by Joe Nobody
Plotting his family’s alternate history was an interesting game. Would the Longs have gained enough clout to have altered the path of mankind? Would the United States have entered WWII? Would his parents have been required to keep a low profile and never have the chance to realize their potential?
Shaking his head, Cyrus cleared his head of the boyhood fantasy. He didn’t have time for such fruitless endeavors. Uncle Kingfish had been reckless and at times amazingly stupid. He had ruled Louisiana with an iron fist, as well as a lot of unnecessary graft and corruption.
Still, the common working family in Louisiana had fared far better than those in bordering states. Kingfish had been effective during unfortunate conditions, and Cyrus was confident he could accomplish the same in this new era of suffering and need.
He would do even better. He was smarter. Power, after this latest collapse, was more than ripe for the picking.
He’d been planning such a move for months, quietly laying the groundwork for the bold challenge to Alpha’s rule. Behind closed doors he’d been making contacts, recruiting allies, and calling in a few backroom favors here and there.
Driven by the needs of his people, as well as a deep-seated desire to make his mark in history, Governor Young knew it was finally his time. He would ascend to power. He would steer the Alliance to prosperity and prominence, just like his forefather.
Moving to the doorway, Cyrus crossed the threshold with the vigor of a man who was finally comfortable with what had been a difficult, life-altering decision. Clearing his throat to signal his presence to the small bank of assistants working nearby, he calmly stated, “Call in the media. I’ve decided to throw my hat into the ring. We’ll announce my candidacy this afternoon.”
Chapter 8
Bishop scanned the dining room from his corner table, noting that nearly every chair was filled with a happy patron. There were families, work crews, two of Sheriff Watts’s deputies, and a large group of folks celebrating grandma’s birthday.
His gaze then shifted to the front door where he made eye contact with a mountain-sized hunk of flesh named Ward. The two exchanged a quick, “Business as usual today,” nod.
Ward and his extreme girth were merely for show. When Bishop had first met the 400-pound behemoth, the VP of Security had been impressed with Pete’s taste in recruiting. Less than 10 minutes later, Bishop had learned that the solid mass of a fellow was about the gentlest soul that had ever walked the earth. Not only was the man unable to fight, he had never fired a gun or even wrestled in jest, and he openly admitted to fainting instantly at the sight of blood.
Grunting at the stoic appearance of the giant greeter dominating the entranceway, Bishop mumbled Plato’s famous law, “Si vis pacem, para bellum. If you want peace, prepare for war. In our case, it was more like, ‘If you want peace, prepare with Ward.’”
Continuing his recon of Pete’s Pit, the Texan shook his head, yet again unable to keep the smile from his face. Not only were most of the tables heaped with mounded platters of ribs, brisket, and pulled pork, his new boss’s image was printed on every bib in the place. Or at least that had been the idea.
Evidently, the area’s printing industry hadn’t exactly recovered to its pre-collapse product quality. The image of Pete’s round, balding head had been slightly distorted, the owner’s beaming smile depicted more like a cockeyed laceration – at best. Just to add insult to injury, rather than a friendly, welcoming shade of royal blue, somehow the caricature’s ink had dried to an insulting shade of vomit green. Pete looked like a zombie on all the covers protecting shirts and blouses throughout the dining room.
There they were, a platoon of leering Pete-zombies, hovering near the throats of their potential victims. It was enough to make Bishop laugh now but have nightmares later. “What if they all come alive and begin eating the customers?” he mused. “They’re everywhere! Run! Hide! Head for the hills!” No doubt Ward was terrified of the damn things.
It was a minor issue, however. The place was rocking busy, and the Texan hadn’t heard a single complaint.
Despite the fake titan at the door, Bishop was impressed at the security provisions his new boss had already implemented. “Probably all those years as a cop in Philly,” he muttered, staring down at his thick stack of notes and reminders, the memos covering a sizeable portion of the table.
The first week at his new post had consisted of whirlwind travel, dozens of introductions, and a learning curve that threatened to turn his brain into mush. While acclimating to a new staff and responsibilities was difficult, it was grasping the scale of Pete’s business empire that caused Bishop the most difficulty. The former detective exuded business acumen, organizing an impressive operation, massive in scope, and growing like the proverbial weed.
“People like to eat, drink, and be merry,” the ex-bartender had stated with gushing pride. “They want to put on a buzz and forget about their troubles now and then. I’m building wealth by satisfying that demand, and doing it better and cheaper than anyone else.”
Indeed, Pete seemed to be a master at feeding adult appetites, zombie or not.
Pete’s Place, or a reasonable facsimile thereof, now existed all over Texas. There were over 20 such establishments, half of them serving food as well as libations. In addition to the brick and mortar stores, the latest wave of expansion included a fleet of six food trucks.
To supply the thirsty public, the former mayor now owned five distilleries, seven breweries, a fleet of delivery vans, and a new winery that boasted over 200 acres of select grapes.
Pete employed hundreds, including accountants, buyers, multiple layers of management, and a security team of 45 ex-cops, military veterans, and bouncers. Ward made it 46.
All the businesses were cash enterprises. Credit cards and bank checks hadn’t reemerged, so the old barkeep had no other option but to accept cold, hard, currency. As Bishop soon discovered, there was a lot of green exchanging hands.
On a busy weekend, it wasn’t unusual for a single bar to generate an entire shopping cart full of cash. The larger eateries, like the barbeque joint he was visiting, might produce four times that volume. Most of the money was in small, unmarked bills – perfect for the taking.
The entire affair would have been a prime target before the apocalypse, but now, with a thin law enforcement presence hampered by a general lack of crime-fighting technology, Bishop felt like there was a huge bullseye painted on the back of Pete’s enterprise. Or at least its currency.
For the most part, Bishop found the interior operations sufficiently protected. More than one brawl had erupted at the original Pete’s Place, and the barkeep had learned his lessons well. It was, after all, post-apocalyptic Texas.
Well-armed muscle men were present whenever the doors were open, and they were ready for trouble. Some worked behind the bar, others as “greeters,” far more lethal than Ward. Now and then, an undercover security man would don an apron and wait tables. “Just don’t expect me to wear a Pete-zombie bib,” Bishop had teased after learning of the practice.
In addition, each facility was equipped with a substantial safe, the strong boxes always anchored to concrete floors or steel beams.
Pete had to pay his employees and vendors in cash as well. Again, this commonly involved a tempting sum of money exchanging hands. Any thief worth his or her salt would have little difficulty figuring out which day payroll was going to be distributed.
It was what the security team called the “stagecoaches,” however, that bothered Bishop the most.
On a pre-determined schedule, a team of security men would arrive at each location in multiple vehicles. The cash would be recounted, loaded under guard, and then rushed to the nearest bank vault. For some sites, that journey was a considerable distance. Banks were still a rarity, especially in rural areas.
It was the stagecoach runs that Bishop decided to focus on first. Any asset, be it a piece of HBR’s oilfield equipment, or a laundry basket full of Pete’s money, was
far more exposed to larceny while in transit. Fixed locations could be secured with safes, armed guards, and patrols. While on the road, the black hats had better odds of taking down a healthy score.
Bishop sensed a presence. Half turning, the Texan jumped at finding one of his men had somehow managed to appear at his elbow. “Pug … damn it … you have to stop doing that!” Bishop started. “One of these days, I’m going to palm iron and shoot your sorry ass.”
“I wouldn’t attempt that, sir,” replied the stoic Asian. “I would dislocate your shoulder before your weapon cleared the holster.”
Blinking several times, Bishop decided that he believed Pug not only could, but would.
At just a little over five-feet-nothing, Pug hailed from Korea and was the most somber person the Texan had ever met. Squatty, powerful, and with the muscle density of a crocodile, Bishop’s employees claimed the humorless fighting machine must actually be a robot. For the first few days, Bishop had wondered.
Pete, however, quickly killed that rumor. “He was a South Korean Marine, on liaison assignment at Fort Hood. When everything went to hell, he couldn’t get home. The Army didn’t want him; he couldn’t herd cattle or plant potatoes, so I gave him a job. He doesn’t say much, never heard him brag or boast. Still, I’d wager big bucks that he could hang with Butter in a scuffle … probably Nick, too.”
“The crew is here for tonight’s stagecoach, sir,” the oriental sentry reported. “You said you wanted to observe.”
Nodding, Bishop stood and began gathering his papers and notes. “Good. I’ll be back in a second. Don’t get started without me.” The Texan glanced up for some acknowledgement from the messenger and realized the Korean Marine had already gone.
Shaking his head at the man’s uninspiring interpersonal skills, Bishop made a beeline for Ward. “I want you to take a quick walk around the neighborhood – two blocks in each direction. Look for anything out of the ordinary. Got it?”
“Yes, sir.”
After motioning the assistant bartender to take Ward’s station, Bishop then headed through the kitchen toward the manager’s office.
He interrupted a couple of his security people verifying the contents of three, sizeable boxes stacked with bills, the tally being witnessed by two of the restaurant’s staff as well.
Noting the double corroboration of funds, the Texan observed the process briefly before moving on. Largely ignoring the audit and handover, his primary focus was the operation’s Achilles heel – transportation.
Exiting the back door, Bishop discovered another of his men standing guard with an AR15. Just beyond, parked in the alley, sat two SUVs and a third vehicle that the Texan didn’t recognize.
“What’s that truck doing here?” Bishop asked, his hand reaching for the .45 automatic tucked in his belt.
“That’s the garbage pickup,” the sentry replied. “We told him to park over there and wait until we’re done with the stagecoach. I know the old coot. He’s been hauling our rubbish since this place opened.”
Relaxing, Bishop stepped to the edge of the restaurant and peeked around the corner. There was no threat.
The Texan had left his own pickup on the opposite side of the lot. After checking for anything suspicious around his vehicle, he unlocked the cab and pulled out his own carbine.
Pete didn’t like the long gun inside his fine establishments, and Bishop didn’t blame him. People wanted to chill and enjoy, not worry about some drunken cowboy spraying the room with his blaster. Ward and the other doormen would politely request that customers leave any long barrels outside. With the recovery in full swing, this was rarely an issue.
Outside, however, especially when the cigar box was being moved, that rule no longer applied. “Use as much firepower as necessary when riding shotgun on the stagecoaches,” the boss had stated. “If we lose one shipment, word will get around. I don’t need every outlaw and thug in Texas daydreaming about hitting my operation.”
Bishop joined the two sentries at the back door, the Texan’s head on a swivel, constantly examining the area for any hint that something was out of place.
Ward appeared from the back door a few minutes later. “No sign of anything amiss, sir. I patrolled like you asked, and didn’t spot anything out of the ordinary.”
“Good,” Bishop nodded, noting that the overweight man was slightly out of breath. “Get yourself a cold drink and then return to the front door, please.”
“Yes, sir,” Ward replied, turning to step back inside. He then paused and asked, “By the way, are the cell phone towers working again?”
Frowning, Bishop shook his head, “Not that I know of. Why do you ask?”
“No reason really. There was this guy parked down the street, a couple of blocks over. He was working a smart phone’s touchscreen like crazy. As I walked up behind the car, I could see he had a map displayed. I was just curious.”
The hair on the back of Bishop’s neck stood straight up, just as Pug’s head appeared. “The count is completed, sir. We’re ready to load.”
“Belay that,” Bishop snapped, his head again scanning up and down the dark alley as if he was expecting a hoard of bandits to roar out of the night.
“Is something wrong?” asked the other sentry.
“Probably not, but I’ve got a bad feeling about this. Stay frosty. I’ll be out in a second.”
Bishop entered the back of the restaurant, almost bumping into the men carrying two large boxes of cash. “Put those down,” he ordered, trying to quickly formulate a plan.
It was probably nothing. You’re just being paranoid. Let these guys do their job, he thought. A fellow with a cell phone might just be taking pictures or listening to music.
Still, Bishop didn’t like it. He couldn’t shake the foreboding image forming in his mind. “Go with your gut,” he whispered to no one. For a moment, he was tempted to just march down the street and investigate himself. What would he be able to discern? What if the guy was gone? What if he was still there? Pete wouldn’t like it if his new VP of security accosted a paying customer.
While he was thinking it all through, Bishop nearly stumbled on a line of waiting trash bags piled near the back door. The evening’s garbage inspired an idea.
“We’re going to do a little drill,” he stated with false confidence. “We’re going to pull a sleight of hand with this evening’s stagecoach.”
Ignoring the questioning faces that now stared back at the crazy, new guy, Bishop reached up and pulled two fresh refuse bags from a box on the shelf. “Here, stack the money in these. Then, put the trash in those boxes, and pack the rubbish in the stagecoach. Treat the garbage just like it was the money. We’ll meet you at the bank.”
Pug got it instantly. “A decoy,” he nodded.
It took the security crew only a few minutes to accomplish the switch. Then, with all the diligence normally reserved for a substantial shipment of cash, they loaded the food scraps into the back of an SUV and roared out of the alley.
Bishop and Pug watched the stagecoach leave, giving their comrades a minute’s head start before following with the trash bags full of cash.
The garbage truck’s driver seemed confused when Bishop informed the older gent that he and Pug were going to join him for the evening’s haul.
With the Korean riding shotgun in the cab and Bishop in the back holding his nose, the old Ford pickup rolled out of the restaurant’s lot.
They hadn’t traveled two blocks when the Texan heard a loud “boom,” followed instantly by a brilliant flash of light. Gunfire echoed through the surrounding buildings a moment later.
Pug saw and heard the disturbance, too, and encouraged the ancient truck to increase its speed. At the next intersection, Bishop spotted muzzle flashes four streets over, one of the stagecoach’s disabled SUVs with its doors open, the other blocked by some obstacle in the road.
“Shit! Pull over! Pull over! Our guys are being hit!” The Texan ordered from the bed.
The tota
lly confused driver did as instructed, slamming on the brakes so hard that Bishop was almost thrown over the hood. Bounding from the back, Bishop bellowed at Pug, “Get that damn money to the bank. Go! Now!”
The Texan could hear the Ford accelerating away as he hurried toward the ambush. He had sprinted less than a block when Bishop realized that bullets were no longer flying at the scene.
Not wanting to rush into the kill zone himself but still worried about his charges, he made the best time possible without completely exposing his carcass.
There were no operational streetlights in this part of town, the only illumination coming from the incapacitated SUV’s headlights. It was in those white beams of light that Bishop spotted two shadows moving his way. Some instinct screamed at the Texan to dive for cover.