Bishop's Song (11 page)

Bishop reached into his
blowout bag and retrieved the priceless bottle of tablets. He held them up and instructed, “These are like penicillin, or so I was told by a doctor. He said to take four the first day, and then three every day after. You’re welcome to them.”

The grandmother hesitated
, Bishop’s act of kindness seemingly so out of place from what she’d experienced the past few months. “What is it you want to know, stranger?”

“I want to know what to expect from the folks here about,” Bishop explained
, using the woman’s colloquialism. “I plan on camping in this area for a few days and then continue on my way. What are the local towns like? Is everyone keeping to themselves? Has anyone organized any sort of government?”

“Do you have a map?”

“I do. I’ll go and get it.”

They unfolded the map right on the lawn. She pointed and declared, “You’re right here. Our road is
n’t shown, but it heads mostly north and south. Eventually you’ll come to county road 117. If you take a left, you’ll run into Martinsville in fifteen minutes or so.”

“What’s the town like
?” Bishop asked, looking for the reaction in her eyes.

“A few months ago, my husband ventured that way. We were getting desperate for some
critical items, and he thought it was worth using the last of our gasoline. I stayed here with the boys. When he returned, he was shaken… almost scared. He said we wouldn’t be going back there for a long time. That’s all he said.”

Her explanation wasn’t much help. It could be anything,
he thought.
Dead bodies, rogue gangs… could be anything.

“Do you see much traffic on th
is road?”

“No. You’re the first we’ve seen in weeks. I’ve saw someone riding a horse before that – didn’t recognize
him, though. Did you come in on that airplane that was flying around this morning?”

“Yes, I did.”

“The boys were all excited at first… hoping the government was finally here to help. We hadn’t heard engine noises for so long, we watched you fly around just for entertainment.”

Her statement bothered Bishop, bringing up a point he hadn’t thought much about. After digesting her observation, he realized the plane would have been an unusual sight for most of the count
ry. Not good.

“Who robbed you and shot your husband?”

“I didn’t recognize any of them, but we are guessing they came from Porter County. Always were a bunch on inbreeds up that way. Scum… pure scum. Anyway, they were after food. My man offered them a little, just to be neighborly, but they wanted everything we had. That’s when the fight started.”

Bishop pointed to the map again, “What’s this area here?”

“That’s the park. Petit Jean. I heard the rangers don’t allow anyone on the grounds anymore. Rumor is that they’re living like mountain men off the land. My husband tried to go deer hunting along the edge of the park some months back, and the rangers ran him off… warned him not to come back.”

That makes sense
, Bishop thought. The park rangers would know as well as anyone how to survive in the wild. He wondered if they considered the airfield as part of their territory.

“Does this road I’m on… does it go anywhere near the park?”

“Yes, it travels along the western edge, but I don’t think you’ll have any trouble as long as you don’t enter the park’s grounds.” She looked down at the map and pointed to a spot. “There’s a service road before you get to that turn. It’s a gravel lane and is marked with no trespassing signs. Stay away from that road, and you’ll be fine.”

“Where does that road
lead?”

“I don’t know for sure. The park is huge
, and I never drove down that way, never had any need. I’ve seen the rangers come and go, so I figured it was a service road or something to do with running the park.”

Bishop didn’t think he was going to get any
more intel from the woman, so he handed her the bottle of pills and began folding the map. Smiling he said, “I’m grateful for your help. I hope this medicine helps your husband.”

H
e drove away, waving back at a smiling grandmother and her two charges. After he was out of sight, he stopped, waiting to see if anyone pulled out to follow.
You just never know
, he considered. His solitude was uninterrupted.

While the price had been high, the exchange had been worth it. He knew the road he traveled was seldom, if ever, used. That was hugely important.

He had also discovered that the park rangers ruled their kingdom of green. They hadn’t shot the trespassing hunter on sight, which in itself was an important fact. He also knew to avoid the town, but that wasn’t any big surprise. In West Texas, the lightly populated rural areas had fared better than their city dwelling neighbors. There was no reason why rural Arkansas should be any different.

Pulling out a hunk of jerky, he sat in the middle of the road enjoying the snack
while he pondered his next move. There was just no way to know if there would be the chance of getting a meal later.

He experienced a tinge of guilt, having lied to
his informant about his destination. The deceit was harmless and probably unnecessary, but there was no way to be sure the airplane hadn’t attracted the attention of more aggressive locals. They could show up at her home and ask some pointed questions. He was sure she’d tell a persuasive interrogator anything he wanted to know.

Shaking his head at the thought, he couldn’t help but be saddened by
the need to be so dishonest. Already this morning, he’d stolen another man’s truck and lied to a grandmother. Living in a world without the rule of law sucked.

After pulling several swallows of water from his
Camelbak, Bishop put the truck in gear and continued toward the park.

Rural Arkansas

July 4, 2016

Granny’s memory is still intact
, Bishop decided as he eyed the lane. The narrow, unpaved path was adorned with an official looking signs identifying it as “Private Property, Official Personnel Only.” Looking down at his hotwired truck, he decided he was about as unofficial as it got.

He pulled off the paved road, guiding the pickup through the densely wooded trail until he was no longer visible from the main drag – or at least as main of a drag as they had in this area.

He unhooked the two wires, not bothering to lock the doors because there wasn’t any driver’s side glass to begin with.
At least figuring out which wires start the thing will slow down any thief
, he mused.

Despite the isolated location, the one item he couldn’t part with was his pack. Wearing body armor, a full load vest
, and the heavy ruck would test his conditioning, but it was a small price to pay for keeping his possessions close.

He tried to put himself into the minds of the rangers. It wasn’t
that
large of a park, so chances were the number of former state employees was low. A large swath of territory being held by a small number of sentries meant one thing – early warning systems.

“If I
were holding this turf as my own,” he whispered, “I would set up tripwires or some other device. Hell, the ranch isn’t nearly this much land, and I did the same there, enabling Terri and me to hold the ground by ourselves.”

The lane was what the military
referred to as “a likely avenue of approach,” or in other words, a good place to set a tripwire. He hadn’t walked 200 yards before he found the first booby trap.

Someone had dug a trench across the road, about two feet deep and two feet wide. In the bottom of the ditch were sharpened spikes. Burlap feed bags had been
stretched across the trough, supported by skinny sticks and covered with a thin layer of dirt and leaves. The contraption would stop a truck for sure, most likely disable a man.

Bishop’s level of respect for the rangers
moved up a notch as he began to step around the barrier, the color of rusty metal showing through the scattered floor of dried leaves. Picking up a stick, he gently uncovered a steel-jawed animal trap, just large enough to break a man’s foot.
Beaver
, he guessed from the size of the apparatus.

The anti-
personnel device slowed his progress even more. While nothing he had encountered so far was designed to take a man’s life, having a spike through the bottom of your foot would ruin the afternoon, perhaps enabling a slow death from either starvation or infection.
Maybe I shouldn’t have given Grandma my antibiotics
, he considered.

A hundred yards further, he encountered the next
impediment. A large hardwood had fallen across the path, completely blocking the lane. After inspecting the trunk to make sure the tree had fallen from natural causes, he began looking for an alternate path around the blockage.

The canopy was dense here, turning the bright mid-afternoon into a dull, dusk-like setting that
substantially reduced visibility.
I would put a tripwire here
, he thought. But there wasn’t any.

He had walked a half mile away from the truck and decided to return and bring the all-important transportation closer. He’d scouted what was a clear path around the
ditch, and would feel better having his ride close by where he could react in a reasonable time. If someone found the vehicle, it wouldn’t take long to steal his gas… or the entire truck for that matter.

Twenty minutes later
, he initiated the process all over again… scouting ahead on foot and then pulling the pickup forward. It took a lot of time, but it was the only safe way.

He almost missed the lane that lead to the airfield
on the fifth iteration of his inchworm-like process. Overgrown with waist-high weeds and littered with fallen branches, it was the shape of the undergrowth that hinted at the cut. Two hundred yards further, he was peering from the woods at the concrete airstrip and blue metal outbuilding.

Relief surged through his mind, the concept of being lost forever in the woods of Arkansas having taken root in his
subconscious. He lifted the rifle and scanned the area slowly, looking for any sign of human habitation.

While it was difficult to be sure from such a distance, the structure at the end of the runway appeared
to have been completely unvisited for an extended length of time. The airstrip was surrounded by unkempt grass and weeds that had even begun to infiltrate the crevices of the asphalt on the tarmac. That unchecked growth appeared to be undisturbed, even where located in close proximity to the building itself.

Staying in the forest’s cover, he work
ed his way around to the closest point of concealment, just behind the structure.
It’s now or never
, he decided, and stepped from the protection of the woods. The rhythm of his breathing returned to normal when no one shot at him.

He made his way quickly to the building, the passage across the open grassland making him feel like a big, fat target.
Right and left his head moved, always scanning for trouble. He remembered his instructor’s harsh, shouted words, “Your head must be mounted on a swivel! Always move your head! Search for the threat!”

Reaching the parking lot without incident, he then proceeded to
tour the perimeter of what was most likely a storage facility. Bishop kept his rifle up and ready, rounding every corner as if he expected the devil himself to attack at the turn. Isolated, out in the middle of nowhere, it felt childish at times, but healing from embarrassment took less time than recuperation from a gunshot wound.

Someone had already broken a pane of glass
on the only door. No one had even bothered to relock it after the vandalism. Peering inside, he couldn’t see more than a few feet, the complete darkness eliciting another surge of caution.

After removing his glove, he gently reached through the glass, feeling the edge of the doorframe.
I’d put a wire here
, he decided.
A good noisemaker would let me know if anyone were breaking and entering again.

Feeling with his fingertips, he moved as far up and down as he could reach. There was nothing.

He turned the doorknob slowly, and then flung it open while throwing himself against the wall. Nothing happened. Realizing what he’d just done, he had to chide himself.
Did you really think the park rangers had hand grenades?

He
stepped inside, but only a few paces, quickly moving out of the doorway’s silhouette. To his sunlight-adjusted eyes, the interior was coalmine black.
Blind men don’t do well in close quarters battle
, he realized.
I’ll just wait right here until my eyes adjust.

Old instruction on urban combat cycled through his mind. Don’t use the flashlight – it makes you a target. Bullets go right through most walls. The threat can be high or low.

While he waited for his vision to adjust, he tried to explore the building with his senses. Bishop consciously slowed his breathing, giving his ears every chance to hear that scrape of cloth or scuffle of a boot. When he did breathe, he did so with a focused effort to detect any sort of human odor… aftershave or unwashed body.

He reached into a pouch and removed a
slight electronic earplug, inserting the device and then flicking the small switch. Used by hunters, the aid could enhance human hearing several fold, as well as protect his eardrum if gunshots did ring out inside the enclosed space. The building was dead silent and smelled of old engine oil with perhaps a hint of gasoline in the air.

Sensing nothing, he
placed his palms against his eyeballs and pressed firmly. He waited until white lines formed in his vision and then released the pressure. The procedure seemed to help him see in the dark a little better.

Gradually
, he began to make out the contents of the facility. The main entrance had opened into a small reception area, not much more than a countertop and a few visitors’ chairs. There were two doors off the lobby, the first leading back to what he assumed was the manager’s office. A desk was clearly visible, its surface cluttered with manila folders and a pencil holder.

The second
entry lead to the main part of the building. Again, Bishop tested the door and found it unlocked. He repeated the same basic drill when opening the portal, taking cover against the wall, just in case.

The room he entered was a
n open, cavernous space, much darker than where he had just been standing. He could see enough to make out large pieces of machinery along one wall, dark shadows of wheels, sheet metal and robotic-like appendages.

The rifle was swung to his back, the .45 caliber pistol filling his hand.
If someone is in here, it’s going to get close and very personal,
he thought.

When his vision had finally adjusted enough to move, Bishop encountered a problem. A path through the machinery appeared in front of him, but it was still too dark to see clearly. He considered his night vision, but it was difficult to hold the device and fire a pistol at the same time. The thought of
tripwires stretched along the walkway froze his feet in place.

Again reaching into a pouch, he dug out a
spool of ultra-thin fishing line. Tied to one end was a medium-sized lead weight. Digging in his maintenance kit, he pulled out the plastic cleaning brush and inserted the handle through the spool’s center hole.

Bishop threw the lead weight like he was aiming a dart in a pub. As it flew through the air, the line unwound from the reel until the weight thumped
onto the concrete floor. Bishop’s thumb stopped the release of the line, the weight pulled it tight.

He then
set the spool on the floor beside his boot and watched the line. If there were any angle at all, that could mean his cast had crossed a tripwire. If the line went flush against the floor, the coast was clear. There were no trip lines, and he exhaled.

Fifteen minutes later
, he’d cleared the entire building evidently used for storage of the park department’s lawnmowers. Two tractors, each with attached bush hogs, plus an assortment of riding mowers, string trimmers, and other landscaping equipment filled the storage section. He noticed all of the gasoline cans were, unfortunately, empty.

On the way out the door, he found what the vandals had been after. A candy and soda vending machine
lurked along the dark wall, partially hidden by a shelf of spare parts. The glass was broken out of the snack unit, every last morsel of potato chips, mints and peanuts cleaned out long ago.

The hinges had been pried on the drink machine, its interior as barren as
its neighbor’s.

Bishop moved back to the office, one last thing on his mind. Sitting on the desk was a telephone, and just as he expected, there was a plastic covered sheet
nearby, listing phone numbers and extensions. Blowing the dust from the list, he counted twelve numbers, each corresponding to names like “Lodge Kitchen” and “Maintenance Shed.”

There were also the home phone numbers for the rangers. He counted six in all.
Not good odds
, he thought.
I hope Smokey the Bear isn’t on their side, too.

Sleeping on the ground was never an attractive prospect to Bishop. Yes, there were times when that was the only option. But if it
were at all possible to go horizontal above the earth’s surface, he felt it was worth the effort.

It wasn’t just the creepy-crawlers, slithering reptiles
, or discomfort of temperature. There was a security aspect involved.

Tents restricted sensory input, added weight to
a bug-out kit, and couldn’t be repacked in a rush. They were great for camping or when bivouacking in large numbers, but not so good for a solo man trying to keep a low profile. 

Year
s ago, an old Special Forces trooper had demonstrated how to use a survival net as a hammock, and Bishop had rarely slept on anything else since. Given his current desire to remain undiscovered, it only made sense to use the device and construct a nest.