Holding Their Own: A Story of Survival (31 page)

“I, um, well – I’m jealous and proud at the same time. This whole thing is so crazy. We had to put you at risk so we could drive down a road? I don’t know – I shouldn’t be mad
I guess; it’s all a little confusing right now.”

“I didn’t enjoy that little charade if that is what you are thinking. I was scared shitless and didn’t know if you had fallen in a hole or been eaten by a rattlesnake or what.”

“Terri, you showed guts back there, and I know you had to dig deep to hold it together. What is making me so mad is the fact that you had to do that in the first place. No man wants to see his wife have to stoop to that level just to pass through a one-horse town. Now that I think about it, it’s the world I’m mad at – not you.”

Bishop was silent for a bit, and then leaned over and kissed her on the cheek. He whispered, “I love you with all my heart. All is well between us, I swear it.”

She smiled and rubbed his cheek and hair, and then they went back to watching the road.

“By-the-way, your bikini trim is sexy as hell
, babe. All the guys thought so.”

She started to slow down quickly, and Bishop questioned, “What are you doing?”

“There was a sign in the feed store’s window that said ‘PIG FEED 50% OFF.’ I was going back to get you some.”

They drove off into the Texas night, laughing.

Welcome to Meraton

Meraton, Texas was a small railroad town about 100 miles north of Big Bend National Park. The census listed the population at 894 residents in 2010. The entire business district was on a single two-lane road that was the only way in or out of town.

Meraton had experienced a small economic boom in the late ‘90s from what many of the locals called “The Art Revival.” The century’s end marked the beginning of large city artists settling in smaller western towns.
Many told themselves the simpler lifestyle provided a creative work environment. The lower cost of living probably contributed to the migration as well.

As the arti
sts moved in, they opened shops, which in turn encouraged folks to stop, shop, eat and even spend the night. Meraton was also famous for The Manor Hotel. Back in the days when the railroad was the only way to travel between Houston and El Paso, Meraton was a logical place to stop and let passengers, railroad executives and crew spend the night. The Manor was built to provide the finest in western hospitability to those weary of travel. The facility still provided refuge even though guests now arrived via mini-vans and SUVs, rather than the great iron horses of the past.

The Manor was considered by almost everyone that stayed there as one of the best places in the world to relax. The high, dry air
, combined with hand-manicured gardens, made for a magical oasis in the barren West Texas desert. The rooms were traditional ranch house decor, but everything was real, not reproductions. Even in the year 2015, there were no TVs, phones, or internet at The Manor. There were, however, some of the most comfortable rocking chairs in the known universe sitting in front of each room overlooking the gardens, gazebo, and scenic paths through the grounds.

After the artists came the chefs. Probably for similar reasons, many small
, western towns found themselves with new restaurants opening that served some of the finest cuisine anywhere. Meraton was especially attractive to the culinary crowd because of The Manor and its guests.

Main Street in Meraton had four nice
, art galleries, three good restaurants, and The Manor Hotel. There were several side streets with smaller, humble homes.

Of course, all of this was unknown to The Force as they pulled into town. They had been navigating through the sparsely populated region
, avoiding civilization as best they could, but had no option of bypassing Meraton. There were simply no other roads.

The thugs were surprised when people casually waved or nodded in their direction as they slowly drove down Main Street. When they stopped and asked someone about a place to stay, The Manor was the natural response.

Spence needed more information, but didn’t want to get too close to Mexico with his vulnerable treasure. He had told The Force, “Look, we are some bad asses, no doubt. But we are only five men, and these drug cartels have death squads of 50 or more. They have the best equipment, the best training, and the best intelligence network on the planet. We are stupid if we think we can roll into their turf and either take over, or pass through without being noticed. “

Spence decided to get close, but not too close, to the border and hole up. He would wait, learn, and then decide his next move. Meraton was looking like the perfect hideout as they were running low on fuel.

Central Texas – September 17, 2015

East of the Pecos

Bishop and Terri were making a wide swing south and west around San Antonio. Their progress was good because the area was so lightly populated. They were driving almost straight west now on a two-lane state highway through very arid terrain. Small patches of cactus dotted the otherwise barren and rocky dirt. There were no homes, telephone poles, or fences at all. Every now and then he would see a water tank or windmill used for the few livestock this land would support. Bishop knew that some homes did exist, but they were usually far off of the road and out of sight.

This area of Texas had been originally divided into a small number of ranches having thousands of acres each. Because the land was so poor, it took several acres per head to support the animals. If
the early ranchers wanted a herd of any size, they needed a lot of land because there was not enough nutrition per acre to keep the herd alive.

None of the ranches here had thrived. Raiders from Mexico, the occasional dry year, and the ultra-harsh lifestyle kept the early settlers from doing as well as they had in other pa
rts of Texas. In the early 1920s, gasoline-powered cars and trucks allowed good, quality feed to be delivered to the cattle. Railroads would bring in grain from other parts of the country, and some small towns sprung up along the lines. The ranchers could take their Model A Ford trucks to the town and buy bags of feed. They used the rail lines to ship their four-legged products back east.

With the non-native food source being available, there was little need for so much land. Property taxes, driving distance to deliver the feed, and other circumstances caused the big tracts of land to be divided and sold off.

The cost of feed, fuel and the rugged environment meant that current day ranchers in the area barely kept their head above water. The typical ranch house became an old mobile home purchased second hand, hauled in, and used until it fell apart. The cycle repeated, with the new trailer parked adjacent to its predecessor.

Despite the poverty, Bishop knew these were proud, independent people. They knew the land
, and their families, in some cases, had been on it since before the ink on the Declaration of Independence dried. The loss of electric power would have little impact here and may have gone unnoticed completely. Because of this difference, Terri and he were driving more and scouting less. Bishop just didn’t think a truck going down the road at night would attract any attention from the few people in the area. He remembered his first trip through this part of Texas.

Yea
rs ago, as a college student, Bishop wanted to see the big city of San Antonio. He had a young lady friend who owned a beat up old car, and they had decided to take a grand adventure together. The car broke down right in the middle of nowhere. It was over 100 degrees outside, and Bishop had enough sense to just stay put. The car would provide some shade, and the thought of walking along miles of baking highway did not seem like a good idea. Someone would be along soon.

They sat there for over three hours without a single car or truck coming along. They were thirsty, hot and hungry having started the trip with little money and even less experience. The first car that came along just kept going. Bishop had waved wildly at the elderly lady driving the old beat up truck, but she just ignored him and kept on going.

By late that afternoon it was over 105, and Bishop’s lady friend continued to shed clothing all afternoon to stay cool. She was lying in the backseat, down to just her bra and panties when she said, “Bishop, you can take me right now if you have the strength.”

He didn’t have the strength, and that seriously concerned him. Within an hour, he saw the second truck of the day coming down the road. This time the driver stopped. Bishop and his lady friend were given some water from a dirty old igloo in the back of the truck and a ride to the next town. They used all of their money getting the car fixed, and just headed back home with two bad headaches and the same number of plastic milk jugs full of water.

Bishop’s analysis of the locals was right on, but did not take into consideration other westward travelers who had become stranded in the rugged environment. He had not been sticking his head out the sunroof very much the last few hours because there was really nothing to see. He was in the backseat, still looking around when he saw sparks fly across the hood of the truck. Before he could say anything, a small hole appeared in the window to his left; and something hit his arm with a hammer-like blow.

“Go! GO! GOOOO!” he yelled at
Terri, and she floored the gas pedal.

Bishop had dropped the NVD and couldn’t see anything. He reached up to feel his arm and pulled away a sticky, wet hand. “Fuck!” he said, and Terri almost wrecked the truck trying to see what was wrong with him.

“I’ve been hit. Keep going, and watch the road. Don’t stop.”

“Are you OK? What’s going on Bishop? What just happened?”

“Someone was shooting as us. Just keep going, and watch the road. I am hit in the arm. I’m fine.”

A Deer Kills the Hunter

Alberto could not remember how long it had been since he had been at the high-rise apartment in Covington, Kentucky shooting at trucks on the bridge. He had avoided the American authorities while trying to reach El Paso, which is where he was supposed to have crossed the border days ago. When the American society had begun to fall apart, he realized he had to avoid everyone. He lived in Beirut as a child and had seen this type of behavior before.
Every man for himself was what they would call it here in the west
. He had used all of his military skills and training to reach Texas and had stolen a truck outside San Antonio two days before. While hiding in woods, he came across two men hunting. They shot a wild boar; and as they were cleaning it, he came up behind them, took their weapons, and shot them both. He found their truck and headed toward El Paso.

He believed the animal that jumped in f
ront of his truck was called a White-tailed deer. For sure it was some sort of antelope, and he had hit the animal so hard it broke his windshield and caused him to swerve off of the road. The truck rolled twice, resulting in a broken collarbone and a fracture in his right leg. He had limped along that first day for hours without water. While he was accustomed to arid climates, these plants were strange to him, and he had not been able to find any that produced moisture. The throbbing in his leg was so bad he could no longer walk, and he settled in a small gully. As the sun began to set on the second day, he knew he was dying from dehydration. He still had his rifle and would use it to stop the first car that went by.

When he first heard the noise, he thought he was
either hallucinating or there was ringing in his ears. He lips were blistered, and he was having trouble breathing, but his eyes were not failing yet. There was enough moonlight to see a truck going down the road without any lights. He had to stop it; this was his last chance. He brought the rifle to his shoulder and almost lost consciousness from the effort. He calculated the truck was driving very slowly since it was dark, and it used no lights. He led his aim with the hunting scope and pulled the trigger. He didn’t know if his shot had been good, but realized the truck was moving much faster than he had originally thought. He centered quickly and pulled the trigger again.

He turned his head to see if the truck stopped, but it didn’t. He heard its engine race and fade into the distance. He decided to sleep for a bit. Maybe he would dream of home and his favorite mosque. He said a prayer and closed his eyes.

They never opened again.

Wounded 

Terri was driving over 80 mph, and Bishop asked her to slow down to 50 or so. He started digging around in his blow out bag, a first aid kit strapped to his chest rig. He was not sure how bad he was hit or where the bullet was. He was breathing okay, but the entire left side of his body was numb and tingling except his arm and shoulder – they hurt like hell. He could not use his left arm at all, and was fumbling around with various dressing and bandages in the bag, not sure what to do in the dark.

Terri said, “Bishop, I think it’s raining. There is water on the windshield.”

“Rain, here? No way.”

“I can see it
, Bishop. I’m going to need the wipers.”

Bishop looked up, but couldn’t see anything but black. Without his night vision, it was like staring at a wall. He said, “Rain is not impossible here. I guess that will help cool it off a bit.”

Terri responded with, “What is this light blinking on the dash mean?”

Bishop looked over her shoulder. “Oh shit. Pull over.”

They got out of the truck, and Terri wanted to see his wound before doing anything else. She took the paramedic sheers from his blow out bag and cut away the blood-soaked sleeve of his shirt. Holding a flashlight in her mouth, she could tell the bullet had entered his upper arm right through the triceps, and exited into his ribs. With his body armor on, she couldn’t see anything beyond that. While the arm wound looked clean and had missed bone, the rib entry point was still bleeding badly. She dressed the wounds as much as possible, but all of Bishop’s equipment prohibited her from applying a proper bandage. Bishop felt exposed along the side of the open road and refused further treatment. He talked Terri through opening the hood of the truck.

The first shot had punctured a radiator hose and sliced it badly. The “rain” Terri had seen on the windshield was actually the truck’s anti-freeze and water spraying out of the cooling system. It did not take long for the level of
critical coolant to be depleted, and the engine to begin overheating.

Bishop was feeling weak. His entire left side was now wet with blood, and his head felt like it was going to split open. He had Terri retrieve the sleeve she had cut from his shirt, and he wrapped the discarded rag around the radiator cap. When he twisted the cover, it blew off in his hand and showered him with steam and droplets of scalding water. He spun away from the spray, flay
ing his burning arm while spinning in small circles. His movements were accompanied by the angry recital of every known curse in his extensive vocabulary. He finally sat down in the middle of the road and continued to fill the air with vulgarities, some newly created on the spot. Eventually, his voice lowered, and then he sat silent for a few moments.

After he had recovered from the shock of the burn, he asked Terri to find the duct tape. He knew it would not hold forever, but hoped it would work until a better solution could be found. He used a flashlight to show her where to wrap the tape, and she began to refill the radiator with drinking water. Their supply of water was down to l
ess than 20 bottles, so they filled the radiator only to the point where Bishop thought they could drive without damaging the engine. They only had four bottles left to drink.

He looked at a map while she tried to get more bandages on his wounds. It was such an awkward position to work on. She got an idea from a large compression bandage in the kit. While elevating his bad arm, Terri wrapped some duct tape as tightly around his chest as possible in order to get pressure on the wound and hold the bandage in place
. When she moved his arm, she noticed his eyes roll up in his head and his knees bent just a little, but he never said a word.

Bishop felt vulnerable along the side of the road, but there was no place to go. He knew they needed time, water, and somewhere safe to hide until he could get his act together. As he studied the map, he saw a place that he had been years before. They had no other choice.

Terri helped him into the truck and laid him down across the backseat. When she got back in, he said, “Sanderton - follow the signs. I’m going to sleep for a bit, wake me when we get close.”

Terri drove down the dark highway until she saw a sign giving the distance to Sanderton. She was torn between driving fast to take care of Bishop and driving slower to take care of the truck. She settled on a speed somewhere in between “Grandma Moses” and the “bat out of hell.”