Bishop's Song (34 page)

If death had a look, Mr. White mimicked it perfectly. The target of his gaze actually took a step backwards, so hostile was the experience. “Do you really want me to answer that, Major? Do you really want to be on the short list of those who know?”

“Sorry… I shouldn’t have…”

Mr. White stepped close to the ex-officer, poking the frightened man in the chest. “Forget everything that happened here today, Major. Erase it from your mind
, and seal your lips for eternity. If you don’t, I, or one of my kind will come. We will come in the middle of the night, and you will die badly. We will extract revenge for your indiscretion using methods you can’t even fathom. Your heart will explode from the pain during the final seizures of your brain.”

And then Mr. White was gone, driving out of the parking lot at a rapid pace, on his way back to the Memphis International Airport and the waiting Air Force shuttle.

Bishop felt exposed driving in daylight. Were it not for the urgency associated with a threat against his wife, he would never use such a tactic, especially when traveling alone.

Memphis looked worse
by day, the details of decay more visible than when they had passed through in the darkness. Little things drew the Texan’s eye, like the abundance of graffiti painted on every overpass, abutment and countless relic cars. Evidently, spray paint hadn’t been in short supply after the collapse.

He supposed th
e liberal use of color was logical. After all, you couldn’t eat it. As he drove closer to downtown, the effect grew more intense. He wondered what physiological motive had inspired the artists. Was it a need to mark territory? Warnings? Directions for lost loved ones? There was no way to tell – maybe all of the above.

He reached the bridge
spanning the Mississippi without incident, finding himself the only person waiting to cross at the army checkpoint. Evidently the other side wasn’t a popular vacation destination.
And who wouldn’t want to visit the badlands
, he thought.

Surprised to have a customer, the MP who strolled to the truck was actually talkative and friendly. Bishop handed the man his pass.

“What’s your destination?” the specialist asked, more from curiosity than any official need to know.

“Little Rock,” Bishop
lied.

“Really? I hear some really bad things about that city. It is strictly off limits to any military personnel, not that anyone ever crosses the river these days.”

“You know how scuttlebutt gets all blown out of proportion,” Bishop chatted. “Next thing you know someone will spread a rumor that there are cannibals over that way.”

The kid’s face got all serious, “Actually, sir, that’s exactly the reason why
I heard it was a no-go… cannibalism.”

“No shit?”

“No, sir. Best of luck to ya.”

And with that
well wish, Bishop was waved through.

From the peak of the bridge’s rise above the mighty river, Bishop thought the world looked the same as always
, at least at a distance. Were it not for the burgeoning lanes of rusting cars blocking most of the crossing, he wouldn’t have suspected anything was wrong on the other side.

Like much of Memphis, the Arkansas side of the
river was clogged with remnants of what must have been a massive bug-out. Technically, the small community bordering the west side of the waterway was named West Memphis, but the town was a mere fraction of its namesake’s size.

After dodging wrecks
and the burned out skeletons of what were once family sedans and minivans, Bishop found himself on open road, increasing his speed to over 70 mph.

Knowing he’d have to cut off of the interstate before reaching Little Rock, the Texa
n decided his situation resembled that of a fighter pilot – speed was life.

On their trip east, he’d been overly cautious, fearing bushwhackers, local warlords and humanity in general. Now heading west, he went to the opposite end of the paranoid spectrum – blasting down the road with apparent abandon.

It wasn’t just the urgency of getting home. Driving by himself made it very difficult to fight. Even the simple act of exiting the truck with his rifle was slow, the carbine bound and determined to become entangled with the steering wheel, bang into the doorframe or poke him in the crotch. For this reason, the weapon was unslung and beside him on the seat. The same was true of his sidearm.

Not that s
hooting and driving at the same time was affective. Other than suppression, keeping someone’s head down, it was rare such a tactic accomplished little more than to waste ammunition.

So Bishop determined speed was the best strategy, keeping his foot
on the accelerator and his eyes scanning ahead for potential trouble. The miles flew by.

A sign, now partially covered by
a honeysuckle vine that had climbed up the supports, indicated Little Rock was 71 miles ahead. Not that the distance marker was really necessary. For the past several minutes, the number of relics in the outbound lane had been steadily increasing – a sure sign of civilization ahead. By the time this was confirmed by the green sign, the grass median was beginning to fill with its share of discarded cars and trucks. “Time to get off this road,” he said, just to hear a voice.

There were only a few cars at the exit, once operated by polite drivers
as they lined up along the shoulder of the off-ramp. The parade of vehicles ran along the edge of the two-lane highway, the bumper-to-bumper queue stretching a quarter of a mile to the single gas station located there.

Bishop couldn’t help b
ut slow his pace, gawking at the scene as he drove closer. Reliving that horrific day sent shivers down his spine – like touring a historic battlefield where so many men had lost their lives. He didn’t need a tour guide or literature to show him what had happened - the forensics weren’t difficult to analyze. He could almost feel the ghosts, restless spirits still waiting for fuel that would never arrive.

As the service station grew closer, the polite line of cars widened
and became erratic.
Panicked drivers
, thought Bishop.
They didn’t want anyone cutting in line
.  The two islands containing pumps were completely blocked by empty, lifeless metal, the parking lot filled to capacity with sedans, luxury cars and pickup trucks. The car at the forward-most aisle had actually been rammed by the driver behind, evidently taking too long or pumping too much gas.

The chrome bumpers were still interlocked, the impact disabling both cars. A black tail hung from the gas
door of the first vehicle, the pump’s hose having been torn away as the car was pushed from behind. Words like desperation, riot and anarchy filled Bishop’s mind.  He was glad he wasn’t there that fateful day, thankful not to carry the memories.

Bishop stopped, right in the middle of the road – unconcerned about oncoming traffic. He needed to refuel himself, and this was as good a place as any.
Despite his eerie feeling about the location, the truck wouldn’t stand out as much here among the sea of steel and glass.

As he began working the
barrel’s hand pump, he studied the scene in more detail.

The windows of the convenience store were mostly shattered, birds nesting in the sign above the door. He could see barren shelves inside, many toppled over – one large display
partially lying halfway out the door as if someone was going to drag it home... or maybe use it as a barricade, Bishop decided. Perhaps the owner was trying to keep people out of his store.

Through the windows he could see one bank of freezers lining the back
wall. Once filled with every conceivable flavor, type and size of beer, soda pop and juice, their racks were empty as well, one door completely ripped off its hinges.

There was a sign, hand
-lettered and still visible behind a small section of window glass that remained. In bold, black print it read, “Cash Only – No Credit Cards.” Bishop wondered if that display had been prompted by the power failing and bringing down the credit card machine with it, or if the owner knew it was the end and was trying to gather all the cash he could. Probably the later, Bishop thought. They couldn’t pump gas without electricity.

Pivoting his head, he scanned the pumps, looking for what the price of gasoline had been that final day.
They were newer, digital models, so there was no way to tell.

The lot
’s surface, what little was visible between the rows of packed cars, still held evidence of the violence that occurred here. The cash register, drawer open and lying face down, rested under the bumper of a minivan. A few feet away was the remains of a coffee machine, dented and banged like someone had been using it as a shield.

Trash had piled up
in a corner nook of the building, faded wrappers of candy bars and bags of snacks entangled with leaves and twigs, gathered there by the wind. There were bullet holes in the building’s exterior, just above the garbage heap.

As Bishop finished his fill
-up, he noticed three different cars with similar bullet wounds. Someone had started shooting, either trying to maintain control, protect himself, or perhaps even going insane under the stress of it all. The story would never be told.

Bishop emptied the remaining gasoline and then rolled the empty drum out of the truck’s bed, the clanging impact causing him to cringe at
the noise volume. Removing the now-useless container decreased the size of his supply cache should anyone notice the load in the truck bed, making travel among locals less risky.

Before entering the cab, he glanced around one last time
, his mind pondering a new mystery. Where had the people gone?

He mentally inventoried the number of cars, averag
ing out two people per unit. He tried to visualize almost 300 people milling about, waiting on electricity and gasoline that would never arrive. There wasn’t any nearby town… no water, food or law enforcement. Just an isolated gas station on a seldom-traveled rural highway.

Bishop imagined the debates. A husband and wife,
growing frustrated and paranoid as they slept the first night in their car. Hunger aside, thirst had probably been the most nagging issue. They had witnessed violence at some point… gunfire erupting up ahead. Screams, shots, yelling… confusion.

Had the wife said, “We have to get out of here,” first
, or was it her spouse?

Had the husband convinced his mate that it was time to start walking? Had they waited until they were too weak to travel far? How embarrassed had the woman been when she had to walk to the weeds to use the bathroom?

A nearby minivan was equipped with two car seats, their size indicating small children. The sight made him think of Hunter and Terri, forced him to the realization that children would have compounded the parents’ stress a dozen fold. He could almost hear the debate of who got the final sip from the diaper bag’s juice box. Was the last handful of animal crackers rationed out?

He found himself experiencing a morbid curiosity. Needing to stretch his legs, he pulled the rifle and keys out of the cab and went exploring.

The bones weren’t obvious, the hollow, dark eyes of a human skull being the first to draw his attention. Buzzards, animals and bacteria had picked it clean, the off-white remains looking more like a teaching tool for a college anatomy class than a victim of violence.

He strolled to the front of the station, looking inside through the glassless window.
Which had been looted first
, he wondered.
The cigarettes or the beer?
Those with addictive habits would feel the pinch before anyone else,
he supposed.

As he stepped over a pile of rubbish, his boot caught on something heavy. Looking down, he saw a cloth money bag that was commonly used to deposit store receipts at the bank. He bent and picked it up, surprised at the weight. A faded label on the outside matched the sign on the building
.

Expecting to find quarters, dimes and other coins inside, Bishop hefted the bag in his hand, but didn’t hear the expected jingle of loose change. His knife made quick work of the rotting cloth. Inside was a significant collection of watches, rings, bracelets and other jewelry.

That makes sense
, he thought, reliving those fateful days. People would have grown so desperate, many not having enough cash for water or beef jerky. They would have started offering anything of value to the station’s clerk.

“I’ll trade you my 18-karat Rolex for that last box of crackers,” Bishop said to the empty lot, imagining a desperate father. “Please, sir, my kid won’t stop crying.”

Once the clerk had accepted the trade, word would have spread throughout the community of stranded motorists. “Hey, take my wife’s wedding ring. It has a big diamond – it’s worth more than that watch!” someone else had probably countered.

Bishop didn’t begrudge anyone nice things. Jealousy wasn’t part of his nature. Still, he had to wonder about the utility of some folks’ discretionary income prior to the fall of society. The watch he held in his hand would have purchased several years’ supply of shelf stable food, perhaps more. The huge diamond ring would have easily paid for three or four good rifles and a thousand rounds of ammo.
They never thought it could happen
, he decided.