Bishop's Song

by Joe Nobody

  Bishop had often wondered if the troops attracted the girls, or if the girls brought in the troops. Deciding the question was unanswerable, he’d given up seeking the truth early on, and focused his energies on the courtship of a variety of young ladies.

  This, of course, had been years before he met Terri. Now, tinges of guilt tugged at him, despite the innocence of merely buying a young lady a drink in order to gain local knowledge.

  “I’m new around here, and I’m surprised that the military lets this place exist.”

  “I was too,” the girl replied. “I think the general in Memphis looks the other way in order to help morale.”

  Bishop raised his eyebrows, surprised at the depth of her answer. These girls probably know more about what’s going on than most of the officers in this place, he thought.

  Maryanne appeared, her nod indicating Bishop’s guest was well known. “The usual,” the waitress prompted.

  Bishop decided to use Grim’s line of inquiry on the young woman. After Maryanne had delivered the doubly expensive drink, he began, “So I have relatives that live nearby. They’re running out of food, and I was wondering if this is a good place for them to find employment.”

  Just like the waitress before, his companion glanced around, as if she wanted to make sure their conversation wasn’t overheard.

  “It’s okay, I guess. I was desperate, eating little scraps and tidbits as I could find them. My mom got sick and died. There was no way to get help. I really didn’t have any choice, but most of the guys are pretty nice to me, and I do have a warm, dry place to sleep and enough food to eat.”

  Despite his best efforts and another very expensive drink, Bishop could not extract any more information from the woman beside him. She demonstrated deft skills of redirecting conversation, never appearing rude, but never exposing any real facts. She eventually grew tired of his ceaseless questions, finally asking if he was interested in any extracurricular activities back at her camper.

  When he declined the invitation, she politely smiled, thanked him for the drinks and then rose to go, intent on seeking customers at other tables.

  The skirt-distraction no longer present, Bishop set about people watching. The multitude of uniforms circled his thoughts back to Deke, his friend’s body still resting in the back of the truck. Burial on Grim’s property was now in doubt. Just digging a hole anywhere was out of the question.

  When presented with such a problem, Bishop always tried to consider a pre-collapse solution. In the old days, there would be several options available to surviving friends and family. Given his years of service, a military funeral would have been one such option – a resting place of honor among other warriors.

  As he inventoried options, his concentration was interrupted by the presence of a man standing at his table. “Are you using this chair, sir?” came the polite inquiry.

  “No, help yourself.”

  “Thank, you.”

  As the guy leaned forward to pick up the seat, Bishop noticed the patch on his arm. It was identical to the insignia attached to the uniform provided by Matt, now on the sleeve of his dead friend lying in the bed of the truck - the 377th Military Police.

  As Bishop watched, the man carried the chair a few tables over, joining a small group of young officers gathered there. Bishop could make out the butter-bars of a second lieutenant on a couple of them. Given their youthful appearance, he guessed a few of the junior officers were out on a short pass, relishing the opportunity to get away for a few hours and wet their whistles. He smiled, the scene reminding him of his own early years while stationed at Fort Bragg.

  The appearance of that patch gave the Texan an idea. Surely the military units occupying Memphis would have a proper procedure in place to lay their causalities to rest. It was a standard operational requirement for any significant deployment. Armies had learned long ago that the respectful, honorable handling of the dead was critical. Warriors and families alike, wanted to see their fallen sons and daughters taken care of with dignity. Bishop started thinking of how he could use this standard to give his friend a proper burial.

  Mulling over the options, Bishop decided he needed more information. The young man borrowing the chair had seemed friendly enough. Perhaps if approached from the right angle…

  The Texan rose, picking up his glass as if headed to the bar for a refill. His intent was to pass close to the officer’s table and eavesdrop as much as possible. He hoped to hear some snippet of conversation that would open an approach – give him a reason to strike up a conversation with the strangers.

  His path was suddenly blocked by another man who appeared out of nowhere, making a beeline for the same table. The guy cut Bishop off, the rude act raising his ire. Were he not trying to remain low-key, the Texan would have most likely have commented, but he kept his tongue.

  And then the asshole did it again. As he passed by the young LT who had borrowed the chair, Bishop watched the guy bump into the officer’s shoulder, causing a significant spill of beer. It almost looked like the offender had purposely rammed the kid.

  The hair on Bishop’s neck bristled. Something wasn’t right.

  Surprised by both the assault and a lapful of cold beer, the lieutenant shot to his feet quickly, the chair

  toppling into the aisle.

  “I’m sorry; how clumsy of me,” immediately offered the offender, suddenly polite and concerned.

  As he bent to pick up the overturned chair, Bishop saw the offender’s hand move to the table for support, a stack of poker chips covered by his palm. A pickpocket!

  Bishop was only three steps behind the thief, clearly seeing the empty tabletop where only a moment before had been a significant number of the brightly colored disks.

  The crook moved the now full hand toward his pants pocket, but never completed the act. Bishop was there, grabbing the bandit’s wrist with both hands and twisting hard.

  Letting out a bark of surprise, the thief dropped to his knees immediately, Bishop twisting with considerable force, not caring if he dislocated a shoulder.

  By that time, all of the officers at the table were standing, a natural reaction to the fast moving sequence of events.

  “Hi, Lieutenant,” Bishop opened. “You might want to check on your money.”

  The kid blinked, obviously confused. After Bishop’s comment soaked in, the young officer glanced back at the table, then to Bishop, then to the guy on his knees.

  “What the fuck,” he mumbled.

  Bishop applied additional force, twisting and pulling up. The leverage toppled his captive over onto his face, a moan of anguish sounding from the pickpocket’s chest.

  “Open your hand, asshole, before I tear off your arm and throw it away.”

  The man did as Bishop instructed, opening his clenched fist. A small river of casino chips tumbled across his back and onto the floor.

  Bishop looked up at the LT and explained, “I saw him swipe those from your table. He bumped into you on purpose – to cause a distraction.”

  Before the shocked officer could respond, two security men pushed through the crowd. “What the hell is going on here?” one of them demanded.

  “Pickpocket,” replied Bishop. “I caught him red-handed.”

  Raising his weapon slightly, the guard ordered, “Let him up.”

  Bishop released his hold, standing upright and immediately moving his hands into the traditional, “Don’t shoot,” position.

  Before the thief could rise, the security man grabbed him by the hair and twisted, looking hard at the face of the accused man. Recognition filled the bouncer’s eyes. “I warned you the last time - never show your face in here again. Now I’m pissed, you thieving piece of shit.”

  The bandit was hauled roughly to his feet, two rather large gentlemen hustling him toward the exit. It was clear the pickpocket’s new friends weren’t overly concerned with being gentle.

  Turning to Bishop, the guard mumbled, “Thanks,” and then motioned to a nearby
waitress. “These men all get a round on the house.” And with that, the episode was over.

  Still charged-up by the incident, it took the young soldiers a while to settle down. A few of them offered Bishop a handshake, thanking him for catching the crook. The kid who had borrowed the chair invited Bishop to sit and have a drink.

  He accepted.

  For a few minutes, Bishop filled the anticipated role. He questioned where the men were from, how long they had been deployed and heard about their families back home.

  While the casual conversation was in progress, Bishop pretended to notice the LT’s unit insignia, his eyes growing wide. “Are you missing a man?” he asked with low, serious voice.

  “What do you mean?” the kid responded, looking around at his colleagues.

  “I came across a dead man on the way here. He had on a uniform and a patch just like yours,” Bishop informed. “I found this ID on the body.”

  Bishop dug around in his pockets, producing the identification card Matt had given to Deke. He passed it over to the lieutenant.

  It took the young man a moment to comprehend. He glanced at Matt’s picture, then handed it to one of the others. “I know this guy, he deserted a while back. He’s on the watch list.”

  As the card was passed around the table, someone asked Bishop where he’d found the body. After telling a small white lie in response, the Texan added, “I’m not sure what to do with the corpse. I was going to head into Memphis and ask after I’d finished my business here.”

  “Where’s the body now?”

  Acting embarrassed, Bishop looked at the floor and responded, “I’ve got him wrapped up in a tarp out in my pickup. I couldn’t just leave a soldier lying there and didn’t know what else to do.”

  As expected, Bishop’s expressed respect for the fallen seemed to touch the men seated around the table. Things grew quiet after the confession.

  “Well, first of all, you probably have a reward coming. Anyone who turns in a deserter is eligible. I don’t know why this man left the unit without authorization, but these days, I don’t judge them as harshly as I would if we were at war.”

  “He died violently,” Bishop added. “He died fighting someone. I must have gotten there just as it was all over, because his body was still warm.”

  Bishop’s news was sobering, the combination of the pickpocket’s failed attempt and now a member of their unit found dead. The oldest of the group looked around at his friends and said, “I don’t know about you guys, but I’m not in the mood to party tonight. Let’s save our money for another time.” The man then looked at his watch and said, “Besides, we’ve got to get back soon.”

  There was agreement all around, a few of the men emptying their glasses at the suggestion.

  The senior man looked at Bishop and asked, “Can you follow us to our unit? We can take the sergeant’s body off your hands and process the reward there.”

  Bishop hadn’t thought about any compensation, but then an idea flashed into his head. “I don’t really want a reward. I didn’t do anything to deserve it.” He then paused as if thinking, and added, “But it sure would help me out if I could travel around without being stopped and having to tell my story at every checkpoint.”

  “And exactly what is your story?” asked one of the more cynical of the group.

  “I own a farm out in the country. I was lucky… I saw what was coming and prepared for the worst. I’ve done better than most. I’ve got family spread all around these parts, and I’m on a quest to gather them up and take them back to my place.”

  Again, Bishop’s story filled out the persona he was building. It would explain the fuel and supplies in his truck.

  “I can’t promise anything, but maybe my CO will grant you a pass. It would move you through the checkpoints a lot faster.”

  “That’d be great!” Bishop responded. That would help get us home with Grim and his loved ones.

  A few minutes later the group of officers, Bishop in tow, exited the Circus and made for the parking lot. The men from Memphis had arrived via three small pickup trucks, the kind commonly used to motor troops around the larger military bases all over the country.

  “Follow us,” one of the men instructed. “It’s about 20 minutes from here.”

  And then the convoy was off, Bishop’s larger truck inserted in the middle of the four-car parade.

  The class-A motorhome reminded Grim of the similar unit being used by Terri as her portable office back in West Texas. The accommodations, mobility and built-in infrastructure were just hard to beat in a post-SHTF world. Parked in an area with restricted access, Grim had to pass another ring of security before being allowed entrance to the section comprising the luxurious living quarters. Beckworth greeted him with open arms and a huge smile, none of which mellowed the contractor’s attitude towards his ex-commander.

  “I retired six years ago,” the former officer announced. “The idea for this operation came to me as I was reading a history book on the Roman Legions. Since the beginning of organized armies, bands of regular citizens have followed warriors wherever their campaigns have taken them. When I found out about Operation Heartland, I decided I could provide a valuable service to our loyal soldiers, and I began organizing all that you see around you.”

  “Camp followers,” Grim summarized.

  Beckworth shrugged. “Call it what you will. At first, those tight asses in Memphis HQ declared our little community off limits. But that changed over time. As morale worsened and desertions began to rise, the stuffed shirts running that show began to loosen up. They now look the other way, and even cooperate with our endeavors now and then.”

  After two glasses of wine, poured by the man Grim assumed was a steward, Beckworth continued. “Now, morale has improved, and in addition, we’re helping the local civilians with trade and employment.”

  And so the conversation went. Grim was served a medium rare steak, complete with baked potato and canned corn. The food was of much higher quality than anything he’d seen in the surrounding stalls, but then again, rank always did have its privileges.

  Just as Grim remembered, the man across from him focused most of the conversation on himself. Terms, like egotistical ass, and self-centered shitbird rolling through the visitor’s mind as his host droned on and on. Despite his distaste for the man, the food wasn’t bad, and he managed to keep a polite smile painted on his face.

  They were practically finished with the meal before Beckworth got around to asking, “So, what have you been doing since everything went to hell?

  Grim didn’t see any reason to lie or hold back from his host. He began relating the story of his employment guarding the man who eventually became the new president of the United States. The dinner guest even managed to entertain, passing along a few humorous stories about working at the West Virginia mountain retreat of the then Senator Moreland.

  “And so what brings you here?” Beckworth finally got around to asking.

  Here we go, thought Grim. “My house burned down while I was away. I guess my wife and daughter didn’t have any choice and came to work here at your place of business.”

  The man across the table tensed, staring deeply into the serious eyes across from him. Like both Grim and Bishop, the ex-major immediately entertained thoughts from the dark side. This line of reasoning made him glance toward the door, wondering how close his security was.

  He’s scared of me, thought Grim. He thinks my wife and daughter are selling their bodies, and I’m here to kill him. Taking advantage of that fear might be fun.

  Beckworth cleared his throat, “You know I don’t personally hire anyone… for any role. I’m sorry about your home, Grim. I had no idea any of your loved ones were working here.”

  I bet you’re sorry, you piece of shit, Grim thought. “I just want to take them back with me,” Grim replied, leaning forward for emphasis, and adding, “without any trouble.”

  Beckworth smiled, waving off his guest’s concerns. “No pr
oblem, Grim. You know that…”

  A knock on the door interrupted the rest of his statement. Annoyed, the host glanced in the direction of the offending noise. “Yes.”

  The security chief opened the door, not shy about his intrusion. “Sir, there is an urgent matter that requires immediate attention. My apologies for barging in, but this couldn’t wait.”

  “Go on.”

  The large man glanced at Grim, and then back to his boss. “This matter is sensitive, sir. Private.”

  With a grimace on his face, Beckworth folded his napkin and rose. Looking at his guest, he apologized, “Business calls. Pardon me for just a moment,” and then made for the door.

  When they were outside, the guard glanced back at the camper and then spoke. “I ran pictures of your guest and the man accompanying him. Five minutes ago, a Blackhawk landed outside our perimeter and discharged a rather unhappy colonel from the Memphis HQ. He informed me that a man named ‘Bishop’ is traveling with Grim, and he is of ‘special interest’ to those at the highest levels in Washington.”

  Beckworth was clearly taken aback by the news. He knew Grim had worked on some very sensitive prerogatives during his time with the military, but there were thousands of such operators, all having similar backgrounds.

  The security man continued, “We are to wait for instructions, but under no circumstances are we to let this Bishop character out of our sight. Our messenger from Memphis made it clear that our continued ‘good standing’ status was in danger if anything went wrong.”

  “Shit. Go put a man on this Bishop fellow,” Beckworth replied and then glanced back at his RV. “I think I might be able to occupy our guests for a while… at least until Washington decides what to do.”

  “Well, that’s a problem. He left via the front entrance 20 minutes ago,” the bodyguard said, and then relayed the story of the pickpocket to his boss.