on horseback, whooping war cries and slinging arrows.

  Armed guards were always present, and today was no exception. As the shopper’s truck came to a stop at the only gate, a burly looking fellow approached while another stood conspicuously nearby, toting a 12-gauge shotgun.

  “What’s your business today, sir?” the sentry asked.

  “I’m looking for some special equipment,” Bishop responded with a smile.

  “No weapons are allowed inside the post. I’ll be happy to coat check your firepower, sir.”

  While he understood the need, Bishop always hated giving up his blasters. Yet, it was he who needed Josh, not the other way around. “No problem,” he informed the guard, handing over his pistol. “I have a rifle in the back.”

  “These will be waiting for you when you’re finished, sir. Enjoy your visit,” came the polite response, followed by “Open the gate.”

  Bishop’s pickup was one of three vehicles inside the barricade. As he exited the truck, the sound of a low, menacing growl reached the Texan’s ears.

  He peered up to spot a cage at the edge of the lot, three massive mongrels pacing back and forth while giving Bishop the evil eye. “Junkyard dogs,” he grinned. “I bet Josh doesn’t have a lot of problem with people jumping the fence and stealing his goods at night.”

  Bishop entered the establishment, immediately impressed by the amount of inventory the owner had managed to squeeze into his building.

  Row after row of floor to ceiling shelves met the visitor’s eye, all of them brimming with stock. Along each wall, unopened cartons of machine parts, cases of motor oil, and other miscellaneous items were stacked. The facility was so full that the shoppers had to be careful where they stepped.

  Bishop didn’t have time to browse. He knew exactly what he wanted, so he proceeded to the wide, wooden counter that dominated the back of the public space.

  A young man was working there, his attention currently devoted to a thick paper ledger that appeared to be comprised of pages of numeric columns. Sensing Bishop’s arrival, he glanced up and said, “Can I help you, partner?”

  “Is Josh in? Tell him Bishop is here.”

  “Hold on a minute. I’ll see.”

  The kid disappeared into the back where Bishop knew a massi
ve warehouse existed, full of even more equipment and goods.

  A minute later, the proprietor appeared.

  With his full beard and ponytail of rusty, red hair, Joshua Gibbons gave the initial impression of a much larger man than he actually was. When Bishop had first met him, the Texan had been reminded of the old television show, Grizzly Adams.

  The similarities ran deeper than just physical appearance.

  Like the trappers of old, Josh and his contemporaries often travelled into the wilderness alone or in small parties. They were rugged individuals who seemed to relish the danger and the isolation.

  Just like those hardy men who’d scaled into the Rockies with nothing more than a musket and pack, Josh and his ilk had to deal with hostile natives in uncharted territory and would only eat what they managed to kill. They were on their own, with little hope of rescue, support, or assistance either from the locals or any sort of authority. While modern day outfitters weren’t seeking fur, the dangers and challenges of the journeys were remarkably similar.

  That spirit and mindset were why Bishop liked Josh. There was a romantic quality about the man’s occupation as well as a certain level of respect for someone who had the guts to go it alone in the unknown. More than once, the Texan had wondered if he might have become an outfitter were it not for Terri and his family.

  Josh approached Bishop with extended arms, and as the two embraced, the pleasantries began to flow. How are you? How is the wife? Kids? Why has it been so long since you’ve stopped by? On and on the questions continued, each man sincerely pleased to see the other still walked the earth.

  Finally, it was time to get down to business. “I know you didn’t drive all the way up here just to see my smiling face,” the outfitter said. “What can I do for you, old friend?”

  “I need some game cameras,” Bishop announced without fanfare. “I need two of the thermal models that came out just before the collapse. The kind that doesn't make a flash.”

  Josh whistled, his forehead knotting in a frown. “That’s a tall order, Bishop. You plan on doing a little hunting?”

  Nodding with a smirk, Bishop replied, “You might say that.”

  “Two legged … or four?” the outfitter asked next, but then waved off Bishop before he could answer. “Never mind. None of my business. In fact, I don’t even want to know.”

  Laughing, Bishop continued. “So? Are such items available?”

  “All items are available, my friend. You should know that by now. Let me dig around in the back and see what I can come up with. In the meantime, let’s get you a cup of coffee and then we can go explore the warehouse.”

  Bishop was led into what was obviously an employee breakroom. While Josh searched the rickety, antique wooden cabinets for a clean cup, the Texan noticed that even this space was lined with cartons, crates, and strewn inventory. Stepping to a nearby stack of boxes, Bishop unfolded the cardboard top and noted the container was full of Styrofoam cups. “One of these will be fine,” he grinned, holding it up.

  “Oh, no, we can’t use those. Do you know how rare they are these days? Here … this one is pretty clean,” Josh answered, holding out a ceramic mug with an interior so discolored, Bishop wondered how anyone would know if it had been washed.

  Still, the brew was pretty tasty. “So, I gotta ask, where did you manage to find coffee?”

  Grinning, Josh looked left and right, ensuring that no one was around. “I trade for it with some guy down south. He owns a string of restaurants and bars … a former cop from Philly.”

  Playing coy, Bishop raised his eyebrows in surprise. “Really? And where might this gentleman acquire his beans?”

  Josh shrugged, “No idea. I’ve tried to pry that intelligence out of him a dozen times, but he’s really tight lipped about his source.”

  The outfitter’s response brought a deep belly laugh from Bishop. “I don’t blame him.”

  “Last month, I traded him three commercial refrigerators and a stand-by generator for 10 pounds of Columbian beans. He’s a tough negotiator, but there’s not a huge market for walk-in units these days, so I figure I did okay.”

  The two men then headed toward the bowels of the warehouse, Josh leading the way as they navigated through metal shelves, pallets, and crates. “A few months after everything went to hell, I came across a warehouse for one of those big box stores … Gander Pro Shops, or something like that. Anyway, someone had already looted all the food, ammo, and consumables, but we still managed to haul 18 wagon loads of other merchandise out of that place. At the time, it was the mother lode. If I remember correctly, there were some game cameras in that lot.”

  In a far corner, heaped with chests and packets, Josh stopped and stroked his beard. “Now let me see.…”

  There was a eureka moment, a surge of glee passing across the outfitter’s eyes. “Over here,” he exclaimed excitedly, pointing toward a nearby shelf. “Help me move this shit out of the way.”

  Bishop and the proprietor began stirring and restacking several heavy cardboard boxes, each covered in dust so thick it was difficult to read the writing on the side.

  “Waders,” Josh announced, handing the Texan another container. Then came slings, duck calls, skinning knives, and a folding duck blind. “Here we go! Electronics.”

  Bishop watched as his host bent to dig through a deep crate of goodies, eventually standing upright with two shiny new, plastic packages containing game cameras. A quick review of the labels announced that they were indeed thermal models. “I’ve got more if you need them?”

  “Naw, two will be fine.”

  “The batteries are even in the box,” Josh added, tapping the unit. “Going to have to charge you extra for those. Nine volts are hard to come by these days.”

  Grunting, Bishop didn’t comment. He was sure Josh always found a way to charge a little extra.

  They made their way back to the front counter, Bishop dropping his empty cup off in the break room. “What’s the damage?” he asked.

  “I don’t know.… Is this cash and carry, or do you have something to trade?”

  “Cash,” Bishop responded.

  “US or Texas Greenbacks?”

  “Either. Take your pick.”

  Josh pondered the price for a moment, again stroking his long beard. “I’ll take $400 US each.”

  Bishop tilted his head back as if looking to the heavens for guidance. “Four hundred! Each! For those? Holy Mother of God, Josh, they aren’t made of solid gold.”

  In reality, Bishop would have protested no matter what figure the outfitter had proposed. It was just the way things were done.

  “Well, you are a good man, and a repeat customer. I can discount another $200 off.”

  “Tell you what; I’ll go $400 for both of them if you throw in two extra batteries and a little information.”

  Now, Josh was intrigued by the counteroffer. “What kind of information?”

  “Anything you might have heard about the string of robberies happening down south,” Bishop stated, his expression going stone cold. “Anything at all.”

  The outfitter grunted, “I wondered if that wasn’t why you wanted these cameras.”

  “Well, do we have a deal?” Bishop pressed, trying to keep his friend focused.

  Spreading his arms wide, Josh was upset. “I can’t give you what I don’t have, Bishop. Truth is … I don’t know a damn thing. The local deputies have been by here three times, nosing around and throwing out all kinds of sick innuendo. I’m going to tell you the same thing I told them. None of the outfitters I know operate that way. We won’t go into situations where we have to kill folks. That is not how this business works. We find treasures and goods that are unclaimed.”

  Nodding, Bishop agreed. “I knew right off it wasn’t you or one of your peers, Josh. None of you would remain in business long if you were running around, gunning people down. No, what I’m more interested in is anyone showing up with inordinate amounts of cash or special, unusual requests.�
��

  Shaking his head, the outfitter was still defensive, “You know any transaction that takes place here at The Post is confidential. I don’t talk about your business … or anyone else’s. That’s just the nature of our game.”

  “Josh,” Bishop began, leaning in close to the business owner as if about to share a secret. “These are some very bad men. Murderers. Kidnappers. It won’t go well for you if the Alliance finds out that you, or any of the other outfitters, were supporting them in any way. That includes withholding information.”

  With his eyes boring into Bishop, Josh flashed angry for a moment, struggling to keep his temper in check. “Look, I know you’re one of the good guys. I’ve heard up and down the line that you wear a white hat. But that don’t mean everybody associated with the Alliance government is as pure as the driven snow. That being said, I’ll swear on my mother’s grave that I don’t know a damn thing about who is pulling off all of these heists. Okay?”