by Joe Nobody
What would an operator do? Bishop asked himself. Would a professional turn this truck around and unleash pure hell on those unarmed men? No. The professional would continue with the mission and honor the fallen when time allowed. That’s what an operator would do.
The thought broke the dragon’s spell, the mental monster retreating into a remote cave in the back of Bishop’s soul. He moved to check Grim’s arm.
“How bad is it?”
“I think the arm’s busted,” Grim replied. “I’ll be okay. I’m not bleeding.”
After covering Deke’s body with part of the tarp, Bishop maneuvered to check Grim’s limb. Rolling up the operator’s sleeve, he revealed the swollen red and purple area, a bone between his wrist and elbow obviously fractured.
“It’s busted, that’s for sure,” Bishop said. “I don’t know how long it will be before we can get you proper medical attention. Do you want me to try and put on a splint?”
Grim nodded, his gaze remaining fixed in the direction of the body lying at his feet. Bishop had to wonder if the man wasn’t going into shock from either the physical pain or the loss of his longtime friend.
Each of the operators carried a flexible aluminum splint that when rolled up required little space in the always crowded medical kits carried on their persons. Bishop found Deke’s, rightfully believing it would be easier than digging through his kit to find the rarely used item. While he had never set a broken limb, the training received at HBR kicked in, the procedure coming back as if he had been taught only yesterday.
After warning the patient, Bishop grasped the broken limb just below the elbow and just above the wrist gently pulling until he felt movement, Bishop aligned to two ends of the bone as best he could. Grim, other than a sharp inhalation of air and a slight grunt, remained silent.
A few moments later, Bishop’s hands moved in a blur as he secured the temporary splint with the roll of tape.
“Thanks,” was the patient’s only comment.
“Do you have anything else I need to take a look at? I think we need to get out of here as soon as possible.”
Grim managed his knees and then rose to his feet in response. Pulling his carbine up with his good hand, he rested the weapon on the cab of the truck, ready to fight. Turning to Bishop, he said, “I’m good. Let’s get the fuck out of here.”
After pausing for a moment to make sure his friend was stable, Bishop jumped from the bed and hurried back to the cab. As he drove out of their hiding spot and back on course, he couldn’t help but think about where he would dig a grave.
It had been some time since he had to excavate the final resting place for another human being. The defense of his old Houston neighborhood had resulted in casualties, and that had led to digging in a nearby empty lot. He had also lost neighbors during that time, those memories adding to what was becoming a deep sadness.
“Now what the fuck am I going to do?” he said to himself as he drove the truck through suburban Memphis. “We have one man down, another at 50%, and our cover story is completely blown.”
The population density of the metropolitan area thinned as Bishop slowly progressed to the north and east, away from the Mississippi River. He had no idea if he were getting any closer to where Grim’s family resided or if he were adding distance to what had already been far too long a journey.
The safety of the countryside didn’t improve Bishop’s mood. He had respected Deke, despite the operator having once kidnapped and threatened his wife. That episode, a misunderstanding cleared long ago, had allowed Bishop to appreciate the contractor’s contribution to the efforts of reestablishing society in West Texas.
Deke and his seven security men had been the absolute best soldiers Bishop had ever seen. The fact that such a man fell victim under such unusual circumstances didn’t bolster Bishop’s confidence. He had always felt like he was the weak link in this rescue team, that if anyone were going to be hurt or killed on the current mission, he would be the one. Now that weak link was the sole survivor at full operational capacity. Now the guy with the least amount of skill and experience was the last man standing.
Sure, luck played a role, and every man who had ever taken up arms understood the impact of random events and virtual situations. But for Deke to die at the hands of such a lackluster force shook Bishop to the core. Be the professional, he reminded. Be an operator.
He also experienced a sense of loneliness. He would give anything to talk to Terri right now, to see her smile and smell her hair. He wondered about his son’s future, the father’s survival now seriously in question. Grim’s voice interrupted the session of self-pity, evidently the man riding in the back was paying more attention to their surroundings than the guy controlling the truck’s direction.
“Hey, Bishop, turn around. I recognized something back there, and I think it might be a good place for us to hole up and lick our wounds.”
Bishop did as requested, reversing the truck in the abandoned roadway and slowly progressing back the way they had just come. He saw the sign this time, a brown and white affair declaring they were approaching a driveway belonging to the Patterson Rock Quarry.
“This place closed down a few years ago,” Grim said. “No one would have any reason to be back there, and I think there are some storage sheds… maybe a good place to conceal the truck. If the army heard our gunfire back there, they might send up a bird with thermal sights to investigate. Besides, I want to build a fire, if possible.”
After pausing for a brief moment to study the gate, Bishop decided it wasn’t worth the effort to get out and try to pry loose the lock. Inching the already dented truck forward, he used the front bumper to bust through the opening. The gravel lane twisted and turned for almost a half mile before the first signs of the now closed business showed themselves in the truck’s headlights.
Large piles of rock chips, gravel, and other discarded stone began to appear on each side of the narrow, bumpy path. “Keep going. I remember there used to be some storage sheds where they stored the heavy equipment.”
Grim’s memory finally proved to be accurate, a huge facility of open bays, two stories in height, eventually coming into view. Yet again, Mother Nature had been doing her best to reclaim the area, with saplings and clusters of bushes growing through the otherwise smooth gravel surface surrounding the shed. It was behind one such concentration of growth that Bishop hid the truck, appreciating the camouflage provided in the isolation of the location.
Grim volunteered to sweep the area, no doubt feeling some measure of guilt for having missed the sheer number of attackers back at the cemetery. For a brief moment, Bishop paused, wanting to take the task himself and let the injured man gather his strength. On the other hand, redemption could be an important aspect of reestablishing morale – something both of the surviving rescuers needed badly.
Grim didn’t wait for Bishop’s answer, moving off into the night with his rifle dangling from its sling while he scanned the area with Deke’s thermal imager held up with his one good arm. The scout returned 20 minutes later, declaring that they were indeed isolated, and this time, he was sure.
“We’re only about five miles from my place,” announced Grim. “It’s going to be daylight soon, and I noticed you’re favoring your arm, too. Let’s try to get our shit in one bag, and then we can manage the rest of the distance to my place.”
Bishop agreed, setting about removing his load vest and other equipment, Grim’s observation of his arm proving more accurate than he would have liked.
After taking off his shirt, the flashlight revealed an inch thick welt and purple bruising across his upper triceps and shoulder. “For a bunch of guys near starvation, they sure could swing a baseball bat,” Bishop observed gingerly stretching the sore limb.
“At least it’s not broken. At least one of us is still at 100%.”
“That may be true, but I still think we’re in trouble. How in the hell are we going to get your wife and daughter past the roadblocks heading
back into Arkansas?”
Grim didn’t answer at first, staring down at the ground and shaking his head, his gaze moving back to the truck where the body of his friend still rested.
“I don’t know, man. I’m not thinking real clear right now, and I don’t think you are either. Let’s hole up at my place for a day or two, and maybe something will come to us.” Bishop couldn’t come up with any better plan, so he nodded his acceptance deciding to try to eat while time allowed.
Grim made an attempt to pump some fuel into the truck’s tank, his efforts handicapped by his injured wing. Both men found even the most basic activity was difficult, both extremely jumpy at sounds or noise in the vicinity.
“Where the hell did those guys come from?” Grim eventually asked, clearly replaying the entire episode in his mind. “What the hell were they doing in that cemetery? It just doesn’t make any sense to me.”
Bishop considered his answer quite a while, the same questions running through his mind over and again. “I don’t know, and I don’t think we’ll ever know. My best guess is that they were grave robbers. I saw shovels, pry bars and axes to cut through roots during the dig. But there’s no way to be sure. Maybe they were like us, thinking no one would ever bother looking in a graveyard. Some of those mausoleums were big enough to live in, as creepy as that might sound. Perhaps they were a gang of criminals, or just a random cluster of vagabonds who happened to find shelter in an isolated area away from the authorities. It was just bad luck that we bumbled into the hornets’ nest.”
Grim seemed to accept Bishop’s logic, his head nodding slowly as he worked the hand pump on the 50- gallon drum of fuel.
Finally looking up, he said in a low tone, “We can bury him at my place. I know just the spot, a shady area underneath the big elm. Deke always liked the shade, and that way I’ll be able to pay my respects if things ever get back to normal.”
The two men continued the tasks at hand, each needing the chance to regroup. Bishop had been slashed by a machete attack, and an inspection of his shirt showed the cut material was repairable, but not something that he wanted to do in their current situation. Two of the MOLLE ladders on his vest had also been severed, as well as the hose of his water reservoir, the most critical damage to his kit. Patching the puncture using duct tape, Bishop then began redressing himself with the spare shit from his kit. It was the best repair possible. Reloading magazines was the next priority; the two empties retrieved from his dump pouch were soon full of 45-caliber rounds.
He then began the unwanted chore of inventorying Deke’s equipment, any reservations over rummaging through the dead man’s assets quickly dismissed by their desperate situation.
Grim started to protest Bishop’s activities, but then realized the wisdom of the act. It was then that Bishop noticed the damage to Grim’s rifle. Pointing to the weapon, Bishop asked, “Are you sure that blaster still functions? That looks like some serious damage.”
A quick check revealed that indeed the rifle had suffered an apparently deadly blow from some sort of edged strike. Grim ejected the magazine from the damaged receiver, holding the rifle between his knees and working the charging handle. Looking up, he said, “It’s a good thing you noticed that. This weapon is ruined, and now I’m really pissed. It has been with me on five continents… for 15 years. Now some amateur desperado with a pickax has ruined my lucky piece.”
Bishop reached into the bed of the truck and retrieved Deke’s carbine, giving the weapon a quick once over, checking for any obvious damage. Conscious of his partner’s injury, Bishop worked the action of the rifle and found it fully operational.
Grim hesitated over exchanging weapons, but the logic of the move wasn’t lost on him for long. Despite the damaged weapon having saved his skin on many occasions, Grim grunted and accepted the new unit.
“Deke would wanted it that way. I know he would,” Bishop whispered.
Grim nodded, adjusting the sling and then letting the weapon rest against his chest. He patted the receiver with his good hand, and vowed, “I’ll put it to good use if the need arises.”
Each man then rested for 45 minutes while the other kept watch. It wasn’t much sleep, but neither knew when they’d be able to rest again.
The yellow light of a new day guided them out of the quarry and into the Tennessee countryside. Grim’s estimate of the distance to his home was accurate, Bishop pulling the truck to the side of the country lane just shy of being visible from his partner’s property.
There was slightly more vigor in Grim’s movements as he jumped from the bed of the truck and approached the driver’s window. “I’m going to go up on foot so my old lady doesn’t put a 12-gauge full of buckshot into someone’s ass. She’s probably a little jumpy these days.”
Bishop chuckled, having little doubt that Mrs. Grim was fully capable of defending herself.
“You stay here for 10 minutes while I go check things out. That will give me plenty of time to make sure we don’t freak her cookies.”
And then Grim was off, half trotting into the distance toward the homestead.
Bishop waited the prerequisite amount of time, and then slowly drove up the driveway. He hit the brakes when the property came into full view.
Rather than the modern home he expected, blackened timbers and piles of gray ash came into view. Grim’s house had burned to the ground, the streaked outline of a bathtub and rusted shells of kitchen appliances the only identifiable objects.
Grim stood motionless, staring at the destruction without comment.
When he sensed Bishop at his side, the contractor looked up with sad eyes and responded, “Well, at least I know why she’s not here.”
Bishop’s mind immediately leapt to the worst case – his expression showing the obvious concern over his friend’s family being victims of the blaze.
Grim noted the look on Bishop’s face. “They’re not here,” he announced, his voice growing angry. “I checked the ashes for bodies. Thank the Lord in heaven they got out.”
“Would they have gone to a neighbor or relative’s home?” Bishop asked.
“Maggie doesn’t have any family locally. I can’t find any evidence of foul play. I’m hoping she and Jana moved in with the Brewers down the road.”
Bishop nodded, a bad feeling growing inside. “There’s only one way to tell,” he said, trying to sound positive. “Let’s drive to the Brewers and see.”
The rural countryside didn’t warrant Grim riding shotgun in the bed of the truck. It seemed odd to Bishop, having someone seated in the cab after so many days of constantly being alone behind the wheel. The Brewer farm was only a mile and a half down the narrow lane from Grim’s place. Again, Bishop stopped the truck some distance up the road while his partner dismounted to approach the neighbor’s homestead.
Bishop waited the prearranged amount of time, and for the second time that morning guided his vehicle up a stranger’s driveway. This time it was obvious someone was home, Grim and another man standing on the front porch of the traditional southern farmhouse, engaged in conversation. Bishop joined them a short time later, the expression on his friend’s face indicating it wasn’t the day for good news.
“Maggie stayed here with us for about a week after the house burned down. She thought a candle got knocked over while she and Jana were picking up walnuts,” Mr. Brewer said. “Lily and I offered for both of them to stay, but you know that woman of yours – she’s got too much pride to accept a handout from anybody. I suppose it didn’t help matters that the wife and I are barely feeding ourselves, but the offer was genuine. About a week later, everything went to hell in a hand basket. We had a bad hailstorm about then, and it wiped out the garden she was keeping back at your place. We’d been sharing what little we had, but it was obvious that desperate times were heading down the road as far as food was concerned.”
Grim didn’t seem to be able to find the words to ask the next question, disappointment and frustration painted all over his face.
> “Did they say where they were going?” Bishop inquired.
Mr. Brewer hesitated, glancing down at his boots, and then coming to a decision. Finally, meeting Grim’s gaze, the farmer said, “Yes, she went to join the Circus.”
“The circus?” Grim asked. “Do you literally mean my wife ran off to join the circus with the bearded lady and the clowns on those little bikes?” only a hint of sarcasm blended with doubt in his tone.
“No,” the farmer continued, realizing he wasn’t speaking to locals. “The Circus is what everybody calls a small community that follows the army units around. I’m not sure how it got its name. I’ve never seen it myself.”
“Camp followers?” Grim hissed, not believing what the man was telling him.
“I don’t know,” Mr. Brewer continued, “Again, I’ve never seen it with my own eyes. Some people around here say it’s like a recreation area for the troops. Others, well, you know how rumors are.”
Grim was speechless, obvious thoughts of his wife and daughter’s desperation running through his head, the conclusion not pretty. He visibly shuddered, and then again pleaded with his neighbor for more information. “Why? Why, would she do that? Were things really that bad?”
“The men who run the Circus put up signs all over Millington. ‘Work in exchange for food. Come to the Circus.’ They were posted all over the place, even at the end of our road.”
“And where is this Circus?” Bishop inquired.
“It’s in town, at the shopping center, or at least what’s left of it.”
Grim and Bishop tried to extract more information from Mr. Brewer, but it became clear after a while the man had relayed everything he knew about the situation. Expressing their thanks and moving back to the truck, the duo was soon pulling out of the driveway, unsure of their destination.
Bishop was exhausted. “Dude, I know you’re probably anxious to see your wife and daughter, but I’m not going to be much help in my current state. Is there any chance we can rest and regroup at your place for a few hours before we head into another potentially dangerous situation?”
