Holding Their Own VII: Phoenix Star (4 page)

Pete’s chest filled with ire. He felt a strong urge to march right over and set the record straight with his guests, but didn’t. They had the right to their opinions, and it wasn’t his place to educate stupid people. This was a bar, and people could say what they wanted.

The mayor’s restraint and respect for the freedom of speech wasn’t shared by all of the watering hole’s patrons. A large cowboy at a nearby table had overheard the accusations as well. “Stow that crap about Bishop,” he commanded in a strong, challenging voice. “You’re talking out your ass and have no idea how shitty it sounds.”

Everyone at the surrounding tables fell silent, a fog of stress descending on the room.

One of the strangers peered over his shoulder and smirked, “You saying that murdering son of a bitch is a friend of yours, pal?”

“I’m saying I know Bishop and what he did for this town. I know his wife, too. They’re good people, and I’m not buying any of that bullshit from Washington or the US Army.”

One of the strangers grunted, looking down at his beer. In a louder than necessary voice, the man said, “Yeah. I heard that story about a couple of bank robbers. I had to ask myself what happened to the men of Meraton? Why did they need some stranger from Houston to handle a couple of half-assed Yankee thugs? I remember when there were real men here about, not some cowering pussies waiting on someone to bail them out.”

The others at the speaker’s table cackled, and Pete was sure there was going to be a fight. He slowly moved toward the center of the bar where his shotgun resided.

Sure enough, one of Bishop’s defenders pushed back his chair to stand, the rumbling scrape of the legs across the wooden floorboards causing the entire bar to fall silent. Pete kept his eyes moving from customer to customer, checking their hands. This was post-apocalyptic Texas – everyone was armed.

The now-standing cowboy approached the stranger’s table, standing tall, towering over his antagonist. “Normally, I’d kick your sorry ass for those words. But I can see you’ve too stupid to realize you’ve been brainwashed by all those politicians. I’ve never beaten a man over ignorance.”

Another of the strangers stood, poking a finger at the cattleman. “Answer me this, cowboy. If your friend Bishop is so honorable and innocent, why did he run? Why didn’t he stand and defend himself?”

Another voice from across the room answered with a cynical smirk. “Oh, I’m sure he would have gotten a fair trial. I have no doubt that a government that wants to take what we’ve worked for and give it to everyone else would have given Bishop a fair shake.”

The sarcastic statement caused several people to laugh, most nodding their heads in agreement. For a moment, Pete relaxed, thinking the disagreement would run out of steam.

The original accuser spoke up, overriding the chuckling. “Or, maybe he wanted to protect his friends who are running the show up in Alpha. I heard they had been hoarding a treasure trove of gold. Who knows what other siphoning of the public till is going on?”

“Maybe they just like running roughshod over other people,” added another at the same table. “Maybe the people running the Alliance are no better than those crooks in Washington.”

“That’s bullshit!” Pete growled from behind the bar, his Irish ire overriding his resolve to remain impartial and silent. “All of the members of the council were elected by the people, and most of us accepted the position under duress. Hell, I don’t think any of us really wanted the job.”

The stranger’s palm met with the tabletop a little harder than necessary as he met Pete’s gaze head on. “If you have nothing to hide, and your friend is blameless, then why didn’t he clear his name? The fact is guiltless men don’t run, friend. How can you, as an elected official endorse a murderer skipping town without being held accountable? If you and the other council members are going to stand by and let the Army march in here and kill thousands of our neighbors, then maybe it is time for new elections.”

All eyes were on Pete, waiting for his response. But the former Philadelphia police officer would not be easily baited. He had managed too much conflict in his day to be quickly goaded by a fellow who had a poor tolerance for alcohol coupled with an abundance of ill will. Another voice rang out before the bartender could speak, “I’d rather be dead than be a slave. If the federal government takes all we’ve worked for, then we ain’t nothing but slaves. I’ll fight and die first, unlike you cowardly fucks. Why don’t you girls pack up your panties and go surrender already? Us fighting men need y’all to get out of our way.”

The reaction of the gathering ranged from a snicker here and there to a few loud guffaws from the more seasoned of the crowd. The four strangers exchanged confused glances, almost as if trying to decide what to do. But they weren’t alone.

As Pete scanned the rest of his customers, about half showed sympathetic expressions.

The standing stranger lifted his mug, taking another sip of his brew. He then half-turned and made eye contact with the fellow who had issued the last rebuttal. “Girls, huh? Panties? Cowardly fucks, huh?”

And then he threw the mug right at his antagonist’s head. Absolute bedlam erupted.

A woman screamed at the same instant that someone threw a chair. Glass mugs, fists and bodies were flying everywhere, a wall-to-wall blizzard of projectiles, arms, legs, and kicking boots. Brutal sounds of landed punches competed with grunted curses and savage blows.

The bar was filled with hardened men, rugged survivors of anarchy and lawlessness. Most earned their calories via hard labor and backbreaking toil. Few were timid or shy. None were weak. It was Texas. The West. A saloon in the middle of ranch country in a land that was politically divided and top full of frayed nerves. Vicious was hardly an apt description for the ferocious violence unleashed in the fray. The stress of a pending war combined with the frustration of an uncertain future overflowed, boiling over, and demanding a release. And release they did.      

Pete, reaching for his shotgun, roared for the waitress to run to The Manor and get help. His hand was closing on the 12-gauge when a body skimmed over the bar. The impact knocked him to the ground, the air forced from his lungs. Rolling the stunned man off his chest, Pete had to duck again as a heavy beer mug exploded on the wall behind him.

Another woman’s scream distracted the saloonkeeper from the shotgun, the lady in peril huddled in the corner as two men exchanged blow after blow. Pete moved quickly to rescue the damsel, thinking to get her behind the relative safety of the bar.

Before he could cover the distance, she suddenly stood, lifting a chair above her head. The intended target ducked her swing, which hit Pete squarely in the head. The world became dark.

A biting cold called Pete from the pit of blackness, the sensation of frost competing with the throbbing bolts of pain shooting through his head. He opened his eyes to see Betty kneeling over him, pressing a bar towel full of ice against his head.

Pushing the painful remedy away, he raised up on one elbow, a new wave of hurt cresting behind his eyes. He found himself on Main Street, lying at the end of a long row of injured men. Some were sitting with bandages wrapped around their heads, while others remained prone. More than one was nursing a bleeding wound. Several sported ice packs, and a few even managed a chuckle at their current situation. The doctor was moving about from patient to patient, two of the town’s ladies helping the physician triage the wounded.

“Pete,” Betty began, “are you okay?”

“Hell, no, I’m not okay. I feel like I’ve got a herd of stampeding horses between my ears,” came the grumpy reply.

Betty smirked, “The doctor is worried you have a concussion. Keep that ice on your head. You should be ashamed of yourself, partaking in common fisticuffs and brawling. As far as I’m concerned, you deserve that knot on your thick skull. I hope you’ve learned a lesson.”

Pete’s mouth was filling with a not-so-kind reply, but the effort was cut short by the sound of someone clearing his throat. The mayor looked up to spot Sheriff Watts towering over him.

The lawman’s uniform was perfect, from the tan-colored Stetson to the tip of his polished boots… a fact that made Pete feel even worse, given his disheveled clothing and bloody shirt.

“Are you okay,
Councilman
?” the sheriff inquired, disdain clear in his voice.

Pete nodded, bracing for another unwarranted scolding.

Watts bent at the knees, coiling his lanky frame like a baseball catcher. “Do you want to press charges?”

“Huh?” Pete questioned, “What do you mean? Press what charges against whom?”

“Your bar is practically destroyed, Pete. I don’t think there’s a single chair or table in usable condition. Must be 100 broken glasses in there. About half of the neon signs have been smashed. There’s good news, however – the juke box seems undamaged.”

“Shit, fire, and damnation,” Pete uttered, trying to stand and wanting to inspect his property. Betty held him down, which prompted the formation of harsh words.

His rebuttal was again interrupted by the appearance of the doctor. Watts stood, ready to accept the final report from the physician.

“We’ve got 23 lacerations that are going to require stiches. I’ve got at least four broken bones to set, and at last count we have three confirmed concussions. Two more injuries are borderline. I’ve lost count of the cracked ribs and flattened noses.” The sawbones then paused, his eyes off somewhere as if trying to remember something else. “Oh! And at least 12 missing teeth. If you find those inside the bar, please keep them. I’ve called in a dentist from Alpha and he might be able to glue them back in.”

Watts nodded and then asked, “And my deputies?”

“One has a broken nose, another has a fractured finger. They’ll be no shortage of black eyes at the station tomorrow. I’d suggest having a large bottle of aspirin handy, as well.”

The lawman pointed to a hefty stack of pistols, rifles, and knives being guarded by one of his subordinates. “No knife or gunshot wounds?”

“No,” replied the doctor.

A volunteer appeared at the physician’s side, “Doctor, I’ve prepared the patient. Ready when you are.”

The physician replied, “Thank you, I’ll be right there.” Turning to the sheriff he explained, “I’ve got to go dig a handful of glass out of that man’s skull. If you’ll excuse me, gentlemen.”

Pete watched the healer leave and then glanced up at Watts. “No knife or gunshot wounds, huh? Well, I guess we’ll just write this off as an enthusiastic political debate and call it an evening.”

Watts shook his head, trying not to smile. “If you say so, Councilman. I just hope these polite little discussions don’t become a regular occurrence here or anywhere else in my jurisdiction. I don’t have enough deputies, and you don’t have enough chairs.”

Chapter 3  

Texas – New Mexico border

July 22

The ruckus of a distant struggle disturbed his rest, snippets of despair and rile drifting through the makeshift walls of the shelter. He didn’t react immediately, his auditory senses seeking identification of the source. How far away? Threat? No.

He rolled off the sleeping mat, cautious of standing too quickly on unsure legs. There it was again, animal sounds, irate and despondent.

Cole stepped out into the brightness, shielding his eyes from the late afternoon sun. Without the interference of the walls and bridge overhead, the sounds were clearer. Squawking, angry flapping, and low hisses rose in the distance.

A scowl crossed Cole’s brow, his mood now fouled. It wasn’t so much the interruption of his nap or any concern over lack of sleep. What pissed him off was the all too familiar sound of a vulture caught in one of their snares. Of all the birds they trapped, the carrion-eaters were the most difficult to clean and tasted like ass.

Something moved in the periphery, drawing a cautious eye - his grip automatically tightening on the rifle hanging from his shoulder. Scanning what remained of the truck stop, he made sure there weren’t any strange human forms. Still weary, he relaxed somewhat, his mind drifting away to a judgment of the temperature. He’d need a jacket after the sun went down, he determined with a grunt.

Motion again drew his attention back to the skeletal, blackened debris on the other side of the interstate. A vulture flapped its wings, hopping a couple of clumsy steps before taking flight. It was soon joined by another, the birds rising gracefully above the charred timbers and collapsed walls that had once housed a small diner and convenience store. Maybe they had escaped.

“Just like me,” he whispered to the birds. “You scavenge the dead. What a way to make a living, huh?”

The squawking sounded again, the distress of the animal obvious.
We got one of ya
, he thought, straining his neck to determine which snare had captured the bird. It was the one under the Roadway trailer. Damn it. “Shit,” Cole grumbled, “Getting that nasty-ass bird out of there is going to suck.”

He glanced around, hoping one of the others would assume the task of retrieving the vile creature. There wasn’t anyone else. He remembered the cooks were on a scavenging hunt and might not be back until nightfall. The waitresses wouldn’t go near a buzzard, the animal’s defensive use of projectile vomiting an unpleasant experience. The rest of the drivers were probably pretending to sleep, no doubt hoping the distasteful job of killing and cleaning the prey would be assumed by someone else.

At least there’s a little meat on them
, he thought, trying to improve his outlook.
They’re not like the sparrows where you’ve got to clean a handful for just a taste.

Adjusting the sling, he stepped across pavement that had once been Interstate 40, the effort causing his pants to drop slightly at the waist. Hiking them up, he paused to peer down at his belt. There wasn’t another hole for the buckle – he’d have to punch another one.
How many was that? Three? Four?
He’d lost count.

“Maybe this will be a fat buzzard. Maybe I’ll eat enough to gain a little weight back,” he commented to no one, not believing his own words.

He knew the bird was trapped underneath the semi-trailer, behind the rear axle. He and the cooks had barricaded three sides of the burned-out relic, using the bay doors and other debris. They had baited the snare with the innards of a recently ensnared rabbit. Primed with a string connecting the hare’s gut to a trap door, any critter messing with the intestines would pull a pin. The cage would slam shut, normally producing a meal. It was crude, but one of their most effective devices. It was also extremely difficult to retrieve the cornered prey.
At least they taste better than the scorpions,
he reassured himself.

They had learned the hard way about the vulture’s puke. With an aroma that made a skunk’s spray seem like a Paris perfume shop, the buzzards could shoot a stream of the offending bile over 10 feet.
They’ve got pretty good aim, too
, Cole recalled. 

The memory elicited a slight detour. Wandering toward the nearest rain barrel, he peeked inside, curious how much water remained. There wasn’t much, a few inches of greasy liquid in the bottom of the container. But, there was enough to wash - just in case the captive bird got the better of him.

He glanced up at the overpass, wondering for a moment if the barrel were in the right place. Rain was rare here in the New Mexico desert, but he was still a little surprised at the low level.

After verifying no one had moved the rain-catch, he corroborated the placement of the half-dozen other containers, each strategically positioned to capture the brief waterfalls draining off the bridge above. If they exhausted their water stores, it was an 11-mile hike to the nearest source. Not such a bad walk on the way to the lake, but an exhausting journey back, given the weight of the retrieved water.           

Cole shook his head. There wasn’t anything he could do about it right now. He managed a few more steps toward the former truck stop before stopping again to re-evaluate his reaction to the lack of water. It was troubling in a way, how he could just shrug off something so vital to their survival.
Was this another sign of our decline
? he pondered.
Just one more depletion of our humanity?
  

“Six months ago… no, wait… a year ago, I would have panicked at the knowledge we were rapidly depleting our already meager water supply. Why don’t I give a shit now?” he mumbled to himself.

He glanced to the west, his eyes following the dual lanes of pavement until they became thin lines in the distance. Albuquerque was that direction, just over 100 miles away. A wave of embarrassment passed through his chest. He hadn’t thought about Annie in days, hadn’t worried about her in such a long time. His lack of concern was painful.

“I hope you’re doing better than we are, Annie. I hope you’ve doing well enough to think about me every now and then,” he whispered to the distance.

For a moment, Cole considered taking the walk to nowhere. He wouldn’t be the first of their group to do so. He could just set the rifle down and start strolling across the desert sand, not caring how far he could make it or where he’d end up collapsing from dehydration or sunstroke. Maybe he could make it to Albuquerque; maybe someone would help him along the way. It was tempting.

Then there was the rifle itself. He’d loaned it to Frank… or was it Fred? He couldn’t remember. The man had been a diabetic, trapped at the truck stop with the rest of them. His insulin had run out weeks before. He was losing his vision, weak and suffering from pain in his legs. Cole had handed the rifle over after trying one last time to talk the man out of it. He’d walked away, really not blaming the guy for wanting to end his suffering, but unwilling to watch someone kill themselves. Fred was now buried with the rest of them, on the far side of the parking lot where the soil was the softest.

How long ago had that been? Going on two years I’d wager
, Cole pondered.

It seemed like a lifetime ago he had been driving where he now stood. With almost two decades of over the road experience and a spotless record, Cole was hauling the occasional load until the end. The Great Depression had thinned the ranks of semi drivers, factories shutting down or cutting back. He’d been lucky – or had he?

His Kenworth had been in Amarillo when the terrorists had attacked, waiting at a warehouse for what promised to be a profitable trip. But the dockworkers hadn’t reported for work to load the trailer. He had caught up on his DOT logs, sleep, and calls to Annie while waiting.

The satellite radio kept him informed of what was happening. He recalled it had all seemed so far away from the mid-sized Texas city, reports streaming in from Chicago and Boston.

Then news surfaced about the second wave of attacks against the bridges. He remained right where he was, trekking a few blocks to a café for his meals, exchanging opinions with the manager over what was going on out in the world.

Several times he’d considered leaving, heading west to see Annie. His wife was frightened by the national events, unsure and near panic. But he wanted that cargo, desperately needing the miles for a looming payment on the truck. He stayed put, convincing himself everything would blow over and settle down.

He could still remember the eerie feeling he’d experienced the first night he meandered to the café and found the front door locked with a sign that read, “Closed – no electricity.” The streetlights hadn’t worked that night either.

Two days after that, the satellite receiver stopped working. Nothing on AM or FM. The CB radio in the cab carried voices, but they were distant and unintelligible. The side bands were silent, his cell phone displaying “no signal.”

He hadn’t slept that night, an orchestra of sirens raging throughout nearby Amarillo. The glow of several fires illuminated the horizon, at times the air thick with smoke. When he did manage to drift off, gunshots had startled him back alert. The world was going crazy, but he convinced himself it would pass.

He couldn’t remember how many nights he’d spent in the warehouse’s lot. There was a construction site next door,
porta potties providing the necessary facilities. He refilled an empty coffee cup from a hose used to mix concrete. The cab contained a cache of power bars and corn nuts, the snacks a constant feature in the truck after he’d broken down in rural Arizona some years before. The skimpy supply didn’t last long.

It was actually hunger that forced him to venture out from the safety of his tractor. Heading out to check on the diner again, he’d quickly forgotten his growling stomach when he first spied the looters. There were two groups of them, apparently both having set their sights on the same target.

Cole had no idea what was in the building, or why it had been chosen as the battleground. Right before his eyes the two sides clashed with firearms, lawn rakes, and baseball bats. He wanted to turn and run, but his brain was fascinated by the carnage.

Hiding behind a corner newspaper box, he watched the battle rage like highway tourists slowing to gawk at a bloody roadside accident. And then it was over, the side with the most guns achieving victory.

Cole meant to retreat to the safety of his cab. But they spotted him, and a chase ensued. He stormed out of the warehouse parking lot with shots being fired at his rig.

As he raced through the Amarillo suburbs, the sights and sounds were like those of a third world country. Some areas looked untouched by the civil unrest while others appeared to have been caught in a firefight between two armies.

Burned out, abandoned vehicles were more common than cars with shiny, painted exteriors. Looted stores were the rule, rather than the exception. More than once, he had to detour, the road ahead blocked by post-apocalyptic debris.

When he spotted the signs announcing I-40, he thought he was home free. That wasn’t the case. The entrance ramp was blocked by a jack-knifed 18-wheeler, a dozen people looting boxes from the trailer. The actual freeway lanes were littered with stalled, abandoned cars and trucks.

For once, Cole was happy to be driving bobtail (without a trailer). He deftly maneuvered through the snarl of sheet metal and rubber, doubting if any cop would care. He used the shoulder as well as the median and even pushed a few relics out of the way. While it could hardly be described as nimble, his Kenworth T-600, commonly called an aardvark, was able to manage until the traffic thinned in rural Texas.

He was 40 miles west of Amarillo when he noticed he was using a lot more fuel than normal. The truck had been topped off prior to arriving at the warehouse, and driving without a load should have resulted in less consumption.

He stopped in a remote stretch and smelled the leaking diesel immediately. Both of his tanks had bullet holes, each emitting a constant stream of the precious fuel. After rummaging in the cab for a patch, he cut small swaths of plastic and tried to plug the holes as best he could. It didn’t work all that well.

Twenty miles later, he knew he wasn’t going to make it to Albuquerque, the gauge on his dash dropping at an alarming rate.

He bypassed the more popular exits. One was burning, the flames licking skyward with the column of smoke visible 10 miles away. The next exit ramp was completely blocked with cars and trucks, refugees milling around with desperate and vacant expressions on their faces.

“And that’s how I ended up here, a resident of Hell’s Outhouse, New Mexico,” he whispered, shaking his head.

Cole continued a few more steps toward the snare and the frustrated bird. The animal was quiet now, but the stalker realized that would change as soon as the fowl sensed his presence.

The breeze picked up a bit as he began the ascent of the eastbound entrance ramp, the movement of air feeling pleasantly cool against his skin. A sheet of tin, motivated by the wind, banged against the overpass.

“Shit,” he grunted, frowning at the needed repair. “I meant to fix that yesterday.”

He stopped again, gazing at the makeshift wall, wondering whose living quarters suffered from the noisy metal. Maybe they’d fix it themselves. Maybe it was one of the unoccupied rooms – there were plenty of those now.