Holding Their Own: A Story of Survival (38 page)

He could care less how mad Terri was at that moment because down the street he could see a horse lying on its side with a man pinned underneath it.
Bill, oh God no, not Bill.

Bishop moved through the market, keeping close to the walls and using anything he could for cover. He zigzagged across the street and changed speeds, always pivoting his head and rifle right and left, up and down. It took him less than a minute to reach where Bill was lying. Bishop could tell the shots had come from around the corner of the building next to him. He got as low to the ground as he could and popped his head around once and then back quickly. Nothing happened, and his mind replayed what his eyes had just taken in:
An empty street, nothing in the shadows, but a few places for someone to hide.

He took five big steps backward
and then ran as fast as he could toward the corner. When he was almost even with it, he leapt into the air and flew feet first like a runner stealing home in a baseball game. Landing in a perfect slide, he angled his feet down and they caught, making him pop straight upright. He ended up standing with his rifle scanning all around. Nothing happened.

He cleared the back of the building with a glance and then hurried to Bill’s side. The old cowboy’s leathery face was wrinkled with pain, and he had tears running down his cheeks. He looked up at Bishop and struggled, “Nubbins…Nubbins…they shot my Nubbins.”

Bishop looked Bill over, and knew instantly he was not going to make it. He had two wounds in his chest, and one was bubbling air. Nubbins was dead as well, having taken a shot to the temple.

“Bill
, who shot you? Who did this?

“I think…
” cough…cough…”I think I got one of….” and he died in Bishop’s arms.

Bishop set the old cowboy’s head down gently on the street and pulled his hat over his face. Movement made him turn immediately, but it was Pete heading to Terri’s side in the doorway. Pete carried his shotgun while Terri rubbed the slight bruise on her leg, but Bishop could clearly make out her pistol in her hand.

Bishop looked around and saw Bill’s weapon lying on the ground underneath Nubbins. He pulled it out and looked it over. Bill had fired a single shot.

Bishop then went back to check the area where Bill had been ambushed. He found three shell casings of 5.56, the type used in AR15 rifles. He turned to leave when he noticed something else a few feet away. There was a small drop of blood on the ground. He walked a few steps further and found another . . . and then a third.
You got one of them, old-timer. You sure as shit got one of them.
Bishop noticed the blood trail led straight to The Manor Hotel. He stood there, fully exposed in the middle of the street, his eyes first fixed on the hotel and then back on Bill’s body.

His anger began to boil, driving him into a crazed fury
. I don’t give a shit. I just don’t care. I bet I can get all of those fuckers before they bring me down.
Adrenaline mixed with a lust for blood and revenge spiked through his veins. He inhaled deeply, about to roar a battle cry and charge the hotel, but then something stopped him cold.

It was Terri’s voice that brought him back from the brink. Poised to wreak havoc on his enemy, he wanted so badly to unleash absolute violence using his weapon until it was empty and then pull his knife and slash until his arms could no longer move. That all mighty, all powerful, all-encompassing urge for combat was beaten down by a soft, almost weak voice. Somehow, it reached through the blood raging in his ears, and three words registered in his brain.

“Bishop – please don’t.”

The Manor Hotel – September 25, 2015

Mexico, it’s not

Spence was as mad as he could ever remember being. He had been taking a dip in the pool to cool off when he heard the shots. He knew his men were out in the market and had warned them numerous times about causing trouble.
We are lucky. This is probably the only place in a thousand miles that has food and a good place to wait this out. The only way we can fuck this up is to cause trouble. Keep your noses clean, and let me finalize our trip to Mexico.

Spence was nothing if not a good judge of men. His read on the local people was that many of them were as tough as nails, but really just wanted to get on with life. If The Force left everyone alone, they could spend their time in Meraton in relative anonymity. 

The first rape and shooting had been bad enough. It was after that incident when he finally accepted the fact that his
Force was really nothing more than a bunch of thug criminals. He had almost shot them a couple of times himself. He showed restraint due to his own realization that they all needed each other now. However stupid these men were, there was safety in numbers. He had lost track of how many times their numbers had gotten them though bad situations on the trip here from Ohio.

He jumped out of the pool and went for his rifle without even dressing. He went to the gate and saw his guys running
toward him, one of them bleeding from his head. They stumbled inside the gate, and he could see that his man had been lucky. The wound was bleeding a lot, but the bullet had only grazed his head.

Spence kept vigil over the gate, thinking the entire town would come after them with pitchforks and torches. He was watching as Bishop flew around the corner doing the baseball slide, and he knew immediately who it was.
Damn
, he thought. He wished later that he had shot Bishop right then and there. But seeing the single man as no threat, he lowered his rifle. He noted Bishop glaring in his direction and guessed he could see the blood trail. When Spence saw the look in the man’s eye, he half-expected him to charge the hotel by himself. He hated to admit it, but deep down inside he was glad when Bishop spun away and left.

It’s on

Bishop and Terri hurried back to Betty’s without a word between them. When Bishop had thrown Terri down, she had skinned her leg and ripped her pants. Bishop was feeling so many different emotions, he couldn’t sort them out. He had taken a huge risk at the Brazos River bridge and had gotten lucky. He had taken bold steps at the I-10 overpass and again, had gotten lucky. How long would the luck last?

He
also understood that men like the Hefei, this Spence character, and whoever was running the show at the bridge were going to keep civilization from reigniting. He had just manhandled his wife because of this human slime. He knew she was mad at him, and he didn’t blame her. Why did there have to be people that caused – no - forced that reaction? Bill’s face kept popping into his mind, enraging him more and more.
He helped me, and now he is dead.
Bishop also felt guilty because he had provoked the showdown in the market. He should have backed off and let it go.
Now a good man is dead, and I am to blame.

What they had found at Meraton had given them hope. No one person had organi
zed what was essentially the restart of a productive society. It gave Bishop something his soul needed so badly, faith in his mankind. People like Spence seemed to always destroy that faith.

Soon Betty was fussing over
Terri like her own daughter. Following suit, Bishop made sure Terri was okay, before adjourning to the bedroom. He emerged in full ninja gear.

“What are you going to do, Bishop?”

“I’m going to stop a lot of people from being killed is what I hope to do. Don’t worry babe, I am not going near those guys tonight. I’m worried the good citizens of Meraton will try to force them out of that hotel. A lot of people are going to die if they try that.”

“Bishop, do you think Betty is in danger? I mean, they know we are here, and they don’t like you very much.”

“They are going to be worried about the townspeople for right now, so I think you guys are safe here tonight. Stay alert though – I could be wrong.”

Town Hall Hell

Bishop went back to town, traveling a different route just to be safe. If he had been Spence, he might have decided another ambush was worth the risk. On the way, he gathered his thoughts about his arch-nemesis and his little gang. It was completely dark as he approached the town.

As expected, everyone was at Pete’s. Bishop crossed Main Street far away from the glow of the solar lights and was approaching from the darkest area he could find. He finally settled about 50 yards across Main from Pete’s, lying in a small drainage ditch that gave him good cover and a clear view through the front window of the bar. The entire place was packed, and Bishop wondered how many beers had been raised already tonight. There was a cowboy standing by the bar giving a little speech and he could hear a few of the words. As he had expected, they were downing a little “liquid courage,” gathering their mettle to confront The Force. The speaker, as best he could tell, was doing a good job of whipping up the townspeople. He went on and on about how they should just go burn those bastards out after what they had done to Bill. Someone opened the front window to let in some air, allowing Bishop to hear the conversation more clearly, “There are only four of them. We have almost 20 men here, and I know all of you want them out of our town. We can make torches, throw them at the hotel, and shoot the bastards when they come out!”

Many people in the crowd agreed, and several shouts of “Hell, yeah!” and “Let’s go!” drifted over to Bishop’s position.

Bishop was scanning up and down Main with the NVD, checking all of the alleys and dark patches where the light from the high poles above could not reach. He was about to get up and try settling everyone down when he became aware he was not alone in the night air.

The man was hiding, prone behind the wheel of a pickup truck parked a few blocks away from Pete’s.

Damn, I can’t believe Spence made this mistake. He divided his forces, and this changes everything.

Spence had anticipated the reaction of the
townspeople. They would be in shock for a few hours, but after that wore off, they’d be out for blood. The horseman his men had killed had been popular and was by default the town’s sheriff.

There were supposed to have been two men from the Mentone Cartel come to Meraton and visit him by now. He had sent two different messengers with his offer to obtain safe passage to the coast. The decline in the
US economy and years of continuous civil wars had weakened the cartels financially. Ten years ago, the offer to pay for protected passage through their territory would have been laughable, a mere pittance compared to their coffers.

Spence was hearing rumors that Mexico had fallen into complete anarchy, just like the U.S., only worse because of the cartels and their control before the fall. He had originally wanted to go to Mexico to escape
US law enforcement. That was no longer a concern to him, as every single bit of rumor and gossip indicated there would not be any law in the US for years, if ever.

So why should they run to Mexico?

The trip from Cleveland to this remote West Texas town had also proven to him that it truly was a jungle out there. Even with their numbers, skills and his leadership, they had barely pulled through. This was the only place they had found that even remotely seemed to be livable. Before his men had caused this latest round of trouble, he had hoped to slowly make good with the locals and gain their trust. Then, he would execute these criminals he had brought with him and take over the town. If his knowledge and leadership had enabled success with this bunch of vicious animals, imagine what he could accomplish with an entire town full of sheep.

“They will be down at the bar.” He had told his men. “They will be down there drinking to build up their courage. I want a pre-emptive strike. I want you to drain a bottle of gasoline out of the truck and go give them an old fashion
ed barbeque, only they are going to be the meat.”

Anybody got a light?

Bishop knew the man had skills just by watching him. He stayed very low and took his time, working gradually up the street to Pete’s bar. When he was within a few feet of the entrance, he calmly stood up and walked to the center of Main holding a glass bottle with a rag stuffed in the top. He reached in his pocket for what Bishop knew would be a lighter.

Bishop pulled the trigger
, and the glass bottle shattered with the impact of his bullet. He pulled the trigger a second time, and the man went to the ground with a shattered right knee. Before he could roll over and even reach for his weapon, Bishop was standing on his arm.

All of the people in the bar heard the shots. Everyone who could turn to look out of the front window did so. They could see a man lying in the street holding his leg. Before any of them could get out into the street, they saw another man standing over him.

They were a little unsure of who the second man was. He was wearing a baklava and heavy glasses that covered his eyes completely. His chest was covered with numerous pouches and gear. He looked up at everyone pouring out of the bar, and yelled for them to stay back.

The smell coming off of the large puddle of gasoline convinced them to listen to him. The firebomber was beginning to recover from his shock and pain. After kicking the weapons away, Bishop walked over to the crowd, turning to address the man lying on the ground. His voice was disconcertingly calm when he asked, “What were you doing with that bottle of gasoline, friend?”

“Fuck you.”

Bishop fired a shot that missed the puddle of gas by inches. The bullet sparked off the pavement.

“What the hell are you doing?” the man yelled.

“What were you doing with the gasoline?”

“Spence told me to firebomb the bar,” the man confessed.

Everyone in the crowd started talking at once, but no one moved.

Bishop shouted over the noise, “Who shot Bill?”

“I don’t know I wasn’t…”

Bishop fired another shot, and it sparked as well.

“Jesus Christ, I’m covered in gas. If you hit that gas…” stuttered the man.

Bishop said calmly, “Who shot Bill?”

“It wasn’t me, Mister…I swear, it was one of the other guys.”

Bishop turned around to the crowd and said, “This man had a bottle of gasoline with a rag stuffed in the top. It’s called a Molotov cocktail. He was going to light the rag and throw it through the window into the bar. The bottle would have broken, and the gasoline would have ignited inside. Many of you would be dead or badly burned by now. Then he was going to stand right there and shoot anyone who managed to make it out the door.”

Everyone in the crowd looked at each other and several cursed under their breath.
Bishop waited a bit and went a little closer to the man. “Why are you and your friends here?”

“We are waiting to go to Mexico. We are waiting on the cartel to come here and escort us in.”

Bishop did not expect that answer. He said more to himself than the man, “You are drug runners?”

“Fuck
, no. We robbed a bank and have hundreds of pounds of gold and other stuff. We just want to go to Mexico. I told you what you wanted to know, man. Can I move out of this gas?”

“No, not yet. I have a few more questions.”

“Jesus, my leg is killing me. Come on, Mister. Let me out of this - please.”

“How bad is the man hurt that Bill shot?”

“Not bad. It was just a scrape.”

“How many people are still at the hotel?”

“I don’t know, maybe 10 or so. Spence forces them to stay in their rooms mostly. They saw us unloading the loot, and he didn’t want any of them spreading it around.”

Bishop walked close to the man and asked him a couple more questions that no one could hear. He then turned to the gathered crowd. “He was going to burn all of you alive. I’m going into the bar to have a drink. You can do with him what you want, but remember the bad guys down at the hotel are expecting to see a fire. My vote is you give them one.”

He pushed through the crowd and headed into Pete’s. He heard the firebomber start yelling, “No, please, no! Please don’t . . . ”  and then a gunshot – followed by screams. There was a big fire on Main Street.

Bishop wanted to go into Pete’s to sit for a moment and think through his next move. He sat with his back to the street and drank some water from his kit.
Spence made a mistake by dividing his force. I bet he won’t do that again
.

What’s the password?

Spence was standing by the garden gate waiting to see the blaze brighten the night sky before his man returned. He thought it was odd to hear shots before seeing the glow of the flames. He heard some yelling and another shot.
I wonder if he had to shoot someone outside before he threw the cocktail.

When he finally saw the flickering light from a fire and heard the screams, he relaxed a bit and started thinking about next steps.