by Joe Nobody
“What’s your destination?” the specialist asked, more from curiosity than any official need to know.
“Little Rock,” Bishop lied.
“Really? I hear some really bad things about that city. It is strictly off limits to any military personnel, not that anyone ever crosses the river these days.”
“You know how scuttlebutt gets all blown out of proportion,” Bishop chatted. “Next thing you know someone will spread a rumor that there are cannibals over that way.”
The kid’s face got all serious, “Actually, sir, that’s exactly the reason why I heard it was a no-go… cannibalism.”
“No shit?”
“No, sir. Best of luck to ya.”
And with that well wish, Bishop was waved through.
From the peak of the bridge’s rise above the mighty river, Bishop thought the world looked the same as always, at least at a distance. Were it not for the burgeoning lanes of rusting cars blocking most of the crossing, he wouldn’t have suspected anything was wrong on the other side.
Like much of Memphis, the Arkansas side of the river was clogged with remnants of what must have been a massive bug-out. Technically, the small community bordering the west side of the waterway was named West Memphis, but the town was a mere fraction of its namesake’s size.
After dodging wrecks and the burned out skeletons of what were once family sedans and minivans, Bishop found himself on open road, increasing his speed to over 70 mph.
Knowing he’d have to cut off of the interstate before reaching Little Rock, the Texan decided his situation resembled that of a fighter pilot – speed was life.
On their trip east, he’d been overly cautious, fearing bushwhackers, local warlords and humanity in general. Now heading west, he went to the opposite end of the paranoid spectrum – blasting down the road with apparent abandon.
It wasn’t just the urgency of getting home. Driving by himself made it very difficult to fight. Even the simple act of exiting the truck with his rifle was slow, the carbine bound and determined to become entangled with the steering wheel, bang into the doorframe or poke him in the crotch. For this reason, the weapon was unslung and beside him on the seat. The same was true of his sidearm.
Not that shooting and driving at the same time was affective. Other than suppression, keeping someone’s head down, it was rare such a tactic accomplished little more than to waste ammunition.
So Bishop determined speed was the best strategy, keeping his foot on the accelerator and his eyes scanning ahead for potential trouble. The miles flew by.
A sign, now partially covered by a honeysuckle vine that had climbed up the supports, indicated Little Rock was 71 miles ahead. Not that the distance marker was really necessary. For the past several minutes, the number of relics in the outbound lane had been steadily increasing – a sure sign of civilization ahead. By the time this was confirmed by the green sign, the grass median was beginning to fill with its share of discarded cars and trucks. “Time to get off this road,” he said, just to hear a voice.
There were only a few cars at the exit, once operated by polite drivers as they lined up along the shoulder of the off-ramp. The parade of vehicles ran along the edge of the two-lane highway, the bumper-to-bumper queue stretching a quarter of a mile to the single gas station located there.
Bishop couldn’t help but slow his pace, gawking at the scene as he drove closer. Reliving that horrific day sent shivers down his spine – like touring a historic battlefield where so many men had lost their lives. He didn’t need a tour guide or literature to show him what had happened - the forensics weren’t difficult to analyze. He could almost feel the ghosts, restless spirits still waiting for fuel that would never arrive.
As the service station grew closer, the polite line of cars widened and became erratic. Panicked drivers, thought Bishop. They didn’t want anyone cutting in line. The two islands containing pumps were completely blocked by empty, lifeless metal, the parking lot filled to capacity with sedans, luxury cars and pickup trucks. The car at the forward-most aisle had actually been rammed by the driver behind, evidently taking too long or pumping too much gas.
The chrome bumpers were still interlocked, the impact disabling both cars. A black tail hung from the gas door of the first vehicle, the pump’s hose having been torn away as the car was pushed from behind. Words like desperation, riot and anarchy filled Bishop’s mind. He was glad he wasn’t there that fateful day, thankful not to carry the memories.
Bishop stopped, right in the middle of the road – unconcerned about oncoming traffic. He needed to refuel himself, and this was as good a place as any. Despite his eerie feeling about the location, the truck wouldn’t stand out as much here among the sea of steel and glass.
As he began working the barrel’s hand pump, he studied the scene in more detail.
The windows of the convenience store were mostly shattered, birds nesting in the sign above the door. He could see barren shelves inside, many toppled over – one large display partially lying halfway out the door as if someone was going to drag it home... or maybe use it as a barricade, Bishop decided. Perhaps the owner was trying to keep people out of his store.
Through the windows he could see one bank of freezers lining the back wall. Once filled with every conceivable flavor, type and size of beer, soda pop and juice, their racks were empty as well, one door completely ripped off its hinges.
There was a sign, hand-lettered and still visible behind a small section of window glass that remained. In bold, black print it read, “Cash Only – No Credit Cards.” Bishop wondered if that display had been prompted by the power failing and bringing down the credit card machine with it, or if the owner knew it was the end and was trying to gather all the cash he could. Probably the later, Bishop thought. They couldn’t pump gas without electricity.
Pivoting his head, he scanned the pumps, looking for what the price of gasoline had been that final day. They were newer, digital models, so there was no way to tell.
The lot’s surface, what little was visible between the rows of packed cars, still held evidence of the violence that occurred here. The cash register, drawer open and lying face down, rested under the bumper of a minivan. A few feet away was the remains of a coffee machine, dented and banged like someone had been using it as a shield.
Trash had piled up in a corner nook of the building, faded wrappers of candy bars and bags of snacks entangled with leaves and twigs, gathered there by the wind. There were bullet holes in the building’s exterior, just above the garbage heap.
As Bishop finished his fill-up, he noticed three different cars with similar bullet wounds. Someone had started shooting, either trying to maintain control, protect himself, or perhaps even going insane under the stress of it all. The story would never be told.
Bishop emptied the remaining gasoline and then rolled the empty drum out of the truck’s bed, the clanging impact causing him to cringe at the noise volume. Removing the now-useless container decreased the size of his supply cache should anyone notice the load in the truck bed, making travel among locals less risky.
Before entering the cab, he glanced around one last time, his mind pondering a new mystery. Where had the people gone?
He mentally inventoried the number of cars, averaging out two people per unit. He tried to visualize almost 300 people milling about, waiting on electricity and gasoline that would never arrive. There wasn’t any nearby town… no water, food or law enforcement. Just an isolated gas station on a seldom-traveled rural highway.
Bishop imagined the debates. A husband and wife, growing frustrated and paranoid as they slept the first night in their car. Hunger aside, thirst had probably been the most nagging issue. They had witnessed violence at some point… gunfire erupting up ahead. Screams, shots, yelling… confusion.
Had the wife said, “We have to get out of here,” first, or was it her spouse?
Had the husband convinced his mate that it was time to start walking? Had they waited un
til they were too weak to travel far? How embarrassed had the woman been when she had to walk to the weeds to use the bathroom?
A nearby minivan was equipped with two car seats, their size indicating small children. The sight made him think of Hunter and Terri, forced him to the realization that children would have compounded the parents’ stress a dozen fold. He could almost hear the debate of who got the final sip from the diaper bag’s juice box. Was the last handful of animal crackers rationed out?
He found himself experiencing a morbid curiosity. Needing to stretch his legs, he pulled the rifle and keys out of the cab and went exploring.
The bones weren’t obvious, the hollow, dark eyes of a human skull being the first to draw his attention. Buzzards, animals and bacteria had picked it clean, the off-white remains looking more like a teaching tool for a college anatomy class than a victim of violence.
He strolled to the front of the station, looking inside through the glassless window. Which had been looted first, he wondered. The cigarettes or the beer? Those with addictive habits would feel the pinch before anyone else, he supposed.
As he stepped over a pile of rubbish, his boot caught on something heavy. Looking down, he saw a cloth money bag that was commonly used to deposit store receipts at the bank. He bent and picked it up, surprised at the weight. A faded label on the outside matched the sign on the building.
Expecting to find quarters, dimes and other coins inside, Bishop hefted the bag in his hand, but didn’t hear the expected jingle of loose change. His knife made quick work of the rotting cloth. Inside was a significant collection of watches, rings, bracelets and other jewelry.
That makes sense, he thought, reliving those fateful days. People would have grown so desperate, many not having enough cash for water or beef jerky. They would have started offering anything of value to the station’s clerk.
“I’ll trade you my 18-karat Rolex for that last box of crackers,” Bishop said to the empty lot, imagining a desperate father. “Please, sir, my kid won’t stop crying.”
Once the clerk had accepted the trade, word would have spread throughout the community of stranded motorists. “Hey, take my wife’s wedding ring. It has a big diamond – it’s worth more than that watch!” someone else had probably countered.
Bishop didn’t begrudge anyone nice things. Jealousy wasn’t part of his nature. Still, he had to wonder about the utility of some folks’ discretionary income prior to the fall of society. The watch he held in his hand would have purchased several years’ supply of shelf stable food, perhaps more. The huge diamond ring would have easily paid for three or four good rifles and a thousand rounds of ammo. They never thought it could happen, he decided.
He shook it off, realizing he was working his mind into a funk over misery and problems that had happened over a year ago. There was nothing he could do to help those that were here, suffering badly on a lonely road with few options.
He returned the bag to its original spot, having no interest or need for the memories it contained. It belonged here, a memorial of sorts for the people who had lost their lives at this place.
Bishop returned to the cab and started driving.
After leaving the interstate, his progress slowed. Despite following the same route they had traveled east, it was impossible to maintain the same speed.
Tree limbs had fallen here and there, probably the victims of thunderstorms or high winds. Without county clean-up crews, the debris remained exactly where it had landed, natural impediments to Bishop’s urgency.
He didn’t stop at the bridges anymore, settling on the opposite tactic and pushing down on the gas pedal where the roadway allowed.
There were other speed-robbing distractions as well. Scanning for smoke was a constant requirement. Campfires, wood-burning stoves and outdoor ovens all meant one thing – people. Alone and in a strange world, Bishop wanted nothing more than to avoid humankind.
Just like the trip east, returning home didn’t produce much of a cultural exchange with the residents of the Razorback State. Eating up the miles on secondary roads, bypassing towns depicted on the map and keeping up as much speed as possible, Bishop managed to avoid trouble and make excellent time.
The light was fading when the map indicated he was approaching the Arkansas River, the incident at Toad Suck Dam still fresh in his mind.
He decided to use a regular bridge, the decision bolstered by the fact that there just weren’t that many folks around. Darkness would thin their ranks even more.
He pulled over two miles short of the big river, stretching his legs and nibbling at a light meal. Indecision over abandoning the truck and scouting the chokepoint nagged at Bishop while he chewed. If someone found his supplies in the unguarded truck while he was checking out the bridge, he was screwed. If he bumbled into a bad situation while crossing, he was screwed.
He concluded Toad Suck had been the exception, not the rule, and settled on driving directly to the crossing with his fingers crossed. It ended up being the right decision as he managed the span right before total darkness fell, not a soul in sight.
Using the night vision while driving was becoming second nature. His route was gradually increasing in elevation as he climbed through the foothills that would eventually become small mountains. Petit Jean was the destination.
He hoped Frank had been a man of his word. Hugh’s final shuttle flight had delivered two last 50-gallon drums of fuel, the plan calling for the rescuers to drive back into Texas with Grim’s family along for the ride. That trip across the Lone Star State would take 100 gallons of fuel, so the stash had been hidden inside the airport’s sole structure.
Bishop recalled his conversation with the head ranger before they had departed. “If we’re not back in four weeks, you should go forage around in the airstrip’s building. You’ll find a little treasure trove of goodies there. It would be a sin for them to go to waste.”
He was counting on Frank, and everyone else, to have left that cache of fuel alone. If it wasn’t there, again, he was screwed. It would take months to walk the 1000 miles to home – if he survived the journey.
Bishop’s anxiety built when he saw the first sign indicating the park’s distance was 31 miles ahead. He was fidgeting when another pointed to a Petit Jean with an arrow. His nerves were raw as a third informed him he had officially entered the facility.
It was after 2 a.m. when the green and black outline of the airstrip’s building came into view through his monocle. He switched to Deke’s thermal, scanning the surrounding forest and finding nothing suspicious.
With great trepidation, he entered the building. There in the corner, right where he’d left it just a few days before, was the stash of fuel and food. Undisturbed.
Bishop sighed audibility with relief.
Sleep became the next priority.
Hunter’s cranky cry rousted Terri from her slumber, the new mother slow to respond due to a dream that left her believing she was already feeding the lad.
“How can he be fussing and nursing at the same time,” she asked herself in a state of half-sleep, quickly realizing she hadn’t moved from her bed.
The vision of his primary provider appearing over the crib’s rail settled the infant down. His rapidly developing mind happily recognized the routine and sensed food was soon to follow.
As she nursed, Terri gently rocked in a corner chair, humming a soothing melody to the child. She had no idea where the song came from or what it was called. For a brief moment, she longed to ask her mother if it were a family tradition.
While swaying back and forth, Terri couldn’t help but consider the new day’s calendar. The highest priority was a meeting with the council, an important discussion covering the negotiations with Washington. The tone of the meetings had changed significantly during the last session, and it was troubling.
Until yesterday, things had been progressing at an incredibly slow pace, the team from the nation’s capital hammering on every little detail. Diana had com
mented that she felt like they were haggling over a nuclear arms treaty, not a trade deal. Every little detail had to be argued, pinched, poked and mutilated before agreement could be reached. It was maddening, time consuming, and she had to admit, necessary.
Then yesterday, something changed. The delegation representing the feds began acting as though they had been instructed to accelerate the process. Terri didn’t know what was motivating that tactic, but the change was so abrupt, it made her suspicious. At one point, the men across the table had even approved one clause without reading it. That made her feel like they weren’t taking the agreement seriously, like they didn’t care.
Terri shook her head, the act causing Hunter to pull off her breast, thinking she wanted to play. It took her a bit to convince him otherwise, and soon he returned to filling his belly.
Like a dozen times before, Terri inventoried the events leading up to the drastic change by the other side. She couldn’t think of anything that had been said or done to justify their newfound enthusiasm. It must be something internal, she concluded. We’ve been consistent.
Hunter finished topping off his tank, his eyes so droopy she hesitated to disturb him with a burp. As she adjusted to return her son to the crib, a robust belch escaped the lad’s tiny mouth and eliminated any parental concerns over gas pains later in the night.
She kissed his forehead and inhaled, enjoying the aroma that was unique to newborns. Hunter was breathing rhythmically as she laid him down and pulled the tiny blanket over his chest.
Terri returned to her bed, hoping to catch another two hours of sleep before addressing the new morning. She tried to figure out what possible event could have changed in Washington, quickly realizing it was a question without an answer.
Maybe we should just take the money and run, she thought as sleep tugged at her mind. Maybe they have finally realized we don’t need them, they need us.
Chapter 15
Alexandria, Virginia
