by Nobody, Joe
After walking for over 20 minutes, they headed into a residential area. Here, oak trees with wide canopies bordered the street. The sidewalks were cracked and lumpy, sandwiched by roots from below and the sun from above. Middle-class homes that had seen better days met the Texans’ gaze, the windows dark and quiet. The few automobiles parked alongside the curbs were thick with dust and grunge, leaves and twigs indicating that none of the vehicles had been moved in years. Most of the tires were flat.
At the next intersection, Nick pointed at a business situated on the corner. According to the sign, the two-story, brick building had been a dry-cleaning company in its previous life. “Check out that store,” he instructed his friend, “that structure has got thick walls and excellent lines of sight.” Nick paused to give Bishop time to appreciate his find before continuing, “I’m sure none of Ketchum’s men come here to have their shorts starched. In fact, I don’t think there is any reason for us to expect any customers to come calling. And I’ll bet the second floor is empty.”
“Baptiste Cleaners and Alternations,” Bishop whispered, squinting to read the sign in the darkness. “Come to think of it, I suppose we both could use a good tailor about now.”
Making their way to the back of the shop, Nick pulled out his thermal optic and began scanning the surrounding structures and streets. There was no detectable heat being generated in the area.
While a lack of thermal signatures was no guarantee that this section of the city was unoccupied, it was a good indicator that no one was watching the two men from the Lone Star Nation.
Bishop was the first to climb the metal staircase leading to the second story, the peeling white paint of a doorway visible at the top of the rusted steps. Upon reaching the landing, a .45 automatic appeared from under his long coat.
As anticipated, the entryway had been pried open long ago. Just like the towns and cities his SAINT teams had visited over the years, every building, house, structure, and warehouse had already been searched and looted.
Pushing the door inward a few inches, Bishop listened and waited. There was no response from inside.
Next, the security expert switched on his flashlight, the circle of white light illuminating old, dusty hardwood floors, numerous boxes marked as tax records, surrounded by a healthy forest of cobwebs. The second floor had obviously never been used for anything but storage, the finished open space running the entire length of the building. “This place hasn’t been used for a long, long time,” he informed an anxious Nick. “Probably even years before the downfall.”
“You think it will work?” Nick asked from below.
“It’s not the Ritz, but I think we can hang our hats here for a while.”
Concealing their carts in a nearby patch of weeds, Bishop and Nick made several trips hauling their equipment up the stairs.
It took the two men almost an hour to make the storage area habitable, even by “roughing it” field standards. Bishop used his survival net, secured by a series of nails, to set up a hammock while Nick brushed aside cobwebs and cleared one corner of the floor for his sleeping bag.
Bishop unfolded a tiny camp stove while Nick went about securing the windows. Retrieving a roll of duct tape from his kit, the ex-operator created blackout screens from the cardboard boxes sharing their space. “Nothing will give away our new digs like having someone see light in a window,” he mumbled, ripping off a length of tape.
“Your snoring might be a problem, too,” Bishop teased. “Last time you and I were on an assignment, I thought I was under attack by a bunch of bears.”
A large middle finger was Nick’s only response.
Next, a trip wire was set up outside on the stairs. Again, Nick scanned the area while Bishop rigged a thin strand of fishing wire between the rusting, iron rails. Secured at the upper landing, an old can of pebbles tumbling down the treads would make one hell of a racket if anyone tried to approach their hideout.
Settled in and throwing down some chow, Nick's face became serious. “So, what’s next?”
“I’m guessing that Mr. Jones is a bit of a recluse these days. Given the US Army’s surprise visit, I assume that he is laying low. My strategy is to sting, bite, sucker punch, and generally annoy his daily operations until Blackjack has no choice but to show his rotten carcass. With any luck, we’ll be in a position to whack his ass, or at least follow him back to his lair and finish the job.”
“Guerilla warfare, eh? I like it,” Nick grinned.
“I don’t see any other alternative,” Bishop shrugged. “Even if we had a division of the Alliance’s best infantry behind us, Ketchum would just fade into the background and wait for us to get tired of the stifling humidity. No, we have to draw him out… piss him off… hurt him to the point where he has to step up and take charge at the ground level. That’s when he will be the most vulnerable. That’s when I can shoot that sphincter wart in the face.”
Rubbing his chin, Nick’s eyes glazed over as his mind wandered to the future, his analytical brain plotting the next few days. “I have some ideas,” he finally grinned. “When I served on the teams, one of my favorite missions was to disrupt the enemy behind the lines. In a few days, we’ll have Blackjack wondering why God is mad at him.”
Returning his friend’s smile, Bishop responded, “Far be it from me to get between a dog and a fire hydrant. As long as someone is pissing on Blackjack’s parade, I’ll be a happy man.”
Chapter 11
It was their sense of hearing that identified Bishop and Nick’s first target.
Rising an hour before sunrise, the two invaders ate in silence, used the back lot for a latrine, and repacked their shopping carts. “Take everything with you,” Nick advised. “We might get cut off and not be able to make it back here if things get dicey.”
By the time the sun was peeking over the horizon in the east, two wayward, downtrodden souls were roaming through the streets of New Orleans.
They had meandered three blocks when Nick heard their first clue, the distant hum of a small gasoline engine. “Somebody nearby is running a generator,” he whispered to Bishop. “Now who would have the fuel to do such a thing?”
“Let’s go check it out.”
Following their ears, they entered what had been an upscale neighborhood, the grand homes and extensive grounds a clear indicator of affluence. That former prominence, however, didn’t ensure the survival of the community. The grass and weeds were just as high, the broken windows and busted-open entryways as common as the community’s poorer neighbors to the east. At the next cross-street, Nick nodded toward a two-story, luxury apartment complex. “Check out the vehicles in that garage.”
Bishop followed his friend’s gaze, noting that several of the cars and trucks located on the ground floor’s parking area were missing the coating of dirt and grime that one would expect. Not only had these vehicles been recently driven, but they were also all expensive sedans or top of the line pickups. Next to a handful of Harley Davidson motorcycles was a jacked-up diesel 4x4, complete with off-road tires and polished chrome wheels that looked as if they had never seen a speck of dirt.
“It’s good to know that the redneck is still alive and well, even in post-apocalyptic America,” Nick teased.
“Hey! I resemble that remark!” Bishop feigned a protest. “Besides, what’s wrong with a good truck? Not everybody gets issued one of the cool-ass, military Humvees like some people I know.”
Nick didn’t even blink at the attempt to raise his dander, his mind clearly engaged elsewhere. “You know,” he began, “those are just the wheels to draw the eye of an aspiring, young criminal-turned-looter,” he observed, continuing to scan the row of Jaguars, Corvettes, and Lexus convertibles.
Nodding toward the overbuilt pickup, Bishop added, “If you’ve got your choice of anything on the lot, why not go for the best?”
“Be careful, my friend. I believe you have a little drool on your chin,” he teased, pointing at the corner of his friend’s lip. Bish
op jabbed good-naturedly at his buddy before turning to examine the structure across the road. There, at the edge of the garage, next to the apartment building, a small, grey cloud from a generator’s exhaust hung in the sunlight.
Continuing past the complex, Nick indicated they should get off the main street. After making sure they weren’t being tailed, the duo ducked into the rear door of a small strip mall facing the apartment building.
They soon found themselves in what had been a travel agency, posters of sand-soaked islands, white beaches, and famous European landmarks adorning the walls. There were a handful of completely trashed desks, overturned chairs, brochures, and other office equipment haphazardly spread throughout.
Evidently, there had been a couch in the reception area, the upended piece of furniture now resting on a pile of shards from the shattered glass of the front door.
Hustling to take up a position behind the leather and steel sofa, Bishop scanned the apartment units to make sure no one had spotted the area’s newest hobos and was coming to investigate what the two homeless men were up to.
After deciding they had passed unnoticed, a colorful image at Bishop’s feet caught his eye. Picking up the brochure, he announced, “We should head to the Caribbean… it looks lovely there this time of year.”
“The same hurricane that struck Galveston while you were there… it crushed Nassau and a bunch of the other islands. According to a buddy in Washington, the Caribbean has gone tribal.”
“Okay… no problem. What about a jaunt to the Greek Islands?” Bishop offered, pointing toward a poster hanging on the wall. “I could eat moussaka twice a day.”
Again, Nick grimaced, his eyes never leaving the apartment complex across the street. “Turkey invaded Greece as Europe dropped into the economic abyss. After the United States pulled out of the United Nations and NATO, there wasn’t anything to stop those two ancient enemies from deciding who was the biggest kid on the block.”
“Who won?”
“Turkey. Rumor has it, that after the Greek army fell apart, a faction of victorious Muslim extremists set out to massacre every Christian on the island. Apparently, until the rest of the Greek military force could stop them, the blood ran ankle-deep through the streets of Athens.”
Grunting, Bishop replied, “Well, now. Aren’t we just little ‘Mr. Sunshine Vacation Advisor’ today? I guess world travel of any kind is off limits, according to you?”
“I would recommend a trip to Alpha, Texas, sir,” Nick replied without missing a beat. “There is rule of law there… mostly… and several natural wonders within driving distance. Just watch out for the sometimes-violent security types who live south of town. They can be a bit rowdy at times.” Then rubbing his recently wounded ear, the big man added, “Especially their wives.”
Before Bishop could protest his friend’s implication, two men appeared at the apartment building’s entrance.
Stepping outside, they stretched, yawned, and seemed to be waiting for someone. Both were in their mid-20s, heavily built, their skin covered with tattoos. The larger of the pair wore biker colors.
Another four minutes passed before they were joined by three other gentlemen. As Nick and Bishop watched from the travel agency hide, one of the newcomers produced a plastic bag and began the motions of rolling a cigarette.
As the five ruffians passed around the burning butt, the pungent odor of marijuana drifted past the two Texans. “Toasting a blunt… the breakfast of champions,” Nick grunted.
After achieving their buzz, the apparent leader of the group began passing out assignments. “Marko and Bear, you two get over to the dock and make sure that barrel of diesel in my truck makes it to the shrimpers coming in today. Blackjack is going to be pissed if there’s another problem. We had 120 pounds of rotten seafood on our hands after that fuck-up last week.”
A man named Crow was ordered to check up on the Canal Boulevard lab.
“Lefty, you’re with me. Somebody gave one of Silky’s girls a black eye last night, and Blackjack wants us to check it out and have a little chat with whoever smacked her around. It’s hard to move damaged merchandise,” he lamented.
“Which girl?” Lefty asked, his voice dripping with obvious concern.
“Lacey was her name, I think,” the leader answered very matter of factly.
“Oh, no! Not Lacey! She was the prettiest one of the bunch,” one of the gang members protested.
“That ain’t saying much,” another laughed.
Nick tilted his head so that he could speak only loud enough for Bishop to hear and while still maintaining visual surveillance on the men. “You know, we could take out five of Blackjack’s boys with five shots,” he hissed, watching as the conversation continued across the street.
“True. But how many more outlaws are inside that apartment building?” Bishop replied. “Hell, for all we know, the King of New Orleans himself might be having his morning constitutional, even as we speak.”
Shrugging, Nick responded, “You’re absolutely right. In fact, I have an idea that just might help us find out a little bit more about the occupants of that little boarding house. Let’s come back here later and have a little fun.”
“At least it looks like we’re on the right trail. I’m with you, let’s come back tonight.”
“In the meantime,” Nick began, watching as the men across the street began heading toward their rides, “I think we should visit that lab on Canal Street. If it’s producing meth, well, accidents have been known to happen at those types of facilities.”
After the last of Ketchum’s crew had motored off, Bishop unfolded a map of the Big Easy. It didn’t take him long to find Canal Street on the grid. “It’s going to be a bit of a walk, but it is doable,” he reported.
A few minutes later, the pair of fake drifters was mobile, shuffling down a weedy sidewalk at a calculatingly sluggish pace. They were in enemy territory now, appearances more important now than ever.
Only the duo’s eyes would have given them away, both men scanning right and left, always on the lookout for potential threats. The imposters noticed very few other people, and those that they did encounter seemed happy to give them a wide berth. “They’ve heard how bad you snore,” Bishop joked after a pair of women crossed the street to avoid passing them on the sidewalk.
On two occasions, the two men tensed as an automobile approached, the first instance being a truck hauling some unknown cargo. The second encounter was with a glossy Hummer full of rough-looking characters who were blaring loud music on the unit’s stereo as they passed. Neither vehicle showed the slightest interest in the vagabonds from the Alliance.
“Always keep an eye out for those guys that drive Hummers,” Bishop teased.
“Those people are tooling around town like they don’t have a care in the world,” Nick observed. “The truck had only the driver – no guards whatsoever. The three guys in the Hummer were more interested in jamming to their tunes than in anticipating any sort of danger. Blackjack’s boys have gotten slack around here.”
“We would act the same way on the streets of Alpha,” Bishop countered. “We feel reasonably secure on our home turf. Why should these guys be any different?”
“We, in Alpha, aren’t involved in criminal activity. We’re not being raided by the United States Army. We have rule of law. We’re a legit government, elected by the people, not some self-appointed tin pan who rules by fear and violence,” Nick replied.
“Since the collapse, the difference between criminal activity and survival tactics has blurred, my friend,” Bishop argued. “Remember what happened during the election? When Diana’s opponent accused her of being a thief because she had ‘acquired’ a motorhome from an abandoned dealership to travel around the countryside? Now, you and I know that the transportation was necessary to keep her safe and provide the necessities of life when moving around the Alliance. But other people see these things from a different perspective. In fact, according to the strictest interpretati
on of the law, you and I are crooks for taking this clothing from the outlet mall. We’re just as felonious as these guys – from a certain point of view.”
“We never took anything from people,” Nick countered. “We never looted; we scavenged. There’s a big difference.”
“Po-tae-toe, po-tah-toe,” Bishop retorted. Then, rather than continue the debate, he nodded toward a dirty street marker that announced they had arrived at Canal Street. “Wonder which way?”
Stepping forward, Nick glanced up and down the wide road. “I would guess we head south. I don’t see anything but warehouses and factory buildings to the north.”
“Lead the way, brother outlaw.”
It was an odor that announced Nick and Bishop had found the lab.
As the pair of homeless-wannabes wobbled down the sidewalk, the strong scent of cooking chemicals assaulted their sense of smell. At the next intersection, they spied three clean, luxury automobiles, as well as a pair of well-ridden motorcycles. “You have arrived at your destination,” Bishop announced, doing his best imitation of a computer-generated, GPS voice.
They continued past the laboratory, trying to appear uninterested while their eyes worked to take in every detail. At the end of the block, they circled back, this time approaching the building from the rear.
“No sentries,” Nick observed.
“The doors don’t appear to have been reinforced,” Bishop added. “How many would you guess are inside?”
Glancing at the number of vehicles in the parking lot, Nick shrugged, “Five, maybe six.”
Half a block away, they noticed a recessed doorway. The stenciled letters said, “Family Photo Studio.”
Like those of all now-abandoned businesses, the entrance had been forced open, the door creaking as it swung loosely in the breeze. With nothing blocking their entrance, Bishop and Nick pushed their carts inside a few seconds later.
“Two choices,” Nick stated once they had cleared the interior. “We can hit them as friendly, neighborhood hobos, or we can put on our full battle rattle and shut down Ketchum’s lab.”