by Joe Nobody
Bishop knew the sincerity of her pledge, but doubted the job would ever be finished. That, however, was a discussion for another day.
After Bishop and Grim had returned from Riley, word of Bishop’s antics as an imposter-lawman had spread like wildfire. It had been Nick who raised the concept of reconstituting the infamous Texas Rangers.
“It’s perfect! Back in the old days, they were more like a paramilitary operation – part lawmen, part militia. Sheriff Watts has his hands full as it is. We need every single trained policeman we can find to reestablish rule of law in the major cities. El Paso alone is proving a challenge, and order needs to be standard throughout Alliance territory, so a unit of Rangers sounds like one hell of an idea.”
So the council decided to form a new organization, roughly along the lines of the old Rangers. Bishop, despite his protests, was nominated and confirmed as the first man to be sworn in.
Bishop and his family emerged from their room at the Manor, dressed to the tee and greeting everyone with a smile. Someone had pulled a large flatbed semi-trailer in front of the famous hotel, the stage adorned with a public address system and several rows of chairs for the attending dignitaries.
Emerging from the lobby, Bishop was amazed at the number of spectators lining Main Street. As far as he could see in any direction, friendly faces, Western hats, and toothy grins packed any open spot with a view of the stage. Turning to Terri, he whispered, “Look at all these people… Pete must be running a special today on his best moonshine.”
Butter and Slim were suddenly at their side, ushering Bishop, Terri, and Hunter through the tightly packed throng and making sure they reached the stairs without incident. As Bishop appeared on stage, he paused for a moment, holding up Hunter and trying to get him to wave to the crowd. A hardy cheer rose up, several folks clapping and whistling.
When Terri was at his side, Bishop leaned over and said, “They love Hunter. Listen to them clap and whistle. I told you he was a special boy.”
Terri leaned back, and without breaking her smile, said, “Stop it, Bishop, or I’ll kick your ass right here in front of half the Alliance.”
“Now that spectacle would draw a standing ovation,” he grinned.
The family was guided to a pair of seats, Hunter taking his favorite position aboard his father’s knee. Soon they were joined by Nick and Diana, Bishop’s best friend taking the folding chair next to the new Ranger.
“All I did was tell a little kid an innocent white lie, and now look what’s happened,” he complained to Nick. “Now, I’ll be obligated to do an honest day’s work every so often.”
Laughing, the big man replied, “No good deed goes unpunished, my friend. Besides, deep down inside, you know this is a great idea. People respect the Rangers, and from what you’ve run into along the way, I’d say that respect will go a long way.”
Before Bishop could respond, General Owens appeared onstage, quickly followed by Pete, Betty and the entire Alliance Council. Pete, being the elected mayor of Meraton, took the podium first.
“Ladies and gentlemen, my friends, and fellow Texans,” began Pete, “It is with great pride and confidence that I attend this ceremony today. Not only are we honoring one of our own, but also officially announcing what I believe will be an important step toward the recovery of our great state, perhaps a new nation.”
A rousing round of applause followed the proclamation, Pete turning to wink at Bishop while he waited for the outbreak to die down. “Most of you know Terri’s husband, Bishop,” he began, a rolling laugh billowing from the gathering. “Many of you have fought beside him, worked with him, and know him personally. Most of you are well aware that he has performed beyond the call of duty, sacrificing himself for the greater good of our community. There are more than a few citizens of the Alliance who owe their lives to the man seated behind me.”
Again, clapping hands, cheers, and shouts of encouragement erupted from the audience. “So without further ado, it is my great pleasure to introduce Diana Brown, Alpha’s mayor and council representative. Miss Brown.”
Pete stepped back, giving Diana center stage. After a quick tidying of her papers, Diana gazed across the throng and smiled broadly. “Good morning,” she greeted, the respect and admiration clear on practically every face.
“Before we make our presentation, I want to be the first to officially inform the citizens of the Alliance that the council has officially voted to reinstitute the Texas Rangers.”
This time the listeners’ reaction was loud, so boisterous that Hunter was startled, turning to glance at his dad as if to make sure everything was okay. Bishop snuggled his son close, reassuring and soothing until the noise died down.
“In addition to that wonderful news, it is my great honor to swear in the first of a new breed of Texas lawman. Please welcome Bishop, the first Captain of the new Texas Rangers.”
Handing Hunter over to his mother, Bishop stood and strode toward the podium. Nick rose as well, moving to Diana’s side. He raised the Bible, nodding for Bishop to place his right hand on the solemn book.
Diana began reading the sworn oath, the words identical to those spoken by all Rangers since the late 1800s. Bishop sincerely repeated the promise, the irony of it all not lost on the Texan.
He was echoing a historic vow that had been born of a necessity, the need to tame a wild territory that held such promise and potential – a region and people requiring a fair, steady, and sometimes heavy hand. History, as it is so prone to do, was indeed repeating itself. It was almost predictable in a way… today’s environment so similar to those early days when the world required such a specialized policing. The Rangers hadn’t always been perfect, but they had done the job.
Bishop finished with the closing, “So help me, God.”
While a chorus of support and clapping arose from the excited crowd, Diana fished a small box from her jacket pocket, producing a shiny silver badge, the traditional star-in-wheel design created from a Mexican silver coin.
She pinned the emblem on Bishop’s lapel and then joined with the supporters, clapping and smiling as Bishop waved his thanks to the gathering.
One gruff, old cowboy on the front row turned to his friend and shouted, “I’ll bet you a drink at Pete’s that Terri can still kick his ass… shiny badge or not.”
“No bet,” came the immediate response, the remark generating a round of hearty chuckles from those nearby.
The Third Directive – Transportation
Her red and black paint was spectacular, fitting shades of pigment that projected power, prestige, and ageless elegance. Her brass was polished to a mirror-like shine, a glimmering accent reminiscent of a beautiful woman adorned with jewelry of rare metal and precious stone.
At 85 tons, she could hardly be described as dainty or petite, yet her lines and pedigree stirred men’s hearts and fantasies. She was a classy dame, earning respect and deserving admiration.
Born in 1907 at the Baldwin Locomotive works, the Texas Star was far from the youngest of her breed. Despite the years, immeasurable miles, and countless tons of freight, the decline of man had extended the refined lady a new lease on life.
In a world where diesel fuel was in short supply, where her more complex and capable cousins could no longer rumble across the rails of Texas, Lady Star was once again the belle of the ball.
Before the collapse, she had been regulated to semi-retirement, hauling tourists and train buffs on a short, private track among small towns from eastern Texas to the coast. But all of that changed after the collapse.
The benefactor of loyal enthusiasts, funds from the state’s budget, and adoring riders, Star had been maintained at the highest possible standards. Every week, hundreds of Americans journeyed from Boston to San Francisco and everywhere in between to travel in her cars and admire the craftsmanship and engineering so inherent in her creation.
Now, hundreds of people still arrived to ride on the rejuvenated train, but they weren’t tourists. Star had once again accepted
a role of prominence, serving as a critical component to the benefit of mankind.
Grim and Bishop stood at the edge of the gathered throng, both men dressed to fit in with the local population, both admiring the steam-powered locomotive with the rest of the milling humanity.
For the people of East Texas, a supply of diesel fuel was non-existent. Even with the limited refining capability of the Alliance in 24x7 operation, there simply wasn’t enough of the BTU-laced liquid to go around. The rising needs of military, over-the-road trucking, and agriculture consumed every drop that could be produced.
But like so many of the survivors the Alliance was now encountering, the citizenry of the Great Piney Woods had adapted. While they didn’t have the capability to refine petroleum, what they did possess was an abundance of trees. The region’s handle included the words “great” and “woods” for good reason.
Even more amazing to the two men from the Alliance was the adaptation of the grand old locomotive’s boilers. The Texas Star hadn’t been born as a wood burner. She’d originally been engineered to consume coal, later modified to accept a more efficient and inexpensive diet of fuel oil.
But even that lesser-refined version of fuel was impossible to obtain, so clever men had modified the old girl a third time, her steam now generated by the burning of wood gas.
Bishop stepped closer, taking advantage of a gap in the mob to improve his view. The beauty and polish of the engine was completely offset by the car immediately following the old workhorse.
Looking like a moonshiner’s still that had gotten out of control, the train’s second car was a flatbed unit, the front half completely covered in a cacophony of steel and bronze kettles, bins, tanks and pipe.
Two of the locomotive’s firemen worked the mechanical menagerie, twisting valves, checking gauges, and supervising a second crew working at the rear of the car. There, men were stacking several huge bags of what appeared to be wood chips.
“Check that out, Grim,” Bishop said to his friend. “It looks more like a mad scientist’s lab than anything I’ve ever seen on a train.”
Grim nodded, seemingly unable to take his eyes off the spectacle. “Wood gas has been around for a long, long time. I heard the Germans used it when fuel was running low at the end of World War II. Over a million vehicles were powered with gasified wood by the end of the conflict.”
Bishop nodded his understanding, and then said, “As much as I’d love to stand here all day like a little boy wanting to grow up and be a train engineer, we need to get going.”
“After you, oh great and fearless leader.”
The two men made their way through the crowd, the surrounding multitude reminding Bishop of the market at Meraton.
They passed a child dragging a coop occupied by two unhappy chickens, followed by two men with a side of beef hanging from the pole braced on their shoulders. Women hustled here and bustled there, some toting goods, others with their hands full of youngsters. Most everyone was armed.
While some bartering was in process around the edges of the crowd, most of the people in the vicinity were actually there to board and ride the train.
After winding through the swarm of activity, Bishop spied a man with a red armband, the serious-faced fellow sporting the same colored cloth ringing his hat and an unadorned battle rifle slung across his chest. Making sure his own weapon was pointed down and in a non-threatening position, the Texan approached what was clearly a local policeman or guard.
“I heard a man can find work around here?” Bishop inquired.
“You heard right,” the guy replied. “Keep walking; you’ll see a sign and a line.”
And they did.
Soon, Bishop and Grim approached a tiny wooden shack; a hand painted poster above the small, booth-like window had one word, “Hiring.” Just as the security man had predicted, there was a line.
The cue was comprised of a mishmash of folks, mostly men; some of the applicants looking relatively put together, others appearing to be on the brink of starvation or despair. At the front of the line, on either side of the opening, stood two rather large guards wearing the red bandanas on their arms and hats. Each looked menacing as hell and each wielded an AR15 rifle.
Slowly the line inched forward, Bishop noting some of the job seekers strolling away from the opening with a bounce in their steps, others stomping away, shaking their heads in disgust.
Before long, Bishop and Grim stepped to the window. Inside, they found a rotund, sweating man who didn’t even bother to make eye contact. “Chopping wood pays 22 ounces of food per day, four of that being one variety or the other of meat. We start at 6 a.m., end at 6 p.m. Take it or leave it.”
“We were looking for something in security,” Bishop said.
The man on the other side of the booth finally glanced up, his eyes quickly scanning Bishop and Grim. Both of the Alliance men had “dressed down,” for the mission, exchanging their personal rifles for standard issue military models, and leaving their best optics and kit behind. Nodding toward Grim, he said, “He’s big enough, but I don’t know about you. Military?”
Grim stepped close, eyes darting left and right to make sure no one could overhear. “We left Fort Hood a few weeks ago. Our papers weren’t exactly in order.”
“Deserters, huh? We see our share. Do you have ammunition for those weapons?”
“Yeah, we have enough to take care of business,” Grim replied.
The response was a grunt. “I’m still not sure about the little guy,” he said, scrutinizing Bishop. “Take these two passes and head 150 yards down the tracks. Ask around for Major Misery.”
“Misery?” Grim questioned, accepting the two aces from a deck of playing cards.
“Are you fucking deaf?” came the impatient answer. “You can’t work security if you can’t hear.” Then, casting a dismissive gaze over Grim’s shoulder, the jerk yelled, “Next!”
The Alliance men did as they were told, hiking along the tracks in the direction indicated. “Damn,” commented Bishop, “I’m six foot and 200 pounds. They must grow ’em big around here if that’s too small.”
“You do look a little soft around the edges. You might consider working out a little more to tone up,” Grim teased.
“How about I tone you up the side of your head, big man?”
Before Grim could continue the banter, they reached another pair of red bandanas. “You’re in the wrong fucking place,” the larger of the two sentries barked. “Move your asses out of here.”
Grim held up the two aces and then responded, “We were told to find a Major Misery.”
Unapologetic, the man motioned over his shoulder, “You’ll see a big tent down the tracks. The major is there. Don’t go anywhere else.”
“No way ‘Misery’ is this guy’s real name,” Grim observed as they walked, “but I like it.”
“Really? You don’t think so? Next thing, you’ll be telling me is Grim isn’t what your mama called you,” Bishop chided. “I need to come up with some sort of badass handle like that. All you high-speed, low drag individuals have such cool names, like Reaper, Bull, or Grim. People hear my name and think I’m either a chess piece or a religious executive.”
“Those nicknames are earned, my friend. You need to work a little harder, and perhaps one day someone will hang one on you,” Grim teased.
“I’ll keep that in mind,” Bishop replied, a huge grin on his face. “Does it count for anything that Terri calls me Stud Muffin?”
“Yeah… that’s good… We can call you Captain Muffin. I like it. Fits.”
The tent appeared after another hundred yards or so. After asking another inhospitable gentleman the whereabouts of the good major, they were shown to a table where a 40ish man with a shaved head sat shuffling papers. “Yes,” he said, without looking up.
“We were told to come talk to you about security positions,” Grim announced, presenting the two playing cards on the table.
Major Misery examined his visitor
s, his eyes performing a quick evaluation of the two men standing before him. “How long were you in?” he asked.
Grim replied first, “Eighteen and counting.”
Bishop followed with, “Twenty plus.”
“CIBs?” fired the next question, the major wanting to know if either man had earned the coveted Combat Infantry Badge.
“Yes,” they both replied at the same time.
Standing, the man in charge stamped around the table, still sizing up the candidates. Focusing on Bishop, he stated, “We do a lot of crowd control here. That normally takes a little more ass than you’ve been issued. That, and you’re a little long in the tooth. Can you fight?”
“I’ve managed a scrap or two, sir,” Bishop responded without hesitation.
“Would you be willing to prove that?”
Bishop was surprised by the question, not sure how to respond. He finally settled on, “No problem.”
Major Misery grunted, mumbling, “We’ll see about that,” and then turned to the front of the tent. “Somebody get Hoss.”
Returning his gaze to Bishop, he explained, “Most men find my son quite the challenge when it comes to doing it hand-to-hand. If you really want the job, we’ll see how well you hold up.”
A few minutes later, Bishop understood. Hoss was only an inch taller than the Texan, but a good 40 or 50 pounds heavier. The young man evidently spent all of his free time lifting weights. Bulging, broad shoulders led to thick arms, both limbs covered with veins and cords.
“You want me to fight him?” Bishop turned and asked the major.
Laughing, Misery responded, “You said you could handle yourself. It’s not too late to change your mind. There’s plenty of work available chopping wood.”
Bishop shook his head, indicating he’d been misunderstood. “No sir, that’s not what I meant. I was more concerned about hurting the little fella.”
A few minutes later, a circle of men irascibly waited in a flat clearing next to the tent. Word had spread quickly amongst the security forces that Hoss was about to consume another victim. There was an impatient excitement in the air, the event more resembling a boxing match or afterschool fight, than any job interview Bishop had ever attended.