Holding Their Own IV: The Ascent (25 page)

“Shit.”

Bishop judged the distance, angle, and options. While the procession might pass by the substation without noticing anything amiss, it wasn’t an acceptable risk. Nick and his party would be trapped like rats in a cage behind the fence.

Exhaling loudly, Bishop made his decision. “Nick, I’m going to distract them and pull them to the south. You guys get the hell out of there and pick me up on the highway around five miles
outside of town. I don’t know how long it will take me to get there, but Terri will kick your ass if you leave me stranded out in the desert.”

“You sure, man? That’s a tall order even for you, Bishop.”

“It’s the only way. Now get your asses out of there and pick me up later.”

“You got it, buddy. We’ll be there.”

Bishop reached into his vest and pulled out an extra magazine and his earplugs. He used the scope’s rangefinder to gauge the distance. The horses were a mere 250 meters away, so close the .308 bullets he was about to unleash wouldn’t even drop more than an inch or so. Lifting his metal cover just slightly, Bishop plotted his escape route. He wasn’t sure how fast or intense the pursuit would be, but he figured on a hot and heavy chase.

He waited until Nick was helping Mr. Chancy out of the window. As his three teammates began running for the fence, he switched his focus back to the church. Centering the crosshairs six inches in front of the
lead horse’s hoof, Bishop flicked off the safety and whispered, “Send it.”

The rifle’s report, combined with the impacting round, startled the horse and Bishop. The animal su
rged backwards, the wagon’s driver barely maintaining control of the panicked beast. Before anyone could react, Bishop started pulling the trigger, sending round after round into the ground surrounding the line of cops. The reaction was bedlam.

Bodies were flying everywhere in a desperate attempt to seek cover. Th
e wagon’s master gave up trying controlling the team, instead choosing to dive for cover behind a wheel. Shouts and screams sounded from the gathered throng, and men shoved women to the ground while others ran for the cover of the church. 

Bishop used all 20 shots in the rifle’s magazine, ejected the empty and slammed home a full box of pills. After shoving the spent mag into his dump pouch, Bishop began crawling backwards under the cover. Swinging his legs over the edge of the trailer and then hanging by his hands for a moment, Bishop dropped to the ground and began running away to the south.

Distance was life now. Bishop had picked his next spot, a small adobe home surrounding by a waist-high rock wall. Covering the ground at a full sprint, Bishop hurdled the wall and then cut hard right, intent on using the structure as cover.

Peeking over the top, he could see heads and arms waving back at the church. It appeared as though his targets were still a little confused and disorganized, but Bishop knew it wouldn’t last. As he watched through the optic, one woman appeared to be rallying the men, her arms pointing in Bishop’s general direction. It was less than a minute
before a small gaggle of the lawmen formed behind the wagon and then began to charge across the road in Bishop’s direction.

Again aiming low, Bishop flipped off the safety and sent five more rounds screaming through the air. The effect was as anticipated, the formation of men scattering for cover,
no longer interested in pursuit.

Bishop was just about to rise from his cover when chips of stone and masonry stung the side of his face, quickly followed by the report of a distant rifle. One of the lawmen had found Bishop’s position and sent a
well-aimed round his direction.

Bishop ducked behind the wall and rolled twice to the right. He backed away from the
barrier about the same distance and length of his barrel, the maneuver allowing him to rise above the partition with his weapon already in position. He had a pretty good idea where the shooter was, and intended on discouraging the man from hindering any further retreat.

Taking a deep breath, Bishop rose from behind the wall and centered his sights on the only tree in the church’s grounds. He saw the man try to move his barrel toward Bishop’s new position, but the guy was too slow.

Bishop’s round slammed into the old pine right next to the fellow’s head, spraying bark and resin into the shooter’s eyes while knocking the rifle loose in his grip. Convinced he had bought some time, Bishop began zigzagging across the yard and heading south.

The pattern was repeated twice. Bishop would gain a little distance and then hole-up and send a few rounds back to scatter his pursuers. Despite the inaccuracy of his fire, the men chasing him didn’t seem all that eager to close ranks. On the second cycle, he actually had to wait a minute before his targets came into sight.

They’re not very good
, he thought.
I would have split my group up and tried to flank me before now.

The fourth time Bishop stopped for a breather, the flanking maneuver was executed, but not by the original funeral goers. Bishop saw two men with rifles strapped across their backs riding bicycles down a parallel street, obviously attempting to get in front and hem him in.

Bishop changed direction, heading directly toward the two cyclists. When he reached the corner of the street they were using, he hurried to follow behind them, having to pace himself to keep them in sight. A few blocks ahead, the two men jumped off their two wheel rides and moved to a position designed to intercept Bishop if he was still on his original path. He wasn’t.

Sneaking up from behind the two, Bishop paused and then fired a quick shot at each, intentionally missing high. After their recovery, Bishop waited to make sure they saw him
, and then he cut right down a small side alley. Pulling off a bundle of Paracord, Bishop strung a length across the narrow passage, securing one end to a gas meter and wrapping the other once around a drainage pipe. Bishop ducked behind two garbage cans and waited.

The sounds of the peddling and panting preceded the two men
, and they flew around the corner and entered the alley. Bishop pulled the Paracord tight and braced for impact.

The first cyclist actually avoided being clotheslined. Slamming on the brakes while pulling the bike into a sideways skid didn’t really help the rider. Bishop winced as he visualize
d the guy’s skin peeling away when his grinding slide continued along the gravel surface.  The second man caught the cord chest high and was immediately unseated. In slow motion, the cyclist landed on his backside, bounced once, and then bled off momentum with several tumbles. The two riders actually ended up almost on top of each other in a tangled mass of bruised and bleeding flesh.

Bishop stepped from behind the garbage cans and quickly shoved his rifle in
to the face of the closest man while putting his boot on the barrel of the other’s weapon. The guy’s eyes grew wide at what must have been an unusual sight. Bishop was dressed in a full combat load, baklava mask, shooting goggles and bush hat. The .308 AR10 was a large weapon, the 24-x scope extending almost the entire length of the barrel. Bishop was sure the muzzle, just a few inches from the gentleman’s nose, must have appeared from his vantage to have been the size of a small cave.

“Be stupid and die. Be smart and live. It’s really that simple,” Bishop growled.

The guy nodded, his eyes never leaving the barrel of Bishop’s weapon.

“You head on back and tell your friends that I’ve been shooting high and low on purpose, but I’m tiring of the game. I’m heading out of town and won’t come back. If they keep coming, people are going to die.”

Again, the guy nodded.

Bishop pushed the muzzle a bit closer and sighed, his voice going cold. “Forget that. I’m thinking you assholes are too stupid to understand the message.”

Bishop flicked off his safety and moved his finger to the trigger. The man beneath him closed his eyes in anticipation of dying. By the time he opened them, Bishop was gone.

Evidently
, the message was delivered because the chase ended. Careful he wasn’t being followed, Bishop eventually found Nick and the others parked about five miles south of Fort Stockdale. The team happily headed for home, not sure they had accomplished anything other than scaring a horse and rattling a few lawmen.

Pete was talking with two customers at the bar, both m
en complaining about how bad the homemade bathtub gin tasted before ordering a refill. A humming noise caused all three gents to stare at the ceiling and then the walls. “What the heck is that?”

A few moments later, the forgotten jukebox in the corner began blaring out a
melody. Smiling, Pete reached for a nearby wall receptacle and plugged in the neon sign mounted on the wall behind the cash register. They all watched in fascination as the name of a popular beer blinked once, twice, and then showed brilliant red, white, and blue neon.

All three of them stood in awe, staring at the light for several moments. Pete finally broke the silence, “Isn’t that the prettiest thing you’ve ever seen in your life?”
Both customers nodded, completely unable to move, mesmerized by the glowing sign. “The next one’s on the house, boys.”

Betty was carrying water into
The Manor’s kitchen, the bucket’s wire handles burning into her hand. An odd shadow of flickering light caught her eye, and she panicked a bit, at first thinking something was on fire. Tiptoeing slowly into the main lobby, she glanced up at the humming fluorescent lights hanging from the ceiling. “We’ll, I’ll be,” she mumbled. Immediately she hurried to the poolroom and tested the wall switch. The stained glass light, hanging over the table, illuminated immediately, showering the green felt surface with a brilliant glow. The hotel’s manager stood fixated at the miracle, her mind racing with how easy life was going to be with running water, washing machines and electric ovens.

The women working the infirmary in Alpha were cleaning up after splinting a nasty compound fracture suffered by a member of the cleanup crew. The bloody wound had taken all of their skill to repair. The numerous candles spread around the basement room generated heat and smoke,
transforming the makeshift clinic into a hot and sweaty place to work.

As they were mopping up the blood and cleaning the area, one of the
good Samaritans thought she felt a breeze. The sensation passed as she gathered the red-soaked bandages used in the procedure. Stepping toward the door, she felt cool air again and stopped, trying to determine the source. Looking up, she noticed the air-conditioning vent above her head and raised a hand to feel. “Praise God,” she whispered. Turning to her co-workers, her excited voice rang out, “Ladies! Ladies! Look!” Rushing to the nearby wall switch, she paused, and said, “Let there be light,” and flipped the switches.

All over Alpha, people stopped what they were doing and stared at various sources of electrical wonderment. Flashing neon in the long unused café declared the establishment was open. Despite being looted to the bare shelves, the sign at the corner gas station began revolving high on its pole, while flashing numerals atop a nearby pile of rubble declared that the Texas lottery was at 12 million dollars. Music drifted down one street, a home stereo having been left on when the grid
went down. Six months ago, the loud rock n’ roll might have drawn a neighbor’s complaint, but today, it made everyone smile.

The team returning from Fort Stockdale saw the first hint of their success as the
y approached the outskirts of Alpha. Cresting a small rise on the highway, Bishop’s initial reaction was to slow the truck down. The town was aglow, and no one believed the setting sun to the west was the source.