Holding Their Own XV: Bloodlust

by Nobody, Joe

  It took them nearly three hours to finish foraging for their homeless attire and accessories. Both men added cardboard boxes to their collections. Bishop found a display of beach towels, the faded sign advertising, “Buy one, get one free.”

  The most important item in each man’s buggy, however, was his overcoat. “You look like Dick Tracy,” Bishop teased as Nick tried on a style that made him look like a sleuth right out of the Sunday funny papers.

  “Who?”

  “Dick Tracy… you know… the comic book detective?”

  “Sorry,” Nick grunted, “I must be too young to remember who you’re talking about.”

  Bishop seemed to ignore the verbal jab, having found a rain-proof style for himself that was several sizes too big. In front of a dusty mirror, he tested that the coat would cover his rifle and sling. “Perfect,” he observed, as he practiced throwing the front open and raising his blaster with a quick draw motion.

  “You look like a Chicago gangster,” Nick teased. “Find a fedora somewhere, and you could be one of Capone’s shooters!”

  “Who?”

  “Al Capone… you know, the famous mobster….”

  “Sorry,” Bishop shrugged and smirked. “He must have been before my time.”

  As they loaded their booty into the truck, Bishop spied their next objective. Just down the road, an outfit that had sold and leased tractors and other outdoor implements was located. Such a business would have a garage. There would be no reason for the average looter to visit the establishment these days. It would be the perfect place to hide the truck.

  Pulling to the rear of the facility, Bishop passed several rows of lawn mowers, miniature backhoes, tractors, and front-end loaders. Along the rear wall of the main building, he stopped beside an oversized garage door. Like the retail space up front, this place had been previously looted, probably more than once. The Alliance men found the “Employees Only” door had been pried open, the bent lock and frame surrendering to some unknown force, probably a crowbar.

  Like most post-apocalyptic buildings, the inside was trashed. Papers, files, desks, and chairs were scattered randomly throughout the firm’s modest office spaces. Everything from bowling trophies to three-ring binders, spare parts catalogs, a framed customer service award, and computer monitors were strewn from wall to wall.

  The original overhead door leading to the mechanic’s bay had been electrically operated. Nick found the emergency release cord and tugged. It took a considerable effort by both men to roll up the heavy barrier on its unmaintained tracks.

  Evidently, no one had brought any machinery for repair when the collapse had occurred, the bay unoccupied. Making sure to straddle the oil change pit and hydronic lift, Bishop pulled the pickup inside.

  The two men got to work quickly, Nick storing their new wardrobes outside while Bishop removed the battery and an essential computer chip from under the pickup’s hood. If someone did discover the stashed ride, it would be extremely difficult to steal.

  He decided to leave the hood raised, staging the scene to make it appear as if their truck had been in the midst of a major overhaul when society toppled over the proverbial cliff. “Why would anyone want to snatch a broken-down old pickup?” he reasoned.

  While Bishop busied himself with a nearby wrench, Nick set to work on their clothing. Pouring a bottle of water into some loose dirt, the ex-operator began dragging each fashion item through the mud and grime. “Your clothes aren’t clean when you’ve been living outside for months or years.”

  Joining his partner, Bishop furthered Nick’s effort by wiping his greasy hands on a few of the articles.

  Taking care to remove any possible sign of their deception, both men removed their watches, rings, dog tags, and belts. Only their boots provided a potential clue, and by the time they walked into the city, both men agreed that their foot wear would camouflage itself, becoming covered in road dirt and mud.

  Finally satisfied that their disguises would pass all but the most exhaustive inspection, the duo began packing their shopping carts. This exercise proved more difficult than either would have anticipated.

  Accustomed to carrying their gear on a load vest or in a pack, both men were frustrated with how little room there was for essential equipment in the wire buggies. “Terri could fit $1,000 worth of groceries in one of these damn carts. I can’t even get enough ammunition for a good firefight in here,” Bishop grumbled.

  The fact that they were trying to obscure the valuable contents hidden deep inside the shopping buggies further complicated the situation. After they positioned the soiled beach towels, spare rags of clothing, a few cardboard boxes, and the bric-a-brac they had scavenged from the mall, there wasn’t much room for magazines, first aid kits, optics, spare batteries, knives, and other tools of combat.

  “It’s more important that we can move around unnoticed than be well-equipped. If our costumes work as well as we hope, there’s a good chance we won’t need as much ammo or the blow-out bags,” Nick stated.

  Finally, after a frustrating two hours of packing, repacking, and testing their loads, they were ready. “Now that we have wasted half a day, we can begin the ten-mile hike into New Orleans,” Nick sighed, his gaze drifting to the south. “I’m clearly getting too old for this shit.”

  “Don’t give out on me now, Grandpa,” Bishop teased. “You’re the one who held me at gunpoint and demanded to come along.”

  “What was I thinking?” Nick retorted, adjusting his oversized coat and the rifle hanging beneath.

  Like most major metropolitan areas after the collapse, the bulk of the survivors remaining in New Orleans had relocated to the outer edges of the city.

  The banks, insurance companies, accounting firms, and law offices occupying the downtown skyscrapers no longer existed. There were no beans to count, money to loan, or cases going to trial, nor was there as much open ground to plant a garden or hunt wildlife to survive. After all, the local grocery store wasn’t even stocked with bread and water anymore.

  Over time, the remaining urban populations settled into a series of concentric rings. The outer-most circle, the suburbs, offered larger lots of land, more parks and open spaces, as well as streams and creeks that could supply critical water. Those less-compressed spaces afforded better security as well.

  Most of the homes in this widest loop were newer and larger, many offering swimming pools and other amenities that provided resources critical to survival. Residents indigenous to those areas had always enjoyed a greater sense of community than their downtown cousins. And in the worst of times, that cohesiveness had been an advantage.

  Lake Pontchartrain, to the north , was a source of fishing, the many wildlife management areas and forests bordering the city serving to provide both meat and firewood. Outlying farmers and ranchers, lucky enough to acquire excess food, didn’t feel safe travelling into the inner city to barter their wares, so they learned how to preserve what they could and privately trade with long-term members of their same community instead.

  Inside of the suburbs, the next ring of population was comprised mostly of scavengers and others who didn’t have the skills or wherewithal to survive off the land. The inhabitants here had been forced to find alternative, and often unlawful methods of getting by, including looting valuables from surrounding businesses and homes, moonshining, prostitution, meth labs, grow houses, and other nefarious activities. This area was where men like Ketchum Jones thrived by providing a fix for mankind’s never-ending appetite for pleasure and escape via dopamine highs.

  If you lived in the “burbs,” and needed an antibiotic, Ketchum’s organization was the place to go. His men had seized the warehouses and pharmacies when everything was falling apart. Want a gallon of bathtub gin to offset the stress of the post-collapse lifestyle? Go see Blackjack’s man on the other side of the tracks. Need the comfort of a woman for the night? Walk a few blocks to the “red light” zone and take your pick. Bartering for everything was the norm here.


  Foodstuffs were the most common currency. If a fisherman had a good day on a local bayou, a pound of salt-cured fish was worth two quarts of homemade beer. One of the most sought-after crops was tobacco, its high level of nicotine more addicting than heroin or cocaine. Two pounds of dried leaves was worth several grams of gold… or a gallon of moonshine. Take your pick.

  Because of trade, an uneasy truce had formed between the criminal underworld and those who lived off the land. Blackjack’s men didn’t invade the suburbs, and even the most organized communities in the outer ring turned their heads from the criminal activity occurring just a few blocks away. Everyone was armed to the teeth, and on the rare occasion when a dispute did occur, the combatants often settled the matter in a hail of gunfire.

  While those who had managed to survive, on both sides, had seen their share of death and destruction, violence did occur. Despite ammunition being in short supply, the occasional clash still erupted. Many of the burbs’ residents didn’t like Ketchum’s people selling their teenagers dope or luring them to underground clubs that used generator-powered sound systems and blaring dance music as bait.

  Ketchum, for his part, tried to keep his troops in check. He needed the crops and meat provided by the outer ring. His moonshiners and breweries required potatoes, sugar, and grain. Even the most hardened criminal required calories, and while his warehouses were still well-stocked with cases of food, Blackjack was smart enough to know that those supplies wouldn’t last forever.

  In addition to his recreational pharmaceuticals, Blackjack made a serious effort to provide legitimate, essential services to the neighboring communities. On one occasion, shortly after the downfall, he had sent dozens of armed men to help the east side fight off a large band of marauders threatening a small group of farms. His organization helped fight fires and distributed hundreds of pounds of seafood that local fishermen and shrimpers delivered to the docks under his control.

  Regardless of the crime lord’s diplomatic efforts, those living in the burbs didn’t have a lot of free time on their hands to go looking for a fight. Most of their hours were consumed providing the essentials of life. Working even a modest-sized plot using hand tools was backbreaking work. Fishing and hunting, especially with the increased pressure on local game populations, was a time-consuming endeavor. Everything from firewood to a cooking pot had to be made, gathered, or bartered. By the time the locals finished their day, there wasn’t a lot of energy left to clean up the neighborhood.

  It was well past sunset by the time Bishop and Nick were pushing their overloaded carts into the outer ring. While the duo spotted the occasional flicker of a candle through a window, the street they were traveling was otherwise void of human activity.

  All of that changed, however, when the first dog started barking. The pooch’s alarm was soon joined by a choir of wailing animals. “I think we just set off the local canine alert system,” Nick whispered. “We’re going to attract attention before we want it.”

  Yet, there wasn’t anything the two men could do but keep on moving.

  It was Bishop who noticed additional lights appearing through more and more windows. A few minutes later, he realized that two men were following them. Two men with long guns.

  “I think the welcoming committee is behind us,” Nick grunted. “Our masquerade [E2] is about to be tested.”

  At the next intersection, approaching from two different directions, streamed additional locals. Four of them carried torches or flashlights. All of them were armed.

  Surrounded, the wandering nomads stopped, each subconsciously positioning his buggy in a defensive position. “Circle the wagons,” Bishop grunted at his friend.

  The lights’ glow illuminated impassioned and irate expressions, the escalating scene reminding Nick of a lynch mob straight out of a B-grade western. Slowly the inhabitants approached, Bishop whispering, “Hunch your shoulders. Don’t look so damn big and threatening.”

  “We don’t want any trouble,” Nick stated in a loud, strong voice. “We’re only passing through.”

  “We don’t cotton to drifters around here,” growled a voice thick with a southern accent. “What have y’all been stealing?”

  “We’re down on our luck, but we are not thieves,” Bishop responded, the hand inside his coat tightening on the carbine secreted there.

  The mob displayed plenty of bravery until they were within ten feet of the strangers. Then they stopped, seemingly unwilling to approach closer. “Where are you coming from?” quipped another man.

  “Lake Charles,” Nick answered, invoking the name of the first Louisiana city he could think of. “We lost our truck to highwaymen four days ago and have been walking ever since.”

  “Where are you going?” the next interrogator prompted.

  “New Orleans. We heard there was work down at the docks,” Bishop responded.

  His answer brought a round of grunts and outright laughter. “You heard wrong, Mister. There’s no work at the port, hasn’t been for years.”

  Exchanging disappointed looks with Nick, Bishop answered with a simple, one-word response, “Shit!”

  Nick, playing the role, executed his next line with the smoothness of an Oscar-winning actor. “Damn it! I told you those rumors were bullshit. Now we have traveled all this way… lost everything we own and there’s no work there!”

  “Sorry,” Bishop mumbled, his head hanging low in apparent disappointment.

  The theatrical exchange elicited another chorus of laughter from the mob. “So, you’ll be heading back to Lake Charles, right?” snapped an unfriendly Cajun when the humor had evaporated.

  “There is no other work in New Orleans?” Bishop inquired, his soiled face displaying a flicker of hope in the torchlight.

  “No,” a voice from the back of the crowd announced.

  “Is there any place around here that is safe to spend the night?” Nick asked.

  “You’re not welcome here,” answered a citizen from the shadows, “and if you keep on going into the city, you’re going to run into some old boys who are a lot more hostile than we are.”

  “I don’t understand,” Bishop shrugged, his mind secretly hoping they could gather some good intelligence from the encounter.

  “Let them keep going,” a community member offered, “let Blackjack’s boys take care of ‘em. I’m too damned tired to dig graves tonight.”

  The suggestion initiated several side conversations, the men surrounding the Texans appearing disorganized and unsure of what to do next. Bishop thought the dynamic was odd. Normally, there was a leader of any pack.

  Eventually, a throat with authority overrode the din. “Look, folks, it’s late, and this doesn’t appear to be any real threat. I don’t see anything other than junk and trash in their carts, so it looks like they haven’t taken anything that doesn’t belong to them. Robby and I will follow them out of the suburbs. We’ll make sure they move on down the road. The rest of you people can go on back to your homes and get some rest.”

  No one protested, and after a few moments, the throng began to slowly disperse.

  A short time later, Nick and Bishop found themselves standing in front of two men, both armed with shotguns. “Let’s get to walking,” the older man instructed. “We have quite a little trip ahead of us.”

  Nodding his intent to do just that, Bishop began pushing his cart while glancing over his shoulder at his escorts. “Who is Blackjack, and why would he be hostile to harmless strangers?”

  “Blackjack Jones runs everything south of Alabama Street,” answered one of his followers. “Some people say he was a pimp before the downfall. Others claim he was a drug dealer. I think he was both, and most likely a whole lot more than that. Regardless, I’d keep my head down if you’re going to pass through his turf. His gang is ruthless and damn mean.”

  For the next six blocks, Bishop and Nick took turns asking their chaperones various questions in an attempt to gather local knowledge. “New Orleans is now like a dough
nut,” one of the locals stated. “The center is hollow… empty… a void. No one goes there anymore because there’s nothing of value left. All of the action is around the rim.”

  The group approached a broad avenue that Bishop assumed was Alabama Street, the dark roadway quiet and unoccupied. The two men behind the Texans obviously didn’t want to travel any further. “Just keep heading that direction,” one of the locals gestured with his head.

  “And good luck, gentlemen. You’re going to need it,” the other man added.

  Doing as they were told, the two actors proceeded into the night, pushing their buggies and pretending to be wary of the unknown world ahead of them. Their performance wasn’t actually that far off reality’s mark.

  After they had crossed the intersection, Bishop chanced a glance over his shoulder. Both of their escorts stood on the other side, watching to make sure neither man changed his mind.

  “Southern hospitality just ain’t what it used to be, is it, my friend?” Bishop protested.

  “Depends on your perspective, I guess. After all, nobody spit lead at your lousy carcass, did they?” Nick chuckled.

  Two blocks into Blackjack’s territory, the duo heard the first indication of human occupation.

  Music drifted through an alleyway, the steady beat of rock n’ roll carried along on the gentle breeze from the west. Pausing to get a sense of the source’s location, Nick offered, “I need a little shuteye and something to stick to my ribs. Let’s not go looking for trouble just yet.”

  “Agreed,” Bishop replied.

  They continued their journey, shuffling along at a slow pace, always assuming that they were being watched and judged. “We’re two homeless men, down on our luck,” Bishop kept repeating to himself. Walk like you’ve given up. Play the role, he told himself. Appear to be pitiful, without hope or cause. You are harmless. Weak. You have nothing worth stealing. You are barely alive.