Bishop's Song

by Joe Nobody

  While they had tried to anticipate every possibility, Bishop was still concerned. Their story and disguise was thin and could be easily penetrated by any of the soldiers manning the checkpoint. Arriving at such an early hour, they were depending on tired eyes that weren’t paying close attention. Deke’s ill-fitting uniform, was just one example. While it was reasonable to believe that most of the soldiers working in the area had lost weight and thus their uniforms would be baggy, Deke was well fed, healthy, and showed no signs of protracted periods without proper nourishment. He doesn’t exactly look like he’s missed any meals, Bishop thought.

  They waited until almost midnight, the bewitching hour. Given their approach through the backwoods, they had to backtrack a few miles in order to drive the truck up to the roadblock as if it had arrived from the wilderness of the West. There were six or seven soldiers milling around, their posture and body language relaying calm demeanors.

  Bishop’s eyes darted here and there, taking in more details as they closed the distance to what they believed was the most dangerous leg of their journey. He immediately noticed one of the Humvees. Parked sideways on the pavement was the model that had been mounted with the 50-caliber machine gun on its roof. The mere presence of this most feared of weapons caused his heart to race, only to relax slightly when he determined the belt-fed blaster was unmanned.

  “It doesn’t look like they’re expecting much trouble,” Bishop said to Deke while they were still too far away to be heard.

  “Hungry people probably don’t put up much of a fuss,” replied Deke.

  “Neither do civilians against that Ma Duce mounted on top of that Humvee,” noted Bishop, referring to the M2, 50-caliber machine gun.

  “I was trying to ignore that; thanks a lot,” grunted the voice from the bed.

  In their planning, they had hoped that there would be a queue. The best-case scenario would have been dozens of people desperately waiting to pass through the checkpoint. Bishop wondered if they had made a mistake, the tactic of waiting until such a late hour now not seeming so crafty.

  Closer to the checkpoint, the headlights illuminated a white line painted across the pavement. Someone had neatly lettered “STOP” in large, white letters. Bishop applied the brakes, the front tires resting on the demarcation.

  Just as he had feared, the appearance of a motorized vehicle drew the attention of the sentries. A younger soldier started to advance toward the truck, evidently taking his turn to investigate new arrivals. He was called back, an older man, probably a sergeant, deciding that he would “Take this one.”

  Hitching up his pants and straightening his blouse, the NCO approached with his weapon at low ready, passing by the driver’s window to inspect the bed of the truck where Deke sat guarding the captive Grim. Their supplies were covered by the tarp, several crisscrossing strands of paracord securing the cover.

  After satisfying himself that there was nothing overtly dangerous in the bed of the truck, the guard approached Bishop’s window, keeping his distance and stopping a few feet away.

  “State your business,” the man barked, the volume an obvious attempt to broadcast authority.

  “You need to talk to the guy in the back,” Bishop calmly answered, jerking his thumb toward the rear of the bed and defusing the sergeant’s bluster. “I’m not in charge.”

  Tilting his head as if considering the answer, the soldier shrugged his shoulders and then proceeded to take a step back and look up at Deke. Again, he spouted the same challenge.

  “Sergeant, I am with the 377th MPs. I am returning to complete an operational order issued by the Memphis Regional JAG. This man,” he stated, pointing at a handcuffed Grim, “is my prisoner.” Deke then handed the man his ID card.

  Bishop’s pulse jumped when a flashlight was produced to check the offered identification. The beam shimmered on the fake ID, then swept to Deke’s chest. Bishop thought it was a positive sign that the sentry didn’t blast the light directly into the supposed-MP’s face, an indication that the sergeant was at least considering the accuracy of their story.

  “So, this man is your prisoner,” the sergeant said, nodding towards Grim.

  “Yes, Sergeant. I’ve been chasing him for nine days.”

  Taking a step back toward the front of the truck, the soldier illuminated Bishop’s face through the opening, “And who the fuck might you be?” came the demand.

  Deke didn’t give Bishop time to answer, raising his voice just a tone, “That man is a civilian bounty hunter,” he responded. “I enlisted his services as he was familiar with this criminal’s modus operandi. He has a reward coming.”

  The sergeant spit on the ground while giving Bishop a harsh look. Under his breath, the guard mumbled, “Fucking bounty hunters.”

  The man was clearly lost in thought for a few moments, the unusual situation bristling his instincts. Finally, he directed his attention to the bed, sweeping the light over the tarp. “And what do we have underneath there?”

  Deke’s answer was dripping with annoyance, “There is food, fuel, ammunition and other supplies that this fugitive absconded with. I need to return these to my unit as their sudden disappearance has caused my CO to land on the Colonel’s shit list.”

  “I need to take a look,” the sergeant proclaimed.

  Deke grunted, a look of disgust filling his face. “Look, pal, I’ve been chasing this man through half of hell’s sewer pit. I’m tired, dirty, and behind schedule. I just want to get back to my unit, take a hot shower and sleep in my own rack.”

  The exchange made Bishop cringe as he tried to remain calm behind the wheel. His mind began racing through their options, mainly seeking any way to get out if Deke’s gamble failed. Shooting their way through the roadblock was impossible, even if they could surprise the troops manning the checkpoint. The civilian pickup had zero chance of pushing aside the heavier military vehicles blocking the way. Besides, he was sure there would be hundreds, if not thousands more soldiers, waiting on them by the time they could cross the bridge.

  About the only option he could figure, if things went horribly wrong, was to back out. Even though there was no one behind them in line, Bishop didn’t think the truck could outrun the 50-caliber machine gun mounted on top of the nearby Humvee. Its heavy bullets would shred the thin sheet metal of the civilian transport with just a short burst. He didn’t like that option.

  While Bishop desperately sought an escape route, it became clear that the sentry didn’t know what to do. Civilian vehicles were a rarity these days, especially ones occupied by a military policeman, a bounty hunter and a prisoner. It almost sounded like a bad joke. “Did you hear the one about the…”

  The hour was late, another fact not lost upon the guard. For a moment it looked as though he were going to pivot and return to the nearby vehicles where he could radio in and ask for advice or permission. But then the man’s posture changed, his feet taking him back to the bed of the pickup where Bishop thought he was going to demand the tarp be removed.

  While that wouldn’t have necessarily been a story–killer, Bishop was sure an inspection would discover weapons and other equipment that didn’t correspond with Deke’s tall tale.

  Finally, the man reached a decision. Without another word from the members of the rescue party, he cupped his hand to his mouth and yelled to the troopers manning the barrier, “Let them pass!”

  Relieved and somewhat giddy at their success, Bishop’s only thought was, “I hope they haven’t lost the keys to those Humvees, it would probably take AAA an hour to get out here.”

  The truck was almost to the pinnacle of the bridge before Bishop’s heart slowed to a normal pace. There was enough moonlight and surface reflection to clearly see details of the skyscrapers that made up the Memphis skyline just south of their crossing. While he had only passed through the city while on vacation long ago, Bishop knew that a significant number of high-rise buildings had been built in the metropolis. The sight of every single window now cold and dar
k was like a demoralizing veil of doom had descended over the once vibrant community.

  Adding to the depressing landscape was the number of abandoned vehicles on the outbound side of the bridge. It was clear the military had removed enough of the relics to enable passing of the required government traffic. The remaining evidence of the mass exodus from the city center was left to sit and rust. Bright, shiny paint jobs and clear glass windshields were now covered with more than 12 months of dusty road grime, pollen, and other airborne filth. The entire scene was disheartening.

  After reaching the highest point of the broad span, the gradual downward slope led directly into the city center. An almost identical twin to the roadblock they had just passed was set up on the outbound side of the bridge. It too looked to have very few customers at the moment.

  Bishop had to drive slowly as they progressed through downtown Memphis. Despite being on an eight- lane interstate that had been designed to handle massive amounts of rush-hour traffic, there were places where passage between abandoned vehicles required a careful speed.

  Deke, satisfied that they had passed muster with the local authorities, quickly removed Grim’s restraints with a key from his pocket. The now–free operator rubbed his wrists in mock protest, grinning at the pretend lawman.

  Despite the hour, they began to notice more and more people as Bishop inched the truck through the narrow pathways cleared along the interstate. Long lines of citizens stood, sat and mulled around the sidewalks for several blocks in one section, blankets, lawn chairs and low stools scattered about. The scene reminded Bishop of pre-collapse video depicting shoppers camping out in front of stores in order to be the first to purchase some new item with a low-price guarantee.

  These people, however, weren’t waiting in line to buy the newest flat screen television. One such queue was obviously for medical treatment. A hand-painted sign, leaning against the overturned trailer of an 18-wheeler, announced “Carson Medical Center – Next Exit.” Shortly afterward, tents, set up in the grass of a high school football stadium, sported large red crosses and white circles that could clearly be identified as the rescuers passed. Hundreds of people were lined up along the sidewalk next to a hastily erected fence that was guarded by sleepy-looking soldiers with M-16 rifles. Many of the waiting patients looked as though they had been camped out for days. Bishop wondered how they received water, or if anyone really cared.

  “Why didn’t they set up in one of the hospitals?” Grim asked from the bed, his attention obviously drawn by the scene.

  Before anyone could respond, the burned out skeleton of a large building came into view, its placard declaring “St. Martin’s Hospital,” and answering Grim’s query.

  Additional hand-painted signs, lettered in traditional military stencils could be seen here and there. Some gave directions to be used by soldiers, acronyms that probably wouldn’t have been understood by the average person walking the streets. The letters “HQ,” probably a battalion headquarters, with a red arrow pointing down a side street was one such example.

  Other instances were clearly spelled out as if intended to be utilized by the local citizenry. “Distribution,” left little mystery regarding the intent of one area. Again, long lines of people lying asleep on the ground, leaning against walls, sitting in lawn chairs, waited in line for their government handouts.

  “I wonder what type of food they distribute,” Deke commented, his gaze focused on the waiting multitude.

  “I hope it’s better than MREs,” Grim responded. “But then that makes me wonder how many millions of those delicious cardboard buffets the government had in stock?”

  At night, the signage wasn’t really necessary. The army had erected portable banks of floodlights around its major facilities, the towers illuminating the cityscape here and there. The generator-driven pools of bright, white light cast spooky shadows and grotesque outlines across an otherwise dark background.

  Bishop noticed most of the people stayed in the light - but not everyone. Occasionally his eye would catch scampering images of movement in the dark corridors of side streets and alleys. The predators, he thought. They would stick to the shadows, culling off the occasional prey that wandered too close. What would I be if I lived here… hunter or hunted?

  Shaking off the lurking, foul depths fostered by the mind movie, Bishop returned his focus to driving. It wasn’t easy. Evidently, the army had grown tired of towing vehicles and creating a clear route in a straight line. Every so often, the blockage would force him to exit off of the main road and travel some distance on the surface streets. Losing the barrier of elevation provided by the interstate was stressful, and all of the operators ceased any banter, focusing on the humanity that was suddenly closer – dangerously close from Bishop’s perspective.

  The haphazard pathway also caused another type of stress – staying on course.

  Grim had drawn on the map depicting the shortest route to the location his home. It was a small town 25 miles northeast of the center of Memphis, and only one direct route was feasible during normal times, let alone when tens of thousands of abandoned relics littered the streets.

  “I’m lost,” Bishop declared at one point. “I couldn’t take that exit back there, and the next one doesn’t match the map.”

  “Look for someplace to stop,” replied Deke’s voice from the back. “We need to eat, fuel up and take a break. This is creeping me out, making me jumpy.”

  “No shit,” added Grim.

  But simply pulling over with a truck full of goods, supplies that would no doubt cause a riot if discovered, wasn’t easy. They needed someplace slightly hidden - and defendable.

  After a few blocks, Bishop hadn’t found an acceptable hideout. Without streetlights, his vision was limited to the narrow range afforded by the truck’s headlights, and that added to the difficulty.

  “I think we should continue out into the countryside,” he observed. “We might pull off into a dead end or find ourselves in an untenable position. There are too damn many people around.”

  “Okay by me,” Deke responded. “One thing for sure, we can’t get into a fight with all the military around. I’m sure they hone right in on gunshots.”

  “I remember Matt saying that personal firearms were forbidden inside certain zones. Shooting would definitely draw attention,” Grim added.

  And so they kept on driving, Bishop doing his best to maintain their course to the north and east.

  After an hour of twisting detours, reversing course to avoid blocked streets, and a few debates at intersections, their surroundings began to change. Fewer and fewer businesses lined the streets and stop signs replaced now-dead traffic lights. Even the residences began to thin out, larger lots eventually turning into walled subdivisions and apartment complexes. They also observed only the occasional person up and about.

  “Turn in there,” Deke shouted from the back. “I bet that’s a great place to hide.”

  Bishop had the same thought, his hand naturally reaching for a turn signal that wouldn’t be seen by any other drivers.

  The sign proclaimed the driveway as belonging to “Shady Lawns Cemetery.” As the truck turned into the lane, the high beams illuminated an undulating landscape of evenly spaced monuments and tombstones. The property was also populated with numerous large trees, no doubt contributing to the establishment’s name.

  “You guys are fucking nuts,” proclaimed Grim. “I vote we stay on the road and deal with the zombies out there rather than the ghouls in here. This place is Creep Central.”

  Deke laughed, no doubt enjoying the big, bad operator’s dislike of boneyards. “Oh, come on now Grim… with a name like yours, I thought you’d be right at home here amongst the spirits.”

  Bishop continued driving, the unkempt grounds making it difficult to see the myriad of cut-offs, lanes and access points that divided the large cemetery into sections. Eventually they rolled into an area dominated by colossal monuments, some as large as a small shed. Many of the mauso
leums were ornately carved with images of angels and other deity-based icons, most of which were distorted into less-than-holy images by the light playing off the passing truck. I’ll have to remember this drive for Hunter after he’s older. What a great Halloween tour this would be, Bishop thought.

  Finding a spot hidden from the road by a small hill and dominated by huge concrete markers, Bishop stopped the truck. “Here we are boys, the Memphis Four Seasons North.”

  “I’ll say it again,” stated a nervous-sounding Grim. “You guys are fucking wacko.”

  Deke, trying desperately to keep command in his voice, instructed, “Grim, scout the area. Bishop and I will set up here.”

  “Thanks,” came the mumbled response.

  As soon as the operator begrudgingly moved off into the night, Deke elbowed Bishop and whispered, “I know we’ve got more important shit to do, but I can’t help myself. I never thought I’d see the day when Grim was put off by anything, so I can’t pass this up.”

  Bishop watched as Deke dug around in his chest-rig, eventually producing a small, black device that resembled a flashlight. He set the unit on the bed of the truck, carefully aiming at a distant tombstone of particularly dubious outline.

  “Now watch this,” Deke announced, the glee obvious in his voice. He flicked a switch on the box, and the small green dot of an aiming laser appeared on the monument. He then raised his rifle and turned on a similar piece of equipment that emitted its own green circle.

  Carefully aiming his rifle, Deke lined up the two projections and Bishop broke out chuckling. There, on the distant stone, shown two ghostly green eyes shimmered in night.

  “He’ll start shooting,” predicted Bishop. “He’s on edge so much that he’ll raise his blaster and saw that stone in half.”

  “That’s where you come in. You’ve got to stop him right before he pulls the trigger and alerts the authorities,” Deke explained.

  “Oh, yeah, right! What do you want me to do? Strip the rifle from his hands?”