Bishop's Song (5 page)

The general’s question had brought the issue to a head, Moreland weighing his options. Sighing audibility, the chief executive finally reached his decision, “
To answer your question General Owens, no, you should not draw up plans to move troops into our own territory. There will be no invasion, or large-scale military action. Our people have suffered enough already. I’m going to send in a team to negotiate with the people of West Texas, and you, general, are going to head up that effort. This meeting is adjourned.”

Chapter 2

Meraton
, Texas

June 7, 2016

“Give me my pistol, and I’ll end your miserable existence right now!” Terri growled, her eyes piercing into Bishop, wild with fire and anger… and pain. “You lowlife, worthless pile of shit.
I hate you!”

Bishop held her hand, squeezing it firmly, holding on.
Nick warned me
, he remembered.
What did he call it? “Transition.
”

The expectant father
still remembered how his friend’s counsel had been tempered with humor, coupled with what Bishop hoped was a little hyperbole. “Now, it has been quite a few years since I was in your shoes. But in my birthing class, the nurse warned about a phase called transition. That bride of yours is going to hurt from her hair follicles to her tippy toes. She is going to be nauseous and have chills and half a minute later, she is going to be telling you to turn on the air conditioning because of the sweats. I’m telling you, man, it is like the pain causes some kind of chemical imbalance in the brain or something. She is going to struggle to manage these intense feelings her body is having, and your job is to ride it out as best you can. Anyway, be ready for her to spout some crazy shit, brother. My wife claimed I had shot her sister in cold blood. She begged the delivery room nurse to call the cops and have me arrested. Problem was my wife didn’t have a sister. She was an only child. You gotta know this is coming and just roll with it.”

“I love you, Terri,” he said warmly,
in line with Nick’s advice. “Can I do anything to help?” his hand brushing her cheek to offer comfort. “You know I’d take the pain for you, if I could.”

Her eyes changed, rage no longer contorting her face. “You know I love you, too.”

She leaned back, still panting from the last contraction, the stack of high pillows against the headboard elevating her head, her torso partially upright. The doctor glanced at his watch. “They’re three minutes apart. We’re in the home stretch now.”

Betty reached across the bed, brushing the hair from Terri’s face and offering a cold washcloth. “You’re doing great,
sweetheart,” she cooed. “You’re doing just fine.”

Bishop relaxed for a moment, appreciating the older woman’s presence
during the process. Terri’s decision to have the baby in Meraton had been a point of contention. He had lobbied for Midland Station, the larger town equipped with a real hospital, more medical resources and skilled personnel. He wanted every option available, just in case something went wrong.

Terri had insisted on
traveling to Meraton, her argument a belief that “People are more important than any ol’ equipment.” Now that they were here and actually experiencing childbirth, he understood her desire.

The Manor was an old friend in so many ways. Yes, there had been a gun battle here – a fight that Bishop was sure had ended his life. Despite that memory, the grand gardens and peaceful atmosphere of the landmark hotel held a special place in the couple’s hearts.

As he watched Betty mothering his wife, Bishop realized his spouse’s longing to return to Meraton ran much deeper than just the hotel. It was the town, its people, and energy that drew her. He had to agree.

Meraton
had been an oasis after the collapse. The tiny berg had shrugged off society’s downfall, banded together and carried on. The simpler life and slower pace of West Texas hadn’t been so addicted to government, services and infrastructure. When everything extravagant went to hell, the self-sufficient population and surrounding ranches hadn’t suffered nearly as much as most of the planet.

Terri and Bishop had resided in Houston
when the US experienced financial devastation. They had tried to ride out the ever-increasing tide of anarchy, working hard to persist and keep their neighborhood safe. Over the weeks, it became clear that living next to a starving, desperate population center just wasn’t a long-term survival option. They had bugged out, heading for the land of Bishop’s childhood, an inherited hunting retreat nestled in the mountains of West Texas.

The journey across the Lone Star
State had almost ended their lives. It seemed like every few miles offered a different challenge. It had taken weeks, expended all of their resources, and nearly destroyed their faith in mankind.

They had limped into
Meraton out of gas, low of food, and desperate for reprieve from a world gone crazy. The 600-mile drive across Texas had left the couple feeling like life could never be normal again… that there was no future. Meraton changed all that, providing an optimism that was so critical. Hope was something they had needed badly. Could the birth of a little one solidify that hope?

Terri looked like hell. Her hair was stringy, drenched in perspiration
, skin pale from exhaustion. Yet, despite the hours of agonizing pain, Bishop was proud of his bride. She had shown grit and determination, and that was all anyone could ask.

Bishop glanced at himself in the hotel room’s mirror.
I don’t look much better
, he admitted, noting the dark circles under his eyes, his face taunt from the rollercoaster of stress and worry, and then relief as the contractions passed.

“Terri, I’m seeing some really good dilation,” the doctor commented. “That’s a very positive sign. I don’t think we’re going to have to wait much longer.”

The down time between her bouts of pain seemed to pass far too quickly. “Here we go again,” she managed between her clenched teeth. Bishop moved to comfort, wishing he could do more as her head rolled back, and the howl of agony leapt from her throat. Panting. Deep inhalation. Screaming until her lungs were emptied.

And then it passed.

“On the next one, I need you to push,” announced the doctor. “Do it just like we talked about. Bishop, keep reminding her to push. Your job is to be a cheerleader for Team Push.”

The waves of hurt came much quicker, hardly a minute going by. “Push!” commanded the doc. Bishop squeezed Terri’s hand, “Come on... push and breathe… push and breathe… that’s it.”

“The baby’s coming, Terri. Keep pushing. Almost there. Just a little longer.”

Then a new life arrived
, a new person where there hadn’t been one just a moment before. A new set of lungs inhaled for the first time – a new voice joined the choir of humanity.
A miracle
, he realized.
I’ve heard so many new parents use that word. I thought it was cliché. It truly is a miracle.

Terri’s position did not provide a good line of vision for the events now taking place, and she was craning to see. I
n a voice that betrayed her physical exhaustion, Terri prodded her husband for information. “How does the baby look? Is it healthy?”

Bishop took his eyes from Terri’s for
barely a moment to secure the update. There was blood – more blood than he expected, and it worried him. Beyond, he saw the doctor’s hands moving in a blur, Betty standing nearby. It was the older woman’s expression that told him everything was okay. Her eyes were filled with a mixture of confidence and joy.

“They’re cleaning
the baby up now,” Bishop narrated for Terri. His eyes caught the movement of a swirling, pristine white towel, Betty’s hands moving with both speed and grace. Moments later, she was standing beside Terri, offering a bundle. A tiny, wrinkly face was all Bishop could see. Crinkled, purple and bloody, that miniature image of humanity poking out from the white softness of its swaddle was the most wonderful sight he had ever experienced.  

“Nine hours of labor,” the doctor commented, writing in his journal. “I know it didn’t seem like it at the time, but for a first child, that’s not so bad.
Mother and child are doing well. The APGAR score is good.”

Bishop’s head was spinning from it all. The long sessions of suffering endured by
the woman who owned his heart and soul. The agony in his wife’s screams. The sound of the baby breathing and its thin wail of life.

Betty was whispering to Terri, kissing her forehead after sharing
the secret. For just a moment, Bishop felt a little left out, but it passed. He would never bear children – was excluded from the club. He understood that a connection had been forged between the two women that was not dissimilar to the bonding he had experienced in combat.

“Bishop,” croaked Terri’s hoarse voice. “Would you like to hold our son?”

“Yes... I would love to hold our…. Did you say… a boy?”

“Yes, it’s a boy.”

Death was a constant companion. Like a faint shadow on a gray day, the need to take life had stalked Bishop – always looming, a harbinger of what
hid over the next hill of his life. So many times the Texan had pulled a trigger or wielded a blade. So many lives taken, each loss corroding a part of his soul.

The void wasn’t filled with guilt or despair - just emptiness. Each death at his hand removed a spoonful of his inner
being. He realized that if it continued, eventually he would end his days as a hollowed-out shell of a man, reliving nightmares and wondering what the afterlife would bring to a soul that had ended the existence of so many of his kind.

But not today.

As Terri handed him the tiny bundle, new life-energy filled his core. For the first time, he was on the opposite side of the equation - creating, not destroying.

And he liked it.

The new mother watched, beaming with pride as her mate accepted his son for the first time. Bishop could have easily held the tiny wrap in one hand, but didn’t, instead cupping his palms together as if the infant weighed a hundred times its meager size.

It was the extreme of the dichotomy that filled her with bliss. Bishop’s corded arms, so strong and capable, wrapping
ever so gently around the helpless, fragile newborn. She hoped the child would feel the protection of those arms, the safety that laid within, just as she had experienced on so many occasions.

Bishop’s expression flashed a carousel of emotions, like a revolving door of honesty opening to his inner heart. After pulling the baby close to his chest, he
gazed at his mate, smiling but unsure if he were holding the fragile package correctly. The tentative moment quickly passed, replaced with his pure fascination at what he held in his arms.

“He’s perfect,” Bishop pronounced, again meeting his wife’s
eyes.

When the newborn found Bishop’s finger and squeezed, the father’s smile widened
. “You’re strong. Aren’t ya, big fella?”

I’ll teach you everything you need to know
, thought Bishop.
Your mother and me, we’ll fill you with honor and wisdom. You’ll neither bully, nor run. We will teach you the value of integrity and make you aware of the treachery of men. You’ll know right from wrong and won’t be afraid to act upon that knowledge. We will give you the opportunity to improve our world – to make this a better place.
 

It was a wonderful, silent moment for Terri and Bishop. He somewhat gingerly perched on the edge of the bed so as to share the precious treasure with
her – the woman with whom he had created this new life.

Betty, not wanting to interrupt, padded to the door and exited as quietly as the old hinges would allow. Outside, one of Pete’s helpers
slumped on a bench, the lad clearly bored but unwilling to leave his assigned station.

“You can go tell Pete that
Meraton has a new son. The baby is healthy, and the mother is doing just fine. Tell him I estimate it weighs somewhere around seven or seven and a half pounds. Ten fingers. Ten toes. Now repeat it back to me.”

The young man did as he was instructed and in so doing was released by The Manor’s caretaker, scampering off toward Pete’s
Place, excited to deliver the news.

When the door to the local watering hole burst open, Pete and several dozen customers all peered up with anticipation. Less than a minute later, glasses were being raised throughout the bar. Excited toasts of “It’s a boy!” could be heard clear to the other end of Main Street.

The messenger’s next stop was the town’s ham radio operator. Moments later, his hands worked in a familiar blur across the knobs of the glowing transmitter, his voice informing listeners in all of the towns that made up the West Texas Alliance of the good news.