by Joe Nobody
“Wait until I speak with our neighborhood association,” she answered, never taking her eyes off the passing houses.
All of the homes had another thing in common.
On the side of each, in bright orange spray paint, was a symbol. It reminded the Texan of New Orleans after Hurricane Katrina.
A simple checkmark seemingly indicated the home didn’t contain any residents, dead or alive. A number probably noted how many people were living in the structure. A number with a circle was evidently a body count. There were a lot of circles and check marks.
Bishop’s old yard wasn’t any different, his once-sculptured bushes now covering significant portions of the windows, his “grass” almost waist high in places.
“Did you forget to pay the yard crew?” Bishop asked, pulling into the driveway.
“I thought you were paying them,” Terri replied, but her heart clearly wasn’t in the banter.
Bishop glanced over, hoping to reassure his wife. Terri didn’t notice, her gaze absolutely fixated on their former home. “It’s bigger than I remember,” she whispered.
Jumping down from the cab, Bishop retrieved his carbine from the backseat. “Give me a few minutes to make sure we don’t have any uninvited guests.”
It suddenly dawned on Bishop that he didn’t have a key… had no idea where the original would be. Finding the back door partially open solved the issue.
The first thing he noticed was the clutter. Leaves and other debris covered the floor at the entrance, a thick layer of dust adding to the sense of a place that hadn’t seen human occupation in a long time. The Texan checked for any signs of footprints in the thin film that covered the floor. He found none.
A musky odor overwhelmed him as he stepped in, a combination of mold and dampness waffling just inside the entrance.
The kitchen had obviously been ransacked, every drawer and cabinet open, the contents strewn across the floor. The refrigerator door was ajar, the shelves absolutely bare. Glass crunched under his boots as the Texan bent to retrieve a sizable hunk of his favorite coffee cup.
A rustling sound from the den had Bishop’s carbine snapping to his shoulder, but it was only a squirrel shocked by the sudden appearance of a higher predator in its adopted abode. Exhaling as he watched the critter’s fuzzy tail disappear through the broken glass of a window, he returned to clearing the rest of the house.
Other than the kitchen, most of the homestead looked untouched by looters. A few things were out of place, but it was obvious that food had been the primary interest of the intruders.
Two windows were shattered; one by a downed tree limb provided the primary squirrel entrance ramp, the other broken by some unknown force. The carpeting around the missing glass was dark with mold and soil.
Dust was on every horizontal surface, thick and undisturbed. Cobwebs were also in abundance.
After clearing the home, Bishop returned to the driveway and informed Terri it was safe to venture inside.
“How bad is it?” she asked with a worried expression.
“Not as bad as I thought, but it is a mess… especially the kitchen.”
“Looters?”
“Only in the kitchen. A couple of windows are out, so the bugs, squirrels, and moisture have ruined the carpet.”
Terri looked at her home, doubt flashing behind her eyes. “Is it safe to take Hunter inside?”
“I’m not sure. It smells pretty bad, probably mold… but other than that and the broken glass, there are no overt dangers.”
Terri again scanned the structure, indecision governing her expression. At one time, the home had been the primary focus of their lives. Scrimping, saving, and doing without had been the couple’s motto for months as they struggled to realize the American dream. The fact that a horrible recession was roaring through the economy at the time had made the effort even more intimidating.
Terri could still remember the day when the bank had finally approved the mortgage. Bishop had been out of the country, gallivanting off to some distant land to guard an oil well, or something similar. She had somehow managed to hold off celebrating, waiting patiently by the phone until he called so that she could share the good news. They had whooped and hollered for a full five minutes via the static-laced, long distance connection.
After signing more documents than either had anticipated, the couple had poured their hearts and souls into creating a home out of a building. They had only been able to afford a fixer-upper. The place had good bones but needed a ton of work.
Then, in what seemed like the blink of an eye, the world had gone to hell, and they had been forced to leave most of their worldly possessions behind.
Peering up at Bishop with fear, Terri said, “I don’t know if I want to go in. I’m thinking you were right… this might be a bad idea.”
“Up to you,” Bishop answered as warmly as he could. “We can turn around right now and head back to Alpha if you want.”
Her eyes darted between the structure and her husband, a tennis match of contemplation governing her thoughts. “You know I wanted to raise our children on this street,” she said in a far-away, hushed tone. “I always thought we would grow old together in this house.”
“If the recovery continues to roll along, we still might,” Bishop replied. “Isn’t that why we’re here?”
“I don’t… I don’t know, Bishop,” she stumbled. “I thought so, but now that I’m here, I’m having second thoughts.”
Terri exited the truck after handing Bishop his wiggly son. Hunter, as always, was fascinated with his father’s rifle sling. While mom scanned the home and continued to weigh the decision, Bishop took in the neighborhood, looking for any other residents.
Two of the homes further down the street appeared to be occupied, pathways of flattened grass leading to the pavement. “I wouldn’t want to be a lawnmower salesman,” Bishop informed his son. “No one is going to waste gas money on trimming the lawn for a very, very long time.”
Terri called out, “Bishop, I’m going in. Will you come with me?”
“Of course, my lady,” he replied, smiling at his wife’s stubborn determination.
She inhaled sharply when the kitchen came into view, but it wasn’t the mess of broken plates and scattered utensils. No, what had fixated Terri’s gaze was a collection of old family photographs still hanging on the wall.
Her mind wandered back to that day when they had made the decision to get out of Houston. There simply hadn’t been room in the truck to pack everything. Water, food, and ammunition had been the top priorities.
Terri took a step closer, her hand gently brushing the dust from one of the frames. “Hi, Mom, I’ve missed you,” she whispered.
“We’ve got more room in the truck now… if you want to take some of our belongings back west,” Bishop offered.
Like she hadn’t heard him, Terri’s gaze continued around the room and then she moved toward the center of the house.
With Hunter bouncing on his hip, Bishop followed his wife, wanting to be close at hand, but trying not to press.
“It seems so big,” she mumbled at one point, then reversing that observation later. “It feels smaller than I remember.”
Bishop could understand the flood of emotions. His reloading equipment, still on the garage workbench, had elicited a similar reaction. The master closet had been the worst.
Terri again became fixated, holding a piece of china that had rested proudly on a living room shelf. “This was my grandmother’s,” she told Bishop as if he was a stranger in her home. “It’s the only heirloom I have of hers.”
“Bring it back with you,” he offered.
With a flash of anger, she pivoted and held the precious object at arm’s length, her hand shaking with rage. “I can’t bring the whole house full of memories with me. I can’t pack up a life that no longer exists. Stop saying that.”
The Texan retreated, deciding she needed some space. He wasn’t angry, just worried. Hunter, hearing the to
ne of his mother’s voice, was frowning as well.
The two males skulked outside, Bishop wading through the high weeds to check the outside of the home and give mom some time to adjust.
Terri appeared a short time later, her expression making it clear she regretted the earlier outburst. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I don’t know what came over me. You were being sweet.”
“No problem. I’m just worried about you; that’s all.”
They couple exchanged a hug, and then Terri took her son and snuggled him close.
“What now?” she eventually asked.
“I need to patch up the two broken windows and get rid of the moldy carpeting. We are supposed to make our claim in the morning, so we’ll have to figure out someplace to sleep tonight.”
Turning to face the house, Terri said, “I don’t want to sleep in there. It smells musty and stale, and I don’t think it’s good for Hunter to be inside for extended periods of time. Let’s pitch the tent in the backyard. We can camp out just like my cousins and I used to do when we were little girls.”
“Sure,” Bishop answered, looking around with a frown. “It’s not like we’re going to hurt the grass or anything.”
“It will be like coming home, but not. This whole trip is just weird anyway. Why not top it off with more strangeness?”
Nodding, Bishop stroe for the truck. “I’ll get Hunter’s playpen, and you can set it up on the back porch. I’ll get started on my domestic duties after he’s all set.”
Chapter 11
There was a line at the county annex building where Bishop and Terri were to claim ownership of their property.
Already troubled by the exposure to their former lives and exhausted from sleeping on the ground for a second straight night, Terri peered at Bishop and suggested, “Is it too late to forget about the whole thing and head back to Alpha?”
“Let’s go,” Bishop responded immediately. “Ready, willing, and able.”
For a moment, she actually considered it. Then her commitment to Diana returned to her thoughts. Sighing, she shook her head. “In for a penny, in for a pound.”
Taking turns carrying Hunter, the couple slowly followed the line as it snaked its way into what had once been where citizens of H-town stood to renew their driver’s licenses and other automobile related issues.
As they idled in the cue, Bishop grinned at Terri. “Do you remember when the pre-collapse legislators used to have all those arguments about new spending bills and budgets? They were always debating about where the money would come from to pay for some new law or program. You’d hear them going on about Senator So-and-so’s new bill was a great idea, but some other program would have to be cut to fund the latest, greatest need.”
“Yeah, I remember those sound bites. In the end, our esteemed elected officials would always end up raising taxes to pay for whatever seemed so important at the time. They always called it a balanced budget, but in reality, it should have been called an expanding budget,” Terri vented.
“This line reminds me of an idea I once had,” Bishop continued. “How about you use your influence and political capital to convince the council that we need a ‘balanced time,’ amendment to the Republic’s Constitution?”
Terri frowned, sure that the heat had taken its toll, having absolutely no idea of his meaning.
“It would limit the government’s intrusion on a citizen’s time to only three days per year. Whatever new law is passed, whatever bureaucracy is created, an individual’s time is protected as an inalienable right. One of my biggest fears is that we’ll end up right back where we were pre-downfall. I remember spending hours in line to register the car while you spent days trying to figure out our federal tax returns. If you wanted to protest property taxes, you lost a day of work after wasting several evenings figuring out the confusing letter they sent in the mail. Then there were the safety inspections, state taxes, and God help you if you wanted to build a new room onto your house. It required weeks obtaining all of the permits and inspections. All that’s not even counting Social Security, health insurance, and jury duty. Voting was another lost day because of the long queues. It just never ended.”
Terri rubbed her chin, pretending to take him seriously. “I see what you’re saying, but how would you measure and enforce something like that?”
Bishop was ready with an answer, “Time is money, right? So this new amendment would hit them square in the pocketbook. Just like business expenses are deducted from your tax bill, you get to charge the government back for the time you spend executing all of their bullshit. Whenever someone wants to pass a new law, the politicians will have to take into account not only how much the new program will cost, but how much tax revenue they will lose from people standing in line. After a while, they’ll be forced to cut older programs because no one will have any ‘gov-time’ to fill out their stupid forms and wait their turns to be helped.”
Terri shook her head in amazement. “I wonder about you sometimes. It’s almost like you want the recovery to fail.”
“Nope,” he responded, glancing at the slow-moving cue. “I just don’t want to repeat the same mistakes, and by the look of things here today, we’re well on the road to doing just that.”
A row of several booths was servicing the anxious queue, Bishop noting that despite the early hour, many of the Alliance workers already appeared tired and frustrated.
“There’s supposed to be a reporter here to snap pictures of us going through the process,” Terri whispered. “You’re going to be famous.”
“I’m sure they’ll edit me out of the frame,” Bishop teased back. “It’s your gorgeous face everyone wants to see.”
“You think?” she grinned. “But I forgot my low cut top and mini-skirt,” Terri continued, striking a model’s pose.
Bishop smiled at his wife, still delightful and charming after the endless waiting. “You, my darlin’, are always a beauty.”
Bishop watched several residents as they approached the booths. Some folks seemed to breeze right through while others appeared to be frustrated with the process. One man was arguing with a raised voice, clearly unhappy with the new rules.
There was also a substantial law enforcement presence in their general vicinity, two of the officers idling in the corner while keeping a keen eye on the massed citizenry. Bishop was reassured by their presence. During their time in line, he had spotted at least a dozen people with pistols and assumed practically everyone was armed. For sure, Terri and he both were toting iron.
A well-dressed woman appeared next to them, her badge indicating she was a supervisor. “Are you two the famous Bishop and Terri?”
“Yes, that’s us,” Bishop replied. “My name is Terri, and this is my wife, Bishop.”
The woman didn’t get the joke, her brow knotting in confusion.
After throwing her husband a dirty look, Terri straightened out the introductions. “He’s nervous around all these people,” she explained in a hushed voice. Then cupping her hand as if to share a secret, she added, “He’s a bit of an introvert.”
“Ahhh,” smiled the public servant, casting a worried look at the Texan. “That’s understandable…. I suppose. Anyway, you two don’t have to wait in line. I’ve been instructed to expedite your claim in my office. There’s a reporter here from one of the resurrected Houston newspapers who wants to take a few pictures and ask you both a couple of questions.”
“Thank you for the offer, but we really don’t want any special treatment,” Bishop interjected. “We’ll stand and wait like everyone else.”
“Oh,” the surprised woman responded. “Are you sure? It might be a while before it’s your turn.”
Scanning the multitudes, Bishop lowered his voice to share his own secret, “We really don’t want any special favors. It wouldn’t be fair to everyone else. We’ll be fine.”
Shrugging her shoulders, the supervisor responded, “Up to you,” and then disappeared through a door marked, “Employees Onl
y.”
An hour later, it was finally their turn.
Bishop had a copy of the bank mortgage, several old utility bills, and, of course, his new Alliance-issued driver’s license. Terri had her original “State of Texas,” version as well.
The woman serving them was polite and seemed relieved that the couple had presented reasonable documentation. The entire registration took less than 10 minutes.
After signing three different forms, the lady behind the counter produced two official-looking pieces of paper. She penned in their address, stamped them with a loud “thud,” and then informed Bishop that he should keep one on his person and display the other in a window visible from the street at the referenced address.
Miss Supervisor magically appeared again, this time waving for them to follow her into the hallowed halls of Alliance bureaucracy.
“We’re important,” Bishop whispered as the couple followed. “I feel like a VIP.”
“Just imagine if I’d worn that low-cut top.”
“How do you think I have been entertaining myself the last two hours?” he responded with an eyebrow waggle.
They arrived at a small, government-issued office where a man waited next to an empty plate of what had been cookies. Bishop noted nothing but crumbs remained and instantly regretted not cutting the line when it had been offered. The municipal coffee pot was empty as well. “Damn those budget cuts,” he whispered to Terri.
The newshound asked the anticipated questions, covering what the couple thought about the claims process, recovery, and local progress. Bishop kept his mouth shut, allowing the more diplomatic Terri to handle the inquisition.
Then the fellow produced a cell phone. “There’s no signal or working towers just yet,” he explained, “but it still has a great camera.” The photo shoot was over quickly, the couple posing with their certificates. Hunter fussed, wanting desperately to hold the reporter’s flashing gadget.
After shaking hands and thanking all involved, the family exited the inner sanctum only to run into Chase McQuire.