by Joe Nobody
“Okay,” Bishop replied, considering other options. “Well, do you happen to have any pictures of the SAINT teams?” the Texan inquired.
The sergeant had to think about that, finally brightening. “Yes, I have each team’s graduation picture on my laptop. I was responsible for the press releases.”
They all stepped over to the corner where Capela had set up shop, Bishop smiling knowingly when he spied a coffeemaker in the corner.
“Here, sir, does this help?” the wounded warrior asked, spinning the computer’s screen so Bishop and Terri could see.
The image showed Grim, Butter, Kevin, and himself, all of them brandishing their firepower and grinning like cats who’d just eaten the canary. For a second, Bishop remembered that day, excited to be working with such great men, yet feeling a sense of foreboding over what type of missions the newly-formed SAINT teams might be expected to perform.
“Do you have the graduation photo for SAINT Six?”
Capela’s one hand flew over the keyboard with surprising speed, another, similar photograph popping onto the display.
As Bishop started to turn toward his wife, Terri’s finger shot out like a rocket. “That’s him!” she hissed. “And the other one, too,” she continued, making a slight adjustment to her accusing digit.
Nick shook his head, having trouble believing her. “Terri, are you absolutely sure?”
“Oh, I’m damn sure, Nick. This one is the captain,” she said, tapping the screen. “This guy here was his henchman.”
Bishop and Nick exchanged looks, pieces of the puzzle falling into place as the big man digested the ramifications of Terri’s claim.
“They’ve been involved in this all along,” Nick whispered. “How in the hell did I miss that?”
“How would you have known?” Bishop countered, “You tasked them with protecting Cyrus. It wasn’t as if they weaseled their way into the assignment. Plus, SAINT teams have a lot of flexibility in their work. That’s one of the reasons why they’ve always been so effective.”
Taking a second glance at the computer’s output, Bishop tilted his head and said, “Sergeant, do you have the images from the Wichita Falls ambush? The pictures taken by my game cameras?”
“Yes, sir,” he quickly replied, followed by several pecks on the keyboard.
Three photographs later, Bishop barked, “There! Stop! Can you zoom in on that guy’s hand?”
Nodding, Capela poked the controls, manipulated the mouse, and brought up an image of a large, ornate ring. “That’s a West Point class ring,” Nick mumbled. “In the Army, you learn to look for those while trying to figure out who you’re dealing with and how much stroke they have.”
“Go back to SAINT Six’s graduation picture, please,” Bishop asked.
“I knew it!” Bishop snapped again. “Look at Captain Kilmore’s hand!”
“That doesn’t prove anything, Bishop,” Nick sighed. “There are quite a few West Pointers around. Hell, half of General Owen’s staff has one of those rings.”
“Oh, come on, Nick,” Bishop protested. “Think about this for a second. SAINT Six has been rogue for some time now. I bet they were the ones who hit the drug den up in the Panhandle. I’d wager my next paycheck they were the guys who shot up my stagecoach, and sure as shit they had the skills to pull off the Moss Ridge job. They have been working for Cyrus all along, probably promised impressive promotions and key posts after the election.”
Nick still didn’t want to believe it, yet what Bishop was saying made sense. “Well … to be honest, they were in the same area when the Moss Ridge robbery went down.”
Bishop kept selling, “They tore through my security guys like a knife through hot butter. They busted up my ambush in Wichita Falls and made off with the goods without even busting a sweat. It wasn’t even close. Watts said that eight men at the drug house didn’t even get off a shot. We know they were working for Cyrus when they tried to highjack Terri’s RV in Dallas. This all makes sense. Who else could it be?”
Nick’s reaction wasn’t what Bishop expected. Instead of the big man growing angry over the treachery and sedition, he grew pale and moved to sit down in a nearby chair. “You okay, Nick?” Terri asked, instantly concerned.
“I’m fine … or as fine as a man could be knowing that someone in my command might have just started the second deadliest civil war in history.”
Bishop waved off his ex-boss’s concerns. “It’s not your fault, Big Guy. No way, no how. You’ve always run a tight ship, and I’ll kick the first son of a bitch’s ass who claims otherwise.”
Shaking his head, Nick seemed to be struggling. “I can’t believe this went on right under my very eyes. People I’m responsible for have murdered hundreds of innocents, committed who knows how many felonious acts, divided the Alliance, and may have handed our nation over to a criminally insane madman.”
Bishop started to argue with his best friend, but a quick glance from Terri stopped him cold. “Back off,” her expression scolded. “He’s about to blow a gasket.”
Indeed, Nick didn’t look good. While the color had started to return to his face, it was a disconcerting shade of red. It appeared the Alliance honcho was having trouble breathing.
Capela moved in, handing his boss a cup of water and exchanging a sour look with Terri. “Something is very wrong,” they communicated with their eyes.
“I’m going to get a doctor,” the sergeant mouthed. “Keep him quiet.”
Bishop had to admit, he wasn’t exactly feeling fresh as a daisy himself. His entire world was collapsing, everything from the Alliance he’d fought so hard to preserve, to his best friend’s health and well-being.
Diana, the wisest, most honest leader Bishop had ever seen, was on the brink of losing the ability to lead. Hundreds, if not thousands of citizens were already dead. That number was sure to grow as both sides of the conflict were marshaling armed forces and preparing to engage.
Even the SAINT program, the most revered organization Bishop had ever served, was now in disgrace. No wonder Nick was having trouble assimilating it all.
Unfortunately, the only doc in Meraton had his hands full sewing up the wounded from the ambush earlier in the day. Capela returned with nothing more than smelling salts and a pledge from the sawbones to come and examine Nick as soon as possible.
Soon, Nick seemed to grow physically stronger, but it was obvious to everyone that his head wasn’t in the game. Capela, after several attempts, finally persuaded the big man to get horizontal for a few minutes. “You’re not fit to command at this moment, sir. We both know it. There’s nothing critical I can’t handle at this time, so rest while you can.”
Again, Bishop was stunned when Nick agreed. “You’re right, Sergeant. This revelation is a lot to digest. I need to take a few minutes, mull this over, relax a bit and clear my head.”
With Terri in tow, an anxious Bishop left the old grocery. His wife was just as troubled.
“What are you going to do?” she asked, sensing Bishop had a purpose in his step.
“I’m going to find Grim and the guys, and we’re going to go take care of SAINT Six. I may not be able to stop a civil war, but I can damn sure make certain that none of Nick’s people are on the wrong side. This has gone on long enough.”
Bishop found Grim and the guys at Pete’s Place, each with a frosty mug of beer in his hands. Quite the celebration was going on, toasts and backslapping all around.
“Don’t you all know what this means?” Bishop muttered under his breath. “You won a little skirmish, you idiots. Not the war that is sure to follow.”
As soon as the crowd spotted the Texan, a round of cheers erupted, everyone offering him drinks, congratulations, and sincere thanks for saving the town. Bishop wanted none of it. “Pug saved the day,” he countered. “It was his bravery and early warning that made it all possible.”
The patrons, however, had a different perspective, continuing to hail Bishop as a hero.
He checked the urge to lash ou
t, held down the boiling fury that was surging through his veins. Bishop managed a nod here and there, but that was it.
By the time he clawed his way through the overflowing bar, Grim already knew something was terribly wrong just from the expression on his friend’s face. Turning to the rest of the team, he announced, “Bottoms up, boys. I think we’re going back to work.”
“I need to speak with all of you,” Bishop announced when he’d reached their table. “Outside, please.”
SAINT One knew better than to ask questions in public. As they worked their way toward the exit, Butter whispered to Kevin, “Any idea what’s wrong? I’ve never seen Bishop so pissed.”
“No. But whatever it is … considering that enraged look on his face … somebody is going to have a bad day,” replied the team’s sharpshooter.
On his way to the exit, Bishop stopped and had a quick word with Pug. Once outside, Bishop made a beeline toward The Manor. “We can sit in the garden and talk,” he announced to the team following him.
Once they had entered the picturesque gardens, Bishop signaled them to gather around a table and told them what had been discovered, including Nick’s reaction.
After he’d finished, Kevin was the first to speak. “I need to go check on my dad. Whatever you guys decide, I’m with the team, no matter what. I’ll be back.”
Grim spoke next, “I knew that little sack of penis puss, Kilmore, was trouble. You could just see it in that guy’s eyes. Matter of fact, that whole team looked like they belonged at Leavenworth, not on a SAINT team.”
“What are we going to do, Boss?” Butter ventured, and then throwing a glance at Grim, added, “Ex-boss, I mean.”
“Don’t worry about it, Butter,” Grim chuckled, waving off the concern. “Bishop formed this team. He’ll always be the top dog, and I ain’t got a problem with it.”
Bishop ignored the banter, the ice in his eyes matching his tone. “We can’t do anything about the pending war. That’s above our pay grade. What we must do, is stop SAINT Six. There is no way I can rest until the SAINT program’s name is cleared. We take care of our own – good, bad, or ugly.”
“Agreed,” responded the team.
“How?” Grim added. “Something tells me they aren’t just going to throw down their weapons and surrender.”
Bishop nodded, “We use whatever force is justified. If they won’t surrender, then it’s on.”
Shaking his head, Grim’s voice dropped low. “You all know I’m not afraid of shit. We could be going after Godzilla or King Kong, and it wouldn’t bother me. But … SAINT Six is good. Damn good, and we all know it. Even with five of us, we’re going to need a top notch plan and any other advantage we can muster.”
“Agreed,” Bishop said. “They’ve already spoiled my day twice, and I don’t intend on it happening again. The last thing I want is to get one or more of us killed. Those … those felons aren’t worth it. On the other hand, we have to stop their little rampage. Being a part of the SAINT program is part skill, but mostly honor, and they have no honor.”
“And it’s not like we can just sneak up on them,” Butter added. “They all know us just as well as we know them.”
“That’s why I’m going to deploy a secret weapon,” Bishop countered. The Texan then stood and stepped to a nearby gate.
Pug entered when he was motioned in. After he and Bishop had rejoined SAINT One, the Texan began outlining his plan. “Pug is going to infiltrate Governor Young’s inner circle, or at least get as close as he can,” Bishop explained.
Grim liked the idea. “Good intel will keep a lot of bodies out of the grave,” he nodded. “The more we know about them, the fewer of us die.”
The discussion continued for another 30 minutes, various ideas being tossed around. Bishop finally ended the meeting. “You guys get rested up. It’s going to be open season on shitbirds soon, and there’s no limit.”
Chapter 20
Abe Sanders was proud of today’s load. As he stacked the last bushel basket onto his trailer, he looked to his wife and said, “I’ll be back before sunset. These ‘mators should fetch a premium. I’ll try to find some salt or sugar while I’m in the city.”
Indeed, this year was proving to be his best crop since the collapse, and probably in the top ten since he’d begun raising beefsteak tomatoes 38 years ago.
Without the benefit of bagged fertilizer and aerosol pesticides, that was no easy feat.
It had taken a while to adapt to post-apocalyptic agriculture, even for a man who’d lived off the land most of his adult life. Composted table scraps and cow dung now replaced pellets of nitrogen and phosphate. For two years, he’d studied what local plants the bugs seemed to ignore, and then pressed their leaves to make an oily, homemade pesticide.
Now, his humble track of land was producing a bumper crop, and it was just in the nick of time. The winter had been harsh this past year, and he and Eve weren’t getting any younger. If the tomatoes continued to blossom, perhaps they could afford a few comforts like fuel oil for the furnace or even a fan to cool their home this summer.
In fact, life on the Sanders’s farm was getting better all around. The electricity cycled on for six hours a day. The nearest town, Mineral Wells, offered a doctor and church services every Sunday. Rumor had it that a general store might even be in the planning stages.
After double-checking his trailer’s hitch, Abe climbed into the cab of his rambling, old Chevy pickup and turned the key. He didn’t even notice the residual odor of manure and hay that permeated the cab.
The motor protested the event, moaning and whining several turns before rumbling to life. Waving to his wife, Abe gently engaged the transmission and headed down his lane.
Fort Worth was his destination, the market there paying twice what he could sell his tomatoes for in Mineral Wells. Sure, it was another two gallons of gas there and back, but with a crop like he was carrying now, the higher profit would more than justify the extra expense.
He arrived at Interstate 20 a short time later, the green sign indicating Abilene to the left, Fort Worth to the right. He steered for the entrance ramp that would take him to Panther City.
For years after the collapse, I-20 had been impassable. Hundreds of thousands had tried to escape the Dallas metroplex during the collapse. They hadn’t gotten far.
Encountering a traffic gridlock unlike anything the highway was designed to accommodate, most of the motorists had sat idling their gas away until their tanks had run dry. Many, having no other option, had turned around and begun the long walk home. Abe had no idea how many had made it.
Years later, after the Alliance had taken control, the tow trucks had begun their seemingly endless task of clearing the road. Locally, dispersing the mechanical remnants was a hailed as a once in a lifetime event.
Abe and his wife, along with several others from the church, had packed a picnic lunch one Saturday. They scouted a shady overlook for its unfettered view, unfolded their blankets and mats, and sat watching the show as dozens of wreckers descended on the area.
One of the drivers had later told the farmer that for every mile of road, there were over 250 cars, trucks, and semis blocking just one lane. It took each tow truck 15 minutes to hook up, another five to pull the vehicle off the pavement, and another 10 minutes to disconnect.
At a pace of two cars per hour, that meant the 18 tow trucks hired by the Alliance could only clear a single mile, of a single lane, per day.
Abe and his friends had watched as one by one, the relics had been hauled to the side of the road and left to rest in the grassy berms bordering the interstate. They were still there, a virtual wall of rusting, streaked-dirty cars and trucks.
He and his friends now referred to I-20 as “the tunnel,” because that was the sensation experienced while driving on the former interstate. The wreckers had been contracted to clear one lane, and that’s exactly what they had done.
The old passing lane was still packed with diesel haulers, farm t
rucks, minivans, and commuter sedans. The right shoulder was lined with wrecks moved there by the tows. It was like driving through a canyon of painted steel, fading plastic, and rotting rubber.
Still, it was better and faster than taking the back roads.
Without county crews, traveling the surface streets carried its own set of challenges. No one was inspecting bridges anymore. Downed trees and limbs might be over any rise or ridge. Abe knew of one stretch that was covered in two feet of silt, left by a flood the year after the collapse and never cleared away.
The thought took Abe’s gaze from the narrow strip of blacktop to the passenger-side floorboard. There was his daddy’s old double barrel, the bluing long worn away from the hand-shortened muzzle. A half-dozen loose shells jiggled in the seat.
It had been over a year since he’d last heard of a highwayman active in the area, but the reliable scattergun remained. Wondering if he would ever feel safe traveling without it, Abe reached over and touched the barrel, the cold steel reassuring against his hand.