Bishop's Song

by Joe Nobody

  “Think of something… Here he comes.”

  Grim whistled twice, the given signal the team had agreed upon some days ago. As he walked around the side of the truck, Deke hissed, “What the fuck is that?” and shouldered his rifle to make the pair of eyes.

  Grim’s head snapped up, his lips parting as if to shout something, his rifle flying to his shoulder. Bishop grabbed the barrel and pulled it down, the effort taking a considerable amount of strength. “You can’t shoot, dude. Besides, bullets don’t bother ghosts.”

  “But… but… but what the hell is that?” Grim’s voice stuttered with genuine fright.

  Deke couldn’t hold it any longer and started laughing, slowly lowering his weapon to betray the laser’s source.

  “Oh, very fucking funny, Deke. What a couple of ass-clowns. Besides, I wasn’t scared.”

  “You should be,” a very close, strange voice sounded.

  And then complete bedlam exploded around the truck.

  They appeared out of nowhere, wisps of brushing cloth, the random sound of a footstep nearby. How they had managed to get so close was beyond Bishop, but he really didn’t have a lot of time to ponder the issue. Almost instantly, they were among the rescuers.

  An outline appeared in front of Bishop, just enough light for him to see a movement that reminded of a baseball player swinging a bat. Instinct saved his life as he barely ducked under an axe blade whizzing so close it brushed his hat.

  There is nothing worse in a fight than being surprised, and the team from Texas had been taken completely cold and unaware.

  Bishop moved right half a step and then at his foe, using the gap created as the momentum of the attacker’s weapon twisted his body at the waist with the follow-through of his homerun swing. Now inside the fellow’s wheelhouse, the Texan raised his left leg high and kicked down with all his strength. The blow landed with a sickening crunch, just above the axe-wielder’s kneecap. A howl of pain filled the air.

  They were so close and it was so dark - an all-out fur ball of hand-to-hand combat erupted.

  The grip of his fighting knife filled Bishop’s hand, the blade clearing the sheath as brief memories of another time in South America filled his mind. His thrust came up and into the center mass of the opponent, every cord and muscle of the Texan’s arm straining with the force behind the blow. The point of the weapon found flesh and then bone, the forward motion stopped only by the knife’s guard.

  Bishop’s entire focus was on bringing the threat down – taking the man impaled on the end of his knife out of the fight. Making sure. Lifting with the significant strength of his right arm, he attempted to carve flesh inside his foe’s torso. The blade moved very little, no doubt hindered by ribs. He pulled back, readying to thrust again, but never managed the strike.

  Another attacker lunged at him, stepping in from his left, grunting and swinging. The air hissed as the Texan sidestepped, this time the rear fender of the pickup reverberating with a loud thud from the impact of a blunt instrument. Before he could counter, a third man attacked, light reflecting from a machete as it sliced through the air. The long-blade slammed into Bishop’s armored midsection, the force of the blow painful but unable to reach his flesh due to the Kevlar plates.

  Bishop’s knife found work, first dispatching the machete-wielding attacker with a brutal blow to the face with the hilt, then addressing others as they leapt into the fray. The sheer number of adversaries, when combined with the darkness, resulted in a blur of absolute chaos.

  Bishop’s right arm was a frantic piston of killing steel, stabbing and slashing like a boxer working a speed bag. The torsos, necks and limbs of his antagonists suffered badly.

  Sounds of desperate combat filled the graveyard, grunts, moans and the gasping for breath competing with the grotesque reports of breaking bones and blows crushing human flesh.

  The bodies piling up at Bishop’s feet began to impede the assailants, the barrier of dead and dying men slowing their advance. As the fight continued, the pavement became like an ice rink, coated with a slick layer of blood, entrails, urine, and sweat – the lack of sure footing adding to the mayhem.

  During one brief reprise, Bishop saw Grim go down, a dog pile of entangled arms and legs, bowled over and withering on the ground. Checking on Deke, he looked back just as the operator delivered a savage butt-stroke, the stock of his rifle nearly splitting the victim’s skull. Deke was holding his own; Grim was in trouble.

  Bishop tried to move toward Grim, but his foot slipped on the blood-slick pavement, and he went down. The loss of balance actually saved his life, a crowbar impacting right where his head had been.

  While Bishop tried to regain his feet, another aggressor managed to step in close. The Texan slashed from the ground at the unfortunate fellow’s leg, his blade slicing into the Achilles tendon. The man fell in a heap, landing on top of Bishop and immediately grappling for the Texan’s throat. Bishop let him.

  He knew a man didn’t choke to death in mere seconds, didn’t think the guy on top of him was strong enough to crush his windpipe. Bishop tucked his chin to his chest, feeling the pair of hands struggle to tighten their grip around his neck.

  Bishop’s hand, in the meantime, was tightening around the grip of his pistol. Fuck it! I don’t care if the army hears gunshots. We’re dying, Bishop thought as the .45 cleared the holster. And then its barrel was pointing up, into the center mass of his foe. Bishop’s thumb found the safety, his finger on the trigger. He pulled… and then pulled again.

  The man on top of him shuddered, bolts of pain and surprise racking his frame. To Bishop, it seemed like an eternity before the pressure on his throat began to lapse.

  Pushing off the limp corpse, Bishop struggled to regain his feet. He rose, gasping for breath and using the truck for balance. Finally standing, his attention was drawn to a man on the opposite side of the bed, cutting through the cords that secured the tarp. The grave robbers were moments away from having access to their supplies.

  Enough! We are going to lose everything - even if we do survive, raced through his mind. The thought was accented by a numbing blow to his left arm.

  Firing from the hip, Bishop put two rounds into the closest shadow. Another two hollow points struck the next man as the attacker charged, a shovel wielded high above his head, ready to cleave downward.

  Three steps to the front of the truck revealed a mound of struggling flesh, one man raining down blows with his fist as Grim held the attacker’s knife at bay. Two others were trying to pin the struggling operator so their friend could deliver a deadly strike with the blade.

  Bishop’s kick would have made a football punter proud, landing square in the midsection of the man straddling his partner. Another shot rang out, quickly followed by a pistol whip to the back of a neck. Bishop’s sidearm was empty.

  The handgun’s roar signaled an escalation, a new level of violence now declared by the defenders. The occupants of the cemetery paused, their aggression and determination wavering.

  Bishop managed to help Grim climb over the edge of the bed, the effort handicapped by the unsure footing and the Texan’s numb left side. After making sure Grim was safe, Bishop spun towards the rear of the truck as he reloaded the pistol. Rounding the bumper, he found a heap of bodies lying on the ground. There was no sign of Deke.

  It took him a moment to scan the casualties, five bodies haphazardly strewn on the pavement. None of them were his partner. When he was satisfied Deke hadn’t fallen there, Bishop determined that more light might help his search. Besides, he wanted his rifle out of the cab of the truck.

  Words heard long ago echoed through his mind, “A pistol is what you use to fight your way back to the rifle you should have never set down in the first place.” Bishop now had a full appreciation of that wisdom.

  He fired three more random shots at dark images as he moved to the door, the effort intended to keep the hoodlums at bay rather than reduce their number.

  The headlights illuminated a g
ory scene. Fighting with edged weapons and blunt instruments always resulting in horrendous injuries. The men engaged with the rescuers had suffered badly at the danger-close combat. Blood ran in rivulets towards the low side of the pavement, the butchery of raw flesh and exposed fractures all contributing to the nightmarish scene capped by the background of the gravestones.

  Taking his eyes away from the horror, Bishop spun and moved again for the back of the truck, thinking that he had mistakenly missed Deke’s body amongst those scattered at the rear of the vehicle. There was just enough light from the red lenses for Bishop to determine the outline of two men dragging away another body. It took a moment for his mind to absorb the image, to realize that it was Deke being towed off by two thugs.

  As he pivoted back to enter the truck, three dark outlines rose up and charged from a nearby row of headstones. The 230-grain hollow point slugs slammed into the line of men. Again and again, the pistol barked, the range too close to miss. His last target fell, dropping to his knees while grasping his throat where a bullet had ripped a significant portion of his windpipe to shreds. His head landed on Bishop’s boot with a foul thud. Another magazine of pain pills filled the empty pistol.

  And then he was in the driver’s seat. The reverse lights and rearview mirror confirmed that Deke was being dragged by two assailants. Bishop immediately gave the truck gas, backing it quickly towards the two ghouls making off with his friend’s body, their progress burdened by the weight of the unconscious man and his load gear.

  A series of thumps and bumps signaled the truck’s rolling over the bodies lying on the pavement, Bishop in such a rage that he didn’t even care if they were already dead or not.

  The two body snatchers glanced up as the reverse lights grew closer, a look of fear filling their faces. They dropped Deke, scampering off to disappear into the pools of shadow created by the monuments. Bishop slammed the truck into park, flinging open the door and racing back to retrieve his injured comrade, this time carrying his rifle.

  Deke was unresponsive.

  Despite the adrenaline racing through his veins, Bishop struggled for a moment, having difficulty lifting his buddy onto a shoulder, the throbbing pain in his arm hindering the effort.

  It was without remorse that Bishop unceremoniously dumped his friend into the bed of the truck, hardly noticing Grim’s growl as most of Deke’s weight landed on the injured man. There just wasn’t the time to be gentle.

  Whoever the assailants were, they possessed large numbers and were willing to assume extreme causalities. Bishop had little doubt they were probably regrouping - only temporarily halted by the usage of firearms. He managed the driver’s seat, his numb arm causing a fumble as he reached to close the door. He was just clutching the gearshift when the passenger side window exploded inward, the dark head of a spade in the opening. Shards of glass sprayed across the interior of the cab, the blizzard of crystalline splinters only serving to accelerate Bishop’s movements.

  Finally, the truck was rolling, a small sense of security delivered by the motion. The refuge was both false and short-lived.

  As he gained speed, a hailstorm of rocks, chunks of tombstone and miscellaneous tools began impacting the hood and windshield. Bishop saw a claw hammer rattle off the fender, quickly followed by a pickaxe flying through the tunnel of brightness created by the headlights.

  And then it was quiet, nothing but the rush of air and the growl of the V8 under the hood.

  He would never be able to recount how he found his way out of the graveyard, which direction he’d turned, or how far he had driven in the blind terror. He had forgotten all about his two comrades in the bed, his brain completely focused on escaping the never-ending waves of ghoulish attackers.

  Once they were clear, concern for his passengers returned. He drove on, knowing the two men in the bed were doing their best to issue medical care and treat each other’s wounds.

  Chapter 12

  Memphis, Tenseness

  July 11, 2016

  When Grim first called out, Bishop didn’t recognize the tone of the man’s voice. It was weak, barely audible and yet there was an underlying layer of urgency that carried through his message.

  “Bishop, you need to stop the truck. We’re losing Deke.”

  The timing of the request, at least, was fortunate. Bishop spotted the strip mall within moments. He turned in, the truck’s lamps showing signs of the retail outlet already having been looted, weeds and mounds of litter and leaves scattered around the vacant parking lot. It was obvious the facility was abandoned. Bishop guided the truck-now-ambulance behind the single-story building, discovering two delivery vans backed against a loading dock. Both the vehicles and the warehouse showed signs of forced entry from long ago. He pulled between them, hoping the cave-like shelter provided by the two large trucks would provide some level of concealment.

  Bishop jumped out, rushing to help the men in the back. He switched on his flashlight, hoping to assist and assess at the same time.

  The beam of light confirmed his worst fears. The first thing that caught his eye was the large pool of purplish liquid spreading across the bed’s floor. Grim, doing the best he could with the use of only one arm, was desperately trying to stem the bleeding. Empty packages of gauze and red-stained medical wraps littered the area.

  Deke was lying prone, unmoving, his skin shrouded by a grey pallor that Bishop had seen before… far too many times on the battlefield. While the wounded man’s eyes were open, they didn’t move, fixed on an empty spot in space somewhere above Grim’s shoulder as he hovered over his friend. Bishop leaped over the sidewall, trying to gain a better angle to assess the victim’s injuries. What he found caused a wave of nausea to sweep his core.

  It wasn’t the purplish slashes on Deke’s chest and shoulders, the lacerations serious, but not life-threatening. Nor was the series of blue and red welts a primary concern. Bishop’s attention was drawn to the inch-long puncture wounds that were gushing life. He had to stop counting the deep wounds after the first four, knowing, even as he reached for his own limited supplies of bandages, that the effort was hopeless.

  He couldn’t accept the prognosis – digging in his blow-out bag with the intent of adding his own aid to that already being applied by Grim.

  Grim seemed to realize the futility of it all at the same moment, his one functional hand slowing the desperate application of pressure and cloth to the wounds. He looked up at Bishop, a storm of emotion brewing behind the warrior’s eyes.

  A wet, racking cough came from Deke’s chest, his entire body shuddering from the effort.

  “I know,” the weak, hoarse voice croaked from the wounded man’s throat. “Don’t waste your medical kit. You might need those supplies later.”

  Bishop was in shock. A flood of anger surged through his system, at the same time his throat tightening. He wanted to do something – anything - to save his friend. The only idea his utterly exhausted mind could settle on was to make the man comfortable. There just was nothing else.

  Dropping to his knees and squeezing further into the confined space, Bishop worked to roll up an edge of the tarp, sliding the makeshift pillow under the injured man’s head. The effort didn’t go unnoticed, the dark pools of Deke’s eyes focusing on Bishop.

  “Thanks,” his raspy voice managed.

  “Don’t you fucking die on me,” Grim pleaded. “You son of a bitch, you hang on; you’re not going anywhere.”

  Another severe bout of coughing shook the wounded man’s frame, blood appearing under his nose and at the corners of his mouth. While his movements were slow, Deke managed to flip a middle finger at Grim and then smile. “Like I said, brother, I know… I know it’s over, and it’s okay.”

  Again, those eyes haunted the medics, so deep and dark against the background of Deke’s pale skin and the artificial glow of the flashlight. He managed to focus on Bishop, the smile still showing at the corners of his blood-speckled mouth. “Get Grim’s family out, operator. Make it
worth this. Promise me you will, and I’ll go feeling like I’ve made a good trade.”

  Bishop tried to find the words, struggled to make his vocal cords function in a throat tight with emotion. He finally managed a nod and then a weakly uttered, “I promise.”

  A nod from the dying man acknowledged the acceptance of Bishop’s commitment, and then his gaze swept skyward. Neither Grim nor Bishop needed to check for a pulse or listen for breathing. It was obvious when the light behind those eyes dimmed for the final time.

  Bishops slowly reached forward, his hand gently closing the lids of the now lifeless eyes. “Rest well, brother. Your hardships and campaigns are over. Go softly… go to peace.”

  Grim shifted his weight, leaning over to kiss the forehead of the man with whom he had suffered so much hardship, and celebrated countless victories. As Bishop watched, silent, deep sobs racked Grim’s body.

  A dragon named Revenge began to breathe fire into Bishop’s soul.

  Boiling hot, sulfuric rage raced through the Texan’s veins, fueled as the great monster spread its all-powerful wings and commanded payback. Bishop’s knuckles grew white as he squeezed his rifle, an irresistible desire pounding in his temples. He would return to the graveyard and fill hell with the souls of those who had murdered his friend. He would spray lead until the last empty magazine rattled to the ground, and then wield a blade until his hand could no longer maintain a grip. His would then render their limbs with his bare hands, and after his muscles played out, he would eat them alive, bathing in the glorious bloodbath that was Revenge.

  Vengeance against whom? Some small voice battled the dragon. Against Grim because he didn’t sweep the area well? Is my lust for blood only to avoid blaming myself for clowning around with Deke? Was it all the dead man’s fault for picking the location in the first place? Who deserves my ire?

  Then Deke’s final words came rushing back. “Get Grim’s family out, operator.” There was that word – operator. A label only earned – a reward for those who obtain a level of skill and professionalism above and beyond.