by Joe Nobody
Instead of lances, the Indians carried battle rifles with feathers attached to the barrels. Bishop recognized Kevin’s sniper rifle in one man’s hand, and it pissed him off.
“Terri? Honey, it must be Halloween, because we’ve got trick or treaters at the door,” Bishop announced in a calm voice, watching the three riders approach without hesitation or pause.
He sensed more than saw her head poke out of the tent flap, the Texan unwilling to take his eyes off the advancing threat.
“What are you doing here on our land?” came the harshly toned greeting. “You are trespassing.”
“Well, good morning to you, too,” Bishop replied with a cheery sarcasm. But then his tone went cold, “The sign said this was a national forest. It’s nobody’s land.”
There wasn’t an immediate response to his statement, two of the riders continuing past the lead man, trying to flank Bishop’s position. The Texan wasn’t about to let that happen.
Stepping back to keep all three of them to his front, Bishop ended up further away from the tent and his family than what he wanted. Still, given the rocks and trees, the riders didn’t achieve their tactical goal. And they didn’t like it.
“There is no more nation to own the forest. We now claim this land. Where are you from?”
“We came from back east,” Bishop answered honestly. “We’re just passing through. We don’t want any trouble.”
“And you walked all this way? Across the desert?”
“No, our truck broke down just on the other side of the mountains. We’re trying to reach family in Arizona. Looking for work along the way.”
With a nod from the leader, one of the riders dismounted, marching boldly toward the family’s belongings and beginning to rummage through Bishop’s pack. The searcher wasn’t gentle about it, pulling out an item, holding it up for the others to examine, and then throwing it aside before reaching in again.
“Get the fuck out of my pack,” Bishop growled. “You’ve got no right to.…”
The objection was interrupted by the leader pointing his weapon at Bishop’s chest, “We have to make sure you’re not stealing from our people. We have no interest in your junk.”
“Junk?” Bishop started to protest. “That’s our life in that pack, friend. It’s all we got.”
Terri appeared just then, looking scared-shitless and clutching a wide-eyed Hunter to her chest. “Bishop? What’s going on? Who are these men?”
“It’s okay,” he said, pretending to be brave. It didn’t take much acting.
About then, the man searching the pack pulled out the Army’s wanted poster. Unfolding the paper, the warrior read the words, did a double-take at Bishop, and then held it up to show the boss.
“This is you?” the honcho asked, holding up the paper.
“It was a misunderstanding,” Bishop replied sheepishly. “A big misunderstanding.”
“So you are a wanted man with a big reward, huh? Maybe we should take you back to Texas and collect that bounty?”
“That won’t be easy, mister. A few have already tried, and they’re now discussing their reward with Saint Peter,” the Texan replied, tightening the grip on his rifle.
Bishop’s threat didn’t seem to have much outward effect on the Natives, the leader continuing with his round of questioning. “So you killed soldiers? A lot of soldiers?”
“Like I said, it was a misunderstanding, and none of your business. Now if you fine gentlemen don’t mind, you’re frightening my wife and son, and we haven’t had breakfast yet.”
Something in Bishop’s bravado struck the leader as curious. “Are you a soldier?” the lead man inquired.
“No.”
“Were you a soldier?”
“Yes, a long time ago. Before everything went to hell, however, I was an engineer. Since the lights went out, I’ve been anything and everything necessary to feed my family.”
“What kind of engineer?”
This is it, Bishop thought. This is where I use bait to catch the fish. “I was a civil engineer back in the pre-collapse world. I specialized in fluid dynamics. I worked for a water company in Houston… but what the hell does this have to do with the price of tea in China? You’re getting a little too nosey, Mister.”
There was some truth to the Texan’s response. His major in college had been in Fluid Dynamics, but that curriculum had little to do with water. Teenage aspirations of a career in the oil fields had evaporated long ago. The Texan hoped he wouldn’t be pressed on too many details during the job interview.
But the rider didn’t take the bait. The Indian tilted his head as if trying to judge the honesty of Bishop’s answer. His gaze then directed to a wide-eyed, cowering Terri.
“And you?”
Bishop wasn’t certain just how scared Terri really was. If she was acting, it was a damn fine job.
With a stutter, she managed, “And… and… me what?”
Terri’s question didn’t receive an answer. Instead, the rider guided his horse to an angle where he could see her backside. Eyeing her blue jean covered legs up and down, the Indian merely grunted, and then reigned his animal back to the original spot.
Seemingly no longer interested in the woman or child, Bishop saw the man’s intense gaze refocus on him. It didn’t stay there long.
The Texan saw the boss signal his dismounted subordinate, a slight, barely noticeable nod. Some instinct told Bishop that his death had just been ordered.
The man was quick, drawing a knife and lunging three steps in a blink.
But Bishop was ready, his rifle butt driving into the attacker’s face with all the force he could muster. Down they went, the Indian badly dazed, but still putting up a struggle. The impact so jarring, the Texan lost his grip on the carbine.
They rolled once, twice, and then Bishop was on top, both of the Texan’s powerful arms turning the warrior’s blade against his own chest.
Desperation and adrenaline kicked in, the Native realizing the end of his life was only a few inches away from his heart. But Bishop was stronger, on top, and motivated by the thought of Kevin’s rifle being carried by another man.
Sensing the other two Natives would be moving to help their friend, Bishop decided against having a seesaw battle with the blade. Like a diamondback striking at prey, the Texan’s right hand left his foe’s wrist and struck at the man’s Adam’s apple with tremendous force.
Bishop felt the sickening collapse of the man’s throat, and knew the Native was done. Anticipating an attack from the other two, he rolled off, scrambling for his rifle.
Shots rang out, Bishop’s body automatically cringing with the expected impact of bullets slicing through his flesh. His hand closed on the carbine at the same moment he spun to face the attackers.
One of the remaining Natives was just hitting the ground, clutching his chest with a grimace as he fell off his horse. The leader, slumping over in the saddle, let out a low moan of pain, his hand at his stomach. Terri stood with her 9mm fully extended in one arm, a wide-eyed Hunter in the other. Bishop’s son started screaming in terror just as the third and final foe hit the ground.
The couple exchanged a quick glance, Bishop mouthing, “Thank you,” to his bride.
Two of the tree attackers were still alive, the man with the crushed throat trying desperately to breathe, the other survivor moaning in agony as he withered on the ground.
Bishop moved to make sure neither could reach a weapon, kicking away the two AR15s, and picking up Kevin’s long gun. Terri tried to cover the bodies with her weapon while comforting a hysterical Hunter at the same time. As soon as her husband motioned the all clear, she returned the pistol to her fanny pack and began rocking and cooing her son.
“That poor kid is going to be deaf before he hits kindergarten,” Bishop said.
“I stuffed his ears with cloth before we came out of the tent,” Terri replied. “I think he’s more upset over that than the gunfire.”
“Well, take it out of his ears.
These guys are out of the fight. It’s over.”
Nodding, Terri proceeded to do just that while Bishop walked between the two wounded men.
It was clear that neither of them were going to survive. For a moment, Bishop pondered putting both of them out of their misery.
As he tried to convince himself it was the humane thing to do, the guy with the crushed throat jerked with a series of violent seizures and then died.
Bishop turned to check on the second fellow just in time to see the man produce a small pistol hidden in his shirt. Before the Texan could shout a warning to Terri, the badly-suffering Native put the weapon against his temple, and pulled the trigger.
“Wow,” was all Bishop could manage to mutter as he turned away. The explosive events of the last minute were staggering. It was all too much. “It’s not even breakfast yet.”
The couple was stunned, Terri walking and rocking Hunter around the campsite, avoiding the bodies that now littered the area. Bishop just went and sat on a rock, staring down at the ground in disbelief.
What had been a pristine island of calm and beauty was now scarred and polluted by violence and blood. It had all happened so quickly.
Hunter eventually settled down, comforted by his mother’s embrace and soothing tone. Terri then sat beside Bishop, her voice sad and full of despair. “We are so screwed. You were right, Operation Sacagawea wasn’t such a hot idea.”
“That’s not fair. It was a great plan,” he replied, trying to comfort her. “Diana and you were right – we had to do something.”
“No,” she sniffed, the reality of their situation coming clearer every second. “I got us into this. Now, I’ve probably managed to get us all killed, and the Alliance will have to go to war. I should’ve listened to you. I’m sorry.”
Bishop didn’t respond, instead choosing to wrap his arm around Terri’s shoulder and pull her tight against him. His other hand went to Hunter, rubbing the boy’s chubby cheek. This might be our last gentle moment together, the Texan realized.
But there was no blaming his wife. He had agreed to all this. There wasn’t any need for finger pointing or guilt. The locals would be coming… and almost certainly with more than three men. Was this the final chapter? Had their luck finally run out?
The emotion and stress boiled to the surface, sobs racking Terri’s frame as Bishop pulled her close. They didn’t move or speak, the water’s distant babble the only sound in the canyon.
As he knew it would, Terri’s inner-strength eventually won out. He’d seen it a dozen times since they’d been together. Where others would melt into a puddle of hysterical nerves, when it all seemed so hopeless, some fire would ignite in her belly and she would come up fighting. More than any other reason, it’s why he loved her so.
The first sign of the transformation was the stiffening of her spine and straightening of the shoulders. He knew the words would come next, defiant and unwilling to concede. He waited, and for a brief moment, Bishop thought his wife would have made a great soldier.
“What do we do now? Make a run for Texas? You know they’re going to come looking for their friends in a bit,” she said, rubbing one last sniffle from her nose.
“They would hunt us down in a matter hours. They have the drones. They outnumber us, and they know the territory.”
“We have their horses and guns. We might make it?” she said, trying to insert hope into the conversation.
Hunter reached up, wrapping his tiny hand around his father’s finger and flashing a large, toothless grin. “Daaa, baaa,” bubbled from the child’s throat.
“Did you hear that?” Bishop brightened. “He said da da. He’s talking to me!”
Terri had to smile at her husband’s excitement. “Yes, I heard it. I think you’re right,” she agreed.
Bishop took him from her, the dead bodies and smell of blood and cordite forgotten, their forthcoming demise pushed aside. For two minutes, the father tried to solicit another statement from his son.
Despite making every silly noise, funny face, and odd sound he could think of, Bishop couldn’t get Hunter to repeat the word. But it didn’t matter. Dad was sure he’d heard it, and impending doom aside, the jabbering lightened his mood.
Handing Hunter back, Bishop was inspired, “We’re not going to go down easily, my love. Let’s get to packing. I’m going to scavenge what I can from our deceased friends, and then we’ll ride like the wind for Texas.”
Glad her husband had recovered from the dark mood, Terri nodded. “I’m on it,” and then hustled off, making ready to bug out.
Bishop approached the horses first, knowing the animals were their only hope. Skittish, and still nervous from the gunfire, he spoke to them in a tone similar to that which Terri had used to soothe Hunter.
After securing the animals, Bishop then began to search the bodies, quickly patting them down and separating the effects into two piles. One they would take with them, the other would remain with the departed.
It was a discomforting act, taking a dead man’s possessions. Bishop couldn’t help but wonder if the lifeless shells at his feet had families or children. Where did they live? What did they do before the collapse?
Standing over one of the gunshot victims, the Texan peered down at the deceased man’s face and realized he didn’t even know what the guy looked like. So heavy was the paint on the man’s skin, Bishop doubted he would recognize the guy if he had met him just a few hours before. Even the fellow’s build was distorted by the turtle shell pads, braided animals bones, and ornate chest plate.
Tilting his head, Bishop smiled. “Terri,” he called out. “I’ve got an idea.”
Terri stepped back to admire her handiwork.
Glancing between the dead model at her feet, and her fidgeting husband, she finally nodded. “I think that’s it.”
They had found pouches of some pigment on the bodies, Terri realizing that mixing the powder with proportional amounts of water resulted in a thick body paint.
While Bishop figured out how to don their garb, Terri had set about applying his “makeup.”
“That’s war paint,” Bishop corrected. “Women wear makeup, men wear the colors of battle.”
“Uh-huh. Whatever. Other than Mardi Gras, I wouldn’t advise this get-up on a regular basis. I just don’t think it’s you.”
She stepped closer, commanding him to “hold still,” while she applied a few touchups. “There’s my noble savage. You look ready to kick ass and take names. I especially like the long hair. It brings out the bad boy in you… and we all know the girls like the bad boys.”
It had been so melancholy, using his knife to trim one of the local’s hair from his corpse. Terri, with a patch of cloth, the Indian’s headband, and a length of Bishop’s fishing line, had fashioned a passable, makeshift “wig.”
“War bonnet,” Bishop had corrected with a grin.
She had to admit, it was difficult to tell her husband from the men who had just tried to kill them. A thick layer of black, then a second coating of the white and grey accents hid Bishop’s naturally lighter complexion. His dark tan from working the ranch helped as well. Now, they had to hope no one else could tell the difference.
Nick said their security team was transient, living in tents, Terri reminded herself. Maybe the guards don’t know each other all that well. Bishop might get away with this among strangers.
Bishop scanned the cloudy, grey sky. “Even the weather is with us. The lower the light, the more likely I’ll get by with this disguise.”
“Are you sure about this?” she asked for the third time. “Riding into the enemy’s lair would seem to have its drawbacks.”
“Our chances of escaping back to Texas are slim, even with the horses. And if we did manage to return home, that still leaves the Alliance with a huge problem. You wanted to talk to their leader, so let’s go talk. The end result can’t be worse than our fleeing the territory.”
Terri rubbed her chin in thought and then nodded. “It�
��s not any more insane than my little scheme. And like you said, we’re probably both dead either way. Why not?”
Bishop grunted, cursed, and struggled to lift the dead bodies onto the horses’ backs. When he came to the man with the crushed throat, he turned to Terri and said, “Let me borrow your pistol for a second.”
“Huh?” she questioned, handing him the iron anyway.
“Cover Hunter’s ears, please.”
Using one of his trash bags as a splash guard, Bishop said, “Sorry,” and popped two rounds into the dead man’s face. The effect was devastating.
“What the hell are you doing?” Terri asked, thinking her husband had finally lost it.
“He’s unrecognizable now. Being an imposter has two sides.”
Terri got it, but still had to shake her head over the morbid act. “Ewwww,” she groaned, turning away from the gore. “Let’s hope they don’t have a good CSI team. You’d never get away with that on those old television shows.”
As Bishop hefted the last man, Terri watched as he managed to drape the corpse over a horse’s back and then secured the poor fellow with rope. After double checking the animals were properly tethered together, the Texan mounted the last unoccupied saddle.
“Wait a second,” Terri protested, realizing all of the horses were occupied. “Where are Hunter and I supposed to ride?”
“Squaws walk,” Bishop said, sticking out his chest. “Especially when they’re the spoils of war. Don’t you know anything about Indians?”
“I got yer spoils of war… right here, buddy,” she growled, pointing at her butt. “And you can just kiss it.”
“We’ll get around to that once we’re back at the teepee,” he said, trying to maintain a straight face. “For now, get your spoils of war walking out of this canyon before I decide to ravage my conquest right here and now.”
With a defiant tilt of her chin, Terri began walking, grumbling something about paybacks being a bitch.
It was a safe bet that Loggerhead Canyon had never witnessed such a convoy passing through its rocky bastions. Terri and Hunter, the captured prisoners, were followed by Bishop in full Native regalia, the proud warrior returning home, eager to show all that he was still upright in the saddle. Behind the conquering hero plodded the fallen, draped over the remaining two pack animals, along with the prisoner’s possessions. It was a procession that seemed to belong to another time and place.
