Bishop's Song (36 page)

Terri was holding Hunter by the armpits, supporting the infant as he pumped chubby legs trying to walk across the cloth. The expression o
n the cherubic face said, “Look at me, dad! See how amazing I am?”

Dad had to agree, his cheeks hurting from the girth of his smile.

Over Terri’s shoulder, something glinted in the sunlight – a flash of brightness that Bishop had seen before. Someone was up there on the hill… someone with glass… a rifle scope.

He knew exactly what it was, but his throat wouldn’t form a warning, his
body wouldn’t answer the desperate commands being screamed by his brain.

A small puff of gray smoke
replaced the reflection on the hill. Bishop knew what it was, a sniper’s gunshot, but he couldn’t move. Everything was so slow, a horror movie watched frame by single, painful frame.

Terri’s sternum exploded, a shower of gristle, tissue and bone
erupting in a fountain of gore that suspended in mid-air. An identical wound appeared on Hunter’s tiny body, the bullet passing straight through both of his loved ones. Both his wife and child showed bewilderment, unsure of what had just happened, unclear of the source of their pain.

Their eyes
clouded dark as Terri fell over, pulling Hunter’s lifeless body down with her.

The dream-chains released Bishop, allowing him to finally move while time accelerated to its normal pace. He
crawled to his wife’s side but knew it was too late. Hunter fared no better.

He looked to the sky as if to ask his
Maker why, but only a prolonged cry of agony escaped his throat. “Nooooooo!”

The Texan bolted upright in the bed of the truck,
fury and rage painted on his face, the scream stuck in his mouth. It took a few moments to realize he’d been dreaming. He was soaking wet, heart pounding in his ears. The images of the nightmare proved stubborn - difficult to shake.

He was just reaching to climb out of the bed when t
wo gunshots rolled across the open field. Pausing for a moment, he decided they weren’t a concern. The reports were very far off, so distant he wasn’t sure of the direction.

“Probably somebody out hunting for
a Sunday meal,” he said to the truck, his voice croaking and hoarse. There just wasn’t enough volume of gunfire for it to be anything else. Then it occurred to him that his dream might have been feeding off of previous shots. His level of anxiety increased.

Without giving himself much time
to clear the fog of sleep, Bishop climbed back in the cab, urgency fueled by frustration dominating his mood. He ramrodded the stolen vehicle out of the lane, screeching to a halt and then jamming the shifter into a forward gear. The rate of gasoline consumption was the last thing on his mind as he jammed the accelerator to the floor.

He couldn’t remember the town’s name and actually
didn’t care. It was just another detour in what had become a journey filled with such bypasses.

The town’s
label was something like Birch… or Birchwood… or Birchville. He couldn’t remember and didn’t want to bother checking the map again, already frustrated with the number of references to the paper chart required by this trip. He was sure the ink coloring would be worn white before he could get home.

The two
-lane highway he’d been traversing ran right into the middle of Birch-whatever, and he didn’t want to do that. With the nightmare and gunshots still occupying his mind, he cut south, down a gravel surfaced, narrow country road, hoping to avoid the fine citizens of… of Son of a Birch.

“I’ll have to remember that
one,” he joked with the truck. “Terri will love it.”

Had Terri been along, she would have known Bishop’s apparent
jovial mood was anything but. He always dealt with stress by using cornball humor as a safety valve. The driver’s primary frustration was due to many sources. Watching the time pass by without gaining much distance was one agitation, constantly fretting over the ever-declining supply of gas, another. The icing on Bishop’s pissy-cake was the constant, ever building worry about his wife and son. The nightmare had provided the lettering on the icing, in black, bold letters –
Get the fuck home and save your family
.

His physical condition wasn’t much better. The blow he’d taken to the arm still sent
searing bolts of pain up and down the limb. He hadn’t managed much sleep in two days. After that last dream, he wasn’t sure he ever wanted to sleep again.   

So it was an exhausted, short
-tempered man who crested the small rise in central Texas, instantly tapping the brakes when he realized something was blocking the road ahead.

Creeping forward,
his head was on a swivel - sweeping for any sign of an ambush, almost hoping someone would try. The fields bordering the road were empty. As Bishop approached closer to the obstruction, he thought his tired eyes were seeing things. It looked like someone had built a small house right in the middle of the road.

Normally,
caution would demand stopping a considerable distance away, followed by scouting the activity ahead in detail. Not today, not in his frame of mind.

He drove right up, seemingly unconcerned, almost daring anyone to fuck with him.

The house blocking the road was actually an overturned wagon, complete with harnessed team and passengers standing around gawking at the wreck. The chaotic scene was further complicated by two other horse-drawn buggies and their occupants. One had
run into a ditch, the other’s animal lying on its side in the road.

Bishop
was mumbling, “What now, an Amish accident? A Mennonite mangle?” as he exited the cab, pulling his rifle sling over his neck. An older man was standing nearby, watching as several other people milled about, pointing while exchanging hushed conversations. A few of the interactions weren’t so soft, one sounding downright heated.

“What happened
?” Bishop asked as he approached the gent.

“Those hoodlums took over the VFW and started shooting. We all were trying to get out of there
in a panic, and these three buggies got tangled up,” he replied, pointing toward a distant building. The single-story structure looked like a ranch style home, only the flagpole and two Korean War artillery pieces sitting out front indicating it wasn’t the normal homestead.

“We’ve been having a
sort of food bank once a week,” the old timer continued. “Everything was going just fine until that bunch of assholes showed up. They shot the place up, took Marty’s daughter hostage and chased us off.”

Marty
, as indicated by the witnesses’ nodding heads, was the source of the angered voice, two men apparently restraining the distraught man from returning to the VFW.

Bishop shook his head, not believing his bad luck. He moved to examine the traffic jam, then over to look at the injured draft horse.

One of the wagons had evidently run over two of the animal’s legs, both fractures compound and grisly. The injured mare’s eyes were rolling in the back of her head, spasms of pain racking her body. Bishop knew the animal was finished, a boyhood spent on a working ranch leaving no doubt.

“Someone put this animal out of its misery,” he
instructed, scanning the onlookers.

A nearby mother, holding a scared
, teenage girl was the only person who answered. “How? No one here has any bullets.”

“Fuck,” mumbled Bishop, pulling his pistol from the holster.

“Noooo!” screamed the girl, realizing Bishop’s intent.

After he verified the mother was still in control
of her child, Bishop knelt beside the suffering beast and covered its eye with his hand. He put the barrel an inch from its head and pulled the trigger.

The horse jerked once, twice, and then its pain was over.

The shot drew everyone’s attention, and Bishop took advantage of it. “You men over there, come get that wagon out of the ditch so we can push this one upright. I’ll help.”

Again, the old timer approached. “That’s Marty’s wagon, and h
is mule won’t move for anyone else. He refuses to do anything until those thugs set his daughter free… not that there’s going to be much left of her after they’re done.”

Bishop glanced at the distraught father, two large fellows holding him back. “Marty! Marty! You can’t go up there,” one of the burly men said. “They’ll kill you on sight.”

Bishop’s patience, already stretched taunt, snapped. Glancing between the VFW and the restrained father, logic was overwhelmed by rage. Turning to the old man, he mumbled, “I’ll fix that,” and then he stormed off, making a beeline toward what his brain registered as the source of his latest obstacle.

The VFW was only one quarter of a mile down the road. Like so many small towns across the country, the small building had been constructed on the outskirts of the community
it served. This was due in part to availability of cheaper land, coupled with the fact that Saturday evening dances could go late into the night without disturbing the neighbors. There might have been a hint of some customers enjoying the occasional libation without prying eyes knowing their business.

None of this mattered to Bishop at the moment, his course unwavering, his stride
evidence of grim intent.

“Check this asshole out,” commented one of the invaders, standing on the front stoop
of the VFW and chewing a mouthful of pillaged food. “What the hell does he think he’s gonna do?”

“I got this one,” his partner responded
after swallowing. He reached for the pistol tucked in the small of his back.

Bishop kept coming, his steps almost robotic – pneumatic pistons
closing the distance.

With his pistol still pointed down, the brave fellow stepped forward, holding up his empty hand
, signaling for Bishop to stop. “Just what do you think you’re doing … ”

He never finished the statement. Without saying a word
or breaking stride, the ACR appeared from behind Bishop’s back, the motion smooth… and very fast. He didn’t even bother shouldering the weapon, firing four shots so quickly they were difficult to count. Each target took two in the torso, staggering backwards in shock, surprised looks of pain and torment on their faces.

Bishop
charged. He covered the remaining 20 yards in five steps, his boot splintering the front door at the same moment as the first two men hit the ground.

There were four of them in there, surrounding a corner pool table with a struggling girl
held down on the green felt surface. All of the men looked up in surprise, the violence of Bishop’s entry causing their mouths to open in protest.

The first two fell instantly, grasping their chests w
here Bishop’s rounds tore flesh and crushed bone. The third man managed to reach for a revolver lying on a nearby table, but his grip never closed. The 68 grain hollow-point, flying at 2900 feet per second, struck the man’s temple. The bullet expanded to twice its original diameter before exiting the skull in a fountain of crimson and white. The results were immediate.

Number four managed to dive behind the bar, but it didn’t do him any good. Bishop began firing into the wooden structure,
spacing shot after shot only six inches above the floor, walking the rounds up and down the length.

Shards of splintered timber filled the air, mixing with
dust from the pulverized concrete floor and the boiling cordite exhaust from the ACR’s barrel. The empty cartridges, bouncing across the floor with a musical jingle, contrasted the stream of relentless thunder produced by the weapon, an unyielding hammer driving high velocity lead nails.   

While his bullets tore through the thin wooden veneer, Bishop was sidestepping
to the opposite end of the long structure. The cadence of his trigger finger never stopped until he rounded the corner. He found the target lying face down, unmoving with an expanding pool of red beneath. Bishop kept his rifle trained on the man, walking forward, wary the guy might be playing possum. After a couple of steps, he reconsidered, firing two more rounds from where he stood – just to be sure.

He then moved to the pool table,
each body on the floor receiving an extra bullet or two as he passed. Without uttering a word, he scooped up the terrified, shivering girl, throwing her roughly over his shoulder.