Bishop's Song

by Joe Nobody

  The operators were so distracted by the random shots, they didn’t see the crowd gathering up ahead, blocking the only passage out of town.

  Deke spied the massed throng first, immediately holding up a fist in the air to signal a stop. The two scouts took a knee, weapons shouldered and ready to engage.

  There looked to be about 30 souls trying to block the rescuers’ escape. Shovels, axes, baseball bats and long pipes filled their hands. A human roadblock, thought Bishop. Now what are we going to do with this?

  “No one is shooting,” observed Grim, surprise in his voice.

  “I guess they’re out of ammo,” Deke replied.

  “Completely? Not a single bullet among them?”

  Bishop didn’t care and definitely didn’t want to hang around and ask questions. “Get back in the truck,” he said. “I’m going through, one way or the other.”

  Grim took his cue from Deke, waiting until his boss had nodded and then moving with haste to the bed. Bishop could hear his rifle thump the cab’s roof, a sure sign Grim was ready to cover his boss.

  Deke cupped his hand and yelled, “You in the road! You people get the fuck out of the way, or we will run you over. We’re just passing through.”

  The throng ignored the warning.

  Movement in the mirror caught Bishop’s eye, a quick glance confirming the worst. Another cluster of ten men were moving up behind them. “Movement on our six!” Bishop yelled at his team. An arrow whizzed past Deke’s head, clattering across the pavement.

  “C’mon, Deke! Let’s blow this pop stand before this shit gets out of hand!” Bishop yelled.

  Deke rose, backed up two steps and then rushed for the truck. As soon as Bishop heard the boots hit the bed, he pushed down the gas, hit the horn, flipped on the lights, and steered the grill right at the center of the approaching mass of people.

  At 150 feet, he didn’t think they were going to move, visions of bodies flying like bowling pins as the truck plowed through.

  At 100 feet, a few legs began to scurry, uncomfortable at the game of chicken they were playing with a quickly approaching bumper and grill.

  At 50 feet, people were seriously trying to get out of the way.

  Bishop hit the brakes. Despite the heavily laden truck having only achieved about 30 mph in the short distance, it must have seemed much faster to the pedestrians. He controlled the speed just enough to pass through at almost the same instant that the last person managed to get out of the way.

  Someone swung a shovel handle or similar stick at the windshield as they passed, the wood breaking harmlessly against the roof-support above the driver’s side mirror. A few others threw rocks that might have scratched paint, but never threatened to stop the pickup’s progress.

  And then they were in the clear.

  Almost as suddenly as it had appeared, Martinsville disappeared. Before anyone could comment, open fields and dense forest began to border the pavement, only the occasional home or structure visible from the road.

  Bishop, waiting until they were over a mile outside of town, slowed the truck. He eventually stopped in the middle of the road, not really concerned about annoying another driver. That’s a bad habit, he thought. A traffic ticket would cause my insurance premiums to go up.

  “You guys all right back there?” he called from the cab.

  “We’re good. That was just fucking bizarre, dude. It was zombie-like weird,” replied Deke.

  Grim was shaken. “I want a shower. Even though I didn’t touch any of them, I feel the need to bathe. I actually think they would have eaten us if we hadn’t busted through.”

  The three men took a few moments to chill out, all of them casting casual glances back at the town as if the hordes of man-eaters might be in hot pursuit.

  The remainder of the drive to Matt’s house was uneventful, and all of the men from Texas were just fine with the monotony. Their host for the evening greeted them at the driveway, claiming to have heard their truck engine over two miles away.

  “It just goes to show you how bad things have gotten,” Matt declared. “When a man can hear a truck engine so far away, well, that makes a statement.”

  After everyone was settled on the back porch, Matt asked, “Did you secure the goods?”

  “I’ve got everything you asked for,” replied Bishop.

  “Even the dress?”

  “Even the dress.”

  Matt cast a glance toward the house, kitchen noises drifting through the screen door. He whispered, “That girl deserves a new dress. She’s been through hell.”

  The host then turned his attention to the men surrounding him, apparently sizing them up for the first time. “You guys look like a bunch of hard cases. You might just have big enough nads to pull this off. I’ll be right back.”

  Returning with a box, Matt stared at Deke and then Bishop. “Is this the guy you thought looked like me?”

  “He’s close enough,” replied Bishop with a grin. “You’re both ugly fucks.”

  “That ain’t no shit,” laughed Matt, winking at Deke.

  A uniform, papers, notebook and Bishop’s map came out of the box. Matt held up the army fatigues, and again checked Deke over. “This will probably be a little loose on you, but a lot of guys have lost weight. I left my patches and insignias in place. I ain’t got no use for ‘em anymore.”

  The powwow on the back porch continued for another five hours, the men studying maps, procedures and other information Matt thought the rescuers needed know. At times, it was difficult to absorb the core dump, but everyone took notes and paid rapt attention. All were professionals, accustomed to being avalanched by massive quantities of data reviewed in short order by commanders and supervisors.

  Finally, everyone agreed the exercise was becoming redundant. The mentally exhausted men stood and stretched, working away the stiffness resulting from Matt’s extended tutelage. Everyone felt they knew their role.

  Bishop led Matt to the truck and lifted the tarp covering the payment. Ignoring the ammo, salt and wax, he immediately reached for the frock, kept secure in a heavy plastic garment bag. Even in the dim moonlight, Bishop could see the smile engulf the fellow’s face. “She’ll love it!” Matt declared.

  “Good,” replied Bishop. “Now I’ve got one more deal I want to make. I’ll throw in an extra pound of salt, and 10 shotguns shells in exchange for a bushel of those apples.”

  Matt didn’t hesitate, nodding his agreement.

  With Grim and Deke hefting their share, the bartered goods were quickly unloaded, the empty spot in the truck refilled with the box Matt had provided and a large basket of apples. The men all voiced mutual “Good lucks,” and “Take cares,” and then the trio of Texans was headed back toward Martinsville.

  “I’m not sure I’m ready for this shit again,” announced Deke, leaning around the edge of the cab so Bishop could hear him clearly.

  “Maybe they’re all out of arrows,” Grim chimed in.

  “Throw the apples at them,” Bishop barked out the cab window. “Throw a bunch of them… toss them all if anyone’s awake.”

  Grim was upset. “What the hell is he talking about, Deke? Has he lost it? Throw apples at the zombies?”

  Deke’s expression changed from a look of pure puzzlement to a smiling nod. “You know, that’s not a bad idea. As a matter of fact, that’s one hell of an idea. C’mon Grim, let’s see if you can make the Yankee’s spring training this year.”

  Slinging his rifle, Grim bent to pick up a handful of the orchard projectiles. “I think you’ve both gone over the edge, but what the hell. Maybe that archer will do the William Tell trick,” the operator grumbled.

  The crowd in Martinsville had thinned somewhat, but they weren’t nearly as surprised by the appearance of the truck this time. They had also improved the roadblock – a little.

  As Bishop approached the center of town, men scrambled to form up in the street, many standing behind the makeshift barrier made of a picnic table turned on its sid
e and a knee-high stack of old tires and rubbish. Bishop considered both the men and their fortification pathetic. The truck could easily push through with little chance of damage.

  “Whatever you do, don’t throw any apples in our path. Throw them off to the side, so I don’t have to run over anyone,” he instructed from the cab.

  Deke’s voice answered, “Fire away!”

  Bishop turned on the headlights in time to see the first apples arching through the air, one of them pelting a man with a tangled gray beard right in the chest. It took the two throwers a few tosses to get the range, but in a matter of seconds, a virtual blizzard of fruit was flying toward the men at the roadblock.

  At first, Bishop didn’t think his idea was going to work. He was just about ready to plow into the throng when someone shouted, “They’re throwing apples! Apples everybody, apples!”

  A few of the defenders looked around, one man finally spotting the missile that had just struck his shoulder. Bending, he held the prize in the air like it was a hard-earned trophy, his voice joining the growing chorus. “Apples!”

  Meanwhile, Deke and Grim were playing baseball from the bed of the truck, their arms looking like windmills as they threw as fast as they could. Regardless of the threat, obstacle course and overall danger, Bishop had to smile at the commentary coming from the pickup’s bed.

  “Two down, bottom of the ninth,” Deke’s voice rang out. “Strike three!” he yelled, doing his best imitation of a baseball commentator.

  In less than 20 seconds, the citizenry of Martinsville changed their focus from stopping the truck to collecting food. In 45 seconds, they were scrambling, clawing and fighting with each other over the small, round prizes. One man stood calmly chewing his catch – an island of tranquility surrounded by hailstorm and riot.

  Bishop hit the gas just as Deke and Grim exhausted their ammunition, the battery of fruit-projectiles abruptly stopping. As Bishop slowed to push aside the hastily erected barricade, he noted men scampering around, using their pockets, shirttails and even armpits to hold apples. Three other residents were fighting over who had first spotted a particularly well-thrown example.

  The diversion worked.

  In a matter of minutes, Martinsville was in their rear view mirror, and Bishop was again driving in the open countryside, Deke and Grim both bragging on their battlefield performance.

  “Did you see that dude I nailed in the nuts with my curve ball?”

  “Yeah, but that was nothing compared to the guy who tried to catch my high heater - he took it right on the nose.”

  Bishop smiled at the competitive banter, glad they had absconded without having to seriously harm any unarmed people… people whose only sin was their desperation and hunger. That could have been Terri and me back there, he considered, the thought burning off layers of his escape euphoria.

  He drove the rest of the way back to the park in silence, visions of a thin, haggard Terri holding a starving child in her arms.

  Hunter announced the end of his nap with a half-hearted cry that interrupted Terri’s attempt to catch a short snooze for herself. She didn’t mind, having been unable to nod off. Sleep was going to be a rare commodity for the next few days.

  It wasn’t the infant’s need for feeding and changing that kept her from resting, but rather the upcoming meetings with the representatives of the federal government that consumed her thoughts.

  Diana, Nick and she planned to extend every courtesy, despite the initial holier than thou attitude and demeanor displayed by some of the participants. At one point, Terri thought Nick was going to put one of the men on his ass, and she would have applauded the event.

  Hunter didn’t seem to care about the upcoming powwows. His fussiness ceased the moment his mother’s face appeared over the rails of the crib, his small mouth moving in what she decided was an attempt to return her smile.

  “You need a clean diaper,” she sniffed, and lifted the tiny body onto her shoulder.

  As she gently laid the baby on the changing table, she tried to pull herself up to a better mood. After all, she thought, I still have disposable diapers. Using cloth would be a huge hassle.

  Lifting Hunter’s backside, she slid a clean one underneath and then pulled the sticky tabs tight around his mid-section. I need to send Sheriff Watts a note, thanking him for this wonderful shower gift, she remembered.

  Hunter, as usual, was hungry. Grabbing a burp rag and landing in one of her more comfortable chairs, Terri began nursing the seemingly insatiable child. “It’s a good thing you don’t have a twin. You wouldn’t want to share,” she whispered, rubbing his cheek. “I would have to ration both of you, which would make you both mad.”

  And that was the crux of the problem – distribution of limited resources.

  Terri completely understood President Moreland’s predicament. On one hand, a portion of what he still considered his people, were eating well. On the other hand, thousands were dying every day from starvation. Wouldn’t everyone be better off if the resources of one region were shared with the other?

  “But we earned it,” she said to Hunter, with only a half-hearted conviction. “Okay, maybe we inherited part of it and earned the rest. But still, we could have ended up like the rest of the country if we hadn’t….”

  Terri had to reprocess the concept. “If we hadn’t what? Killed people? Been better shots? Been more aggressive, or kind hearted? What did we do to earn this blessing?”

  Hunter didn’t answer, but that was okay with his mother. Debate had raged in the council chambers for hours over this very subject, and there had been no resolution. As a matter of fact, the topic had divided the citizens of the Alliance like no other.

  Currently, anyone who could make it into Alliance territory was welcomed, fed, given shelter and then employment if at all possible. Many of the newcomers were near starvation, more than a few suffering from dysentery, bronchitis and phenomena. Those who were too sick to work were taken care of by government resources and volunteers. It wasn’t unusual to see shock or other mental issues among the immigrants.

  “See, Hunter, we’re not stingy, greedy people like some say. We help those who need it.”

  But all of the previously empty, existing homes were at close to 100% occupancy, a shortage projected the following month. This fact, combined with the rumored outbreak of plague back east, had led to groups of Alliance citizens asking their elected officials to stop the open door policy.

  “We’ll eventually be overrun,” several had commented. “There’s just not enough to go around,” others had argued.

  The entire mess was complicated by the behavior of the US government, and their anticipated demand that the Alliance share their bounty. Share? “More like give,” Terri said to the child in her arms. “They want us to just surrender our resources so they can distribute them to someone else.”

  Despite the concept rubbing her the wrong way, honesty demanded that she give the idea merit. Would the nation, as a whole, recover quicker if the people of West Texas did without?

  Was it worth war?

  Another segment of the local population had taken the tried and true approach of capitalism. “We’ll just figure out a way to make more,” some had ventured. “Give the assholes back in Washington what they ask for. We’ll just increase our production somehow.”

  Terri knew that answer was wrong. Her instinct told her that if the Alliance did manage to increase their output, Washington would only come back and want more. After a while, what would be the point of working harder if someone was just going to come and take it away?

  Hunter signaled his full tummy, pulling away and gazing at his mother. Terri rearranged her blouse and then lifted him to her shoulder, tapping lightly on his back to stimulate the air bubbles in his system. The technique produced a robust noise, so loud Terri had to laugh.

  “You remind me more and more of your father every day,” she joked.

  Hunter responded by spitting up all over her clean blouse. />
  Growling, Terri set the child down on a blanket and went to fetch a clean top. As she changed, she smiled, pretending to scold the youth despite the cheery voice.

  “You won’t have me around to throw up on forever, young man,” she teased. “One of these days you’ll have to fend for yourself.”

  Hunter kicked and flung his little arms and legs, enjoying his mom’s antics and attention.

  The incident immediately produced an analogy. She knew that one day soon, Hunter would be weaned, and after that, would feed himself. Eventually, as an adult, he would have to be self-sufficient, even producing his own food. Hunter would be motivated to do so by a variety of reasons, not the least of which was the fact that her breasts couldn’t provide the nutrition his maturing body would require.

  “That’s the problem,” she said to the child at her feet. “When and how do we wean the US government? At what point do they become self-sufficient? What size breasts do we need in order to keep feeding the rest of the country?”

  Chapter 9

  Rural Arkansas

  July 8, 2016

  No specific borders had been defined as far as Operation Heartland was concerned. The general orders, issued by the Pentagon to field commanders, stated that the “primary concentration of assets” was to be 150 miles east and west of the Mississippi River.

  According to Matt, it was left up to individual commanders where they exerted their influence and control. The ex-MP also divulged that some regions had more turf than they could handle given current levels of manpower and mobility. The Memphis region was one such example, with the 150-mile western line of demarcation including Little Rock, the capital city of Arkansas.

  “There’s no federal government presence in Little Rock,” Matt had described. “As a matter of fact, it’s off limits for some reason. Rumors speculating why abound, but you won’t encounter any military forces before West Memphis, and probably not before you reach the bridge crossing the Big Muddy.”

  The rescue plan called for traveling at night, a tactic Matt had encouraged. “With no electrical lights and candles in short supply, there are very few people up and about after dark. Even if there are functioning local cops, their numbers are few, and half of them are as desperate as the civilians. Survivors, for the most part, hide behind locked doors at night.”