by Joe Nobody
The sun was just rising above the Arkansas hills when the trio made it back to the park, Deke and Grim teasing Bishop, calling their chauffeur Mr. Johnny Appleseed and christening the truck the Red Delicious Express.
After identifying a safe place to park, the plan was to sleep during the day, the men taking shifts for sentry duty.
Bishop had the final watch, his thoughts consumed with Terri and Hunter. His son was only a few weeks old, barely a presence in his life, and yet he felt a strong urge to hold the child. He can’t walk or talk or do much else, yet I miss him, he thought.
Deciding a cup of coffee would help him make it through the long night of travel ahead, Bishop sat around the campfire heating water. After scanning the perimeter, he settled in to wait for the liquid to boil. He wondered how many soldiers had toyed with the embers at the edge of just such a fire, missing their families on the eve before the dawn’s battle.
I’m only going to be gone a few weeks at most, he realized. A lot of men have had to leave their homes for months or years. How did they cope with that? How did they make it through?
Bishop thought about ancient warriors, legionaries from Roman times and Royal Marines serving aboard slow-moving ships at sea under the flag of the worldwide British Empire. Those men had to leave for years at a time. Was it a job only suited for men who didn’t feel the pain of separation?
Technology had probably improved things a little, he decided. American troops in Iraq and Afghanistan deployed for a year or more, but they usually had access to email, limited phone time and sometimes even video calls. That would take the edge off the hurt, he realized, but the longing would nag and persist. Still, he’d give anything to hear Terri’s voice on command.
The occasional news story, covering a soldier’s return home to meet a child born while he was at war, popped into Bishop’s head. How did the wife deal with that? What was it like to sit in some foreign country and wonder if your new child had ten fingers and ten toes?
I’m just being a wimp, he decided. A lot of guys suffered much worse than I have. Suck it up. Get on with it.
Movement from the hangar distracted Bishop’s thoughts, the figure of a sleepy-looking Grim darkening the doorway, stretching his arms high above his head. The timing of the contractor’s appearance reinforced Bishop’s determination to complete the mission.
If I’m feeling these emotions over a wife and child that I know are safe and among friends, imagine what Grim is feeling given his family’s situation, Bishop admitted. I don’t know if I would hold it together as well as he has.
“I’m heating up coffee water,” Bishop informed the new arrival.
Before Grim could muster an answer, Deke’s voice sounded from the doorway, “Anybody made coffee yet?”
After the java was poured, the three men studied the most detailed map they possessed. Traveling on the interstate was strictly nonstarter after Bishop had relayed the story of what he had discovered on I-10 heading out of Houston.
Choke points, such as bridge crossings were discussed at length, procedures established to ensure safe passage. The overriding principle was always the same. People, all of them agreed, were to be avoided at all costs. Nothing else could endanger their quest as much as other human beings.
The resulting route, highlighted on the folds of the map, was a zigzag affair across the Arkansas countryside, with Memphis as the final destination. All three of the travelers dreaded that final leg of the journey, but no other solution for crossing the Mississippi had been found. They would simply do their best to arrive at the Tennessee border without trouble and trust in the plan established on Matt’s back porch.
An hour later, they set off, Bishop driving without lights while using his night vision. Grim and Deke rode in the bed, boxes of supplies arranged to provide semi-comfortable seats while at the same time protecting the two 50-gallon drums of fuel stored there. They all knew the arrangement wasn’t bulletproof, that one stray round igniting all that gasoline on everyone’s mind.
Bishop had decided not to remove the fuses that would disable the pickup’s lights. He’d implemented that tactic on the bug-out from Houston so his brake and dome lights wouldn’t illuminate their position by accident. This was a different trip through less populated territory, and it had been decided that the truck’s high beams might be useful in some situations. There were also three rifles aboard – more firepower and better odds of surviving an encounter than Terri and he had possessed on their excursion.
Their chosen route would crisscross through the mountains and hills, eventually snaking through expansive, flat farmlands.
For the first few hours, they observed no one, and only occasionally did the glow of a candle or fire show on the horizon. It was as if the people of the Razorback State had simply disappeared.
The black is cold, white is hot landscape displaying on Deke’s thermal imager presented a picture of geometric equality and uniform shape. Without depth perception or previous knowledge, he wouldn’t have had a clue what he was viewing. It could have been a modern art sculpture, a Euro-style housing complex, or its true composition – a dam over the Arkansas River.
“What’s the name of this place again?” Grim whispered, resting on one knee slightly behind Deke.
“Toad Suck Dam,” replied his boss, having trouble keeping a straight face even after repeating the location’s name several times.
“And how did it earn that lofty mantle?”
“No fucking clue. Now shut that pie hole of yours and open those eyes.”
For the third time, Deke swept the area, detecting nothing but the river meandering its way slowly southward and the unusual structure of the combination dam and bridge.
The weir’s flood gates rested between the oddly shaped pillars of the bridge, those supports resembling upside down pyramids with a rectangular base. From Deke’s angle, the structure looked odd, out of place, given the background of the rural surroundings.
Shaking his head at the design, he turned to Grim and instructed, “Let’s go across. I don’t see a soul on this side of the river. Let’s make sure there’s no one waiting with a surprise on the other side.”
“How would they be waiting with a surprise? We haven’t seen a single car or truck all night. It’s 2 a.m. How would they know we’re coming?”
Deke shook his head at the stubborn co-worker. “You know the procedure. Getting hit by hostile fire halfway across a bridge doesn’t make for a lovely evening. We’re going to follow the rules, Grim, even if we never see another human being again.”
“You’re right. My bad. I’m just anxious to see my kid and my wife. Don’t pay me no mind.”
Each man took a side of the narrow, single-lane road that topped the dam. The river was about 300 yards wide at this spot. The bridge, with its adjoining abutments, was almost twice that length.
The two men had worked together for years. Having been taught in the same schools and serving in the same units, they functioned as if controlled by a single mind. Each would take turns bounding, or leap-frogging the other, one always scanning forward while the other covered the rear.
They were one-quarter of the way across when Deke held up his fist, signaling an immediate halt. He could see a heat source in the thermal, but at this distance, it was nothing but a blob.
The water, streaming over the dam’s spillway, eliminated noise as a sensory input. It was too dark for the human eye to detect anything of value on the far side of the river. They were completely dependent on the electronic device.
Deke moved to Grim, hoping his side of the bridge would provide a better angle.
“What’s up?” his partner asked.
“I’ve got a heat source in the scope,” Deke replied. “Could be human, could be deer… hell, might even be a cow.”
“After seeing those shuffling skeletons back in Martinsville, why am I skeptical that beef is walking around fresh on the hoof?”
“Agreed. Let’s go check it out.”
“After you, fearless leader.”
The two men continued another hundred yards, the image slowly revealing the clear outline of a human shape. Again, Deke signaled a stop, moving to Grim’s side.
“I’ve got one man, armed. There are two campers, a fire that’s just about burned out, and a big stack of fishing poles leaning against a tree. There’s junk spread all over the place. They’ve been here for a while.”
“What’s the call?”
“He’s not aware of us yet. Appears to be sleeping in a hammock. I suggest we go see what the deal is.”
Grim considered the idea for a minute, finally turning toward his boss and asking, “Should we call up Bishop?”
“Yeah… we’ll have him bring the truck up a bit. He can be our reserve. If we get into trouble, we might need the help.”
Turning his face away from the potential threat, Deke keyed the radio’s microphone. “We’ve got what appears to be campers up here on the east side of the bridge. You’re clear up until that point. Come on just in case we get in trouble. Stay dark.”
“Affirmative on no lights. I’m mobile,” Bishop’s voice responded through Deke’s earpiece.
Turning back to Grim, Deke said, “Look at the color of the concrete they used on this bridge. It’s a light gray. They’ll see our dark shapes against this background as we approach, even in this low light.”
Grim checked it out, nodding his agreement.
Deke finished with, “Well, I guess we should just use that as part of our cover story. Let’s just walk up, like two lost travelers, out for an evening stroll… stopping by to see what’s up.”
The two men made it to within 80 yards of the campers before a gentle tug pulled at Deke’s pants. Before the operator could react, a thin strand of fishing line pulled taunt, immediately followed by a can of rocks hitting the pavement on the far side. The man in the hammock bolted upright, reaching for his rifle.
“Shit! A tripwire,” Deke’s voice rang out, much louder than he intended.
It was only a few seconds later that a voice called from the end of the span. “You on the bridge, halt! Stay right where you are.”
Looking at each other, the two contractors shrugged and stopped walking. Deke could barely make out Grim’s utterance. “What amateur bullshit. Clearly these guys don’t have a clue.” The statement was followed by the audible clicking of the safety on Grim’s rifle.
“I fell for it. Don’t go getting cocky. I’ve now got three people over there. I’ve kicked the ant mound. Make that four people,” the embarrassed operator responded.
Deke moved the small radio to his palm, thumb resting on the press to talk button so Bishop could listen in on any conversation.
Two shadows approached, eventually materializing as men carrying weapons. “You’re on private property,” began the first guy, his voice harsh and intimidating. “What the hell are you doing here?”
“We were up river, hunting deer. We crossed in a boat, and it must have pulled loose in the current. This bridge was the closest way back across.”
A grunt sounded, quickly followed by, “Sounds like you’re up shit-creek without a paddle.” Both of the bridge tenders thought the remark was funny.
When neither Deke nor Grim offered any reply, one of the shadows continued. “This is now a toll road. You can’t pass without paying up.”
“What’s the toll?”
“That depends on what you’ve got. I see rifles, and if you were hunting, you’ve got ammo,” came the terse response.
“You’d take a man’s only source of meat? If we don’t hunt, we don’t eat,” replied Deke.
The question was met with chuckling, the two locals evidently finding Deke’s argument humorous. Grim didn’t appreciate the response. “I only see two of you. Maybe you’ve got a man behind you. No big deal. How about I just shoot both of your sorry asses and cross the bridge for free?”
They thought Grim’s proposal was funny as well, the laughter continuing for a bit. Then one of the highwaymen’s voice sounded, his tone low and mean. “Tough guy, huh? Well listen up, Mr. Bad Ass. You see that stick right beside you? That’s exactly 100 yards from my best shot, who happens to have your chest dead center in the crosshairs of his 30-06. Your partner over there, well, he’s only got a 7mm Mouser pointed at his head. My guys don’t miss. Every 25 yards is marked on this bridge. You’ll never make it back across, even if you do kill me. They’ll shoot you down, and then roll your bodies into the river.”
Before the contractors could respond, Bishop’s voice hissed in Deke’s ear. “Stall them. Give me two minutes.”
Despite being puzzled at the request, Deke did as he was asked. “So how much ammo do you want for passage?”
“Half of what you’re carrying. That’s the toll.”
Before either of the operators could respond, the other bridge keeper added, “And 50% of anything else you might be carrying that we might want.”
Deke acted like he was thinking over the offer, wondering if it was a bluff. Probably not, he determined. “I’ll give you 10 rounds, and that’s that. If that’s not acceptable, then we can just reenact the OK Corral right here and now. I promise neither of you will make it home before your snipers kill us.”
The offer wasn’t rejected outright, whispers of a hushed conversation floating across to Deke’s ears.
“No deal,” came the response. “This is our bridge. Now set those guns down.”
“How about we just find another place to cross,” suggested Grim, having picked up on Deke’s stall tactic. “Fuck this. I’ll walk until we can find another way across the river.”
Again, laughter sounded from the two locals. “You two aren’t the sharpest tools in the shed, are ya? You’re going to pay up, come hell or high water. If you turn and walk away, we’ll drop your asses and then take all your shit. The crocodiles downstream appreciate the occasional meal we send their way.”
Deke was trying to think up something to say when Bishop’s voice again sounded in his ear. “I’ve got both of the snipers on the far bank in my sights. When you hear my first shot, drop those two fuckers where they stand.”
“Grim, do you remember that roadblock in Bosnia?”
A moment later, the operator acknowledged, “Yeah, sure do.”
“Same deal here, buddy.”
“Gotcha.”
For a moment, the four men stood staring at each other, the constant drone of the water below overriding any other sound, until Bishop’s shot.
As the report echoed across the open spaces, the contractor’s rifles snapped to their shoulders. The distance to their targets was only 30 yards - the two locals didn’t have a chance.
In the bedlam that followed, Deke had no idea if Bishop had gotten off a second shot. He fired two rounds into the chest of the closest man and then rolled across the pavement, ending in a prone position with his weapon ready to address any remaining threat.
Bishop’s voice came across the radio again, “I dropped one; the other I think I only wounded. He ran off, and I can’t see him anymore.”
“Fuck!” Deke shouted, looking over at Grim. “One of the snipers is still moving over there. We gotta go clear it out.”
“He missed?”
“Yeah, he missed one. Come on, let’s get this over with.”
Running the remaining 80 yards to the end of the bridge was risky. Silhouetted by the white background of the structure’s concrete, Deke and Grim tried to weave back and forth, a weak attempt to make any shooter’s aim more difficult.
They didn’t detect any incoming fire during the sprint, and both men finally exhaled as they found cover on the far bank. Deke keyed his radio. “Any idea where he went?”
“They were both behind that picnic table to your right. I couldn’t see his retreat.”
Deke braced his legs for the next rush, he and Grim moving together. They made the table in ten steps, both men going prone next to the heavy wooden piece. They could see t
he body of one sniper, his arms spread eagle on the ground.
Deke was just raising the thermal when a noise reached his ears. A low-pitched moan sounded from behind a pile of trash next to the camper. He couldn’t see any heat signature, but it was obvious someone was over there.
Nodding at Grim, both men sprang up and rushed the refuse heap, each approaching from a different vector. They found a man braced against a stack of old tires, both hands holding his stomach. Grim immediately kicked away the wounded fellow’s rifle and began scanning the area in case he was bait or some of his comrades were coming to help.
When Deke knelt next to him, the man moaned again, and then made eye contact. A growing pool of damp earth between the guy’s legs told Deke all he needed to know. Bishop hadn’t missed his second shot.
“It burns like fire,” the injured man managed with great effort. “It feels like I’m burning up inside.”
There wasn’t anything Deke could do. Bishop’s round had caught the victim two inches below the sternum, the hollow point bullet expanding to create a quarter-sized tunnel of destruction through the man’s middle.
Before he could think of anything to say, the wounded man shuddered, coughed and then again made eye contact with Deke. “Live by the gun, die by the…” And then he was gone.
Grim’s warning interrupted the moment, “I’ve got movement at the camper.”
Deke spun and stood in the same movement, his weapon ready to engage. A figure was running toward them, its appearance ghost-like as willows of cloth floated in the dim light. He almost fired, but something told him to hold, and he was glad he did.
A woman, wearing a loose fitting nightgown ran toward them, bending immediately to check the dead man. “No! No, Jack! Oh, my gawd!”
Deke wanted out of there. He keyed his mic and broadcast, “All clear over here, Bishop. Get that damn truck across right now.”
