by Nobody, Joe
There was no way his party and he could have anticipated the situation on the ground that day. After all, West Texas was well known for its large, open spans of wilderness and did not command a high population count. When those thugs had approached from the south, the Colonel had warned everyone, but it was too little, too late. Out-gunned and out-manned, Mrs. Porter had been taken hostage, and eventually was executed right before the Colonel and his grandchildren’s eyes. Despite the warmth of the fire and brandy, he shivered at the memory, a cold chill commanding his very core.
He shuddered at the vivid recollection of his lying next to the plane’s wreckage, his life force leaking from his body. Powerless to affect the situation, he had watched the murder of his soul mate. If we had only been able to land the Cessna without injury, things would have been different. That day, a stranger by the name of “Helplessness” had visited the Colonel. He would never, as long as he breathed the air of this earth, forget the introduction.
A lifetime of command, control, and discipline had left him unprepared for the relationship with “Helplessness.” He had always been the victor, the man left standing on countless battlefields, the survivor of the most daring encounters of insightful strategy and its resulting brutal assaults. When the stranger visited him that day, he recognized immediately that it was a far worse experience than greeting Death.
Death was a known, acknowledged presence for men in the Colonel’s line of work… men who lived by violence and combat, men who walked away intact, at least complete enough to go do it all again. Death would have been welcome that day, an old acquaintance, familiar and recognized.
It was the same with all soldiers, he mused. All men of arms fear capture more than death. Every warrior swears he’ll never be taken alive. We all desperately want to avoid meeting Helplessness. The reaper of life is a given, an accepted consequence for stepping onto the field of battle. But not Helplessness. He was to be avoided at all costs.
As he had stared at Mrs. Porter’s empty, lifeless eyes that day, the Colonel had known his grandchildren would be next. He fully expected those monsters, the men who controlled his family’s destiny, to kill David and Samantha right in front of him. And he was absolutely powerless to do anything about it. He had been completely in the stranger’s grasp.
Again the cigar, and then the warm burn of the brandy. The Colonel gazed at the fire, the flame’s reflection in his eyes a telling sign of what laid behind the windows to his soul. He was recalling the pure, sulfuric rage that gripped his body that day… that moment.
The criminals who held his family wanted information. Relentlessly, they prompted him to answer their questions… questions that he had no idea of how to answer. They didn’t believe him and were going to execute each of his loved ones until he gave them what they wanted. But he couldn’t. Helplessness… pitiful, naked, powerlessness.
The thugs jerked his precious granddaughter from her concrete perch and pressed a pistol to her temple, just as they had Beverly a few moments before. He cried, begged, and screamed his ignorance of their inquiry. He would have done anything to stop them. Time slowed as the henchman’s finger tightened on the pistol’s trigger. He could still recall the dichotomy of the image, Samantha’s golden blonde hair against the cold, blue steel of the barrel. It was all so intense, so engrained in his mind. He could, with 100% accuracy, recite the serial number engraved on the weapon’s frame. He also knew the precise number of hairs on the executioner’s knuckle.
And then an angel interceded on his behalf. A miracle, an answered prayer chased away the unwelcome stranger named Helplessness. Just as the trigger began its movement… the motion that would kill his beloved Samantha… the thug’s head exploded.
Over a year later, in the comfort of Camp David and with the knowledge that his grandchildren were now safe and sound, that moment in time elicited a smile from his pursed lips. He recalled the red and purple mist of blood and gristle as the man’s head was nearly ripped from his torso. He remembered the pistol, that black omen of death, tumbling to the ground, unfired. He recounted Samantha drawing another breath and the relief that flooded his mind in that instant so many months ago.
“A celebration is in order,” he announced to the fire, inhaling deeply on the cigar, and then toasting the executioner’s death. “To the man who held a gun at my family’s head - may you suffer hell’s worst,” were his only words.
The Colonel peered back at the picture of his grandchildren, remembering the rest of that day, how Bishop had rescued David and him. He recounted how his ex-employee had then risked everything to pull Samantha from the clutches of the kidnappers.
Terri and Bishop had shared their precious resources to treat his own wounds. Bishop had again put it all on the line, invading a den of killers and crooks to procure medical equipment – equipment that allowed the doctor to save his life.
“I owe the life of my grandchildren to that man,” he confessed to the fire. “It’s because of him that my worthless hide still roams this earth.”
The Colonel set his wallet on the end table, exchanging it for the folder that resided there. He rested the thick file on his knee, drawing again from the smoke. He didn’t need to open it again, he’d already studied the contents three times. Bishop executing helpless people? The angel that had saved his family’s life turned demon? A butcher? He couldn’t… no… he wouldn’t believe it.
But there was more to it than that. Bishop’s story was far more complex than a man who had done the right thing to help the innocent and rescue an old friend.
“We flew to Bishop’s ranch because he earned a certain level of trust,” he informed the fire. “I sought him out because I knew he was the right man to save countless lives. I looked to him as the only person I knew who could deliver a message to the president and avoid a civil war.”
The Colonel laughed, the hearty chuckle a rare sound for such a serious man. “Anyone else would have told me to go fuck myself,” he whispered, stirring the logs to increase the intensity of the blaze. “Any other man would have had the common sense to see it was an impossible mission with an unlikely outcome. Of all the brave warriors I’ve known, of all the elite operators I’ve commanded, only Bishop would have left his family and attempted that initiative. And you know what? He did it. He pulled it off, and thousands, perhaps millions of lives were saved.”
Glancing down at the folder, the Colonel made a decision. “He was selfless. He risked it all for others. Not for country, or service or God… but for other human beings,” he announced to no one. “A man like that doesn’t massacre. A man with those values doesn’t become a cold-blooded killer of unarmed men. Something else happened out there, and I owe it to Bishop to uncover the facts.”
Sighing, the Colonel inhaled the last puff from his stogie and then threw back the bottom of his glass. He knew men could snap. He’d seen sane, reasonable people go off the reservation before. But not Bishop, and not under these circumstances.
Flicking the cigar butt into the flame, the Colonel resolved himself to find out the truth. He didn’t care if he lost his position of power and prominence at the president’s side. He could care less if his investigation turned his colleagues against him. He owed Bishop, and honor demanded he pay the debt.
Meraton, Texas
July 22
Business at Pete’s was still brisk, despite the windmill-generated power having cut off an hour before. Homemade beeswax candles and an oil lantern purchased at the town’s market quickly took their turn as substitute lighting, the ambiance actually warming to the establishment.
“The beer’s still cold,” the bar’s proprietor and mayor of the small town had announced from behind the counter.
Pete had anticipated the busy night, bringing in a few extra helpers to ensure the quality of service remained high as well as being able to guarantee crowd control. With the recent attack on Midland Station, people were jittery. A cool libation in a welcoming establishment was just the ticket some fo
lks needed to settle their nerves.
There were also several important visitors in Meraton. A group of men from Odyssey were close to bringing a fertilizer plant back on-line. They were meeting with members of the farmer’s guild, the Manor’s main conference room hosting the negotiations. Rumor had it that the talks were progressing well. There was a chance those men would have reason to celebrate later that evening, and Pete wanted to be prepared.
Keeping the bar clean with his ever-present towel, he enjoyed listening to the conversations that floated past his ear. The habit was like people watching to a barkeep. He further justified the nosiness via his political position as mayor. Didn’t he need to know what the people were thinking and talking about? Wouldn’t such interaction help his governance?
Grinning at the thought, Pete ambled to the far end of the bar, surveying the small seating area. Happy that every table was full, he watched the waitress move briskly here and there, her tray thick with empties on their way back to be refilled.
Pete’s attention spiked when his experienced ear detected a harsh tone of voice. Zeroing in on the speaker like a coyote stalking a rabbit, he located a stranger at a table with three other men he didn’t know.
“That son of a bitch should show his cowardly carcass and turn himself in,” the man stated with a conviction. “He’s putting every mother’s son in danger. I bet that’s why the feds attacked Midland Station.”
“From what I saw, they’ve got him dead to rights, stone cold guilty. I know I sure would be pissed if some rogue killed 23 of my neighbors and friends,” added another.
“With a name like Bishop, what would you expect?” added a third. “The guy probably doesn’t have the balls to face the music. He’s no doubt hiding in a cave somewhere slapping his wife around like a primitive.”
Pete’s chest filled with ire. He felt a strong urge to march right over and set the record straight with his guests, but didn’t. They had the right to their opinions, and it wasn’t his place to educate stupid people. This was a bar, and people could say what they wanted.
The mayor’s restraint and respect for the freedom of speech wasn’t shared by all of the watering hole’s patrons. A large cowboy at a nearby table had overheard the accusations as well. “Stow that crap about Bishop,” he commanded in a strong, challenging voice. “You’re talking out your ass and have no idea how shitty it sounds.”
Everyone at the surrounding tables fell silent, a fog of stress descending on the room.
One of the strangers peered over his shoulder and smirked, “You saying that murdering son of a bitch is a friend of yours, pal?”
“I’m saying I know Bishop and what he did for this town. I know his wife, too. They’re good people, and I’m not buying any of that bullshit from Washington or the US Army.”
One of the strangers grunted, looking down at his beer. In a louder than necessary voice, the man said, “Yeah. I heard that story about a couple of bank robbers. I had to ask myself what happened to the men of Meraton? Why did they need some stranger from Houston to handle a couple of half-assed Yankee thugs? I remember when there were real men here about, not some cowering pussies waiting on someone to bail them out.”
The others at the speaker’s table cackled, and Pete was sure there was going to be a fight. He slowly moved toward the center of the bar where his shotgun resided.
Sure enough, one of Bishop’s defenders pushed back his chair to stand, the rumbling scrape of the legs across the wooden floorboards causing the entire bar to fall silent. Pete kept his eyes moving from customer to customer, checking their hands. This was post-apocalyptic Texas – everyone was armed.
The now-standing cowboy approached the stranger’s table, standing tall, towering over his antagonist. “Normally, I’d kick your sorry ass for those words. But I can see you’ve too stupid to realize you’ve been brainwashed by all those politicians. I’ve never beaten a man over ignorance.”
Another of the strangers stood, poking a finger at the cattleman. “Answer me this, cowboy. If your friend Bishop is so honorable and innocent, why did he run? Why didn’t he stand and defend himself?”
Another voice from across the room answered with a cynical smirk. “Oh, I’m sure he would have gotten a fair trial. I have no doubt that a government that wants to take what we’ve worked for and give it to everyone else would have given Bishop a fair shake.”
The sarcastic statement caused several people to laugh, most nodding their heads in agreement. For a moment, Pete relaxed, thinking the disagreement would run out of steam.
The original accuser spoke up, overriding the chuckling. “Or, maybe he wanted to protect his friends who are running the show up in Alpha. I heard they had been hoarding a treasure trove of gold. Who knows what other siphoning of the public till is going on?”
“Maybe they just like running roughshod over other people,” added another at the same table. “Maybe the people running the Alliance are no better than those crooks in Washington.”
“That’s bullshit!” Pete growled from behind the bar, his Irish ire overriding his resolve to remain impartial and silent. “All of the members of the council were elected by the people, and most of us accepted the position under duress. Hell, I don’t think any of us really wanted the job.”
The stranger’s palm met with the tabletop a little harder than necessary as he met Pete’s gaze head on. “If you have nothing to hide, and your friend is blameless, then why didn’t he clear his name? The fact is guiltless men don’t run, friend. How can you, as an elected official endorse a murderer skipping town without being held accountable? If you and the other council members are going to stand by and let the Army march in here and kill thousands of our neighbors, then maybe it is time for new elections.”
All eyes were on Pete, waiting for his response. But the former Philadelphia police officer would not be easily baited. He had managed too much conflict in his day to be quickly goaded by a fellow who had a poor tolerance for alcohol coupled with an abundance of ill will. Another voice rang out before the bartender could speak, “I’d rather be dead than be a slave. If the federal government takes all we’ve worked for, then we ain’t nothing but slaves. I’ll fight and die first, unlike you cowardly fucks. Why don’t you girls pack up your panties and go surrender already? Us fighting men need y’all to get out of our way.”
The reaction of the gathering ranged from a snicker here and there to a few loud guffaws from the more seasoned of the crowd. The four strangers exchanged confused glances, almost as if trying to decide what to do. But they weren’t alone.
As Pete scanned the rest of his customers, about half showed sympathetic expressions.
The standing stranger lifted his mug, taking another sip of his brew. He then half-turned and made eye contact with the fellow who had issued the last rebuttal. “Girls, huh? Panties? Cowardly fucks, huh?”
And then he threw the mug right at his antagonist’s head. Absolute bedlam erupted.
A woman screamed at the same instant that someone threw a chair. Glass mugs, fists and bodies were flying everywhere, a wall-to-wall blizzard of projectiles, arms, legs, and kicking boots. Brutal sounds of landed punches competed with grunted curses and savage blows.
The bar was filled with hardened men, rugged survivors of anarchy and lawlessness. Most earned their calories via hard labor and backbreaking toil. Few were timid or shy. None were weak. It was Texas. The West. A saloon in the middle of ranch country in a land that was politically divided and top full of frayed nerves. Vicious was hardly an apt description for the ferocious violence unleashed in the fray. The stress of a pending war combined with the frustration of an uncertain future overflowed, boiling over, and demanding a release. And release they did.
Pete, reaching for his shotgun, roared for the waitress to run to The Manor and get help. His hand was closing on the 12-gauge when a body skimmed over the bar. The impact knocked him to the ground, the air forced from his lungs. Rolling the stunned man off his chest, P
ete had to duck again as a heavy beer mug exploded on the wall behind him.
Another woman’s scream distracted the saloonkeeper from the shotgun, the lady in peril huddled in the corner as two men exchanged blow after blow. Pete moved quickly to rescue the damsel, thinking to get her behind the relative safety of the bar.
Before he could cover the distance, she suddenly stood, lifting a chair above her head. The intended target ducked her swing, which hit Pete squarely in the head. The world became dark.
A biting cold called Pete from the pit of blackness, the sensation of frost competing with the throbbing bolts of pain shooting through his head. He opened his eyes to see Betty kneeling over him, pressing a bar towel full of ice against his head.
Pushing the painful remedy away, he raised up on one elbow, a new wave of hurt cresting behind his eyes. He found himself on Main Street, lying at the end of a long row of injured men. Some were sitting with bandages wrapped around their heads, while others remained prone. More than one was nursing a bleeding wound. Several sported ice packs, and a few even managed a chuckle at their current situation. The doctor was moving about from patient to patient, two of the town’s ladies helping the physician triage the wounded.
“Pete,” Betty began, “are you okay?”
“Hell, no, I’m not okay. I feel like I’ve got a herd of stampeding horses between my ears,” came the grumpy reply.
Betty smirked, “The doctor is worried you have a concussion. Keep that ice on your head. You should be ashamed of yourself, partaking in common fisticuffs and brawling. As far as I’m concerned, you deserve that knot on your thick skull. I hope you’ve learned a lesson.”
Pete’s mouth was filling with a not-so-kind reply, but the effort was cut short by the sound of someone clearing his throat. The mayor looked up to spot Sheriff Watts towering over him.
The lawman’s uniform was perfect, from the tan-colored Stetson to the tip of his polished boots… a fact that made Pete feel even worse, given his disheveled clothing and bloody shirt.