by Joe Nobody
Stop the bleeding, Bishop thought. That was always the first rule of battlefield medics. Keep that precious, life-giving fluid inside the body.
“I think my leg’s broken,” Grim croaked in a weak voice.
“Could be,” Bishop responded, already having counted that possibility. “It’s not a compound fracture though, at least not from what I can see.”
Retrieving a small canister of antibiotic spray, Bishop did his best to keep the wounds from getting infected. His topical application would do little if Grim had a hunk of metal in his body. Next came the bandages, the largest puncture getting most of his attentions.
Grim moaned in agony when Bishop began wrapping the big wound. “Sorry friend, but I’ve got to get this good and tight,” he told the patient.
“Do what you have to,” Grim replied through gritted teeth. “I feel like there’s a chunk of burning metal in there the size of a softball.”
After finishing several circles around Grim’s thigh with a bandage, Bishop pulled a bottle of small pills from his kit. “These will help with the pain… a little,” he informed the still hurting contractor.
Grim waived them off, “I can deal with it. Give me my weapon and drag me to a good spot. I can still fight.”
“No,” Bishop replied. “We’re fine. You need water and rest. Drink and sleep. That’s an order. If they come after us, then you’ll be in the shit, I promise. Until then, chill.”
Grim nodded without so much as a dirty look. The guy’s got to be at his limit, Bishop thought. Hell, I’m toast, and I don’t have three new holes in my body.
Even the youngest of his team was exhausted; sweat pouring from his body, his breathing heavy from the exertion and sudden stress of the moment. Butter, resting nearby and drinking from a water bottle, looked like hell warmed over. “You okay?” Bishop checked.
“Yes, sir. I’m still trying to figure out what just happened. I keep replaying it over and over again in my mind. Do you know, sir?”
Butter was experiencing a common trauma, one that Bishop had felt a dozen times before. The intensity of the firefight they’d just survived combined with the lack of sleep, physical exertion, and extended adrenaline dumps was enough to rattle the human brain.
“Are your hands shaking?” Bishop inquired with the soft voice of understanding.
“Yes, sir. But I’m not scared… I just can’t… they won’t stop.”
“You probably feel like you want to puke, too,” Bishop continued with the fatherly tone. “I can’t tell you why, Butter, but I can promise it will pass. You’ll be okay. Go ahead and toss your cookies if you want. I usually do. No shame in it.”
The admission seemed to brighten the big kid’s mood. “Even you feel like this, sir?”
“All the time,” Bishop responded with a warm smile. “It’s normal. We just had several very well-trained, highly motivated individuals try and end our existence on this earth. Your brain probably thought you were dead a dozen times during the encounter. Now it’s trying to figure out how you survived, and in the process you are reliving how close you came to death during the ordeal. Don’t worry about it. It will pass.”
“Thank you, sir. I’ve been shot at before, but that… back in that valley… it was… was….”
“Intense,” Bishop finished for him.
“Yes, sir. I guess that’s as good a word as any. I feel all hollow inside, like I left everything back there. I’m just an empty shell with a stomachache and worthless limbs.”
“That, my young friend, is a no bullshit assessment if I’ve ever heard one. You’ll be okay. I promise.”
For a moment, Bishop thought about mentioning the nightmares that were sure to follow. He decided the kid had enough on his plate at the moment, and besides, the Texan didn’t have any sage advice concerning the nocturnal terrors that would probably plague Butter for the rest of his life. It simply became part of a fighting man’s existence until the reaper arrived and took care of the problem.
Bishop was bone tired and wanted nothing more than to lie down and close his eyes. Sucking water through his Camelbak’s tube, he rose, forcing stiff, cracking knees to respond. He needed to assess their position, figure out where to post a lookout, take inventory of their remaining kit, and most importantly of all, come up with a plan of action to get Grim on a surgeon’s table before infection, shock, or blood loss ended his friend’s life.
“Get some rest, Butter. I’m going to run down my checklist for the next hour, and then I’ll be toast. Sleep if you can… even a few minutes will help. If not, close your eyes, drink tons of water, and grab a nibble of something if you can hold it down. I’m going to need you pretty soon.”
Butter nodded, reaching for his pack and opening a pouch to produce a slab of jerked beef. After Bishop was sure the kid was okay, he moved off to get a better look at their new home. The sun would be coming up in a few hours, and if the men back in the valley still had any fight left in them, that’s when they would come.
Katherine sat in her favorite rocking chair, the handmade heirloom a product of her great-grandfather’s workshop. It was her harbor of tranquility, a stress reducing respite that might be occupied at any time, day or night. Hand carved of local oak, it had occupied the same position for so long that the curved runners had worn deep grooves in the porch’s wooden planks. Everyone who knew the Baxter matriarch kept their distance, even the greenest ranch hand having been warned that when the boss was rocking, now wasn’t the time to come knocking.
Despite the early, pre-dawn hour, there were plenty of men around to heed the warning. Awakened by the thunderous explosions, rifle reports, and flashes against the night sky, the entire Baxter contingency had grumbled outside, all wondering about the distant ruckus.
Charged with excitement and curiosity, they remained scattered around the main corral and bunkhouse even after the sounds of battle had died down.
Some clustered together in small gaggles, whispering speculations on the outcome, ferocity, and participants of the gunfight. Others rested a boot on a comfortable plank of fencing, watching the reddish glow pulse against the night sky without uttering a word.
For her part, Katherine sat rocking, her well-known temper barely held in check.
She’d agreed to let the Alliance SAINT team handle the squatters, not to sit and watch her childhood home go up in flames. It was bad enough the barn had caught fire a few nights ago, now the beautiful valley would be scarred with a second pile of ash, charred timber, and scorched memories.
She was certain the crimson hue on the horizon was her childhood home. There was nothing else in the basin that would burn with such intensity. She’d been raised in that house, brushed her first pony while it was tethered to the front porch’s rail. Her bedroom was the one in the rear with the big window – a pane of glass where a daydreaming girl could watch the whitetail come down from the hills and graze in the backyard. How she had envied their beauty and grace.
Now it was gone.
From Katherine’s point of view, the Alliance had been neither angel nor demon. The Baxter Ranch had suffered through the apocalypse, but not nearly as bad as most. With herds of cattle, dozens of well-armed men, and stashes of feed, hay, and food purchased in bulk, they had managed to keep everyone fed while millions had starved.
When the rumors began circulating of a new government being formed out of Alpha, most of the men and women in the surrounding county had merely shrugged with indifference. Out here, it really did not mean all that much.
Then the Alliance had shown up in Fort Davidson with a large force of armed men, eventually taking control of the county seat. The local District Attorney, D.A. Gibson, had even joined their cause.
Despite the endorsement of the county’s head honcho, many residents thought the newcomers were heavy handed and willing to seize any property to advance their cause. Ownership was a gray area, with so many having died, fled the region, or gone missing.
One such example was a hug
e recreational vehicle retailer not 10 miles from the Baxter ranch. Men claiming to be sanctioned by the Alliance had descended on the local business and seized several Class-A motorhomes, purportedly to be used by the newly appointed heads of state.
While the representatives from Alpha had asked around about the owner of the multi-million dollar business, they hadn’t invested a whole lot in research or due diligence before driving away with several of the most expensive models. The entire episode just didn’t seem right to Katherine and her peers. She had invested with the owner years ago when it was a start-up. Her safety deposit box at the bank contained stock certificates that documented her 8% ownership, but the branch hadn’t been open since everything had gone to hell. As of yet, no one had offered her any compensation before absconding with the dealership’s vehicles.
When a drifter relayed the events of Midland Station and how the Alliance had taken control of the entire city via armed incursion, Katherine and her peers had again experienced doubts. After hearing that the owner of an oil refinery had been chased out of his own town by what amounted to a small army, many of the local ranchers became seriously concerned. Who were these people from Alpha? Where would they stop? Was any private property, claimed or unclaimed, exempt from their definition of eminent domain?
Then there was Sheriff Watts.
Out of the blue, after nearly two years of absence, men in patrol cars began roaming the countryside, claiming to have authority. Baxter ranch hands had been stopped and questioned, two of the cowpokes having been arrested in town for public intoxication.
After the run-in with Abe and his crew, Watts had threatened to arrive with hundreds of armed men to arrest both sides of the age-old feud. Katherine wanted the lawman’s nose out of her business. As far as she was concerned, he was late to the party and offered no good solution. His status as a peace officer was questionable at best.
Most of the area’s larger outfits had eyed the fledgling government with a healthy dose of skepticism. It wouldn’t be the first time someone with a hunger for power had tried to rule the surrounding territory. There had been Mexico, various Indian tribes, the original Republic of Texas, the Confederacy, a period of occupation by Union troops, and finally the United States. Most of those “governments,” hadn’t worked out so well. Many had been nightmares of ruthlessness, abuse, and totalitarianism.
Of them all, the good ole’ U.S.A. had been stable, long lasting, and usually fair-handed as far as the ranchers were concerned. At least in recent memory.
Stories started making the rounds, tales of the Alliance battling the U.S. Army. After that came more accounts of Texas separating from Washington and having visions of reforming the long-defunct Republic. While many cheered the move, not all of the region’s citizens were convinced it was the best course. Why? the rancher had asked herself a dozen times. Why separate from the only form of government that had ever worked?
Katherine, along with most of her neighbors, had adopted a wait and see attitude. She understood that rule of law was necessary but didn’t trust so much power in unproven hands.
Now, her homestead was under siege from this unknown entity called the Alliance, and the anger raged through her core over the injustice of the entire affair.
Shaking her head in disgust, she rose from her chair and strode to the southern end of the porch. “Mack?” she called to a group of men huddled nearby.
A lone outline of a large man separated from the cluster, quickly stepping toward the house. When his face was clear in the moonlight, he removed his hat and replied, “Ma’am.”
“At first light, I want to go back to the valley and see for myself. I want to bring as many men as we can muster.”
“Yes, ma’am. We’ll be ready.”
“Good night, Mack. Get some sleep if you can.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Pete scanned the crowd and was pleased. Practically every stool and table was filled with a paying customer. It also pleased him greatly that his patrons were a mixture of familiar faces and folks he’d never met before. Travel was a sign of commerce, trade, and wealth. It was a good omen.
In fact, business had been so good, he was finding it difficult to keep enough help in the bar. With his other investments growing rapidly, he should be back in the office checking the books, writing letters to suppliers, and fulfilling the executive role. While he would hardly call his endeavors an empire, he now had several employees and locations to manage. Between that and his duties on the council, Pete was a very busy man.
Still, he loved tending bar. He was a social animal who took great pride in making customers feel comfortable in his establishment. His thriving business offered other, darker benefits as well. The budding capitalist had also discovered that being a good listener while pouring customers their libations was an excellent way to gather intelligence.
Both as a councilman and an entrepreneur, it was beneficial to know what was on the people’s minds.
Working the counter with his ever-present bar towel, Pete noted a man he’d never seen before. The gentleman was well dressed, wearing an expensive suit, silk tie, and expensive watch. Not your average tourist, Pete surmised.
The well-heeled gent drew the bartender’s attention for a couple of reasons. First of all, Pete was confident he had an encompassing knowledge of Meraton’s ongoing business opportunities. A man, dressed so formally, most likely wasn’t just passing through, but in town to buy, sell, or invest.
Secondly, he noticed that his new customer was about his own age. Not that many grey-headed folks had survived the downfall.
“Good evening, sir. Could I refill your glass?” Pete inquired with a smile.
“Why, sure. Thank you.”
As the server tipped the bottle, he continued, “First time in Meraton?”
“Yes, it is. I’ve heard so much about the famous market and the Manor hotel; I just wanted to see it for myself. I have business in Alpha tomorrow, so I thought I’d stop over and get a good night’s rest.”
“Smart move,” Pete nodded. “With the government centered in Alpha, rooms there can be extremely difficult to find at times.”
“That’s good to know,” the man replied, sipping from his glass. “If things work out, I may be spending a fair amount of time in Alpha. Perhaps I should look into acquiring a property. This is an excellent spirit. By the way, where did you come across it?”
“That’s my own concoction,” Pete explained proudly, extending his hand and introducing himself as the proprietor. “I own this bar, two micro-breweries, and a distillery over near Austin. That’s our best grade of corn whiskey and my finest creation to date.”
“Pleased to meet you,” the friendly stranger replied with a warm handshake.
Pete waited for the patron to share any details about his occupation, but the man remained silent.
Again, to break the ice, Pete asked, “Coming from back east?”
“No, actually from the north.”
Another customer called out just then, the new arrival calling, “Pete! Good to see you working tonight! It’s about time you started earning an honest living. You’ve been spending too much time hobnobbing with all those political types over in Alpha and not paying enough attention to your real friends back here at the bar.”
“A councilman’s work is never done,” Pete replied with a grin.
Before the conversation could continue, movement caught the bartender’s eye.
The well-dressed customer was backing off his stool, a look of complete horror on his face. For a second, Pete thought the man was choking or perhaps ill.
“You okay, sir?”
There was no reply, the stranger breaking eye contact and hustling out of the bar without looking back.
Pete shrugged, glancing at the man’s mostly full glass. There was a hundred dollar bill lying under the shot. “Wow,” he said. “That’s one hell of a tip.”
As he reached for the currency, Pete noticed handwriting on the note
. There was a series of numbers and an address in Oklahoma.
Dawn brought a hustle of activity to Bishop’s camp. Awakened by his watch alarm, the Texan had relieved Butter after only 90 minutes of sleep. The parade of yawns just kept coming.
It was one of those mornings where every move Bishop wanted to make was hampered by the apocalypse. Desperate for coffee, he’d decided to use one of his few remaining, ultra-precious fuel pellets to heat water. The burning chemical didn’t produce any smoke, and that was critical at the moment. Yet, they weren’t making them anymore.
The next reminder that the world had gone to hell concerned Grim.
The contractor was running a fever, and that meant infection. With his exhausted, semi-awake mind, Bishop tried to visualize Grim’s life with only one leg, a very real possibility if they didn’t get him some serious medical attention quickly. The image shook the Texan to the core, partly due to his friendship, mostly because it could easily be him lying on the ground, sweaty and moaning with the first stages of gangrene.
The Sat phone’s battery was dead, the charger left behind and most likely burned in the fire. Not that Bishop had a power source. Regardless, it had been a boneheaded mistake made in the rush to retreat. They couldn’t call for help.
Digging in his kit, Bishop produced one of the last bottles of the antibiotic left in the region. Like his fuel pellets, they just weren’t making them anymore.
He shook a pill into the palm of his hand, studying the capsule that was one hundred times more valuable than its weight in gold. “Here, Butter, make sure he gets this down. We’ll give him another in two hours.”
About the only good news was the fact that there wasn’t any sign of pursuit from the valley. Drinking his joe, Bishop watched the trail for 20 minutes while Butter changed Grim’s dressings. It looked like the men back in the valley weren’t up for an early morning firefight.
Returning to camp, Bishop checked on his wounded man and then motioned Butter aside. “We’ve got to get him to a sawbones, or he’s going to lose that leg, maybe his life.”