by Joe Nobody
“Thank you,” Bishop responded. “It would be nice to get warm and dry. Building a fire today might be a bit of a challenge.”
Men began building litters, chopping down saplings for the supports. An hour later, a column formed, two of its members being carried to their graves, a third wondering when the killing would stop.
Chapter 7
Petit Jean State Park, Arkansas
July 5, 2016
It was still a beautiful place. Despite the many months without funding, support or other benefits of society, the park’s main lodge could only be described as stunning.
Sitting at the end of a valley with Petit Jean Mountain to the north, the placement of the main building was inspired. Bordering on a steep canyon wall, the vista stretched for miles down the gorge, beautiful hardwoods covering the gently sloping Arkansas hills for as far as the eye could see.
Bishop scanned the area as the column cleared the forest trail and entered the main grounds. The hotel, pool, main dining area, and parking lot appeared untouched – ready for the fall tourist season and those drawn by the changing colors of autumn foliage.
As he examined in more detail, a few things seemed out of place. Stacks of firewood were abundant, as were men with weapons – the lookout stationed on the hotel’s roof probably not required before things went to hell.
Children ran here and there, childhood games of tag or hide-and-seek keeping the little ones occupied, the muddy ground making the games more interesting to some. Bishop spied another oddity, two women cooking over a campfire while a third carried more kindling to feed the flame.
“Most of the guests canceled their reservations after the terrorist attacks,” Frank noted, hanging back to speak with Bishop. “Those that were already here, we offered to let stay after the news reports stopped, and the electricity didn’t return. Most didn’t, wanting to return to homes and family.”
Bishop stopped walking, glad to give his back and feet a rest. The head ranger continued, “About three weeks after contact with the outside world ceased, one of our rangers came into the park and announced that the entire world had gone nuts. He kept calling it apocalyptic, and we all thought he was exaggerating. He said he had driven his family into town to get supplies, and they had been attacked. He described roving gangs, like you’d expect to see in LA or Chicago. They all had guns, and what few people remained were scared shitless of them. They tried to take the few gallons of gas he had left.”
Nodding, Bishop said, “I understand. I’ve seen it before, and it doesn’t even have to be a town or big city. It seems like anytime there is a group of people in trouble, the wolves start preying on the sheep. It’s probably always been that way, probably always will.”
Frank considered his guest, seemingly deep in thought. “It wasn’t just one guy. The stories started mounting, and the electricity never came back on, no television or radio – nothing. It was like the whole country had gone dark and silent.”
“In a way, it did – and not just because of the electricity. I was in Houston with my wife during that time. Even though we were living in a big city, we had no clue what was going on. We could see the fires, night after night on the horizon. It was spooky… real spooky.” Bishop shuddered, thinking back about those times and then shook himself to clear the memories. “When the army finally rolled in, it split our little neighborhood apart. We were barely holding on as it was, and when half the people said they were leaving to go live under martial law, we decided to bug out.”
Frank nodded, his expression showing familiarity with the situation. “We had meeting after meeting about doing the same. The problem was, no one could think of a better place than here at the park. Our job had been to protect the resources here, to preserve them for the future. You can imagine how difficult a decision it was to start consuming what we’d worked so long to foster.”
Bishop’s eyebrows rose, having never thought about that aspect before. “I bet it was a tough call,” he agreed.
Frank motioned for Bishop to follow and then continued the discussion. “The next issue was the stragglers. At times, it seemed like the whole countryside was full of people wandering around aimlessly, eating anything they could find. Some groups were docile, almost lethargic; others were violent and aggressive. I remember driving down the road and finding a family with a fire and sleeping bags camped right in the middle of the pavement. They were living like wild animals.”
As they talked, the men strolled toward the bodies of the two poachers. Bishop took a moment to study the men he’d just killed.
Both of the victims appeared traumatized beyond having been shot. The dead men were thin, their waistlines sunken narrower than their hips. Dirty, long fingernails, yellow teeth, and oily, uncut hair confirmed his suspicions. Bishop said, “You mean like these two guys? It looks like to me they were barely staying alive before they took a shot at us.”
Frank put his hand on Bishop’s shoulder. “I knew these two, ran into them a few times before everything went to hell. I had them arrested three years ago for poaching on park property. They were scum then, and the fall of society didn’t help that one bit. We’ve been skirmishing with them for weeks. They were hard drinking, shiftless lowlife - without any family or foundation. Come on, let’s go stand by the fire and dry out.”
“I see you brought me another mouth to feed,” sounded a female voice from behind. Both men turned to see a middle-aged woman approaching.
“Mary, this is Bishop. We ran into him on the 3-mile trail while we were hunting the trespassers. Bishop, meet Mary, the matriarch of our little community and my wife.”
Mary sized Bishop up without offering her hand or any greeting. There was a stormy look in her eye, a suspicion no doubt enhanced by the two dead bodies lying at the men’s feet. “How long is he staying?”
The woman’s tone was clearly hostile, but Frank pretended not to notice. “I’m not sure, Mary. Why don’t you ask him yourself?”
She glanced at Bishop, shook her head and then walked off without another word. After she had passed beyond earshot, Frank said, “I’m sorry. She hasn’t been the same since everything fell apart. She has a son who lived outside Chicago, and we haven’t heard from him in months. It eats at her every single day.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” Bishop replied. “You two, of all people, should understand my mission. I’m on my way to retrieve loved ones and reunite a family.”
Frank’s eyes never left Mary, watching his wife as she approached another man and struck up a conversation. “That’s a noble cause, for sure,” he said to Bishop. “You’re right. I do understand, down to my bones I understand. The world may have lost civilization, but I lost the sweetest girl this side of Little Rock.”
Their discussion was interrupted by Bishop’s watch alarm, signaling it was time to turn on his radio and monitor a specific frequency – the agreed upon procedure to make contact with the plane. Glancing up at the still overcast sky, he knew it was pointless, but followed the plan just in case. Nothing but static filled his earpiece.
Frank noticed the act, glancing up as well. “How many men is the plane bringing in?”
“There will be three of us on this little adventure. I hotwired an abandoned truck on the interstate and drove it down here. The plane is bringing enough gasoline and supplies for a pretty long drive.”
Scratching his chin, a hint of slyness crept into Frank’s voice. “I’m not trying to be nosey, but is there enough gasoline in Texas to support an endeavor like this? No offense, but you are better fed, equipped and organized than anything or anyone we’ve seen since it all fell apart.”
Bishop chuckled at the observation, warming his hands by the fire, the heat slowly drying the mud on his pants. “It’s a long story, but essentially several small towns in West Texas have banded together and formed a union of sorts. We’ve managed to get electrical power and limited refining of gas and diesel up and running.”
“Are you going to retrieve e
veryone’s family members?”
“No,” Bishop shook his head in dismay. “I wish we could, but that would be impossible. The guy we’re doing this with is a special case, and our ruling council approved the operation.”
Frank seemed to take his time absorbing it all, turning his back to the flames and scanning his community. “I thought we were doing well here,” he commented. “It sounds like we’re behind the curve.”
“You are doing very well here, at least from what I’ve seen in other parts of the country. I think we’ve gotten lucky, and circumstance put the right people in the right place. Your people are eating and secure, and that’s a lot better than most folks I’ve encountered.”
“Frank,” a voice called out, “If you want some of this pork stew, you’d better get over here. It won’t last long.”
“Okay,” the head ranger responded, “we’ll be right over.”
“Pork stew?” Bishop asked, a frown on his face. “You have hogs around here?”
“Wild hogs… they’ve saved our butt. We would have obliterated the local deer population in a matter of months were it not for Mary’s feral pig cuisine. What was a major pest before the collapse is now keeping us alive.”
Bishop had read news stories about the problem, the animals destroying millions of dollars of crops and property every year. Some of his co-workers at HBR had even gone on hog hunting excursions for fun. “Do you have bacon?” he asked with a bit of hope in his voice.
“No,” Frank replied laughing. “There’s no fat on’ em, and thus no bacon. To be honest, they’re not nearly as appetizing as domestic porkers, and that’s why we make stew out of the more mature animals. The big ones taste like ass; the younger ones are more palatable, almost tasty.”
Looking up at the still-gray sky, Bishop thought he should take advantage of a hot meal, even if it wasn’t favored by the Maître d’hôtel. I’ll still tip well, Bishop mused. At least the dude was honest about it.
Actually, Frank had undersold the stew. Wild onions, potatoes from a neighbor’s legacy garden, and a few spices Bishop couldn’t identify made the meal superior to anything he carried in his kit. Water was served from a metal bucket, a community dipper filling plastic cups covered with their handwritten names. Bishop stuck with his Camelbak, not having a cup and not seeing any spares. Besides, you never drink the water, he told himself
Sitting apart from the main gathering, his host had been mostly quiet during the meal. After tipping his bowl and sipping the final bit of broth, Frank sat back and admired the view for a few moments. Bishop had the distinct impression the man was building up something important to say.
The lodge guest didn’t have to wait long. Nodding at Bishop’s load vest, Frank came out with it. “What caliber is your weapon?”
“It uses 5.56 NATO or .223 Remington. It was originally designed to replace the army’s M4 platform, so it uses the same magazines and ammo.”
Frank’s eyebrows raised at Bishop’s answer. “We’ve got two AR15 rifles, but we only had about 50 rounds, and that went quick after the trouble began. Now I’m relegated to a shotgun, a few rounds per deer rifle and a couple of handguns, and that won’t last long. We used a lot of our ammo inventory today.”
The hint was subtle, and Bishop decided not to take the bait. Frank was wanting some of Bishop’s precious ammo, and he couldn’t blame the man. He was doing exactly what Bishop would do if the roles were reversed. But, the concept of giving a man… a man he didn’t know all that well… the tools that could hinder his operation didn’t sit well with the visitor from Texas.
Bishop nodded, sympathetic to Frank’s situation. “Ammo is the new currency in some places. A town near where I live had a marketplace where everyone bartered, and there was nothing more valuable than brass and powder.”
Again Frank paused, Bishop assuming the fellow was working up the courage to ask for a gift - bullets. He was wrong.
“I know of something that might be of value to you and your team. It’s a risk on my side, but if you’d consider bartering some of those rounds, I could offer a trade.”
Bishop’s eyebrows raised, now curious what Frank had up his sleeve. “Go on.”
Frank chuckled, “I can see I’m sitting across from an experienced horse trader.” His voice then became serious. “I know of a man that lives about 15 miles from here, on the other side of town. He just recently returned home from the army. I’m not sure why, but he was involved in a big operation along the Mississippi river. He was a military policeman and might have valuable information, might be useful to you.”
Bishop tried not to react, but inside his head was reeling. The weakest part of their plan was traveling through the Mississippi River Delta. They knew the military had a huge operation going on, an initiative called Operation Heartland. It was the government’s big push to jumpstart the recovery. Other than that, the team from Alpha knew very little. Talking to someone who had worked in the area could be critical, especially an MP.”
“Yes,” Bishop replied, trying to keep his voice calm. “Such a person might provide some very useful input. How do you know about this man?”
Grinning widely, Frank responded, “He’s my nephew. He hiked through the park on his way home. His wife and child were living with us while he was away. Despite my insistence that he stay here, he wanted to go back to his farm… was dead-set on doing so.”
Remembering his determination to reach the ranch after the bug-out from Houston, Bishop could understand such an emotional drive. “How do you know he made it home?” the Texan asked.
“He’s like you, Bishop. He’s a capable man and left well-armed. We warned him about the situation in town, but it didn’t seem to bother him much. He gathered up his family and set off about three weeks ago. I’m pretty sure he made it. He’s always been a determined SOB.”
“How long a trip do you think it would be?”
“Well, that all depends. Can we drive in your rental?”
Bishop considered the question, weighing the variables. The weather could keep Hugh socked in for days, which would allow for a trip on foot and keep the truck relatively safe where it was. On the other hand, a walking expedition would take longer and add additional peril.
“I’d prefer not to use the truck,” Bishop decided. “It is more critical to our task than just about anything else.”
Frank seemed to be working through the distances and pace. “Well, in that case, I would estimate we can accomplish the round trip in a day if we don’t run into any trouble. Start off just before dawn, be back in the evening at dusk.”
“What if we traveled at night?”
The head ranger snorted, “You do have a big pair of nads, don’t ya? I mean, I get it – traveling at night would be safer, but our progress would be slower.”
“Not with one of these,” Bishop replied, pulling out his night vision. “We can bust it cross country if we do it right.”
The Texan passed Frank the monocle to examine. “My, my,” was his only verbal response, the man intent upon fondling the device.
The quick-release optical mounting system was one of the finest inventions in the history of mankind, at least from Bishop’s current perspective. Combined with a unified platform available on a huge variety of weapons, anyone could quickly swap optics, magnifiers, lasers, ranger finders and a variety of other rifle furniture between firearms in a matter of moments.
The technology also allowed for adaptation to environmental conditions, such as moving from the forest to open terrain, or as in Bishop’s situation, the gray afternoon having faded into a starless night.
Without removing the zeroed-in optic, he could switch from daylight to lowlight by simply snapping on the night vision to his rifle. When he wanted to let Frank have a look, he quickly detached the palm-sized unit and handed it to his comrade.
And Frank wanted to have a look more often than not.
The two men had left the park two hours ago, following an old farm lane at f
irst, then cutting across an open pasture as the light finally faded. Frank had drawn Bishop a map of the route with significant landmarks and approximate distances.
“We should mark rally points, in case we get separated,” Bishop had persuaded. It really hadn’t been a problem, as Frank wouldn’t let more than a few feet of separation grow between them.
While the park ranger managed his noise discipline respectfully well, the man’s insistence at staying up-tight and personal with the Texan was dangerous and annoying. If Bishop had believed the odds were strong that they were walking into trouble, he would have scolded Frank. After dropping a couple of strong hints that were basically ignored, Bishop decided to let it go. The chances of running into a problem in the woods at night were slim. I don’t know what he’s been through, Bishop reflected. Maybe he has good reason to fear the night.
Frank had retrieved one of the ranger’s AR15s, for which Bishop had supplied two magazines – the negotiated price for the Intel-gathering soiree through the Arkansas countryside. Bishop hoped Frank wouldn’t use up the ammo before the night was out… prayed he wouldn’t have the need.
Their route required passing through the outskirts of Martinsville, bypassing the potential trouble spot deemed unreasonable due to the extra time that would be required for the journey. A series of impassable streams, swollen from the recent storms, eliminated any timely detour. Bishop wasn’t overly concerned - given the hour and the small, hopefully unnoticeable, size of their party.
Stench was the first indication the community was ahead. A blend of wood smoke, sewage and a few other unidentifiable odors assaulted Bishop’s sense of smell. It was unpleasant, to say the least.
As they approached the first few signs of what had once been a berg of almost 5,000 people, the town was quiet, given the hour of zero-dark thirty. Other than occasional whiffs of foulness drifting by, the first few businesses, homes and outbuildings all appeared normal.