by Joe Nobody
Bishop’s father laughed, tousled the young boy’s hair, and replied in a serious tone. “Bishop, I’m going to tell you again, son, you don’t have to be hot or sweating for your body to lose water. Today, the air is sucking the water out of everything, including your very lungs as you breathe. On days like this, drink more water regardless if you feel hot, cold, sweaty, dry, or thirsty. Got it?”
“Yes, sir.”
That day had been over 30 years ago, and Bishop had never appreciated the lesson more than this afternoon. He knew a man could normally last a few days without water - but not today. The humidity must be below 5%, and the air was draining his body with every breath. Of all the days to be without water, he thought. If I don’t find some soon, I won’t have to worry about this sore back and dirty rifle.
In his mind, Bishop determined he would walk a hundred more steps before he rested again. He re-slung the rifle and started counting. As he headed north, he planned to complete the majority of his journey to Fort Bliss at night. Since he was traveling through west Texas, water would be spotty. The few widely known lakes and springs would most likely attract refugees, and after what he had just experienced, he wanted to avoid people. Traveling at night would be cooler, require less water, and help him pass through unnoticed.
He also needed to rest and re-inventory his pack. He had been using a lot of ammo and wasn’t sure exactly how much reserve was left. His current predicament would be even more complicated if his supply of lead were as low as his water. He mentally estimated a three-day walk to Fort Bliss if he traveled from dusk to early morning light. Bishop knew he could shorten that distance if he trekked through El Paso, but the risk wasn’t worth it. Every scrap of information, rumor, and just plain old common sense screamed, “Avoid El Paso!” The few drifters passing through Meraton whispered wild stories of horrific scenes and terrible circumstances in that west Texas city. Bishop figured there was some exaggeration involved, but his narrow escape from Houston tended to lend some credence to even the most farfetched claims. He judged their tall tales had some foundation in truth.
On the third set of 100 steps, he had to fight down a strong urge to take off his pack and leave it behind. I can move on ahead, find water, and then come back and get it, he kept telling himself. It took all of the discipline he could muster to overcome the impulse.
On the fourth iteration, he noticed that the landscape was changing around him. His route was now gradually sloping downhill, and an island of vegetation lay ahead. The small clump of cacti was mostly dead, but it was the first life he’d seen in hours, and it immediately improved his morale.
He hiked a little further, noticing more and more signs of life around him. Even walking was becoming easier, as the ground beneath his boots changed to a flat, packed surface. Random spots of green and dark brown vegetation littered the desert floor, and the rock facade of the surrounding hills seemed to transform into a friendlier color of red. A turkey vulture circled in the sky ahead of him, no doubt having spotted a meal. A dead animal meant something had once been alive, and that meant water somewhere nearby. Bishop was envious of the scavenger’s apparently effortless soaring on the thermal waves rising from the desert floor. He tried to imagine what the cool air would feel like rushing by his own head.
Rounding a bend, he saw the first signs of civilization in hours. A fence line suddenly appeared, stretching into the distance. Alongside the barbwire, a pair of worn paths showed clearly in the desert soil. Bishop had a vision of a bored cowpoke driving the fence line in his pickup while looking for downed wire or busted posts. He had performed the same job dozens of times in his youth. Where there was a fence, there were cattle. Where there were cattle, there was water. The fence ran in the general direction Bishop wanted to travel, so he decided to follow it. Experience taught him that the ranch hands would have taken advantage of the flattest terrain when laying the wire and that sounded like good news for his aching knees and tired back.
Bishop managed another mile or so before he came to a dry creek bed lined with smooth, bleached, white limestone. The sun was almost at its zenith, and the day was going to be a scorcher for this time of year. There were occasional clumps of scrub oak along the banks, some of which were actually large enough to provide shade. He considered walking up or down the stream to see if there were any low spots that still held water. He concluded that finding a standing pool was unlikely, and he would be gambling precious energy on a wild goose chase. His head was now pounding – yet another sign of dehydration. He wasn’t going to be able to function much longer without something to drink.
He moved away from the fence line and followed the creek until he found a large oak, its branches extending over the bank, creating shade over a low spot of sand. Bishop scanned the area and couldn’t see a better place to make camp. The relief he felt after taking off his pack, chest rig, and body armor gave him energy. He swung his rifle around to his back, and tightened the sling to secure the weapon. It would take him a second or two to get back in position should the need arise. But he had work to do, and the lack of water was the imminent threat. Bishop dug around in his pack and extracted his entrenching tool and his supply of plastic bags. It was time to start digging for water.
He began burrowing in the dry sand beneath the shady spot. With any luck, he would find enough water below the surface to get a drink. The first 16 inches of sand was so dry it wouldn’t even stick to his hands. At two feet below the surface, he noticed barely moist grains sparkling on the blade of his spade. Another half a foot, and the color of the soil changed, indicating it was moist. Three feet down, he hit bedrock and couldn’t go any deeper.
Using his hands, Bishop pushed around the damp grit and made a bowl-sized indentation, hoping enough water would seep in from the sand and pool on the bedrock. He knew it wouldn’t be much, but even a couple of mouthfuls would work wonders right now.
Rather than sitting around watching the hole, Bishop thought it best to hedge his bet. He began making his hole wider and deeper. When he reached the dampest earth, he started dumping each shovel of tacky soil into a large black trash bag. When he had filled the plastic bag to the point where he worried about lifting it, he twisted the top and struggled up the bank with his load.
Bishop labored under the weight of the moist earth while he searched for a good patch of soft sand that was fully exposed to the sun. He started digging again. In 15 minutes, he excavated a round hole that would be a perfect sized grave for a car’s tire. He took another large black bag and lined the entire bottom and sides of the pit, using small stones to hold the edges of the plastic liner in place.
Carefully, he dumped the wet sand onto the plastic liner and spread the damp grains around evenly. Next, he placed his drinking cup directly in the middle of the moist sand, then covered the hole with the now empty bag. Using more stones to act as paperweights, he sealed the cover as tightly as possible using the original contents of the pit. It dawned on him he could add to the moisture content of his new solar still, so he folded back one side of the cover and urinated inside. His dehydrated body didn’t make much liquid, but every little bit would help. Bishop re-covered the pit and stood back to look at his field craft. One task remained, and he hurriedly added the final touch. He placed a small pebble in the middle of the cover, directly over the cup inside. The quarter-sized stone was just heavy enough to cause the plastic to sag downward in a concave-shaped roof over the pit without touching the lip of the cup. As the sun heated the black cover, the damp sand would surrender its moisture. The humid air would condense on the inside of the plastic bag. The droplets of pure water would be pulled downward by gravity to the lowest spot, which was right above his cup. Bishop smiled, imagining the small rivulets of water dripping into the vessel. It would take some time to recover a usable amount of water, but it was the best he could do at the moment.
Not far away, he spied a healthy looking cluster of vegetation and retrieved two clear plastic bags from his pack. Picking th
e leafiest branches, he slid the plastic bag over as much of the green leaves as possible. Next, he placed a good-sized rock in the bag, causing the thin stems to bend, allowing the tip of the bag to rest on the desert floor. He used two of his gear ties to tightly seal the open end of the bag around the base of the stems. His contraption looked like he was trying to protect rose bushes from a late frost, but in reality, Bishop knew that the plant would give up precious moisture in order to cool itself from the hot air inside the bag. The humidity trapped in the plastic should condense and run down the inside to the lowest spot – the rock resting on the ground.
He proceeded back to the streambed, anxious to see if there was any water at the bottom of his pit. Hopefully, among the three sources, he would get enough H2O to continue his journey without harming his body. His heart was pounding, as he slowly looked over the edge of what he hoped was a well and not a dry hole. There was water! Not much – maybe a quarter inch deep and mostly mud, but WATER!
In seconds, the suction hose from the water filter was in the hole, and the discharge end was in his mouth. He pumped once…twice…three times, and a small squirt hit his tongue. Another pump delivered another squirt. It tasted like mud and dirty socks, but Bishop didn’t care. He swallowed the foul liquid with gusto. No cold glass of ice tea had ever tasted any better, no frosty brew had ever quenched any more.
There was a moment of panic when the next pump produced dry air. He glanced into the hole and found his efforts had sucked clean a small area around the hose. He moved the tip to another shallow pool and managed four mouthfuls before the hole went dry. He leaned back and relaxed for a bit, the weight of the world lifted from his shoulders.
Bishop vacillated about where to bivouac. While this wouldn’t be a great camping spot if a flash flood came roaring down the creek, he decided to chance it. There was shade, good cover - and the bend in the creek limited visibility to any passersby. The small oaks at the edge of the bank were leaning over the streambed due to the last thunderstorm eroding the soil underneath their root system. Bishop climbed up the bank and wedged his way into the cluster of small trunks, the largest of which was about this size of his wrist. Picking the tree with the fullest canopy, he gradually applied pressure until he had bent the top of the tree over the streambed as far as possible. Holding onto the bent trunk with one hand, Bishop reached down and picked up his survival net with the other. It took a bit, but he wove the very top of the oak’s small branches into the net and then let it snap back upright. He repeated the process two more times, resulting in his net hanging in the air via three oak branches.
Bishop moved down the stream a bit until he found a rock the size of a basketball. Hefting the weighty stone, he carried it back and set it down next to the suspended net. After gathering two more similarly sized rocks, he slowly pulled the net downward, bending the oaks over the streambed. He strategically placed the rocks to secure the canopy in place. Bishop could safely bend the trees over until there were only a few feet of the net exposed. He quickly used his knife to trim small pieces of foliage, weaving them into the visible portion. After finishing, he stepped back several paces to view his handiwork.
To anyone in the area, his shelter would look like a cluster of scrub oaks, falling into the streambed as the bank eroded away. Unless someone took the time to investigate closely, he would be practically undetectable.
Bishop headed back to his new hut and crawled inside. He excavated the pit until it was long enough to lie in. It may look like a shallow grave, but it will be nice and cool. He pulled his rain poncho out of the pack and lined the makeshift bunk. He pushed the spoil piles to the edge of the net, pleased with his cozy foxhole. He could fight from this position, if necessary.
The next task at hand was to clean his weapon. Not having the energy to fully strip it down, Bishop ran a piece of cloth through the barrel and pulled out the bolt, quickly cleaning it and the chamber. He brushed the crusted sand off the outside of the rifle, later applying just the right amount of lubricant to the moving parts. After reassembly, he dry fired several times to verify there wasn’t any sand fouling the moving parts. A full magazine was inserted and a round chambered. Bishop then checked his secondary and found the holster had kept the pistol clean. He double-checked everything just to be sure.
Now that the weapons were squared away, it was time to inventory his pack. While he had a pretty good idea of what remained, three long days had passed since it had been packed. He needed a clear mental picture of what there was left to work with.
As Bishop laid the contents of the pack and load vest out on the shady stone of the riverbed, the first thing that became obvious was his low ammo store. He had configured his chest rig to hold four magazines for his rifle before leaving the ranch. Another six had been stored inside his pack. He learned a long time ago not to fill 30 round magazines with 30 cartridges. While rare, failures, or jams did happen. Reducing the spring tension in the box magazine seemed to result in a slight improvement. Experience had taught him that 28 was the right number for his weapon, so he left the ranch with 280 rifle rounds. He expended all but 74. In a full out gunfight, that wasn’t very much ammo.
The next task was to check the food situation. The resulting inventory included about a pound of deer jerky, some roasted pine nuts, and one emergency MRE (Meal Ready to Eat) Bishop and Terri had carried with them on the bug out from Houston. Not exactly 5-star restaurant cuisine, he mused. While the food situation wasn’t critical, he wouldn’t be watching his weight on this trip. Bishop’s stomach rumbled, reminding him that he hadn’t eaten anything in over 24 hours. While he would have loved to chew on a piece of the jerky, he knew that the body used a lot of water to digest food and dulling the hunger would hasten his dehydration. Chow time would have to wait until he had more water.
The remaining items in the pack survived the trip unscathed. He double-checked everything, and then cleaned the small hand pump water purifier, hoping he would need it several times before this trip was over. The spare batteries, mess kit, and other items were all repacked in the proper order along with the empty magazines from his dump pouch. The contents of his medical kit, or blow out bag, had not been necessary so far and remained in good shape. Water and ammo were the top priorities, and he knew both would be difficult to come by.
Bishop pondered setting up some trip wires in case someone wandered by. He determined it wasn’t worth the effort due to an uncooperative terrain. The combination of the streambed, flat desert floor, and lack of vegetation made it difficult to hide the wires. Only by pure chance would someone stumble onto his location anyway.
After visually verifying the isolation of his position one last time, Bishop removed his boots and socks and stripped down to his skivvies. He took the garments and rubbed them thoroughly in the dry sand, using a motion similar to someone washing clothes on a washboard. It wasn’t the same as using water, but would help a little. After brushing off all of the sand, the clothes were hung in a small spot of sunlight with the hope that the UV rays would kill some of the bacteria causing them to stink. What the hell, the body armor could use a little airing out as well.
Bishop set aside one of the few remaining sealed hoohaws, or baby wipes. As he wiped down his body, the evaporating alcohol cooled his skin and made him drowsy. He dry brushed his teeth and then set his watch alarm to wake an hour before sunset. Feeling almost human again, Bishop used his pack to prop up his head and reclined in the pit. The indigenous wildlife didn’t seem to notice the gentle snore coming from the streambed a few minutes later.
Chapter 2 – Independent Mountain Men
Colonel Marcus looked up from the map spread on the roof of his command Humvee and sighed. His 4th Brigade Combat Team of the 10th Mountain Division was taking up defensive positions outside of Shreveport, Louisiana, and he wasn’t happy with the situation at all.
Colonel Marcus was standing in the doorframe of the Humvee, trying to gain just a little more visibility from the extra height. It
wasn’t helping much. To add to the frustration, he didn’t have a proper military map. One of his staff sergeants had pulled this one from the glove box of his civilian car as they were rushing out of Fort Polk. The army didn’t issue proper military grade maps of North America to its corps.
Shreveport was the hub of the wheel for several nuclear power plants residing along the Mississippi delta, and it was the 4/10’s objective to gain control of the region for the Independents. The decision to pledge his command to the new group had been difficult enough. Now their first mission was causing him to second-guess that commitment.
During the first few months after everything had fallen apart, his brigade had been ordered to perform unthinkable acts by the regular chain of command. While there is no action more demoralizing for a military unit than to enforce martial law on the native populace, this situation had been even worse. Not only was the 4/10 ordered to enforce rule of law, they metamorphosed into the health care provider, fire department, police, and food distribution center for the distressed population.
One night Marcus had been visited by a former commanding general whom he respected. The sales pitch explaining the Independents’ purpose had been executed flawlessly. After sleeping on it, Marcus decided he was in. The President of the United States was “off the reservation,” and the Independents pledged to restore rule, governing based on the Constitution of the United States. That founding document was what Colonel Marcus and every other U.S. officer swore an oath to protect.
Marcus looked over his shoulder at Sergeant Major Mitchel and shook his head in disgust. “Mitch, this isn’t good. I don’t know how far back to place our reserve. Is there any topography data available?”
Sergeant Major Mitchel shook his head, “I’ve sent a couple of men into Shreveport to check at the local library, sir. The town’s been badly looted, but they’re trying to find something – truthfully, I wouldn’t count on it, Colonel.”