Bishop's Song (26 page)

After pausing for a brief moment to study the gate, Bishop decided it wasn’t worth the effort to get out and try to pry loose the l
ock. Inching the already dented truck forward, he used the front bumper to bust through the opening. The gravel lane twisted and turned for almost a half mile before the first signs of the now closed business showed themselves in the truck’s headlights.

Large piles of rock chips, gravel, and other discarded stone
began to appear on each side of the narrow, bumpy path. “Keep going. I remember there used to be some storage sheds where they stored the heavy equipment.”

Grim’s
memory finally proved to be accurate, a huge facility of open bays, two stories in height, eventually coming into view. Yet again, Mother Nature had been doing her best to reclaim the area, with saplings and clusters of bushes growing through the otherwise smooth gravel surface surrounding the shed. It was behind one such concentration of growth that Bishop hid the truck, appreciating the camouflage provided in the isolation of the location.

Grim
volunteered to sweep the area, no doubt feeling some measure of guilt for having missed the sheer number of attackers back at the cemetery. For a brief moment, Bishop paused, wanting to take the task himself and let the injured man gather his strength. On the other hand, redemption could be an important aspect of reestablishing morale – something both of the surviving rescuers needed badly.

Grim
didn’t wait for Bishop’s answer, moving off into the night with his rifle dangling from its sling while he scanned the area with Deke’s thermal imager held up with his one good arm. The scout returned 20 minutes later, declaring that they were indeed isolated, and this time, he was sure.

“We
’re only about five miles from my place,” announced Grim. “It’s going to be daylight soon, and I noticed you’re favoring your arm, too. Let’s try to get our shit in one bag, and then we can manage the rest of the distance to my place.”

Bishop
agreed, setting about removing his load vest and other equipment, Grim’s observation of his arm proving more accurate than he would have liked.

After taking off his shirt, t
he flashlight revealed an inch thick welt and purple bruising across his upper triceps and shoulder. “For a bunch of guys near starvation, they sure could swing a baseball bat,” Bishop observed gingerly stretching the sore limb.

“At least it’s not broken. At least one of us is still at 100%.”

“That may be true, but I still think we’re in trouble. How in the hell are we going to get your wife and daughter past the roadblocks heading back into Arkansas?”

Grim didn’t answer
at first, staring down at the ground and shaking his head, his gaze moving back to the truck where the body of his friend still rested.

“I don’t know, man. I’m not thinking real clear right now, and I don’t think you are either. Let’s hole up
at my place for a day or two, and maybe something will come to us.” Bishop couldn’t come up with any better plan, so he nodded his acceptance deciding to try to eat while time allowed.

Grim
made an attempt to pump some fuel into the truck’s tank, his efforts handicapped by his injured wing. Both men found even the most basic activity was difficult, both extremely jumpy at sounds or noise in the vicinity.

“Where the hell did those guys come from?
” Grim eventually asked, clearly replaying the entire episode in his mind. “What the hell were they doing in that cemetery? It just doesn’t make any sense to me.”

Bishop considered his answer quite a while, the same questions running through his mind over and again. “I don’t know, and I don’t think we’ll ever know. My best guess is that they were
grave robbers. I saw shovels, pry bars and axes to cut through roots during the dig. But there’s no way to be sure. Maybe they were like us, thinking no one would ever bother looking in a graveyard. Some of those mausoleums were big enough to live in, as creepy as that might sound. Perhaps they were a gang of criminals, or just a random cluster of vagabonds who happened to find shelter in an isolated area away from the authorities. It was just bad luck that we bumbled into the hornets’ nest.”

Gr
im seemed to accept Bishop’s logic, his head nodding slowly as he worked the hand pump on the 50- gallon drum of fuel.

Finally looking up, he said in a low tone, “
We can bury him at my place. I know just the spot, a shady area underneath the big elm. Deke always liked the shade, and that way I’ll be able to pay my respects if things ever get back to normal.”

T
he two men continued the tasks at hand, each needing the chance to regroup. Bishop had been slashed by a machete attack, and an inspection of his shirt showed the cut material was repairable, but not something that he wanted to do in their current situation. Two of the MOLLE ladders on his vest had also been severed, as well as the hose of his water reservoir, the most critical damage to his kit. Patching the puncture using duct tape, Bishop then began redressing himself with the spare shit from his kit. It was the best repair possible. Reloading magazines was the next priority; the two empties retrieved from his dump pouch were soon full of 45-caliber rounds.

He
then began the unwanted chore of inventorying Deke’s equipment, any reservations over rummaging through the dead man’s assets quickly dismissed by their desperate situation.

Grim
started to protest Bishop’s activities, but then realized the wisdom of the act. It was then that Bishop noticed the damage to Grim’s rifle. Pointing to the weapon, Bishop asked, “Are you sure that blaster still functions? That looks like some serious damage.”

A quick
check revealed that indeed the rifle had suffered an apparently deadly blow from some sort of edged strike. Grim ejected the magazine from the damaged receiver, holding the rifle between his knees and working the charging handle. Looking up, he said, “It’s a good thing you noticed that. This weapon is ruined, and now I’m really pissed. It has been with me on five continents… for 15 years. Now some amateur desperado with a pickax has ruined my lucky piece.”

B
ishop reached into the bed of the truck and retrieved Deke’s carbine, giving the weapon a quick once over, checking for any obvious damage. Conscious of his partner’s injury, Bishop worked the action of the rifle and found it fully operational.

Grim hesitated
over exchanging weapons, but the logic of the move wasn’t lost on him for long. Despite the damaged weapon having saved his skin on many occasions, Grim grunted and accepted the new unit.

“
Deke would wanted it that way. I know he would,” Bishop whispered.

Grim nodded
, adjusting the sling and then letting the weapon rest against his chest. He patted the receiver with his good hand, and vowed, “I’ll put it to good use if the need arises.”

Each man then rested for 45 minutes while the other kept watch. It wasn’t much sleep, but neither knew when they’d be able to rest again.

The yellow light of a new day guided them out of the quarry and into the Tennessee countryside. Grim’s estimate of the distance to his home was accurate, Bishop pulling the truck to the side of the country lane just shy of being visible from his partner’s property.

There was
slightly more vigor in Grim’s movements as he jumped from the bed of the truck and approached the driver’s window. “I’m going to go up on foot so my old lady doesn’t put a 12-gauge full of buckshot into someone’s ass. She’s probably a little jumpy these days.”

Bishop chuckle
d, having little doubt that Mrs. Grim was fully capable of defending herself.

“You stay here for 10 minutes while I go check things out. That will give me plenty of time to make sure we don’t freak her cookies.”

And then Grim was off, half trotting into the distance toward the homestead.

Bishop waited the prerequisite amount of time, and then slowly drove up the driveway
. He hit the brakes when the property came into full view.

Rather than the mod
ern home he expected, blackened timbers and piles of gray ash came into view. Grim’s house had burned to the ground, the streaked outline of a bathtub and rusted shells of kitchen appliances the only identifiable objects.

Grim stood motionless, staring at the destruction without comment.

When he sensed Bishop at his side, the contractor looked up with sad eyes and responded, “Well, at least I know why she’s not here.”

Bishop’s mind immediately
leapt to the worst case – his expression showing the obvious concern over his friend’s family being victims of the blaze.

Grim noted the look on Bishop’s face.
“They’re not here,” he announced, his voice growing angry. “I checked the ashes for bodies. Thank the Lord in heaven they got out.”

“Would they have
gone to a neighbor or relative’s home?” Bishop asked.

“
Maggie doesn’t have any family locally. I can’t find any evidence of foul play. I’m hoping she and Jana moved in with the Brewers down the road.”

Bishop nodded, a bad feeling growing inside. “There’s only one way to tell,” he said
, trying to sound positive. “Let’s drive to the Brewers and see.”

The rural countryside didn’t warrant Gr
im riding shotgun in the bed of the truck. It seemed odd to Bishop, having someone seated in the cab after so many days of constantly being alone behind the wheel. The Brewer farm was only a mile and a half down the narrow lane from Grim’s place. Again, Bishop stopped the truck some distance up the road while his partner dismounted to approach the neighbor’s homestead.

Bishop waited the
prearranged amount of time, and for the second time that morning guided his vehicle up a stranger’s driveway. This time it was obvious someone was home, Grim and another man standing on the front porch of the traditional southern farmhouse, engaged in conversation. Bishop joined them a short time later, the expression on his friend’s face indicating it wasn’t the day for good news.

“
Maggie stayed here with us for about a week after the house burned down. She thought a candle got knocked over while she and Jana were picking up walnuts,” Mr. Brewer said. “Lily and I offered for both of them to stay, but you know that woman of yours – she’s got too much pride to accept a handout from anybody. I suppose it didn’t help matters that the wife and I are barely feeding ourselves, but the offer was genuine. About a week later, everything went to hell in a hand basket. We had a bad hailstorm about then, and it wiped out the garden she was keeping back at your place. We’d been sharing what little we had, but it was obvious that desperate times were heading down the road as far as food was concerned.”

Gr
im didn’t seem to be able to find the words to ask the next question, disappointment and frustration painted all over his face.

“Did they say w
here they were going?” Bishop inquired.

Mr. Brewer hesitated,
glancing down at his boots, and then coming to a decision. Finally, meeting Grim’s gaze, the farmer said, “Yes, she went to join the Circus.”

“
The circus?” Grim asked. “Do you literally mean my wife ran off to join the circus with the bearded lady and the clowns on those little bikes?” only a hint of sarcasm blended with doubt in his tone.

“No,” the farmer continued,
realizing he wasn’t speaking to locals. “The Circus is what everybody calls a small community that follows the army units around. I’m not sure how it got its name. I’ve never seen it myself.”

“Camp followers?” Grim
hissed, not believing what the man was telling him.

“I don’t know,” Mr. Brewer continued, “
Again, I’ve never seen it with my own eyes. Some people around here say it’s like a recreation area for the troops. Others, well, you know how rumors are.”

Grim was speechless, obvious thoughts of his wife and
daughter’s desperation running through his head, the conclusion not pretty. He visibly shuddered, and then again pleaded with his neighbor for more information. “Why? Why, would she do that? Were things really that bad?”

“The men who run the
Circus put up signs all over Millington. ‘Work in exchange for food. Come to the Circus.’ They were posted all over the place, even at the end of our road.”

“And where is this
Circus?” Bishop inquired.

“It’s in town, at the shopping center, or at least what’s left of it.”

Grim and Bishop tried to extract more information from Mr. Brewer, but it became clear after a while the man had relayed everything he knew about the situation. Expressing their thanks and moving back to the truck, the duo was soon pulling out of the driveway, unsure of their destination.

Bishop was exhausted.
“Dude, I know you’re probably anxious to see your wife and daughter, but I’m not going to be much help in my current state. Is there any chance we can rest and regroup at your place for a few hours before we head into another potentially dangerous situation?”

Gr
im started to protest, but then reconsidered. “You’re right. I don’t like it. I don’t want to wait, but I’m afraid we might need to be at our best. My arm’s throbbing like a bass drum. I guess a few more hours isn’t going to make that much difference.”