Holding Their Own: A Story of Survival

by Joe Nobody

  Betty stepped around the other corner of the house carrying her shotgun and said, “I sure am glad they didn’t shoot up that truck of yours before I got a chance to listen to my music.” Bishop gave her a hug, too.

  The Meraton Mall

  After everyone had settled down, Betty retrieved her knitting needles and two music CDs. Bishop inquired about her musical tastes and was a little surprised when she replied, “I have the Boston Pops doing Stravinsky recorded live in 1998. It is soothing, and Brandon’s violin solo in the 4th will make me happy all afternoon. I haven’t listened to this Verdi in a long time. He tends to be a little melancholy.”

  Bishop started the truck and showed her how to adjust the stereo and air conditioning. He left her cranking up the volume and mumbling about “How these CDs just didn’t have the fidelity of her tube and needle-based equipment, but would have to do.”

  After an hour and a half, he went back outside thinking something might be wrong. Betty was sitting with her head back and her eyes closed, tears running down her cheeks. He tapped on the window and was relieved when she smiled and opened the door. “Oh I’m so silly, that just moves me to tears,” she said and went inside the house.

  Bishop found Terri to discuss what supplies were left in the truck, which was not many. It had taken them so much longer to get here than they had planned. After hearing what had happened to the town where he had rented the storage bin, there was little hope that their supplies would still be there.

  The entire conversation put them in a sour mood. After a bit, Bishop looked up and said, “Come on girl, let’s get ready to go.”

  “Where?”

  “I am going to make the ultimate sacrifice for you, Terri. I am accompanying you to the mall.”

  As they got ready, Betty appeared with three small melons from her garden and a piece of paper. She had overheard them say they were going shopping and asked if they would try to trade the fruit for anything on the list. She would stay put and reassured Bishop not to worry about his truck.

  Betty then added, “Now watch that old man Turner and his counting. I don’t know if he is old or crooked, so just watch him if he is there. That Wauneta woman is honest, but sometimes her apples have worms, so inspect them real careful if she has any.” She continued to provide a “Meraton Consumer Report” regarding several other products and vendors.

  Bishop borrowed a pillowcase and threw some items in along with Betty’s melons. He slung a rifle over his shoulder like a hunter, not forward like a solider, and made sure Terri had her pistol in her belt. They began the walk to town.

  Fifteen minutes later, it was so hot outside they could see mirage waves rising from the valley floor in the distance. When they got close to town, the first thing Bishop noticed was the smell of horse manure sizzling in under the Texas sun. The second thing was the noise. There was music playing from somewhere and a low buzz of people, animals, and even a wagon being pulled down the street. He counted at least 20 horses tied up to improvised hitches and a similar number of pickup trucks parked randomly around the area. At least 200 people were walking, pointing, bartering, or leaning against anything handy.

  Many of the trucks were parked with their beds facing the street and tailgates open, storefront fashion, to display the goods that were available for trade. Someone had set several cafeteria-type tables up along the sidewalk where anyone could just sit down, spread their items out and put up a sign if they wanted. No business license required.

  “I wonder if the fall fashions are in yet.”

  “Terri, am I going to have to take away your MasterCard?”

  “Just try it, big boy.” Terri replied as she playfully reached for her pistol.

  Bishop noticed that almost everyone carried a weapon of some sort. He saw everything from old bolt-action rifles to cowboy six-shooters. His modern M4 was not unique. Many similar carbines could be seen in the gathering. He was glad to see that everyone was comfortable and non-threatening, even with all of the iron being displayed in the crowd. Terri could read him like a book. “In my eyes, your gun is the biggest in town cowboy, so relax a little bit.”

  They slowly walked up and down the street taking it all in. There were “stores” full of candles, homemade sausage, vegetables from local gardens, and even some bulk bags of rice and beans. A pickup truck at the end of the street had the biggest crowd, and the couple strolled over to see a Mexican man offering baby chicks. The eventual egg producers were going fast.

  Pete had set up the equivalent of a watering hole kiosk where he was actively negotiating with the gentleman standing in front of him. The fellow repeatedly offered a small nugget of gold for trade. Pete didn’t want the “useless metal,” and the thirsty fellow pocketed his trinket before leaving disappointed. Pete waved at Terri and Bishop, and they returned the greeting before moving on.

  A yummy aroma soon attracted their attention. Two older Mexican women were pounding dried plants into flour, and mixing a batter to bake in a small adobe oven. It smelled delicious, but Bishop wanted Terri to wait before they traded anything.

  After they toured both sides of the street, they sat down on some steps and rested. Bishop noted that the mixture of people in the market matched his memories of the town from years ago. Many of the residents of Meraton were of Mexican descent, but probably more American than most of the whites. Bishop knew that many of their families had resided in what was now called Texas for hundreds of years. Since the whites had moved west and started ranching, an easy co-existence had developed. The original families had grouped together, normally where there was water, in order to keep the Indians at bay. Their healthy, strong sons had become ranch hands and foremen. Families indigenous to the area took jobs on the ranches in the lean years when pooling resources just made sense. A kind of symbiotic relationship was created giving security to the families and providing workers for the haciendas. There were also many skilled craftsmen in the community. Quality boots, saddles and other tack were always in demand as were the skills of blacksmiths and silversmiths. The family unit in their culture reigned supreme. The elderly were respected and taken care of, and even today, it was rare to see grandma sent off to a nursing home. When Bishop had been growing up on the ranch, over half of the hands were of Mexican descent. He came to like their culture and respect them as hardworking, dedicated people.

  Still, there was an economic divide between the two races, and Bishop never understood how it existed. As he pondered this thought, he realized that in the coming years, the evolution of this community might well reverse that situation. For generations these people had to make or grow the necessities they couldn’t afford to buy. They were not as dependent on electricity or other modern conveniences as compared to the typical Anglo. If the modern society didn’t recover, they would have the skills to survive, if not thrive.

  There were also many Anglos. It was not unusual for a man to get enough of the tough ranch life, and opt for the social amenities of city life as he aged. Accustomed to hard work, these folks normally had little trouble finding jobs in more urbanized areas as construction workers, janitors and other laborers. Some, who had saved their money, worked at odd jobs now and then, and just enjoyed a simple, quiet retirement. All in all, the two cultures made it work in most of the American southwest.

  Bishop couldn’t figure out the exchange rate in the street-wide flea market. Since money had no value here, he didn’t know how to assess the worth of his goods. He had seen a potpourri of items for sale. Everything from old rusty tools, to a table of expired medicines, and even homemade knit socks was offered at the outdoor bazaar. He decided to take the plunge and see if his wares had a market here.

  Terri and he moved to an empty spot on a table and started spreading out his merchandise. He set out a quarter bottle of whiskey, a hand full of shotgun shells, fifteen rifle shells, two cans of Tomato soup and Betty’s melons.

  At first, he thought it was all for nothing. People walked by, nonchalantly browsed at his s
mall storefront, but continued down the street. After a bit, several men walked past, briefly glancing at the ammunition. They moved on, barely breaking stride, only to make a quick turn and come back by again. They are playing hard to get, completely disinterested, Bishop realized.

  Terri made some smart remark about Wal-Mart having no competition at their table and sauntered off to peruse the drug store table.

  An older man stopped, pointed at the shotgun shells, and looked at Bishop as if to ask permission to pick one up. Bishop nodded, and the man examined a sample shell, scrutinizing it more thoroughly than most car buyers do before purchasing a new mini-van. He shook it, smelled it, and twisted it every way possible. Bishop was ready to say “enough” if the guy started to bite it. The old fellow set it down on the table, exactly where it had been and asked, “What size shot?”

  “That’d be #1 steel,” Bishop replied.

  “What do you want for them?”

  “Well, that depends. I have a lot of things here on my wish list. Do you have any of…” and he started reading first one item, then the next.

  After Bishop read his list, the man said, “I have two rolls of toilet paper. I will swap you for all of those shells.”

  “No can do,” said Bishop. “I’ll trade one shell per roll.”

  The man whistled and rolled his eyes like Bishop had just asked for his first-born child. He then proceeded to inform Bishop that toilet paper was in short supply. Not to be out-negotiated, Bishop held up the shell, and retorted, “You can’t use the Sears catalog to shoot vermin, but I can use it to wipe my backside.”

  They finally settled on two rolls for three shells, and the customer was satisfied with their established exchange rate. The two shook hands, and Bishop’s first customer went on his way. Bishop was setting the rolls of TP on the table to make it look like he carried more inventory when a commotion on the street drew his attention. Two of the Ohio men were strutting down the sidewalk. Both men had been at Betty’s house that morning. They pushed some kid out of the way and were bumping into people as they walked, glancing at the different tables. Bishop wondered if they were alone, but soon picked out a third man on the other side of the street. He looked around for Terri, but couldn’t see her anywhere. He swung the rifle around to his front, keeping it pointed down. As he watched the men progress toward him, he saw one stop and pick up an apple and look at it. He made some comment, and then threw the fruit down on the ground. They were laughing and pointing and even paused to hassle a younger girl that walked by. Typical bully bullshit, thought Bishop, how many times have I seen this before?

  It didn’t take long for them to see Bishop and his table. They looked across at their friend and motioned for him to meet them in the street. Spence was not with them.

  There was an old brick building right behind Bishop’s table. He stood up and took two steps backward so that his back was close to the wall. The men made a straight line toward his shop.

  “Well, well lookie here,” one of them said. “Where is your lady friend at? It’s awful brave of you to leave the house without her.”

  He looked down at Bishop’s table. “She is going to be pissed with you selling off her ammo like that. Did she give you permission to sell that?”

  They all thought this was very funny, but Bishop didn’t laugh. He watched their hands on the rifles. Most men will take the safety off of the weapon and then raise it up. It was only the very well trained who managed both actions in the same movement. If Bishop saw a safety being taken off, he was coming up shooting, period.

  Right at that thought, a shadow fell across one of the men, and everyone looked up to see Bill on his horse towering above them. He tipped his hat at Bishop and said, “Everything all right?”

  Bishop kept his eyes on the three men, “Yeah, everything is just fine. These men are homosexuals and were offering to give me a blowjob in trade for some ammo. I declined, and they are not happy about it.”

  This really pissed them off, but their thumbs stayed off the safeties. One of them said “Fuck you, you…” but the back end of Bill’s horse suddenly swung around and almost knocked him down. Before any of them could react, the horse pivoted again and pushed them all back one more time.

  Bill said, “I’m sorry boys. Old Nubbins here is a little fidgety given the big crowd and all, please forgive him.” The men looked at each other and at the large crowd that had gathered to watch. They decided to move on, glancing over their shoulders and giving Bishop and Bill that look.

  After they left, Bill turned to Bishop and teased, “I bet you got beat up a lot as a kid with that mouth of yours. Have you always thrown sticks at mountain lions?” He winked and ambled down the street.

  Terri pushed her way through the crowd, inquiring what happened. After Bishop had explained his bargaining methods, she pretended concern. “Damn it Bishop, we just moved in, and already you are pissing off the neighbors. Now behave yourself before these people get out the tar and feathers.”

  Bishop responded with his characteristic reply. “Yes ma’am,” he said.

  The Shoot Out at the Market

  Bishop continued to trade and swap as best he could, but the members of The Force had taken the fun out of it. He kept an eye out for the troublemakers in case they showed themselves again. He had successfully acquired a few items on his list, as well as a couple on Betty’s, and decided he had a pretty good day. The crowd was beginning to thin, and vendors started leaving, so Terri and he called it quits.

  He was putting all the stuff back in his pillowcase when three shots rang out, and someone screamed. He threw Terri down on the ground hard, and took a knee in front of her while bringing his rifle up. People were running away from the shots, and Bishop had no idea who was the shooter and who was not. At times like this, he was grateful that his rifle had a holographic red dot sight on it. This allowed him to keep both eyes open while scanning. Wherever he looked, the rifle was aimed at the same spot. When the street was almost clear, he grabbed Terri by the back of the shirt, literally lifting her off of the ground, and moved her into a doorway close by. He turned and looked at her extremely pissed expression and snapped, “Stay here. Stay down; and get that fucking pistol out right now.”

  He could care less how mad Terri was at that moment because down the street he could see a horse lying on its side with a man pinned underneath it. Bill, oh God no, not Bill.

  Bishop moved through the market, keeping close to the walls and using anything he could for cover. He zigzagged across the street and changed speeds, always pivoting his head and rifle right and left, up and down. It took him less than a minute to reach where Bill was lying. Bishop could tell the shots had come from around the corner of the building next to him. He got as low to the ground as he could and popped his head around once and then back quickly. Nothing happened, and his mind replayed what his eyes had just taken in: An empty street, nothing in the shadows, but a few places for someone to hide.

  He took five big steps backward and then ran as fast as he could toward the corner. When he was almost even with it, he leapt into the air and flew feet first like a runner stealing home in a baseball game. Landing in a perfect slide, he angled his feet down and they caught, making him pop straight upright. He ended up standing with his rifle scanning all around. Nothing happened.

  He cleared the back of the building with a glance and then hurried to Bill’s side. The old cowboy’s leathery face was wrinkled with pain, and he had tears running down his cheeks. He looked up at Bishop and struggled, “Nubbins…Nubbins…they shot my Nubbins.”

  Bishop looked Bill over, and knew instantly he was not going to make it. He had two wounds in his chest, and one was bubbling air. Nubbins was dead as well, having taken a shot to the temple.

  “Bill, who shot you? Who did this?

  “I think…” cough…cough…”I think I got one of….” and he died in Bishop’s arms.

  Bishop set the old cowboy’s head down gently on the street and pulled his h
at over his face. Movement made him turn immediately, but it was Pete heading to Terri’s side in the doorway. Pete carried his shotgun while Terri rubbed the slight bruise on her leg, but Bishop could clearly make out her pistol in her hand.

  Bishop looked around and saw Bill’s weapon lying on the ground underneath Nubbins. He pulled it out and looked it over. Bill had fired a single shot.

  Bishop then went back to check the area where Bill had been ambushed. He found three shell casings of 5.56, the type used in AR15 rifles. He turned to leave when he noticed something else a few feet away. There was a small drop of blood on the ground. He walked a few steps further and found another . . . and then a third. You got one of them, old-timer. You sure as shit got one of them. Bishop noticed the blood trail led straight to The Manor Hotel. He stood there, fully exposed in the middle of the street, his eyes first fixed on the hotel and then back on Bill’s body.

  His anger began to boil, driving him into a crazed fury. I don’t give a shit. I just don’t care. I bet I can get all of those fuckers before they bring me down. Adrenaline mixed with a lust for blood and revenge spiked through his veins. He inhaled deeply, about to roar a battle cry and charge the hotel, but then something stopped him cold.

  It was Terri’s voice that brought him back from the brink. Poised to wreak havoc on his enemy, he wanted so badly to unleash absolute violence using his weapon until it was empty and then pull his knife and slash until his arms could no longer move. That all mighty, all powerful, all-encompassing urge for combat was beaten down by a soft, almost weak voice. Somehow, it reached through the blood raging in his ears, and three words registered in his brain.

  “Bishop – please don’t.”

  The Manor Hotel – September 25, 2015

  Mexico, it’s not

  Spence was as mad as he could ever remember being. He had been taking a dip in the pool to cool off when he heard the shots. He knew his men were out in the market and had warned them numerous times about causing trouble. We are lucky. This is probably the only place in a thousand miles that has food and a good place to wait this out. The only way we can fuck this up is to cause trouble. Keep your noses clean, and let me finalize our trip to Mexico.