by Joe Nobody
“Let’s take a walk,” Baxter replied, nodding towards a game path leading into the bordering woods.
“Let’s,” Bishop agreed.
The two men marched into the underbrush, both remaining silent until they were out of sight. Baxter turned and poked his finger into Bishop’s chest. “I am sick and fucking tired of your constant interference,” he began. “You have done nothing but seek to undermine my authority, question my every decision, and degrade my command’s performance. I want it stopped, and I want it stopped right now.”
Bishop took a half step closer, bringing his face in tight with the irate officer. “You are the epitome of why I was happy to leave the Army, Baxter. You are thickheaded, unwilling to accept advice, and so wrapped up in your command structure and discipline that you wouldn’t know a good idea if it slapped you up the side of the head. I want you to open your eyes and ears and take advantage of those who have experience. You’re going to fuck this mission up and get people killed if you don’t.”
“What sage advice, Bishop? What experience? The only reason why you are here is because your wife is some political bigwig back home. Sure, you’ve galloped here and there with your fancy rifle and civilian kit. Hell, I’ll even accept the stories of your shooting it out with some starving refugees and common thugs. But that don’t buy you shit in my store, mister. I play in the big leagues. My men and I play for keeps, and we don’t need some overpaid night watchman trying to tell us how to go about our mission. We are professionals, highly trained and disciplined. Get the fuck out of my way, and let me do my job.”
Bishop backed off, the move necessary to avoid butchering the asinine man standing before him. With a calmer voice, he tried to reverse the direction their conversation was heading. “Major, if we were in Iraq or some other combat zone, I would bow to your wisdom, training, and experience. But we’re not. We are in America, dealing with Americans. They don’t give a shit about martial law, military justice or any of that. They care about security, where their next meal is coming from, and how to keep their kids from getting sick and dying. If you roll into this town like a conquering army, they will resist to the core of their being. They will stall, play dumb, and sabotage anything we try to accomplish. I’m only suggesting a slight modification to your perspective - a minor adjustment to treat civilians with respect and put yourself in their shoes before reacting. Is that so much to ask? Does that slight courtesy endanger the mission?”
Baxter snorted, “Treat the civilians with respect? Now that’s rich… really rich. I’ve seen how your type treats women and children. When I first graduated from the Point, I worked with contractors in Iraq and Afghanistan. You hired guns would piss off the locals, rambling through towns like cowboys in from a cattle drive. Then, after they were all riled up, the natives would take it out on my men. We became the targets of those you and your type incensed. So I don’t think you have any basis to be schooling me on how to treat noncombatants. I can do without that type of advice.”
Bishop had heard the same debate a thousand times. The attitude was common in the military. Private contractors were mercenaries, selling their honor, loyalty, and gun to the highest bidder - milking the government agencies that hired them for every last penny.
The Texan knew the major and he weren’t going to settle the issue here and now. Short of one of them beating the shit out of the other, this wasn’t the place and time. Even if he did teach the young officer some manners, doing so would jeopardize the operation. Troops don’t respond well to seeing their commander all bloodied up. If the well-conditioned officer happened to get the better of Bishop, Baxter would feel completely empowered to do as he pleased.
Bishop also understood the resentment. Regular military men, like the major, had been fighting and dying for their country while their families back home barely made ends meet. Private contractors were making thousands of dollars a day, buying new cars and living first class. Army and Marine deployments meant 13 months away from home and family, while the guys in Bishop’s trade were flying back to the States several times a year.
It was a big part of the reason why so many contractors remained anonymous about their past. After a few bad apples had made headlines, Bishop had seen men in his profession treated like scum. When the US government had thrown some of the bigger security agencies under the bus in order to salvage political reputations, public opinion had been blemished even further.
Bishop decided to play his trump card. “Look, Major, you and I are not going to settle this debate here. So let me remind you of your orders. You are to handle security; I am in charge of negotiations and civilian relations. The generals back at Hood were very clear on that point. So why don’t you adhere to your wonderful, unyielding discipline and follow orders? I’d prefer to work with a partner during this little adventure, but if you want to play hard ball, I’m more than willing to get on the radio right now and have your sorry ass relieved.”
Baxter clearly wasn’t prepared for Bishop’s threat. For a moment, he considered the statement a bluff. “Your dick isn’t big enough to swing that far.”
“Want to try me? You said yourself my wife was some bigwig. Do you really want it on your record that you were relieved from a command before the mission even got started? I’ve tried to earn your respect, but clearly, your prejudices aren’t going to allow that. So I’m going to assert my authority. I’ll let you know when I need your help.”
And with that, Bishop pivoted and marched off, leaving Major Baxter with a stunned look on his face.
The Texan exited the underbrush and made a beeline for the three prisoners. In a flash, Bishop’s fighting knife flashed in the early light, cutting through the nylon ties securing the captives’ hands. The two soldiers standing guard started to protest, but one look from Bishop quelled their words.
“Get these men some water,” he ordered, not wanting to give the troopers a chance to gather their wits. Turning to the three recently freed locals, Bishop watched as they rubbed the circulation back into their wrists and bodies. “Thanks,” their leader said.
“No problem,” Bishop replied. “Now I know we all got off on the wrong foot, so here’s the deal. We took you down all sneaky-like in order to avoid an accident. Guys get spooked. Soldiers get nervous. Sweaty fingers squeeze triggers, and then bad shit happens. Get it?”
After digesting Bishop’s words for a moment, the leader said, “Okay, I’ll buy that for the time being. Still, why did Mister Hard-ass over there act like he wanted to send us to Guantanamo?”
Bishop shook his head, knowing his response was coming at a critical point in the newly established relationship. “You can’t really blame us. We’ve seen it all, dude. Dictators running towns as if they were the reincarnation of Stalin or some shit. Gangs of escaped convicts overwhelming local governments and ruling like land barons from the Dark Ages. Think about it. We have no clue what’s going on in Brighton, so we assume the worst. You would do the same thing in our shoes.”
The message seemed to resonate with the former captive, his head nodding north and south. “Okay, I can run with that. Why Brighton? Why now? Why after two years does the government show up and claim they’re here to help?”
Bishop smiled, but shook his head. “We’re having a conversation, so now it’s my turn to ask a question or two. What are conditions like in town? How many folks are still alive?”
Bishop saw a flash of fear cross behind the sentry’s eyes. After a nervous glance at his mates, he said, “Do you know about the war? The Repos?”
Bishop’s face wrinkled into a frown. “War? What war?”
The leader stared hard into Bishop’s eyes for just a moment, and then relief seemed to unfurl his brow. “We’ve lost a ton of folks. Starvation, bad water, and contagious diseases took a chunk of the population early on. Then it was the raiders. People called them bandits, marauders, and ghouls. They’d hit at night, mostly around the edges of town. As time went on, they got braver. Nobody was safe.�
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Something about the man’s response troubled Bishop, the Texan’s instincts bristling with a feeling that he was being told a half-truth. His first reaction was to press, but he pushed it aside. Baxter had already came across as Mister Hard-ass, and Bishop didn’t want to repeat that mistake.
Bishop said, “I hear ya. Other areas have reported the same, my friend. So let me guess, you guys organized, set up roadblocks like this one, and protected your loved ones?”
“Yeah, that’s about it. Even with that, we kept burying people. The elderly didn’t have a snowball’s chance in hell. No medicine, no medical equipment. When doctors did show up for work, they were helpless. The young suffered, too. The antibiotics ran out after two months. After that, even a little scratch or minor cold could kill a kid…. some adults, too.”
Bishop grimaced, trying to show sympathy and understanding for the man’s horrible memories. “We’ve all been through hell. Let’s hope it makes us stronger, that there was a reason why this all happened.”
“So why are you here now? What has changed?”
“People began regrouping in West Texas. We got lucky, and circumstances allowed us to start rebuilding. Now, we’re taking control of the entire state. Hell, we might even recreate the Republic of Texas out of the ashes. But for right now, we’re trying to save as many people as we can and restart the recovery process.”
The man turned and looked back at the long line of trucks, his expression showing confusion. “But why Brighton? From what you say, there are many places that could use help. We’re in reasonably good shape compared to refugee accounts I’ve heard about recovery nationwide. Why here?”
“Because of the Condor factory. We need to bring it back on line. We need the products it produces in order to repair a couple of nuclear power plants.”
Understanding crossed the guard’s face. It all made sense now.
“Well, as soon as you’re ready, why don’t you and I take a truck into town, and I’ll introduce you to the mayor. He’s my brother-in-law.”
Bishop was a bit skeptical. “Why just you and me?”
“We had some rogue national guardsmen roll through a few months after the collapse. They said they were in charge, and that the president had declared martial law. Ends up they raped a bunch of the women and killed anyone who questioned their absolute rule. We drove them off, but not before they did a lot of damage. A bunch of soldiers pulling into the main square might not get the reception you guys are expecting.”
Bishop grunted, nodding his agreement. “Okay, my friend. I’ll take a ride into town with you. Let me explain what’s going on to the major.”
The man extended his hand toward Bishop. “Red… Red McCoy.”
The handshake was accepted. “Nice to meet you, Red. They call me Bishop.”
“I don’t approve of this… not at all,” Baxter announced. “I could quite possibly end up with a hostage situation, and that might delay or endanger the entire operation.”
“That’s an excellent point, sir,” Bishop responded, trying to show the Army officer some respect. “But I don’t see any safe way to go about this. If what Red said is true, we could get people hurt or killed by just rolling into town. I’m willing to accept the risk, sir, with your approval.”
The major didn’t like it, but he had to agree with Bishop’s logic. There wasn’t any foolproof method, no tried-and-true protocol. “Okay. But keep in touch via the radio as much as possible. If they get clever, let them know we’re still coming in.”
In other words, you’ll let them kill me, just so long as you achieve your objective, Bishop thought. How cute.
A few minutes later, Bishop and Red were driving one of the barrier’s pickups into town. “My brother-in-law, Lewis, is running the show. He lost his wife, who was my sister, and their two children soon after the economy tanked, and like your major back there, he can be a little difficult to deal with. You’re doing the right thing by coming alone.”
“How does the town feed itself?”
Again, there was a slight hesitation in Red’s response. “We’re lucky, I guess. Brighton is surrounded by some pretty productive farms and ranches.”
“But you said you lost a lot of people to starvation?”
“Not at first. After it became clear that the electricity wasn’t coming back on, the farmers would bring food into town and barter. Before long, we ran out of goods to trade. They wanted things like fuel, medicine, ammunition… a whole list of stuff. We drained gas tanks, scavenged what we could, but it wasn’t enough. It took a long time for everybody to pull together and work to feed the survivors.”
Bishop didn’t buy it. Too many of the young man’s responses just didn’t seem to track. Red’s previous mention of a war drifted back into the forefront of his mind. He wondered if his host’s statement about the long time it took for everybody to pull together might not have been a little more violent than what he was being lead to believe. “So what would you guess the town’s population is now?”
Red grimaced. “We lost thousands. We dug graves with a bulldozer… it was the only way.” After a brief pause at the morbid memory, a forced chuckle signaled a change in subject. “It’s still amazing to me how creative people get when they’re desperate. One old fool tried to make fuel out of the fermenting corn. He blew his house to smithereens. He survived, but no one tried it again. Another guy made some pretty good rot-gut whiskey, but with very little sugar available, even the supply of moonshine was limited.”
“What about the Condor plant?”
“When the fuel ran out, we started having trouble with fires. Without a fire department to respond, we lost more than our share of houses and businesses. One of the Condor warehouses burned as well, but I’m not sure what was stored in it – if anything. You’ll have to ask the mayor and his crew about that.”
“What did you do before the collapse?”
Red’s voice became sad. “I molded young minds. Elementary school math teacher.”
The truck entered the outskirts of Brighton. Bishop turned his attention to the passenger window, trying to absorb as much detail about the small berg as possible.
As they drew closer, the open space between structures lessened, the density of civilization increasing as they neared the center of town. The first commercial building was the VFW, its WWII artillery pieces standing guard in front of the building.
As they passed, Bishop began to notice the common hallmarks of a post-apocalyptic habitation. Makeshift rain catches were perched beneath most downspouts, comprised of anything from 50-gallon barrels to old coolers repurposed for the critical task of collecting runoff water.
Stacks of firewood were abundant; trees were not. Clothing dried outside on lines, the billowing colors swaying in the morning breeze. Even at the early hour, windows and doors were open to allow the circulation of air and light. It was summertime in Texas, and heat stroke would soon be claiming its share of victims.
Those same porches were often adorned with a multitude of buckets, baskets, and jugs. Something about the scene sparked a memory from the first days at the ranch with Terri. The two had just bugged out of Houston and badly needed vitamin C to avoid scurvy. The most commonly available source of the antioxidant was pine needle tea.
They had traveled across the desert floor and into the mountains, climbing until they reached the tree line. The needles were abundant and easy to gather, but shipping their significant harvest home created a substantial challenge.
On their next trip, Terri brought along a plastic clothesbasket, which was soon filled to the brim with green, life-giving pinion needles. The two had learned an important lesson. From Bishop’s vantage, the citizens of Brighton had apparently received a similar education. Anything and everything that could assist the human hand in collecting, transporting, and traveling with cargo was evident. A woman strolled to a neighbor’s yard, shopping bags filled to overflowing with what looked like collard greens. Behind her, a child steered a
wagon stuffed to the brim with similar edible foliage.
There were other signs as well.
It was barely 20 minutes after sunrise, yet every occupied property was already surrounded by activity. The citizens had adjusted their work schedules around dawn and dusk, adopting the noon siesta to minimize heat exposure. Without air conditioning, the stifling heat and humidity had become a prominent dynamic in their lives. Another reason to look forward to Christmas, Bishop mused.
It wasn’t just the temperature that forced people to become early risers. Natural sunlight also played a role in most folks’ daily routines. If Brighton were anything like Meraton, candles were expensive and often in short supply. Oil lanterns and the fuel necessary to light them were more valuable than anything other than firearms and ammunition. The best way to conserve those precious resources was to adjust the workday to respect the rise and fall of the sun.
After another mile, Red slowed the truck and turned into the city square.
Like most county seats, the center of Brighton was dominated by a large courthouse. Three stories tall and constructed of huge limestone sections, these buildings were originally designed to house the county sheriff, jail, clerks, elected officials, and of course, the courts.
Surrounding the grand old building was the square. Brick storefronts lined the streets on all four sides of the courthouse, their offering everything from small appliances to aspirin. A small café sat next to the bookseller, both of the locally owned outlets dwarfed by the independent furniture store.
To Bishop’s eye, it was the classic small town square, typically a friendly place that normally hummed with neighborly smiles and greetings. But not today. Not in these times.
The stores weren’t open, and Bishop was reasonably sure it had nothing to do with the early hour. Small piles of leaves cluttered the streets here and there. A few sections of sidewalk sprouted significant weed-beds rising from the expansion cracks.