by Joe Nobody
There was something troubling about the robotic spy. It violated a core instinct and yielded to some primal fear of someone… or something being able to see you – when you can’t see them.
“Gotcha,” he whispered, trying not to stare or gawk. Just act normal, he thought, forcing himself to calm down. “Terri’s going to love this.”
Now, really feeling the role of an actor on the stage, Bishop turned and began hiking back up the trail. He tried to be carefree and confident, but it was extremely difficult. The hills had eyes.
He arrived back at the camp to find Terri feeding Hunter small bits of bread while holding his sippy cup. The moment she looked at Bishop’s face, she could tell something was wrong.
“Shhhh,” he hissed in as low a volume as possible, pretending to move close in order to help with Hunter. “They know we’re here,” he said into his wife’s ear. “Don’t look, but I saw the drone just to the south.”
Despite his warning, Terri couldn’t help herself and started to turn and look. “Don’t!” Bishop snapped. “In a minute, we’ll walk to the edge and look down. I’ll point out some bird, and you can see it then.”
“Okay… sorry… this all so weird. Really weird.”
Pulling Hunter into his arms, Bishop did as promised, guiding his wife to a spot where they could oversee the valley below.
“Off my left shoulder,” he whispered, pretending to point at the trail. “Just about 200 meters above the trees, straight above that outcropping of rock. It’s red, a little bigger than a bird.”
“I see it!” she announced.
“Don’t stare.”
“Okay… but… it’s tiny. I was thinking of those great big things, like they used in the wars. I could swat that little pest with a broom.”
“Or throw rocks at it,” Bishop grinned, trying to lighten the stress. “Now, let’s just act normal, and go back and get our stuff. I want to have tonight’s camp set up early, well before it gets dark.”
They proceeded down the mountain, the trip much longer than it had appeared from above. A few hours later, they came to a paved road, where Bishop spied a small gravel parking area.
They found a trail leading into a narrow gorge, a 10-foot wide stream running through the middle. It was stunningly beautiful.
The couple stood and stared for several minutes, taking it all in. Something caught Bishop’s eye, and after parting a patch of overgrown weeds, he found a sign declaring the land was part of a national forest, and that they were at the beginning of a marked trail.
The pathway was covered in man-made gravel, about six feet wide, lined with stones, and meandering alongside the stream. The south side of the cut was a sheer rock wall, the Texan pointing out climbing anchors embedded here and there in the face. “This must have been a popular place before the apocalypse.”
To the north was the brook, and then 100 meters of flat, heavily forested ground that ended in another vertical cliff face.
“I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything so beautiful,” Terri pined. “The word picturesque hardly does it justice.”
The couple followed the path, the flat, engineered surface a welcome relief for their tired legs and sore shoulders. Even Hunter seemed enthralled by the surroundings.
A half mile in, Bishop stopped and pointed toward a muddy patch of earth between the trail and the stream. “Bear tracks,” he stated without emotion. “Not a big one, but a bear nonetheless.”
They approached a wooden bridge, the heavy, planked surface passing Bishop’s test for weight bearing integrity. Crossing the bubbling waters, Bishop noted a school of fish swimming nearby. A few looked to be keepers.
On they journeyed, heads pivoting and fingers pointing out the natural beauty of the place. It seemed like every bend and curve in the trail rewarded the eye with an awe inspiring view.
And then another trailside sign appeared, the faded yellow letters accompanied by an arrow directing hikers to the “Loggerhead Primitive Camping Area.”
Exchanging looks with his wife, Bishop said, “Why not? At least the ground will be flat for the tent.”
Here, the path wasn’t as smooth or wide, but on the other hand, it was well marked. After hiking another few minutes, they spotted the dead-end canyon, complete with BBQ grills and flattened spaces for tents.
“No showers?” Terri complained, checking out the facilities.
“Nope. Primitive camping evidently means just that.”
After resting and drinking, the couple set about making camp. After the tent was pitched, Bishop found two sturdy trunks for his hammock lines but didn’t string the net just yet.
Next came the always troublesome chore of water.
While they had a fire, plenty of wood, and a nearby stream, Bishop knew from experience that was only half the battle. There was never enough potable water.
Terri and he each carried large, steel cups in their kit. In addition, they owned an old Army mess kit, including a small frying pan. But that was the extent of their water-boiling capabilities, and it was never enough.
Terri would want to bathe Hunter with clean water. The two adults could both use a sponge bath. Then there were the requirements of refilling their travel jugs and the act of cooking at least one meal. Good hygiene demanded an abundance of the precious commodity for brushing teeth, rinsing any game or local plants harvested for dinner, and washing their hands. It all added up and would require several sessions of boiling, cooling, refilling, and starting all over again.
Bishop retrieved one of his big, black trash bags and headed toward the stream, taking time to study their new homestead in more detail.
From a tactical perspective, the campgrounds were a mixed lot. Unless a foe was willing to repel down 75 feet of sheer rock, there was only one way in, and that was a positive in the Texan’s mind.
On the other hand, there was only one way out. Not a good feature for a lone couple in “Indian country.”
What Bishop liked the most was the fact that it would be nearly impossible to spy on them from the air. Tall hardwoods and pines rose from the canyon’s floor, their canopy dense enough to deny observation from above. “They’ll have to come visit us face to face,” Bishop mumbled, not sure if that was a good thing or not.
He returned, struggling with several pounds of water in the bag. After securing the soft-sided reservoir to a tri-pod of sticks, Bishop began filling every available container for boiling.
He was using the state-provided BBQ pit for purification, the flat, metal grill the best surface for balancing stainless steel cups and flat pan bottoms. Each batch required a glance at his watch to make sure the liquid spent enough time at bacteria-killing temperatures.
A short time later, Terri noticed Bishop whittling on a set of poles with his knife. “Punji stakes?” she asked, only half kidding.
“Nope, I’m going fishing.”
“I didn’t know you liked to fish,” she said, tilting her head.
“Growing up in West Texas, the opportunity didn’t present itself all that often. I always thought I’d try my hand at it after retiring.”
“What are you going to use for bait?”
“Bait? You need bait?” Bishop asked with an expression of boyish innocence.
Terri bent and lifted Hunter into her arms, “Come on, son. Let’s go watch your father not catch any fish. When you’re older, remind me to be the one who teaches you how to drop a line.”
The family trekked the short distance to the stream, Bishop carrying his survival net and stakes, his rifle slung tight against his chest.
Like any fisherman, he scrambled up and down the rocky bank twice, looking for just the right spot. Once selected, Bishop sat down and removed his socks and boots.
“Oh, shit, that’s cold,” Bishop protested, wading into the knee-deep water.
“Well at least your feet will smell better,” Terri sniped.
The Texan began driving his stakes into the creek’s bottom, spacing them like fence p
osts, about a foot apart. He then proceeded to weave the survival net through, front and back. When he’d finished, he had erected a vertical barrier across the deepest part of the water.
Next he produced a length of paracord, securing it to the tops of the outermost stakes.
He climbed back up the bank, slicing off two leafy branches. With his two fan-shaped bunches of foliage, he hiked upstream about 30 feet, studying the water closely, and playing out the paracord as he went.
Again, Bishop descended into the cold water, a branch in each hand. He clenched the paracord in his teeth and then submerged the leafy end of the trimmed bushes. Winking at Terri, he proceeded to step back toward the net.
Terri shook her head and whispered to Hunter, “Once a cowboy, always a cowboy. He’s trying to herd the fish into the net. And you know what? I think it just might work.”
Bishop continued walking, moving at a gradual pace, the bush-tips bouncing along the bottom. “I can see the fish,” he reported through clenched teeth, now less than 20 feet from the net. “There are a couple of big ones.”
When he was five feet away, Bishop started splashing his feet and waving the underwater blockers with more vigor. Next, he dropped the branches and began reeling in the paracord, hand over hand.
When he tightened the slack, the cord pulled both end-stakes over, and the net collapsed.
Terri was impressed… and excited… and suddenly hungry. “What’s the catch of the day? I hope it’s not an old boot someone discarded.”
“I don’t know,” he replied, wading forward quickly to inspect the trap. “Yes!” he announced with glee. “I can see fins and scales in the net. Watch out!”
Bishop bent and scooped the entire apparatus in his arms, and then without additional warning, flung it toward the bank, barely missing his wife and child.
Scrambling to dry land, he began untangling the mesh and stakes, eager to examine the catch.
Mostly, he found small perch, barely larger than his middle finger. But there were two trout and one pan fish worth cleaning and frying. “Yes!” he celebrated, holding up the largest specimen with pride. “Make fun of this old cowboy, will ya?”
A short time later, Bishop was feeding small hunks of fillet onto a hand-carved skewer.
“I have to admit,” Terri said, watching her husband prepare the meal. “That was pretty creative. I owe you an apology. I should’ve known you’d pull that off.”
“Hell, I didn’t know if it would work either. Let’s just hope it tastes good.”
“Anything would be better than salted beef,” she said.
“I could try and gig some frog legs tonight,” he grinned. “I hear they taste like chicken and ain’t bad for breakfast.”
Terri’s face contorted with disgust. “Well, almost anything would be better than salted beef.”
“Turtle soup?”
Chapter 13
Hack was displeased, to say the least.
His frustration was due to several factors, not the least of which involved his Native friends and co-workers.
“How is it that the man best qualified to run Valley Green managed to get himself killed chasing the Alliance intruders?” he inquired of the Apache.
“Men are men, Grandfather. He considered himself both an engineer and a warrior. When the call went out for more security here at the cabin, he responded with a warrior’s heart. It is a sad loss for his family and tribe, but he died with honor.”
They just don’t get it, Hack thought. “And you were okay with this? You were fine letting the best civil engineer in all of the Caldera tribes risk his life?”
The Apache shrugged his shoulders, “He was a man. It was his right. Should I have denied him that?”
The toymaker wanted to explode but checked his temper. Over and over again the “Native outlook,” on what was important and what was not had hampered the project. No matter what he said, no matter how strong his logic, they simply weren’t going to change their ways. It didn’t occur to him that maybe he should be the one to make adjustments.
A few months ago, he’d arrived at the construction site and found the area completely void of any workers, only to find out that a wedding was in progress. Time and again, the project had been delayed, most often for reasons that just didn’t seem to be a high priority to Hack.
Just like the death of his best engineer, it all seemed so shortsighted. The project’s completion would do more to secure the tribes’ future than any rite of passage accomplished in the forest. Killing two or three of the enemy was nothing compared to the benefit of having a nearly unlimited food supply. Yet, for all of his persuasion, he couldn’t make them understand.
Or maybe they did and just didn’t care.
That thought had occurred to Hack on more than one occasion. If this were true, it was just something he’d have to learn to live with. No one person, society, form of government, or nation was perfect. The human model had flaws.
Heaven above knew the whites had their share of shortcomings. Images began to flash through Hack’s mind, horrors of the events following the collapse that would haunt him the rest of his days.
Hack had watched the town tear itself to shreds, gang rapes, arson, cannibalism, looting, and outright anarchy prevailing for weeks. But the Natives? Rather than prey on the weak, they had banded together to help the least among them. While the townsfolk looted, the pueblos donated. As Santa Fe burned, the tribes were calling for everyone to plant extra rows in their gardens.
Maybe placing a higher priority on weddings and ceremonies wasn’t such a bad trade off. Perhaps the difference in how the two segments of society dealt with the apocalypse had nothing to do with differences in philosophy, but was merely due to the fact that the Natives had been living “without” for decades.
The Apache broke his train of thought. “We can no longer monitor the strangers from the desert with the drones. They have set up camp in Loggerhead Canyon, and the forest canopy is too thick.”
“Are you sure they’re still there?” Hack asked, having visions of sabotage delaying Valley Green even further.
“No, we can’t be positive. I’m sending in three men first thing in the morning. They will have orders to question the strangers. If the answers don’t make sense, then they are to kill the man and bring the woman and child here.”
“Okay.”
The fish had been five-star restaurant quality, Bishop allowing it to slowly smoke over the open fire. Even Hunter had seemed to enjoy the taste.
The rest of the evening had been spent recouping from their hike, neither of them having much energy. Bishop made one more trip to the stream, retrieving even more water, as well as a few hand-selected, extra shiny stones for Hunter’s amusement.
“Boil those rocks,” Terri ordered. “He puts everything in his mouth these days.”
Bishop now had two leaf bags involved in their water assembly line, one for raw, the other potable after boiling and cooling.
Those two reservoirs were soon to be joined by a third, the Texan rigging up a plastic lined, rock walled pool for Hunter’s bath. Mixing hot and cold water together, the parents enjoyed watching the naked boy splash with glee. Terri and Bishop each took a sponge bath with the remaining warm water.
Given their long, up and down trek, it was no surprise that Terri nearly dozed off staring at the fire.
“Go to bed,” Bishop suggested. “I’ll tidy things up here and then hit the hay myself. I have a feeling tomorrow is going to be a long day.”
“Do you think we’ll make contact tomorrow?”
“I don’t know. They may just choose to ignore us completely, which means we have a lot more walking ahead of us. But my gut says we’ll meet the locals sometime in the next 24 hours. They could be watching us right now… with human eyes.”
Terri shuddered, peering around at the dark, stone walls that surrounded the campgrounds.
After another yawn, she lifted a sleeping Hunter and made for the tent.
> Bishop spent the next few minutes organizing their equipment. Given the bear tracks he’d spied on the way in, he used a length of cord to hoist their meager food supply, sure the scent of cooking fish would attract curious noses from far and wide.
Lessons learned from long ago drove Bishop to repack equipment he knew would be needed in the morning. The habit was born of the need to move quickly and the desire to avoid leaving any of their precious assets behind.
Given the local wildlife, he decided to keep the fire high throughout the night. That would also help him sleep.
Digging in his pack, Bishop had one last task that he’d been pondering all evening. Retrieving a spool of fishing line, the Texan took Hunter’s rocks and put them inside his steel cup. He tied one end of the line to the container’s handle, and then proceeded to run a trip wire across the box canyon’s opening.
It was a bit out of character, he knew, but having just a few seconds of warning might make the difference between living and dying. He wondered for a moment if bears would smell and step over a tripwire, or just walk on through.
Balancing the heavy cup and keeping the line taut required more effort than he’d planned but was well worth the investment. Now he would be able to sleep, and that rest would help keep his mind clear for the rest of their mission.
Two more logs on the fire, and the Texan was rolling into the net-hammock. It seemed like he’d just closed his eyes when the cup of rocks rattled its warning.
His first thought was a bear.
Rolling out of the hammock, it took Bishop a moment to clear the sleep from his head. The sky was already brightening, the sun rising in the east. He’d slept like the surrounding rocks.
In they came, three men on horses, painted warriors riding high on garnished steeds.
They offered a more impressive display than any western he’d seen in a movie house or on television… and were far more intimidating.
Each of the new arrivals wore a layer of white paint on his exposed skin. Dark blue and black lines had been carefully drawn on the pale canvas of flesh, their angles and depth bringing forth an aggressive, hawk-like profile.