Holding Their Own: A Story of Survival

by Joe Nobody

  Terri asked, “What was he doing under the car?”

  “He was stealing gas. He died trying to get a gallon of gas. What a fucking waste.”

  “How do you steal gas from under a car? I thought you needed to suck on a hose or something?”

  “That is the slow way. See the screwdriver? You punch a hole in the bottom of the gas tank with that and then let the gas drain into the jug.”

  “Bishop, shouldn’t we call the police?”

  “How are we going to call the police? There are no phones.”

  Bishop turned the body over and checked it. He found a wallet that was empty except for a motorcycle driver’s license listing an address of an apartment complex about a mile away.

  “What a dipshit. This poor guy was just plain dumb,” Bishop said, shaking his head in disbelief. “This whole thing really bothers me.”

  Terri replied, “He was probably just desperate, Bishop. Don’t you think you are being a little harsh?”

  “It bothers me because he died for a gallon of gas. How long before he would have killed someone for their sandwich?”

  Bishop realized how cold his statement sounded and wondered for a second what he was saying. He mumbled to Terri, “Sorry babe. I’m having trouble wrapping my head around all of this. This street is full of good people living decent lives and to see this sort of thing here is, like, some sort of nightmare.”

  Bishop joined a few of the neighborhood men. They talked about what to do for a few minutes, and the men agreed that they would load the body into a pickup and take it to the closest police station.

  Bishop didn’t agree, “I don’t think that is a good idea. First of all, it is a waste of gas. Second, I don’t think you will find any police at the station. Even if you do, you might be in trouble for messing with evidence at a crime scene. Besides, what are they going to do with the body?”

  The debate continued for a few more minutes, and they determined that some of the men should walk to the police station to see what the police wanted them to do. Bishop didn’t like that idea either, but thought it was better than the original.

  Two other guys and Bishop were going to make the trip, so he went home to get ready. He grabbed his rifle, load gear and a side arm. When he went back out to meet the other men, they looked up at him with an expression that seemed to ask, What the hell is that?

  Bishop had put on his body armor, which was a thick-looking vest. On top of that, he had put on a chest rig, a harness that contained many small pouches, each full of different types of equipment, including a medical kit and other items. Three of the pouches contained extra rifle magazines.

  One of the men joked, “Are we going to war?”

  “I’m uncomfortable with this trip. I think if one guy is desperate enough to walk a mile for a gallon of gas, there is a good chance there will be other very desperate people. I have heard bangs and pops for the last two nights, and I don’t think it was firecrackers. Besides that, carrying all this shit around gives me a good workout.”

  His two traveling companions digested his reasoning for a bit and felt they should at least bring along their rifles. They had to make a second trip home when Bishop asked them if they had brought any water.

  “Water?” they asked.

  “It is over a mile to the police station. It will be over a hundred degrees on the way back. When was the last time you walked two miles in that kind of heat carrying a rifle? What if we have to detour and it’s more than two miles?”

  When the team was finally ready, including rifles and water, the three men began trekking down the street. Bishop’s housing development had been started in 2008, right before the housing bubble had burst in the market. Originally, the large tract of land was to have included several streets and entrances off of the main road in the area, Cypress Boulevard. The developer had managed to construct a single street and build less than 50 homes on it before the housing market had evaporated. The remainder of the land was vacant and covered with a tangle of wild vegetation.

  When Bishop and Terri were shopping for a home, he liked the fact that there was only one way in and one way out. Traffic would never be an issue since the single street dead-ended. No cross streets existed, and a nature preserve bordered one entire side of the neighborhood. They couldn’t afford a larger piece of property within commuting distance and really liked the home, so they had taken the plunge.

  As the men left their street, they walked single file down Cypress. Something kept nagging at Bishop. They had made it four blocks when it finally dawned on him that there was no sound. The fact that there were no automobiles was not a surprise, but what did bother him was the lack of sound from home generators, children playing, or other normal human noise pollution. He had grown used to the sound of generators on his street, and now that they were out of earshot, he couldn’t hear any motors running at all.

  “This is kind of spooky,” he said. “I don’t think we are in Kansas anymore.”

  They noticed the smell as they were approaching the first residential area between them and the police station. Bishop thought he knew what the smell was, but didn’t want to freak the other guys. As they went around a small bend in in street, they saw a SUV at the side of the road. The hood and back hatch were both sticking up in the air and as they got closer, several buzzards flew off.

  “Guys, I think we should go back,” Bishop recommended.

  “They may need our help.”

  “I think they are beyond our help, but if you want to check, I suggest we spread out a little and get on both sides of the road,” Bishop replied with warning in his voice.

  The two men with Bishop just shook their heads and went running up to the SUV. They didn’t get very close before one of them turned around and went down on his knees and started to vomit. The other man stopped 40 feet away and just stared at the scene.

  Bishop didn’t walk directly to the SUV. He made a very slow circle around it looking both at the nearby homes and at the ground. After he had finished his circle, he slowly walked up and took it all in.

  There were open suitcases and paper bags surrounding the vehicle. Clothes, shoes, and other personal items were strewn all over the street and sidewalk. Bishop used his rifle barrel to lift the lid of one of the suitcases, and underneath was a spent cartridge. So, he thought, they had pulled all of this out of the back after shooting.

  He walked around the back and noticed that there were a few bullet holes in the brake light and a few more through the back hatch door. He looked in the backseat and then quickly spun away. Lying there, in pools of dried and blackened blood, were two small children, one still strapped in a car seat.

  Bishop pulled himself together and walked around to the driver’s side. What he saw there almost took him to his knees. A man’s body was lying on its side with his hands bound behind him using his own belt. There was a single bullet hole through his head. He had been executed.

  Bishop walked away quickly, fighting a mixture of boiling anger, disgust, and fear. He went over to the other men and all three of them stood silent, looking in every direction but at the SUV.

  “We should head back,” stated one of the guys, “there are no police. If there were, this would not be left sitting here like this.”

  “Shouldn’t we do something with their bodies?” one of the other men asked.

  “What do you suggest?”

  “Fuck, I don’t know. I’m a gawd damned real estate agent. How the fuck would I know? Jesus Christ, I just want to go home.”

  Bishop thought that was a good idea, but something was still bothering him about the SUV. He tilted his head to one side and said, “Hang on a minute, I want to take one last look around, and then we will head back.”

  Bishop walked up the street in the direction that the SUV had come from. He had gone about a block when he saw a woman’s purse next to the road. It appeared to have been thrown out the window of a moving car. It was scuffed up, and the contents had been flung around.
He continued another 50 yards or so and found two more spent cartridges on the ground.

  He played it out in his mind. The family had packed up and left in the middle of the night. A car had come up behind them and perhaps tried to get them to pull over. The man probably refused, and a chase ensued. The followers had started shooting at the SUV, and the woman in the passenger seat thought they were after her purse. She threw it out the window in desperation.

  Woman? Passenger seat?

  He spun around quickly and began running back to the SUV. When he got close enough, he yelled out, “Guys, let’s spread out – the woman is missing. She might still be around here.”

  Bishop’s companions gave him a puzzled look and mouthed, “Woman, what woman?”

  He ran up to the scattered luggage and looked around for just a second. He held up a woman’s dress with his rifle barrel and asked, “Who does this belong to?” Then he pointed to the open passenger door and said, “Who opened that door?”

  Both men gave Bishop a look of “Oh shit!” and began to look around.

  Bishop scanned the area for a minute and focused on a privacy fence about 50 yards away. It was the closest structure to the SUV, and he started walking toward it. As he rounded the corner of the fence, he saw her.

  She was curled up in a fetal position next to the barrier, naked except for a pair of white socks. Her back was turned to Bishop. He approached her slowly and said in a gentle voice, “Hey there. I won’t hurt you. It’s okay. I promise I won’t hurt you.”

  She didn’t move.

  Bishop could see she was breathing. He kept a good distance while he moved until he could see her face. Her eyes were open but did not focus. Her nose had been bleeding, and her face was bruised and swollen. Tears streaked the dirt on her face. She just lay there, not moving.

  Bishop turned to the other men and said, “Find me something to cover her up with - hurry.”

  He kept talking to her in a calm, steady tone and unhooked the canteen from his belt. He poured water on his hand and slowly rubbed some on her lips. She showed no reaction.

  One of the men ran up with a sleeping bag that he had scavenged from the van’s belongings, and Bishop covered her up. This seemed to affect her, and she stirred for a second.

  Bishop considered the men and said, “This lady is in shock. We have to get her out of here. Grab some of her clothes, and go get her purse up the street. We will carry her back with us. Stay where we can see each other all the time. Whoever did this might be back.”

  Bishop ran to the back of the SUV and found two suitcases with wheels, the kind people pull through airports. He had a length of Paracord, an extremely strong rope, in his kit and used it to tie the two suitcases together. Then, using his knife to cut rods from the two fishing poles still in the back of the SUV, tied them on for support. His creation reminded him of Rita’s gurney and that, of course, was its purpose.

  He carefully lifted the woman and carried her to the makeshift gurney. The group proceeded back to the neighborhood, pulling the victim and keeping an eye out for trouble.

  As they returned, a few of the neighbors who were outside dropped what they were doing and came running to help. Bishop turned to one of the men and said, “I think we need to block the entrance to the neighborhood. I’m going to pull Terri’s car up on one side, but we need another car to completely block the street.”

  “I got it,” he replied and hurried toward his house to bring a second car.

  Bishop explained how they had found the woman and a little bit about what she had most likely endured. A neighbor lady just shook her head. She walked over to the small crowd that had gathered, issuing orders for the victim to be moved inside. Bishop handed the neighbor the woman’s purse, and she quickly located the woman’s ID. “Her name is Brenda Mitchell. She is a R.N. Supervisor at Houston General,” she said.

  Terri came running up and gave Bishop a big hug. She had been waiting by the window for him to return.

  “Are you okay, Bishop?”

  “I’m fine.”

  “Liar. You are not,” she stated flatly. Something in his eyes made the hairs on her neck stand on end.

  “Why did you ask if you already knew?” he said way too sharply.

  “Bishop?”

  “Terri, I want you to start keeping your pistol on you all of the time - understand? And I mean all of the time. Don’t take a piss, don’t cook, and don’t even sleep without that pistol within reach. Please, Terri, I mean it.”

  “Okay, Bishop. Was it that bad, baby?”

  “It was that fucking bad. I want you to go get your pistol. Then I want you to go up and down the street and knock on everyone’s door. We need to have a neighborhood meeting in the cul-de-sac at 7:00. It will have cooled off a little by then.”

  Bishop checked on the victim and saw that she was being well taken care of. The ladies got her to drink something, and her eyes appeared more focused.

  Bishop then headed to the house for Terri’s car keys. He had siphoned all of the gas out of her sedan for the generator but figured there was enough to get it the short distance to the entrance of the subdivision. He was right.

  He then went to his garage to retrieve the wheelbarrow. Of course the tire was flat because he never used it. But after working the hand air pump, he threw in a shovel and started toward Roger’s house. He picked up the lifeless body of the gas thief, dumped him in the wheelbarrow, and covered him back up. He turned around and started down the street toward an empty lot in the back of the neighborhood.

  As he pushed the wheelbarrow down the road, he started thinking, what a morbid sight I must be, something never before seen in this neighborhood, not even at Halloween. He thought about shouting, “Bring out yer dead! Bring out yer dead!” like an old movie he had once seen. That thought, combined with the stress of the entire situation, made him laugh. The realization that he was pushing a body down the street and preparing to dig his first grave made him stop and wonder if he were losing it mentally.

  Someone yelled, “Hey Bishop, hold up!” and he instinctively turned around to see who it was. A couple of the men were walking along behind him carrying shovels and some other items. “We’ll help,” one of them said grimly.

  It took them almost three hours to dig the hole. There had not been a serious rain in Houston for weeks, and the lot had been hard packed in preparation for building a house. They were all soaking with sweat and had sent for water twice. When the grave was about four feet deep, they had had enough and dropped the body inside. As they started to fill the hole, one of the men began to hammer and made a small cross out of scrap lumber. “What was his name?” he asked. Bishop had put the man’s wallet in the blanket before throwing the body in. “Just write ‘Looter,’” was all he said.

  They had just finished when Bishop looked at his watch. Entombing the body in the parched Texas earth had taken longer than he thought, and it was almost 7:00. As the burial detail meandered back, they could see a crowd had already gathered. Damn, thought Bishop, no time to take a shower.

  Neighborhood meetings had become commonplace after hurricanes. When the power was out for extended periods, everyone had seemed to naturally gather in the big, open cul-de-sac. Cookouts, social meetings and even the serving of a cold beer had occurred.

  In the rare circumstance that the group had to solve a problem or make a decision, the tradition was for each household to speak for five minutes, in order by address number. Everyone knew this gathering was one of those meetings. At a little after seven, the first homeowner stood and cleared his throat.

  I call this meeting to order

  Bishop and Terri lived at number 27, almost in the middle of the pack. As Bishop stood and listened to each speaker, he realized this meeting had been a bad idea. The speakers seemed to fall into two main groups, those who were convinced that everything would be back to normal soon, and those who had zero idea of what to do. Most people had enough food for the time being, and the water was still
flowing. Almost everyone was worried about having enough gasoline for the generators, and two people were running low on critical medication.

  Later, looking back, he realized he must have been quite a sight to see when it came his turn. He was still wearing his load gear and carrying his rifle. He was soaking wet with sweat and had blood from the shooting victim on his shirt and vest. His ensemble was complete with a healthy coating of dirt from the afternoon’s grave digging session.

  When it was their turn, Terri smiled as Bishop stood to address the group. His neighbors were gathered in a circle of lawn chairs, surrounded by tables covered with bottled water and an assortment of snack crackers. He passed her his rifle, cleared his throat and began to speak.

  “I want to begin by apologizing to you all for my appearance. It has been an interesting day. I want everyone to know what I believe we should do and why I think it is the right course to take. To begin with, I believe that local government has ceased to exist. On Cypress, a very main street, we found dead bodies this morning that had been there at least 10 hours. We haven’t received any mail for days. Has anyone seen a police car cruise the neighborhood recently? Has anyone heard a siren? A fire truck? An ambulance? “

  Bishop looked around to see that everyone was either shaking the heads “no” or looking down at the ground. He continued:

  “I believe we are on our own, at least for a while. None of us know what is really going on out there. I have been listening to the radio on and off for days trying to get news of the outside world. There is nothing on the air but marching band music. Here is what I suggest we do. First of all, we should take an inventory of anyone in the neighborhood that has medical training. We should set up our own little clinic right here on this street.”

  Bishop heard some whispers and saw some heads nodding in agreement.

  “We are in danger from looters and other predators. I recommend we establish our own neighborhood watch so that we have some security. Finally, I think we need some sort of organization, like a council. There will probably be a lot of very difficult decisions facing us in the coming weeks, and I don’t think it’s practical to vote on every issue. There are 49 homes on this street; I suggest each block of 10 addresses elect a representative. That would give us a council of five. Everyone should agree to abide by the decisions of the council. Lastly, I believe it would be a good idea for us to have a regular meeting here every night. Thank you.”