Bishop's Song (25 page)

Finally,
the truck was rolling, a small sense of security delivered by the motion. The refuge was both false and short-lived.

As he gained speed, a hailstorm of rocks, chunks of tombstone and miscellaneous tools began impacting the hood and windshield
. Bishop saw a claw hammer rattle off the fender, quickly followed by a pickaxe flying through the tunnel of brightness created by the headlights.

And then it was quiet, nothing but the rush of air and
the growl of the V8 under the hood.

He would never be able to recount how he found his way out of the graveyard, which direction he’d turn
ed, or how far he had driven in the blind terror. He had forgotten all about his two comrades in the bed, his brain completely focused on escaping the never-ending waves of ghoulish attackers.

Once they were clear, concern for his passengers returned. He drove on,
knowing the two men in the bed were doing their best to issue medical care and treat each other’s wounds.

Memphis, Tenseness

July 11, 2016

When
Grim first called out, Bishop didn’t recognize the tone of the man’s voice. It was weak, barely audible and yet there was an underlying layer of urgency that carried through his message.

“Bishop, you need to stop the truck. We
’re losing Deke.”

The timing of the request
, at least, was fortunate. Bishop spotted the strip mall within moments. He turned in, the truck’s lamps showing signs of the retail outlet already having been looted, weeds and mounds of litter and leaves scattered around the vacant parking lot. It was obvious the facility was abandoned. Bishop guided the truck-now-ambulance behind the single-story building, discovering two delivery vans backed against a loading dock. Both the vehicles and the warehouse showed signs of forced entry from long ago. He pulled between them, hoping the cave-like shelter provided by the two large trucks would provide some level of concealment.

Bishop
jumped out, rushing to help the men in the back. He switched on his flashlight, hoping to assist and assess at the same time.

The beam of light confirmed his worst fears.
The first thing that caught his eye was the large pool of purplish liquid spreading across the bed’s floor. Grim, doing the best he could with the use of only one arm, was desperately trying to stem the bleeding. Empty packages of gauze and red-stained medical wraps littered the area.

Deke
was lying prone, unmoving, his skin shrouded by a grey pallor that Bishop had seen before… far too many times on the battlefield. While the wounded man’s eyes were open, they didn’t move, fixed on an empty spot in space somewhere above Grim’s shoulder as he hovered over his friend. Bishop leaped over the sidewall, trying to gain a better angle to assess the victim’s injuries. What he found caused a wave of nausea to sweep his core.

It w
asn’t the purplish slashes on Deke’s chest and shoulders, the lacerations serious, but not life-threatening. Nor was the series of blue and red welts a primary concern. Bishop’s attention was drawn to the inch-long puncture wounds that were gushing life. He had to stop counting the deep wounds after the first four, knowing, even as he reached for his own limited supplies of bandages, that the effort was hopeless.

He couldn’t accept the prognosis
– digging in his blow-out bag with the intent of adding his own aid to that already being applied by Grim.

G
rim seemed to realize the futility of it all at the same moment, his one functional hand slowing the desperate application of pressure and cloth to the wounds. He looked up at Bishop, a storm of emotion brewing behind the warrior’s eyes.

A wet, racking cough came from
Deke’s chest, his entire body shuddering from the effort.

“I know,”
the weak, hoarse voice croaked from the wounded man’s throat. “Don’t waste your medical kit. You might need those supplies later.”

Bishop was in shock. A flood of anger surged through his system, at the same time his throat tight
ening. He wanted to do something – anything - to save his friend. The only idea his utterly exhausted mind could settle on was to make the man comfortable. There just was nothing else.

Dropp
ing to his knees and squeezing further into the confined space, Bishop worked to roll up an edge of the tarp, sliding the makeshift pillow under the injured man’s head. The effort didn’t go unnoticed, the dark pools of Deke’s eyes focusing on Bishop.

“Thanks,” his raspy voice managed.

“Don’t you fucking die on me,” Grim pleaded. “You son of a bitch, you hang on; you’re not going anywhere.”

A
nother severe bout of coughing shook the wounded man’s frame, blood appearing under his nose and at the corners of his mouth. While his movements were slow, Deke managed to flip a middle finger at Grim and then smile. “Like I said, brother, I know… I know it’s over, and it’s okay.”

Again
, those eyes haunted the medics, so deep and dark against the background of Deke’s pale skin and the artificial glow of the flashlight. He managed to focus on Bishop, the smile still showing at the corners of his blood-speckled mouth. “Get Grim’s family out, operator. Make it worth this. Promise me you will, and I’ll go feeling like I’ve made a good trade.”

Bishop tried to find the words, struggle
d to make his vocal cords function in a throat tight with emotion. He finally managed a nod and then a weakly uttered, “I promise.”

A nod from the dying man acknowledged
the acceptance of Bishop’s commitment, and then his gaze swept skyward. Neither Grim nor Bishop needed to check for a pulse or listen for breathing. It was obvious when the light behind those eyes dimmed for the final time.

Bishops slowly reached
forward, his hand gently closing the lids of the now lifeless eyes. “Rest well, brother. Your hardships and campaigns are over. Go softly… go to peace.”

Gr
im shifted his weight, leaning over to kiss the forehead of the man with whom he had suffered so much hardship, and celebrated countless victories. As Bishop watched, silent, deep sobs racked Grim’s body.

A
dragon named
Revenge
began to breathe fire into Bishop’s soul.

Boiling hot, sulfuric rage raced through
the Texan’s veins, fueled as the great monster spread its all-powerful wings and commanded payback. Bishop’s knuckles grew white as he squeezed his rifle, an irresistible desire pounding in his temples. He would return to the graveyard and fill hell with the souls of those who had murdered his friend. He would spray lead until the last empty magazine rattled to the ground, and then wield a blade until his hand could no longer maintain a grip. His would then render their limbs with his bare hands, and after his muscles played out, he would eat them alive, bathing in the glorious bloodbath that was
Revenge
.

Vengeance against
whom?
Some small voice battled the dragon.
Against Grim because he didn’t sweep the area well? Is my lust for blood only to avoid blaming myself for clowning around with Deke? Was it all the dead man’s fault for picking the location in the first place? Who deserves my ire?

Then
Deke’s final words came rushing back. “Get Grim’s family out, operator.” There was that word –
operator
. A label only earned – a reward for those who obtain a level of skill and professionalism above and beyond.

What would an operator do?
Bishop asked himself. Would a professional turn this truck around and unleash pure hell on those unarmed men? No. The professional would continue with the mission and honor the fallen when time allowed. That’s what an
operator
would do.

The thought broke the
dragon’s spell, the mental monster retreating into a remote cave in the back of Bishop’s soul. He moved to check Grim’s arm.

“How bad is it?”

“I think the arm’s busted,” Grim replied. “I’ll be okay. I’m not bleeding.”

After covering
Deke’s body with part of the tarp, Bishop maneuvered to check Grim’s limb. Rolling up the operator’s sleeve, he revealed the swollen red and purple area, a bone between his wrist and elbow obviously fractured.

“It’s busted, that’s for sure,” Bishop said. “I don’t know how long it will be before we can get you proper medical attention
. Do you want me to try and put on a splint?”

Grim
nodded, his gaze remaining fixed in the direction of the body lying at his feet. Bishop had to wonder if the man wasn’t going into shock from either the physical pain or the loss of his longtime friend.

Each of the operators
carried a flexible aluminum splint that when rolled up required little space in the always crowded medical kits carried on their persons. Bishop found Deke’s, rightfully believing it would be easier than digging through his kit to find the rarely used item. While he had never set a broken limb, the training received at HBR kicked in, the procedure coming back as if he had been taught only yesterday.

After warning the patient, Bishop gras
ped the broken limb just below the elbow and just above the wrist gently pulling until he felt movement, Bishop aligned to two ends of the bone as best he could. Grim, other than a sharp inhalation of air and a slight grunt, remained silent.

A few moments later, Bishop’s hands moved in a blur as he secured the temporary spl
int with the roll of tape.

“Thanks,” was the patient
’s only comment.

“Do you have anything else I need to take a look at?
I think we need to get out of here as soon as possible.”

Gr
im managed his knees and then rose to his feet in response. Pulling his carbine up with his good hand, he rested the weapon on the cab of the truck, ready to fight. Turning to Bishop, he said, “I’m good. Let’s get the fuck out of here.”

After pausing for a moment to make sure his friend was stable, Bishop jumped from the bed and
hurried back to the cab. As he drove out of their hiding spot and back on course, he couldn’t help but think about where he would dig a grave.

It had been some time since he had
to excavate the final resting place for another human being. The defense of his old Houston neighborhood had resulted in casualties, and that had led to digging in a nearby empty lot. He had also lost neighbors during that time, those memories adding to what was becoming a deep sadness.

“Now what the f
uck am I going to do?” he said to himself as he drove the truck through suburban Memphis. “We have one man down, another at 50%, and our cover story is completely blown.”

The population density of the metropolitan area th
inned as Bishop slowly progressed to the north and east, away from the Mississippi River. He had no idea if he were getting any closer to where Grim’s family resided or if he were adding distance to what had already been far too long a journey.

The safety of
the countryside didn’t improve Bishop’s mood. He had respected Deke, despite the operator having once kidnapped and threatened his wife. That episode, a misunderstanding cleared long ago, had allowed Bishop to appreciate the contractor’s contribution to the efforts of reestablishing society in West Texas.

Deke
and his seven security men had been the absolute best soldiers Bishop had ever seen. The fact that such a man fell victim under such unusual circumstances didn’t bolster Bishop’s confidence. He had always felt like he was the weak link in this rescue team, that if anyone were going to be hurt or killed on the current mission, he would be the one. Now that weak link was the sole survivor at full operational capacity. Now the guy with the least amount of skill and experience was the last man standing.

Sure, luck played a role
, and every man who had ever taken up arms understood the impact of random events and virtual situations. But for Deke to die at the hands of such a lackluster force shook Bishop to the core.
Be the professional
, he reminded.
Be an operator
.

He also experienced a sense of loneliness.
He would give anything to talk to Terri right now, to see her smile and smell her hair. He wondered about his son’s future, the father’s survival now seriously in question. Grim’s voice interrupted the session of self-pity, evidently the man riding in the back was paying more attention to their surroundings than the guy controlling the truck’s direction.

“
Hey, Bishop, turn around. I recognized something back there, and I think it might be a good place for us to hole up and lick our wounds.”

Bishop did as requested,
reversing the truck in the abandoned roadway and slowly progressing back the way they had just come. He saw the sign this time, a brown and white affair declaring they were approaching a driveway belonging to the Patterson Rock Quarry.

“This place closed down a few years ago,” Grim said. “No one would have any reason to be back there, and I think
there are some storage sheds… maybe a good place to conceal the truck. If the army heard our gunfire back there, they might send up a bird with thermal sights to investigate. Besides, I want to build a fire, if possible.”