by Joe Nobody
As he started to rise, it occurred to him that the rangers might already be tailing the two trespassers. He’d give it five minutes before exposing himself – just to make sure no one was following the hunters.
No one showed, so he immediately changed the battery in the night vision and began preparations to follow the two trespassers. It wouldn’t be good for Hugh and the resupply plane to land while there were prying eyes.
With body armor, load vest, laced boots and fully functioning monocle, Bishop lowered himself from a branch, suspended in the air until his arms were fully extended, and then dropped the remaining four feet to the ground. The impact was much louder than he anticipated.
And then he was off, tracking the two poachers, trying to make up ground.
Using the night vision, he could travel faster and with more stealth than the two men. As he moved to close the distance, a break in the canopy above allowed him to check the sky. There were no visible stars or moon. Cloud cover, he thought, a potential issue for Hugh and the relief flight.
Clearing his negative mindset, Bishop realized he couldn’t do anything about the weather. If I get socked in here for several days, I might need one of those deer myself, he thought.
Bishop realized that a stalker has an advantage over prey. As long as the two men kept moving, their footfalls would mask any noise made by his approach. A single man can stop and listen, but a group of two or more must coordinate their pauses. Bishop wasn’t worried about the two poachers – they just didn’t impress as being that good.
What did put caution in the pace of his steps was the chance that the rangers were about. His only clue about their capabilities and resources were the anti-personnel devices rigged on the trail. While they were not bad setups, they weren’t clever enough to merit anticipation of an extreme level of stalking skills.
He also knew that desert hunting was different than seeking game in a wooded area. Visibility was one obvious factor, the dense forest adding difficulty in spotting the target. For this and other reasons, he knew that most woodland hunters used a deer hide or stand, often elevated and commanding a wide angle of approaches. He slowed a bit, lest the hunters were already in their perch, lying in wait.
As he traveled, the forest took on a dull gray hue – the obvious result of the sun rising to a densely cloudy day. A few minutes later, the first raindrop smacked against a leaf, several more joining it within moments. The wind picked up shortly after, a clap of thunder rolling in the distance.
Great, he thought, pulling out his poncho. This is just fucking great. At least I didn’t run the truck through a carwash.
The deluge built quickly, thunderclaps and flashes of lightening piercing the sky. The wind wasn’t about to be outdone, adding its chorus to the storm. While his poncho would protect the majority of his body from the dampness, Bishop still sought refuge.
Unsure of exactly how dangerous bolts of lightning could be in a forest, Bishop started looking for some sort of shelter. The nearly constant flashes, combined with the horizontal blow of stinging rain, made him forget about the two men in front of him.
He identified a deluxe-sized tree that had fallen some time ago, its top landing on higher ground than the trunk. The resulting gap at the base of the hill provided a small space offering a little protection from the downpour and wind. It was the best safe haven he could find.
On and on, the storm raged. About every 20 minutes, the rain and wind would let up, and Bishop would think it had passed. He’d start to gather himself to move out, and it would all start all over again. Two hours passed before the mini-typhoon finally quit.
The sun remained hidden by a dense overcast of gray, and that meant no relief flight.
He moved out again, returning his focus to the two men he knew were just ahead of him. They must be as frustrated as I am, he mused. All keyed up to go steal a meal, and the weather won’t cooperate.
He had advanced another 80 yards when he saw them, or more specifically, detected the movement of a bush where they had just passed. He cut hard right from his current direction, moving twenty steps to a large tree with more than enough girth to hide his frame.
As before, they were bickering with each other when they passed. While upset with the meteorological conditions and lack of meat for the dinner table, what really had rustled their feathers was being soaking wet.
“I thought you had packed the rain suits,” accused one.
“Bullshit, you always carry those. Don’t try and blame it on me.”
Bishop grinned at the banter, thinking of his dead battery, happy in a way that he wasn’t the only incompetent fuck walking the woods today. Apparently, around here they traveled in pairs.
After they had passed, Bishop cut in behind the two hunters, keeping them barely visible and making sure they didn’t cause him any trouble. He moved from tree to thick bush, never leaving one position of cover before slinking to another. Every footfall was charted ahead of time, avoiding thickets of thorns and general entanglements as important as progressing silently.
Before long, the two poachers began following a path. Wider and better maintained than a game trail, Bishop was surprised when a sign announced they were progressing along one of the park’s pre-marked hiking excursions.
How stupid, he thought. Sure as shit, the rangers have this booby-trapped. I would.
The terrain began to change as they passed, large rock formations appearing along the edges of the trail, glimpses of a steeply walled valley visible through the thinning vegetation. Another few hundred yards, and he began to understand why the state of Arkansas had put a park here – the view was postcard-esque.
The vista was ruined by two things, both happening at about the same moment.
Again, sheets of stinging rain began their soaking deluge without any warning, resulting in the already muddy trail becoming a puddle-ridden slop fest.
The second event was the abrupt halt of Bishop’s quarry, both of the deer hunters moving off the path as if they had seen something ahead of them.
Taking cover behind a formation of truck-sized boulders, Bishop’s little voice was warning that something was badly wrong up ahead. His premonition was proven correct by the report of a gunshot echoing across the valley. Then another… further off… then another… then several.
The safety came off Bishop’s rifle, the ACR moving to his shoulder.
He almost killed the two hunters he’d been following. Both men came crashing through the underbrush, surprising Bishop with both their speed and position. They ran right past his hide, moving with the determined expressions of terrified men trying to stay alive.
Another round of gunshots rang out, making it clear what the two poachers were running from. Bullets cracked through the air, some passing directly past Bishop as he hugged the rocks for cover. He realized too late that he should be mimicking the fleeing men. Before he could even pick a direction, several men burst through the foliage and into the boulder field, shots ringing out from their weapons.
Fuck! I don’t have a dog in this fight, he cursed. Now what the hell am I going to do?
There were at least six men pursuing the retreating poachers. Spread out in a loose “V” formation, they clearly meant to kill someone, round after round zipping through the trees.
Bishop pulled off his poncho, the rain gear blocking access to his vest and ammo. As he peered around his rock fort, a bullet slammed into the stone surface not three inches from his face, the sharp splinters biting into Bishop’s cheek like a swarm of stinging bees. It pissed him off.
Up came the red, illuminated dot of his optic, and he started dropping the hammer, firing intentionally low. The ACR was a 4th generation battle rifle, designed to pour hot lead at a threat, or in this case, multiple threats.
Bishop snapped four rounds left, pivoted right, and let six more fly. He then centered on the middle of the approaching formation and sprayed 10 more messages of his displeasure. Repeat in reverse, and then repeat again.
The empty magazines didn’t hit the ground before a full box of pain-pills was jammed into the weapon. His movements were a blur, releasing the bolt, checking the ejection port for any problems, and then lead was flying at the approaching threats.
The ACR was like a comfortable pair of blue jeans in Bishop’s hands. Smooth, flawless and rapid, his fire was controlled, well-spaced, and relentless. One man tried to advance, moving from behind the small pine he’d been using for cover. Like a magnet drawn to iron, his motion earned two rounds, geysers of muddy water erupting in the man’s path. The fellow changed his mind and tried to reverse course, but the sloppy ground provided no traction, and he fell into the swill, both legs sticking into the air. Were it not for the deadly hailstorm of lead being exchanged, the routine would have been comical.
Bishop delivered a blistering 90 rounds in less than 30 seconds, shredding bark, snapping branches, and spraying mud. He wasn’t sure if it was the cloudburst or the lead-burst, but he achieved the desired effect – the other guys stopped shooting. Their advance halted.
An eerie quiet fell over the forest, nothing but the falling rain daring to make a sound. Engaging in gunplay with a couple of guys with bolt action deer rifles was one thing; running into someone who knew how to spread suppressive fire with a high capacity weapon quite another. The momentum of the attackers stalled.
“Mark, you okay?” a voice called out.
“Yeah, I’m fine, but Jake’s hurt,” another responded.
“What the fuck is going on… who…” quipped another shaky voice.
Bishop analyzed the situation. He couldn’t shoot low anymore. They were too close and most likely would regroup in a few moments. He could fade away into the forest behind, but they wouldn’t give up trying to find him. If the truck were discovered, his plan would be jeopardized. If he were cornered, that would suck even more than losing his ride. A lucky shot into his head would really suck.
He didn’t want to kill these men, even if he could manage that feat while being so badly outnumbered. They had been stupid and surprised this first time; he doubted if they would repeat the same mistake.
“I’m not one of the poachers,” he called out. “I bumbled into your fight with them by accident. I’ve got no quarrel with you men. Let’s talk.”
For a moment, Bishop didn’t think anyone was going to respond, but eventually they did.
“Who the hell are you?”
“My name’s Bishop, and I’m from West Texas. I flew in on that airplane you probably saw buzzing around yesterday. I’ve got a job to do and ended up here by accident.”
“Bullshit!” sounded from the right, the grunted response soon followed by a smattering of other mutterings that Bishop couldn’t make out. He decided to push a little harder.
“I’ve been shooting low on purpose. Like I said, I’ve got no fight with you people, but if we don’t reach an understanding, I’m going to raise my aim. There’s no sense in anyone dying today. Let’s not be stupid.”
Again, the wind carried a variety of low voices through the rain, impossible for Bishop to judge the overall reaction from the other side. Finally, a clear shout reached through the storm.
“Okay, let’s talk. I’m coming out,” declared an older throat. Then a man appeared from the center of the attacker’s spread, walking slowly to a clearing 40 yards in front of Bishop’s hide. There’s the leader, the Texan determined. That took a pair of gonads to walk out like that. Gotta give him credit for guts.
It could be a trap, he realized. Could be a ploy to get me out from behind these rocks.
Bishop hesitated a moment, deciding the risk involved in exposing himself was probably worth it. These guys aren’t all that sophisticated and, after all, talking was my idea. He stood and moved from behind his stone shield, ready to dive back if shots filled the air. No bullets came.
He paced into the clearing, stopping 30 feet from an older-looking fellow sporting a full, but trimmed salt and pepper beard, and wearing a baseball hat with the park’s name embroidered across the front. The man he faced was perhaps 60 years old, but it was difficult to tell with the bill of the cap and the rain jacket’s hood. Muddy boots, filthy pants and a bolt-action 30-06 hunting rifle rounded out Bishop’s first sight of the ranger.
To the men of the forest, Bishop was no doubt a spectacle. The desert colored vest, covering the bulge of body armor beneath, was bristling with magazines and pouches. The ACR was an unusually shaped weapon, its ferocity recently demonstrated. Fighting knife, radio, bush hat and bug-eyed combat glasses rounded out what must have been an intimidating sight to the host.
“My name is Frank Pearson,” the man began. “I’m the head ranger… or at least I was the head ranger here at the park.”
The man’s voice was steady and low, and Bishop respected him instantly. Most people in Frank’s situation, would show frayed nerves. Nodding, Bishop responded. “I was following the two poachers when they ran into your team. When they hightailed it back past me, I got stuck in the middle. I was trying to warn you off.”
“What are you doing here? What do you want?”
Grunting, Bishop smiled and answered, “I know this is going to sound funny, but I’m on a rescue mission. My team and I are on our way east to retrieve the wife and child of a dear friend. The airfield at your park was picked to be our forward operating base. We had no way of knowing what the situation was here on the ground.”
Looking around, Frank asked, “There’s more of you?”
Shaking his head, Bishop decided to be honest with the man. “No, not yet. The rest of my team was supposed to fly in this morning, but I’m thinking the weather has delayed them. I came in first to scout and establish a position on the ground.”
“Are you military? Work for the government?”
“No… well… it’s a complex situation. I don’t work for the US government, but it’s a long story.”
Frank studied Bishop, the man’s gaze boring into the Texan’s eyes. A decision was eventually reached, signaled by a slight nod and then an extended hand. “First, let’s agree not to shoot at each other.”
Bishop walked forward and accepted the handshake, smiling at his new acquaintance. “Fighting is never the right way if there’s any other solution.”
Frank turned to the woods, shouting, “Come on out boys; it’s over.”
Before long, Bishop was surrounded by a group of men who moments before had been trying to kill him. Despite the reassurance of their leader, all of them stayed behind Frank, eyeing the newcomer as if he carried the black plague.
One man was holding a rag against his head, blood soaking through the cloth. Bishop started to ask if the guy was badly hurt when one of the others commented, “He slipped in the mud and fell.”
Relieved at not having wounded the gent, Bishop started to make a joke when another man’s head snapped up, looking over Bishop’s shoulder. A shot ripped through the air.
There is an instinct… a reflex of sorts, developed by those who have experienced combat. No amount of training can hone the reaction, no amount of practice can guarantee the skill. Bishop didn’t consciously think about the whizzing bullet or its source. In his mind, a line appeared on a mental diagram, connecting the metaphysical dots between the sound of the discharge and his weapon.
As Bishop pivoted, the ACR was coming up, the motion smooth and practiced like a professional golfer’s swing or the serve of a tennis pro. Fluid. Snap. To anyone watching, it was a blur.
His eyes registered the rifle first, then a second weapon came into focus. A thousandth of a second later, he knew one of the poachers was working his bolt, the other just taking aim. The empty chamber was ignored, the black hole of the soon to be fired barrel completely filling his vision.
The ACR’s stock was against Bishop’s cheek before anyone could inhale to shout a warning. The red crosshairs centered naturally, his eye and hand following the imaginary line already plotted and processed. He squeezed the tri
gger.
The empty shell casing was arching through the air, when the rifle barked again… and again… and then again.
The first target stood stunned, his eyes wide with shock as his knees began to buckle. The other man’s head was looking at the sky, a round catching him directly in the chin. He simply fell onto his back.
“Fuck!” cursed Bishop, already rushing toward the two fallen men.
As he kicked away their rifles, his voice filled with pure anger. “Why? You ignorant fucks, why? Why did you come back, damn it! You were free and clear!”
A quick check told Bishop what he already knew – both men were dead. He stayed on his knee beside the second victim, waves of nausea racking his core. His anger flowed at the dead man lying beside him, “How fucking stupid! You idiots! What were you thinking?”
Of course, there was no answer.
Bishop felt a hand on his shoulder. He looked up to see Frank’s eyes, filled with understanding of the moment.
“Why?” Bishop asked, the pain bleeding through with the single word.
“These two have been getting bolder and bolder over the last few weeks. I think they were becoming really desperate. Maybe all of us standing around, exposed and talking was just too good a target to pass up.”
Shaking his head at the senseless act, Bishop finally stood and looked at the circle of men gathered around the bodies. No one would look him in the eye. “I didn’t want this,” he pleaded. “My God in heaven, I didn’t want to kill today.”
Despite the sympathetic postures surrounding him, Bishop’s rage continued to build. He stomped off, heading back to his boulder-fort to pick up his empty magazines and poncho.
After giving Bishop some time to cool down, Frank approached and offered, “We’re heading back to the lodge now. Why don’t you come back with us and get dried out? We’ve even got a little food if you feel like eating.”
The Texan’s first reaction was to decline the invitation, his mood guiding him to sulk and isolate. A small inner voice reminded him of the mission, of how being on the right side of the locals would help things go smoothly. Maybe establishing relations will avoid any more bullshit killing like just happened, he reasoned.
