Bishop's Song (9 page)

After the touching embrace, Bishop stood and lingered for just a bit. “How about you go fix me something to eat,
Ms. Pioneer,” he asked in a low, manly tone of demand.

Despite the battle
-tuned reflexes of a warrior, the physical prowess of a professional athlete, Bishop couldn’t dodge the pillow. Terri’s projectile flew true, inflicting a leg-crossing, bent at the waist groan as it nailed him right in the groin.

Hunter thought it was funny.

Northwestern Arkansas

July 4, 2016

The landscape below looked peaceful, untouched by the fall of society. The vantage provided by the small plane’s altitude displayed the square patches of color and refinement, a visible sign that mankind had left his impact on the earth below. Bishop wondered how long it would take nature to reclaim its original randomness of shape.

Or maybe it wasn’t that bad down there. They were 145 miles
northeast of Midland Station, staying well north of Fort Worth. The area below was rural, land mostly used for livestock or crops.
Perhaps these country folk had fared better than their city counterparts
, he supposed.

Hugh’s steady hand kept the small craft just above 6,000 feet, high enough for the plane to achieve good gas mileage, yet low enough to make out details below. While he hadn’t said anything, the height had also relieved his concerns over some
deranged individual shooting at them. He’d held his tongue when they had first taken off and stayed low, finding no need to worry the pilot. As they gradually climbed, he relaxed somewhat, feeling less and less like a target.

“You know for once, I hope we don’t encounter any fireworks on Independence Day,” Bishop commented, thinking about the danger involved in their sortie.

“I have to agree with you there. I used to dread retirement, worried I’d be bored out of my skin. Not so much anymore. I’m just fine with a nice quiet holiday,” replied the pilot.

Their ultimate destination was
Arkansas, more specifically the northwestern section of the Razorback State. Bishop had never visited the area, his knowledge limited to the reference guides salvaged from the university library.

He was surprised to find images of mountain ranges and emerald green forests that reminded
him more of Appalachia than the Deep South. The change of scenery would be welcome. Being away from his wife and child would not.

Between Hug
h’s guidebooks and numerous travel references, the two men had settled on exploring three regional airports. All were listed as unmanned, all a considerable distance from any major town or city.

The plan was simple. Hugh would circle the airfield while Bishop studied the area with the best binoculars available in Alpha. If the landing strip looked clear and there
weren’t any people observed in the vicinity, they would circle again, scouting for suitable transportation.

Hugh
had just enough fuel to check the three fields. If none met the requirements, they would have to return another day or change the plan.

The first airport was ruled out immediately, the debris of a wrecked aircraft blocking the runway. Perhaps it was the ill fate of one of his fellows, or simply the first reminder of how badly the world had
gone to hell, but the crash site sparked muttered speculation from the normally stoic pilot.

“I wonder if he ran out of gas or had mechanical failure,” offered Hugh. “No way to tell, I suppose,” he continued, answering his own question.

The second airfield proved promising. As they approached, it was clear that the single concrete landing strip was void of wreckage. A metal building sat at the end of the runway. There were no cars present in the gravel parking lot.

As Hugh slowly circled, Bishop studied the area. He couldn’t spy a single dwelling
, and only one road passed beneath the plane.

“It is
definitely isolated,” Bishop reported. “For a bunch of guys trying to avoid people, it looks perfect. For a bunch of guys hoping to steal a good pickup, this doesn’t look like a target rich environment.”

“We had a strong tail wind all the way here,” Hugh offered. “We’ve not used nearly as
much fuel as I anticipated we would need. Want to circle around again?”

“Sure. Make a little wider
loop if you can.”

Ten minutes later, Bishop lowered the binoculars and shook his head. “There’s nothing down there, which is good and bad. I love the landing strip, but I’m afraid we won’t be able to find transport
ation.”

“It’s a state park called Petit Jean. That mountain over there is named the same.”

“Petit Jean?”

“Yeah. Legend has it a French woman disguised herself as a boy to follow her lover as he explored this territory back in the 1700s. According to the tale,
the lady fell ill and died, so they buried her on that mountain. I visited the park back years ago. Beautiful place.”

Bishop pulled out a map, studying the area
with an intense gaze. “Can you head north of here a little? There’s an interstate up that way, and we might find abandoned cars.”

Tapping
the fuel gauge, Hugh nodded. “Sure thing.”

A few minutes later, a solid dark line appeared ahead, growing into a four-lane highway s
tretching into the distance. As expected, a random sprinkling of vehicles lined the edges of the roadway here and there.

“Fly parallel with
the asphalt if you can, I want to see if there’s a salvageable ride,” Bishop said.

“
No problem. It looks kind of eerie down there, doesn’t it? Do you suppose that people just walked away from their cars?”

Bishop sighed, the landscape below reminding him of those terrible days right after the collapse. “
The aerial view brings back a lot of memories of Houston and when everything went downhill. People were desperately trying to get out of the big cities by the millions, probably thinking they could buy gasoline on the way to Uncle Joe’s country home, or hoping a full tank would get them out of the metro area. The highway arteries couldn’t handle that kind of traffic, and gridlock set in. Gas stations began to run out of fuel, and tankers couldn’t get through to resupply. Folks drove as far as they could from the center of town, but eventually the mass exodus turned into a massive parking lot. People didn’t just run out of fuel. They ran out of options.”

Shaking his head, Hugh banked the aircraft and lined up to follow the road so Bishop could scout.

Unlike what he saw of I-10 during the Houston bug-out, the pavement wasn’t solid, wall-to-wall vehicles. There was a semi here, a car there, randomly pulled to the shoulder where the tank had finally emptied. Many vehicles had their doors and hoods open; small pools of broken glass surrounded others, reflecting in the sunlight as the plane banked overhead.

“We’re far enough away from Little Rock that the traffic had thinned out
when everything fell apart. My guess is these cars belonged to the people who decided to bug out, but their tanks were only half full. It must have been quite a shock to find out that a pound of gold wouldn’t buy a gallon of gas.”

On cue, the plane passed over an area dense with cars and trucks
, the glimmer of windshield glass showing vehicles packed tightly like sardines in a can. “What’s that all about?” Hugh asked, pointing with a nod of his head.

“An exit with gas stations,” Bishop answered. “I’ve seen that before. Everyone pulled off
the interstate as the gauge approached empty, waiting in line for fuel trucks that never arrived. The potato chips and candy bars were no doubt devoured in hours. I’d wager violence started shortly afterward. Desperate, hungry people carrying weapons in the glove box were likely to have a short fuse.”

After flying a few more
minutes, Bishop said, “Let’s turn around. I saw a few pickup trucks about two or three miles back that might work out. Can you land on the roadway?”

Shrugging his shoulders, Hugh said, “Don’t see why not. The wind is calm
, and it looks like there is plenty of space. I’ve only got the fuel to land and takeoff once though.”

Eventually, Bishop spotted a section of road he’d noted on the first pass. “Set it down right there, as close to that truck as you can.”

Five minutes later, the small craft achieved wheels-down, rolling to a stop next to a late-model pickup that was the same brand as Bishop’s own 4-wheel drive back in Alpha.

“Keep your eyes open and the plane ready to go. If you see anybody, yell at me. I’m going to
try and get that old girl started.” And with that, Bishop opened the plane’s door and jumped out.

After taking a moment to get the blood circulating through his legs, he moved to the plane’s cargo hold and removed the “looter’s bag,” Cory had
packed for him back home. Hefting the heavy duffle, he made for the red truck.

The first thing Bishop noticed was the driver’s side glass had been busted out, but that didn’t surprise him. Touring the roadways and
scavenging anything useful out of abandoned cars had probably been a full time occupation for some of the locals. Bishop was counting on the inventory having been exhausted months ago, hoping the desperados had moved on to greener pastures.

Hustling over, his first task was to verify there weren’t any human remains inside. While the driver’s seat was beginning to rot from the window being open to the elements, no other issue presented itself on the interior.

His next priority was the fuel tank. Time and again, he’d seen people spiking gas tanks. A screwdriver or other sharp tool was used to poke a hole in the bottom of the tank in order to drain out any fuel. It was faster and easier than siphoning, but completely destructive, leaving behind a worthless hunk of sheet metal.

Se
tting down his rifle and bag, he rolled under the truck and smiled when he ascertained the tank was unharmed.
No sense in spiking an already empty truck
, he mused.

Rolling out from under the
vehicle, Bishop pulled over his rifle and began an earnest inspection of the relic. A thick coating of dust and rain-grime covered the surface of what would have otherwise been a nice looking ride.

One tire was low, but still holding air. He smiled at Cory’s insistence that a small hand-operated air pump be included in his heavy kit. Other than that, he couldn’t find any problem on the exterior.

Opening the door, he noticed that the dome lights didn’t shine – a dead battery. Again, this had been anticipated, most of the weight in his looter’s bag being a fully charged spare battery. He popped the hood.

The engine compartment looked untouched. Using a pair of adjustable pliers, he switched to the new battery in a few minutes. Next came the fuel.

Rushing back to the plane, he pulled a five-gallon can from it’s tether in the small cargo area and then began pouring the gas into the tank. He only used a gallon – just in case he couldn’t accomplish the next step.

Soon, it was time for the most difficult part of the salvage – hotwiring the ignition.

Cory had spent almost four hours working with Bishop on the issue. Modern cars had anti-theft computer chips built into their keys, locking steering columns and hardened ignition switches. It wasn’t going to be easy.

The
memory of the mechanic’s words flooded Bishop’s mind. “All the fancy doodads and anti-theft devices must eventually make a connection between the starter motor and the DC circuit. Computer chips, DNA testing or thumbprints, it doesn’t matter. The battery starts the car – period. You need to find that connection and unlock the steering column, and then you’re got a ride.”

Pulling a thick,
flathead screwdriver from the bag, Bishop inserted the tool into the keyhole and then gave it a good thwack with the hammer. It took a lot more force than he anticipated, but eventually the plastic and metal gave way.

Before long
, he had practically dissembled the steering column in the process of locating the mechanisms to unlock the wheel.

Next
, he began the search for the computer chip that controlled the ignition. Cory had shown him several examples of what to look for and where to find it. Four wires exited the black box, and before long, they were snipped.

Bishop looked back at Hugh, finding the pilot scanning the area and being a good sentry. “It’s now or never,” he whispered to himself and then touched the final two wires together.

The engine turned… crank, crank, crank… but didn’t start. Cory had predicted it would take a while for the fuel to make it through the system and up to the engine. “Don’t run the battery down, just crank it three or four turns until it catches.”

Again, crank… crank… crank.

Hugh’s warning broke Bishop’s concentration on the obstinate machine, “We’ve got company!”

Movement drew the frustrated car thief’s attention. Half a mile up the road, men were approaching. Bishop stepped on the truck’s running board and raised his rifle. Using the optic to scan the newcomers, he didn’t like what he saw.

Five or six figures were visible, each carrying a long gun. They were moving quickly and with some degree of caution. There was zero doubt regarding their intended destination.

Too many
, judged Bishop.
They might be only curious… maybe even friendly… or maybe not.

Keeping a constant visual on the approaching men, he
returned to his brief criminal career. On the fifth try, the motor fired, but only for a moment. Still, the progress improved Bishop’s outlook. With the seventh attempt, the engine started, ran for a few moments, and then died.