Bishop's Song

by Joe Nobody

  Ordinarily when encroaching an urban area, staying in the shadows is a critical tactic. But not tonight. There were no streetlights, no moonlight, and no starlight. Even the high tech night vision struggled to paint a picture of anything more than basic shapes and outlines. Bishop felt like he was in a deep underground cave, so dark he wasn’t sure where the walls ended and open space began. Twice he walked off the pavement they were trying to follow, the crunch of the gravel shoulder embarrassing, but otherwise harmless.

  On the second misstep, Bishop halted abruptly and felt Frank bump into his pack a half second later. Shaking his head, he pulled the man down to take a knee and whispered, “I’m going to turn on the night vision’s illuminator and my flashlight’s infrared beam. The two of them combined will enhance the night vision enough to avoid trouble. As it stands right now, we could walk right into a pack of wild dogs, either canine or human, and not even know they were there until we felt teeth pierce flesh.”

  “Okay,” replied the nervous man. “Whatever you think is best. Will it help me see?”

  “No. The human eye can’t recognize the infrared spectrum, but …” Bishop pulled out a light stick from his vest, snapping and shaking the chemical device until a warm, green glow surrounded the two men. “I’m going to risk weaving this in the exterior webbing on my pack. Just follow it. It should show you where to step. If I stop or go to a knee, you do the same. Just follow the golden glow road, like Dorothy in that wizard movie.”

  The green light illuminated enough of Frank’s face to show Bishop that the man didn’t appreciate his humor. Some people take things way too seriously, thought Bishop. What? You want to live forever.

  Bishop pulled his flashlight off the vest, using the glow of the chemical stick to make double sure he used the correct setting for the invisible infrared light. He still covered the lenses with his hand, before hitting the power button, knowing that even a small flashlight beam would be visible for miles on a night like tonight.

  Bishop’s torch clipped to the MOLLE ladders on his vest, and after adjusting the stream of light to the correct angle, he tested the effect.

  Returning the monocle to his eye, he scanned the area and found he could see clearly out to 70 yards. Much better, he thought. The only drawback is the battery usage - or if someone else has night vision.

  With his guiding light, Bishop could make out more of the town as they passed. It was creepy. Not a single light showed anywhere, not even a candle. Overgrown yards surrounded homes with dark windows, even the driveways succumbing to nature’s relentless advance of unkempt foliage.

  What had been piles of trash were scattered here and there, remnants of a time when humans bought their food in plastic and paper. Dogs, raccoons and other wildlife had visited the gathering heaps at some point, scattering contents that no human had the energy or initiative to clean up. Nature was taking it all back anyway, he thought. Eventually it will take an archeologist to find any evidence of human habitation if this keeps up.

  The thought of dogs reminded Bishop of his primary concern before crossing through the town. Those four-legged early warning systems were a worry, but so far Frank and he hadn’t heard a single bark or growl. Had the animals learned to keep quiet - lest they be eaten? Had some desperate soul made a meal of them all to survive? Bishop shook his head to dismiss the morbid thoughts.

  His other fear of Martinsville proved unwarranted as well. There were no sentries. Remembering his trip across Texas, they had encountered roadblocks, fortified bridges and barricaded passages along the route. He mentally assumed this place would possess the same unwelcome obstacles, but it didn’t.

  How long had it taken before they realized it wasn’t worth the effort, he pondered, stepping along a now weed-strewn sidewalk. How many weeks or months had it been before someone realized that the guys blocking the road in their pickups weren’t encountering a single soul? No more drifters. Nothing left for anyone to loot. Who cares about security when there’s nothing left to protect?

  The concept saddened Bishop. Despite his desperate desire to avoid bumping heads with any locals, the degradation of the town to the point where there was nothing left to guard made a statement – a resolution of decay – an abandonment of hope.

  In fact, the only barrier they encountered required nothing more than stepping just slightly higher than normal. A truck had slammed into a utility pole, causing the weakened support to fall into the middle of the street. No one had cleaned it up. No one had bothered. Bishop didn’t check the rusted hull of the truck, but wouldn’t have been shocked to see the bones of the driver still sitting behind the wheel. The bullet holes in the driver’s door told him what had happened here over a year ago.

  Before long, they were trekking across the countryside again, walking along the edge of a paved road once used by those folks who would venture into Martinsville to buy groceries, a new sprinkler head or perhaps a scoop of ice cream. To Bishop, the air grew cleaner, easier to breathe.

  The spread between the homes bordering the roadway grew, the pavement narrowing after a while.

  It was about then that Bishop noticed two shifts in their environment, both helping to lift the melancholy fog that descended on him in Martinsville. The first was the return of nature’s orchestra of wildlife sounds. Tree frogs, crickets, and other creatures of the night raised their voices to an ever-increasing level as the two humans relinquished the concrete and asphalt of the town.

  The second change was a break in the cloud cover. Bishop had just raised the night vision to scan ahead when the entire landscape illuminated like someone had turned on a giant spotlight. Really nothing more than a few stars poking through the cloud cover, the contrast was amazing. He turned off the battery-powered devices, exhaling in relief that the resupply plane would probably make it through tomorrow.

  They hiked another handful of miles, the routine becoming second nature to the two travelers. Bishop would stop and scan with his nighttime helper, pivoting 360 degrees while scanning for any threat. After verifying their isolation, he’d plot 50 steps ahead and begin walking again.

  Frank’s whisper interrupted the process. “That’s Mathew’s driveway up ahead.”

  No sooner had the words registered, than a dog started barking in the distance. “Just like you said,” Bishop responded. “Let’s stick with our plan.”

  Frank nodded and took the lead, stepping toward the mailbox. Bishop hung back, continuing to scan their surroundings, wary of the noise.

  Frank’s voice called out toward the house. “Matt! Matt! It’s Frank. Matt, are you up?”

  Bishop looked at his watch, doubting the man was awake three hours before sunrise. He was wrong. A voice sounded close by, causing both travelers to jump. “Frank,” the tone low and mean, “who’s that with you?”

  “Matt, it’s okay… that’s Bishop, and I brought him here to talk with you. He’s a white hat.”

  An outline appeared from the shadow of the property’s fence line, the man’s movement cautious and slow. Bishop remained still, not wanting to cause an incident. I’d be a little jumpy too if I had unannounced visitors in the middle of the post-apocalyptic night, he considered.

  “The dogs started growling ten minutes ago,” Matt stated. “I knew someone was fucking around. What the hell are you doing here, Frank?”

  “I’m on a mission to rescue someone up in Tennessee,” Bishop declared, taking a step closer to the two men. “Frank convinced me you might have information that could help us pull it off. Maybe save some lives.”

  “Well, hell’s bells… this is just weird you two showing up like this… but all right. Come on in.” And with that, the homeowner spun away and strode back up the drive without another comment. Bishop and Frank followed.

  As the trio paced to the back of the house, Matt pointed toward the chained German shepherd that had sounded the alarm. “Fritz doesn’t like the apocalypse. Before the shit hit the fan, he ran free, but now I have to keep him chained, or som
e damn fool will have him for lunch.”

  Before entering the screened back porch, Matt stopped, spinning to stare at Frank. “Are you sure this guy’s okay, Uncle Frank? You know me. I never was much of a social butterfly, and I’m even less now. Before I invite him into my home, I gotta ask.”

  “I’ll vouch for him, Matt. He’s good people.”

  Again eyeing Bishop up and down, Matt made up his mind. “Come on in,” he grunted.

  After stepping through the door, the homeowner bent and retrieved a candle. Using a disposable lighter, he struck a flame to the wick. The entire porch was cast in a warm glow, revealing over a dozen bushel baskets full of food.

  Bishop was amazed at the collection, spying apples, walnuts, several different types of roots and two large bundles of what appeared to be cattails. Noticing his scrutinizing gaze, Matt commented, “When I bought this place years ago, old man Prichard kept a small orchard running. After he passed away in 2010, I kind of let it go. For a few years, I think most of the fruit rotted on the ground, but not anymore. The apples just ripened three days ago. I would guess there’s another four or five bushel left.”

  Amazing, thought Bishop. I never thought about orchards.

  “You’ve got enough here to start your own market. I’ve seen that done before. It’s how my people back home initiated recovery,” the Texan observed.

  Matt digested the remark for a moment and then smiled. “I suppose it’s been that way for thousands of years. When men with land harvested more than they could eat, they took their excess into town to sell. It’s too bad that won’t work here. If I loaded up a bunch of food, someone would try and take it from me. Someone would die.”

  Bishop grinned, now flattered over Frank’s earlier comparison with his nephew. “In that case, the people in the town probably starved until they changed their ways. Without security, nothing happens.”

  Matt evidently decided not to delve into historical social development, especially three hours before dawn. “My Gloria knows how to can food, so I’m hoping by winter we’ll have more than enough,” Matt continued. “Last winter she and my kids about starved to death. Even Fritz was getting all ‘ribby’ and weak. I intend to make sure that doesn’t happen again.”

  “I’m impressed,” Bishop stated. “I sure hope you can keep a low profile. You’re still pretty close to town.”

  Matt waved his hand in the air, the gesture pointing back at Martinsville. “Oh, hell no. Those scarecrows back in town ain’t going to give me any shit. Hell, half of ‘em don’t have the strength to walk out here and carry a weapon at the same time. The other half is too damned stupid to worry about. I’m more uptight about random stragglers than that bunch of zombie-brains in Martinsville.”

  Bishop chuckled at the description, and then decided to get down to business. “Frank here tells me you were in the army, assigned to Operation Heartland.”

  Matt nodded, “I was an MP with the 377th. My stint was up a long time ago, but they weren’t letting anyone out or issuing any leaves. I just left. Some might say deserted, but I had my discharge papers a week before everything fell apart. My CO knew I was headed home. He didn’t lift a finger to stop me.”

  Bishop replied, “We want to drive across to Tennessee in a truck, extract a friend’s family members and bring them back across. What can we expect?”

  Matt snorted, “I expect you all would die. No one uses private vehicles in these parts. All civilians with gasoline were ordered to surrender their fuel months ago. Unless you’re a farmer or an engineer with orders, only military units are on the ground.”

  The news confirmed Bishop’s worst fears; they would stand out like sore thumbs. “That’s not good news. I was afraid things might have degraded to that point.” Nodding toward the baskets of food spread across the back porch, Bishop continued, “You mentioned farmers. How do they move their goods around?”

  “I’ve seen horse-drawn wagons, families carrying baskets on poles across their shoulders… you name it. A few of the really big outfits have special permits for trucks, but it’s rare to see one. The only cars on the road belong to the military or are government sedans.”

  “Shit,” Bishop muttered, pacing a few steps in thought. “How would you do it? How would you get across the area they control? Could we fly over it?”

  Matt motioned to a cluster of chairs at the end of the overhang. After the men were seated, he continued, “You can’t fly; the airspace has an exclusion. While I never saw any fighters, the Air Force boys are pretty busy shuttling things around, so there must be radar and controllers.”

  “Trains, planes, and automobiles,” Bishop grumbled, “there has to be a way.”

  “No trains either. Lots of boat traffic on the rivers, a lot of people walking.”

  “Could we fake orders somehow? What’s the procedure?”

  Matt gave Bishop’s last idea a bit of consideration before answering. Finally, shaking his head, he replied, “I don’t think that would work. You’ve got to understand things are clamped down pretty tight. Officers have full authority for field trials and summary executions. I bet I saw a hundred looters executed in the last four months. Same goes with deserters. Discipline is harsh – zero tolerance. If I were at a checkpoint, and you approached carrying men, supplies and guns, I’d verify your orders before letting you pass.”

  Frank broke his silence, “I’ve heard rumors it was bad. I bet there is quite a riff between the civilians and the army.”

  “Oh, the people hate the military and the government, despise them with a passion. It actually goes both ways. Most of the guys in uniform aren’t overly fond of their countrymen these days.”

  “Americans aren’t accustomed to totalitarian rule. I bet the lack of food and freedom is going to cause tempers to boil over at some point,” Bishop added.

  Matt shook his head, “It varies from area to area and how well each commander is handling things. When the military first rolled into our town, people were so desperate, they bought into the government’s story. The promise of food, electrical power and rule of law made a lot of folks toe the line. Starvation is a powerful motivator. But the process is taking too long. I was stationed outside of Memphis, and the general commanding our region promised electrical power would be restored in two months. The army lost a lot of credibility after four months had passed, and no juice flowed through the lines. The same bullshit predictions were made about food, too. The situation’s a little better than it was when my family and I first came back, but not much. Let’s just say Weight Watchers isn’t doing a robust business in this market, that’s for sure.”

  Bishop grinned at the bad joke, a little ashamed he found it humorous given they were talking about their fellow countrymen, family, friends and neighbors. “There has to be a way to get across,” he finally observed.

  Matt exhaled and leaned back in his chair, clearly deep in thought. “Maybe I’m painting too bleak a picture. You might be able to slide through, if you avoid the major cities. The army can’t be everywhere at once. They’re concentrated within the big towns and critical infrastructure projects, like the power plants and docks. If you avoided all of those, you might be able to make it. Crossing the Mississippi is still going to be a bitch, though. All of the bridges are tightly controlled.”

  “Every river is probably going to be an issue,” Bishop worried. “We didn’t think this was going to be a walk in the park, but it’s sounding more and more like an impossibility.”

  Matt considered the dilemma for a bit, finally brightening with a thought. “Do any of your guys look like me?”

  Bishop lifted the candle from the table’s surface, holding the light to study Matt. “You know, now that you ask, you and Deke might be related. Why?”

  “Hold on a second,” Matt replied, rising from his chair and disappearing into the home’s back door. A few moments later, he came out carrying a military ID card and a wallet containing an MP’s badge and credentials. He passed the identification t
o Bishop.

  Abandoning the candle for his flashlight, Bishop studied the pictures carefully. Looking up with a smile, he declared, “This just might work, especially given the date the cards were issued. Everybody looks different after what we’ve all been through. What would you want in exchange for a complete disguise?”

  Matt rubbed his chin, thinking long and hard about the barter. Finally coming to a conclusion, he announced, “I want 1,000 rounds of 5.56 ammo, two pounds of canning paraffin, five pounds of salt, 100 broad-spectrum antibiotics, and the prettiest size seven dress you can find.”

  Bishop pulled a notepad from a zipper compartment on his vest. Without comment or emotion, he jotted down Matt’s list and then looked up. “I think I can do this, but some of the items I’m not sure about. I’ll do my best and be back here in two days. If you don’t like what I bring, then the deal’s off. In the meantime, I would like to leave you a map. If you can note units, deployments, strength… as complete a scouting report as possible, I might be able to throw in a bonus.”

  Looking around at the still dark backyard, Matt indicated his agreement with Bishop’s request. “I can take out some time from harvesting in the orchard to complete the report. I’ll see you in two days.”

  As the two visitors stood to leave, Bishop turned back to Matt and offered his hand. After the men exchanged the handshake, Bishop paused as if he’d forgotten something.

  “I assume the dress is for your wife? I mean, you’d never fit in a size 7.”

  Laughing, Matt said, “Yes, it’s for my wife. Her favorite color is blue.”

  Chapter 8

  Petit Jean State Park, Arkansas

  July 6, 2016

  Bishop heard the plane’s motor before his radio squawked. Before he could press to talk, the bird zoomed low over the runway, Deke’s smiling face peering out the passenger side window as Bishop flipped his middle finger at the passing aircraft.