Pedestals of Ash Read online

  Bishop scanned the vicinity carefully with his night vision and judged he was alone at the watering hole. He actually smelled the water before he laid eyes on it. There, shimmering in the moonlight was the most wonderful sight Bishop thought he had ever seen. The large galvanized tub was brim full of wet, cool, life-sustaining water. He wasted no time in removing his pack and retrieving his filter. Even though he was sure the water was fine, now wasn’t the time to risk diarrhea or worse.

  It took him a few minutes to strip off his load vest and water bladder. He submerged one end of the water purifier’s hose into the tub and positioned the outlet into his cup. After about 20 pumps, the cup was full, and he guzzled it all in a few seconds. He then proceeded to fill his camelback to the brim. Bishop paused, having a crazy thought. On a whim, he pulled his flashlight off the vest and turned it to the red filter. He shined the light into the watering tub and saw it was completely clear with the exception of a few dead bugs on the surface. He thought for a moment and figured, Why the hell not? Another two minutes later and Bishop was equipment-free. Still wearing his clothes, he stepped over the edge of the trough and slowly submerged himself in the cool water. While not quite up to par with the pool at the Manor, the feeling was still incredible. He hand-scrubbed every part of his clothing and skin within reach, including a vigorous scalp massage.

  After the bath, he leaned back against the side of the tub and relaxed. As he gazed skyward, he couldn’t help but admire the view. The effects of light pollution had always made the stars less visible in Houston than out here in the west. Bishop wondered if the decline of man and the demise of electric lights had changed that. The night sky was so thick with distant suns there were sections that seemed more white than black.

  Feeling just a tad guilty about his mini-spa treatment, Bishop exited the water and picked up his rifle to scan the area. Nothing had changed. He smirked and began wringing out his socks and shirt. Before long, he was ready to head off into the night, renewed in spirit. Bishop paused and looked back at the windmill, noticing how the moonlight silhouetted it against the evening sky. It was an image he would remember the rest of his life.

  Chapter 6 – The Warlords of Wal-Mart

  The moon continued to set as Bishop made his way northwest. The terrain was starting to flatten out with only the occasional ridge or line of small hills hindering his progress. The landscape was well illuminated by what remained of the lunar glow and a bright star field. Still, Bishop was a creature of routine, and he used the night vision more often than necessary to scout. This tactic involved a full three hundred and sixty degree scan as he didn’t want anyone to angle into his path or catch him unaware from behind. While the chances of blundering into any human being were low, there were some big predators nearby. The cats in this part of the world were not overly large, rarely topping 200 pounds. That was little consolation, as Bishop knew they were 10 times as strong as a man, pound for pound. As a teenager, hunting in the mountains, he had watched in awe as a large lioness climbed a steep cliff with a whitetail deer in her mouth. The deer must have weighed almost as much as the cat, and her seemingly effortless scaling was an impressive demonstration of power and grace. Running into one of the big felines could ruin your day.

  The apparently lifeless desert was actually inhabited by many dangerous animals. He remembered getting lucky when encountering a rather large dog some months before – an episode he didn’t want to repeat. A pack of ravenous canines would be a serious issue if they surprised him.

  Bishop crested a low rise and kept close to a tall cactus to avoid silhouetting himself. He took a knee and cradled the stock of the rifle against his shoulder to see what the valley below had to offer. His scan revealed something he hadn’t seen in the last few days – the perfectly straight line of a major roadway. Bishop was surprised by the sight, but quickly realized he shouldn’t be. He had made good time and had traveled in relatively straight lines. After verifying there was nothing else of interest nearby, he detached the night vision from his rifle and pulled out a map from the zipper compartment of his load vest.

  Bishop spread out the map on a sizeable, smooth stone and flipped on the night vision’s infrared illuminator. After focusing the eyepiece, he could read the map almost as well as he could in broad daylight.

  The roadway in front of him must be I-10, and the thought of crossing that highway made him shiver. Terri and he had encountered the worst of mankind trying to cross this interstate on their bug out from Houston. The mere thought of doing so again made his stomach tighten up and the back of his knees become cold and clammy.

  Using the compass built into his watch, he picked the tallest peak in the distance and eventually triangulated a close estimate of where he was. According to the map, he was just less than 80 miles east of El Paso, and there wasn’t a significant town anywhere nearby. That, at least, was positive news.

  A rumbling in his stomach indicated it was time to take a break and put on the feedbag. The desert night had cooled significantly, and he wanted to be as fresh and alert as possible before crossing the interstate below. After folding and storing the map, he reattached and focused the night vision on his rifle and scouted the area again. This time he was not only looking for trouble, but a place to hole up and take a short break. Slightly behind him, he spied a dense clump of vegetation close to an exposed formation of sandstone. The rock looked like it had pierced the desert floor from below, standing about 10 feet high, and pointing toward the southwest. It wasn’t perfect, but would have to do.

  After finding a flat, barren patch of sand that was reasonably well hidden, Bishop stood silent, listening to the sounds of the desert in conjunction with the regularity of his own breathing. He sighed with relief as he removed his pack and was tempted to do the same with his rifle. Caution overcame that brief moment of temptation, but he did sling the weapon around to his back. At least the weight would be on a different part of his shoulder for a bit. It took a few minutes to gather a nice pile of the sandstone and create a small, circular, knee-high wall. Bishop wanted to cook something, but didn’t want the flame visible, especially given his elevation as compared to the surrounding countryside. The rock pit would hide the flame.

  Inside of his pack was a German infantry stove. The small metallic device was about the size of a deck of cards and when unfolded, made a handy little cooktop. Normally, these units were operated with chemical pellets that burned for several minutes when ignited. Bishop wanted to conserve his fuel and decided to build a small fire from the dead kindling of a nearby scrub oak. The longer the fire was burning, the greater the odds someone would smell or see it, so after collecting his small bundle of firewood, he set about making sure everything he wanted to heat was ready before igniting the flame.

  While he was preparing his food, Bishop thought about the small, metal stove. Hundreds of thousands of them had been distributed to the German Army throughout the years. He imagined a small group of infantry, fighting on the icy Russian steeps, huddled around while fixing a quick meal. Bishop despised the German leadership of the World War II era, confident that hell was a little more crowded with the souls of those evil men. He also recognized that the average German soldier was just another guy, handed a rifle and ordered to go fight. Bishop grunted when he thought about the German army from that period in history. The military man in him had to respect what they had accomplished. Despite the horrific actions of their leaders, their soldiers had been some of the most tenacious and resilient in history. Bishop knew his situation was nothing compared to what those men had endured during the retreat across Russia in late 1944 and 1945 - temperatures so cold their rifles became frozen and couldn’t be coaxed to fire. Bishop remembered seeing pictures of German soldiers stuffing their uniforms with newspaper to provide some insulation from the arctic air. It had gotten so bad, heavy motor oil was freezing in the engine blocks, disabling machines. Bishop shuddered, thinking about the suffering on both sides of that conflict. His situation was ac
tually not so bad when compared to what those men had endured. He reached down and pensively examined the diminutive stove, wondering how many times one of its kind had provided just a little comfort to some poor soul thousands of miles away from home and missing his family. When you peeled away all the political layers, it didn’t matter what language the soldier spoke or what flag he saluted. The Roman Legionnaire was no different from the British Grenadier or the Sioux Warrior. The sacrifice, misery, and anguish were always the same. Why did they do it? They had a purpose…a plan…a goal…a cause. There was some end game in their future - some exit strategy that allowed those men to carry on. Bishop inhaled deeply and deliberately, forcing himself to refocus on the here and now. “This is an important part of the message to the president,” he thought. “I have to drive this point home. The people need that exit strategy. They need to believe there is a way out.”

  He unfastened a side compartment and extracted several small zip-top plastic bags. In one were a few handfuls of green spiked needles, collected from a pinion pine. These, when boiled in water, would make a harsh tasting tea that was rich in vitamin C. Since sugar wasn’t available, Terri had discovered that a small bit of ground up wild onion would make the concoction palatable. The desert onions tasted like sweet lemons. The pinion had also provided pine nuts, which he had roasted and stored in salt some time ago. These seeds were slightly smaller than a peanut, with the same consistency. The salt made them taste almost like pretzels. His largest bag was full of deer jerky, and he picked a good-sized piece to enjoy with his meal.

  A few hours earlier, Bishop had hiked past a patch of amaranth and took the time to extract some. The leaves tasted a little like spinach and could be eaten raw. While some oil and vinegar would have made them tastier, the solo greens would have to do tonight.

  After everything was set out, he gathered a small bundle of twigs and dried bark, about the size of his fist. He set the fuel into the rock pit and used one of his disposable lighters to start a small fire. After the sticks were burning, he positioned the steel camping mug onto the unfolded cooktop and began to heat a cup of water, containing a mixture of pine needles with a pinch of wild onion. Bishop scanned the area around his temporary camp again, thinking about how just one pack of sugar would really help his tea. No matter, he needed the break and the nutrients. It didn’t take long for the water to begin bubbling, so a quick adjustment to the camp stove allowed a simmer. Boiling the tea would remove a lot of the vitamins.

  It took 20 minutes for him to prepare his meal and far less time to feel the surge of energy flowing through his body. The synergistic combination of fire, food, and drink helped his outlook as well, and by the time Bishop had covered the small pile of smoldering ashes with neighboring sand, he was ready to approach the dreaded roadway below.

  Stalking to within one hundred meters, he found a small undulation that provided good cover and an excellent view of the interstate. He went prone and began to study what lie ahead. A first, he thought something was wrong with his night vision. From this angle, both east and westbound lanes were visible for a mile in each direction. He had expected the roadway to be packed with abandoned cars, trucks and buses, similar to the scene he had witnessed a hundred miles outside of Houston, but there were absolutely no vehicles whatsoever.

  The more he thought about it, the more it all made sense. The population density in this part of Texas wasn’t even close to the Houston, Austin, San Antonio area. People out here regularly kept their vehicles topped off, even during normal times, because of the distances between filling stations. When everything had gone to hell, the existing gas stations had probably not been overwhelmed as quickly as in the larger cities. It wasn’t uncommon for ranches and other businesses to have their own fuel tanks as well. Bishop remembered the large silver tank on the other side of the main house where the hands filled their pickup trucks before heading out to remote parts of the property.

  It was with great relief that he casually ascended the embankment and stood on the eastbound lane of the interstate, looking both ways. Nothing but empty pavement could be seen in either direction. Walking on the smooth surface would allow for a faster pace, and Bishop spun around, heading west.

  The first sign of civilization Bishop encountered wasn’t a car or truck, but a motorcycle. A country lane crossed I-10 via an overpass and there, sitting in the night shadow of the bridge, was a late year touring bike propped on its kickstand. The gas cap had been unscrewed and was hanging on the side of the tank via its tether. Bishop thought it was ironic that the mode of transportation likely to get the best mileage was the first one he encountered. It wouldn’t be the last.

  He had been walking along the interstate for about 12 miles and could easily determine his exact location by coordinating the mile markers and his map. The motorcycle was soon followed by a family sedan, parked on the shoulder of the roadway. Bishop approached cautiously, but there was no one around. The four-door family car had Arizona plates and a shattered driver’s side window. A large stone, no doubt picked up from the nearby desert floor, had been used to break into the vehicle. Bishop paused to take a pull of water and wondered about the occupants of the car. He couldn’t help his thoughts as they drifted toward melancholy scenarios. Had these people been on vacation? Traveling to see a new grandson? A college student on their way home?

  He walked around the back of the car and noticed the truck lid was unhinged and pulled it open. Inside there was a box containing a quart of motor oil, a tire repair kit, and an air pressure gauge. He smirked at his sexist attitude after his mind declared the car owner to be a male. He continued around to the passenger side and opened the door. The glove compartment had been searched, but Bishop found the insurance papers on the floorboard. The car was owned by a Mr. Harland W. Jones of Phoenix, Arizona. The discovery caused him to smile at his detective skills. He returned the paper to its original location and gently shut the door.

  So, Mr. Jones, you probably stopped outside El Paso to get gas, but there wasn’t any or perhaps the line was too long. You decided you had enough in the tank to make it to the next exit and continued on your way. Maybe that decision was repeated once too often, and you ran dry.

  Bishop tried to envision the dilemma experienced by a stranded Mr. Jones. He looked both directions and decided the man would have chosen to start walking east. Maybe some nice person stopped and gave him a ride. Perhaps his bones litter the highway a few miles from here. There is no way to know, so stop thinking about it, and concentrate on getting to Fort Bliss and delivering these letters.

  As he progressed westward, the number of abandoned cars and trucks gradually increased. Again, this made sense to him because he was getting closer to El Paso and its large population. After clearing a small rise, Bishop paused and studied the roadway ahead. The topography was becoming hilly, and his visibility was limited to the next valley. Below him, there were dozens of vehicles in both lanes, and he could tell that at least one of them had burned. He estimated he was now about 65 miles east of El Paso and would soon be approaching a series of small towns along the interstate. It was time to leave the comfortable path provided by the manmade road and branch off to the north.

  Bishop moved about a quarter mile off the interstate and found what appeared to be a relatively flat route. The map indicated that I-10 also followed this general direction, and if he encountered terrain he couldn’t climb safely at night, he could always backtrack and take his chances on the freeway pavement.

  Thirty minutes after leaving the roadway, Bishop looked through the night vision and studied the increasingly problematic topography. The jagged rocks and thick parcels of spiny bushes somehow looked less menacing in the green and black world of the monocle. It was an illusion of tranquility. Turning an ankle here would be easy. The thorn and cactus were nature’s own barbed wire and could shred skin and clothing like razor blades. This was a harsh environment, and everything that lived here defended itself well. There were clear pathways
that would have been easily maneuverable in the daylight, but the moon had set an hour ago, and the darkness was showing off. Traveling at night might help avoid some problems, but progress through this area was sluggish. He plotted out 20 steps, lowered the rifle and began walking, keeping a small map of surrounding rocks in his head. He was about halfway through the segment when he heard the noise of an internal combustion engine. Immediately he squatted down and scanned his surroundings, but didn’t see anything unusual. Where there was an engine, there were people. The sound was barely audible and quickly drifted away on cool, desert air.

  As he continued on his route, the noise faded in and out several times, gradually becoming more consistent. After about a quarter mile, he realized the sound’s source was directly in front of him. His progress around another small rise revealed a glowing sky just beyond the next line of hills. There were electric lights ahead, and judging from the illumination of the sky, there were a lot of them. Someone was running generators to power those lights.

  Bishop nimbly crossed the small ribbon of valley floor in front of him, before carefully working his way up a hill toward the light. He had no idea what lay on the other side, so he took his time, stalking from boulder to outcropping to cactus bed. When he neared the top, his progress became a slow crawl, as he didn’t want to silhouette himself cresting the hill. Keeping his back bent low, he began to step forward when he felt a tug on his ankle, quickly followed by a brilliant crimson light engulfing the area. Diving prone, adrenalin flooded his system, and his head snapped back and forth trying to figure out what just happened. It took a few seconds to realize he had just engaged a tripwire that was connected to some sort of flare. The entire area was illuminated by a pulsing redness, and he could hear the spitting fizzle of phosphorous burning close by. Someone had set up an early warning device on this ridgeline, and that same someone was probably wondering who or what had just set it off.