Holding Their Own IV: The Ascent (23 page)

Betty waited until they were out
of earshot and smirked at Pete. “You paid too much for those quail, Pete. He would’ve given four birds for that much ammo.”

Pete stopped and grinned at Betty, “Maybe, maybe not. That’s the problem isn’t it? Let me ask you something, Betty. How many eggs did Anita have this morning?”

“Oh, Lordie. . . . I think she had a couple dozen or so. She keeps her inventory secret, always mumbling something about supply and demand. When you’re negotiating with that woman, it’s like pulling hen’s teeth.”

Pete chuckled at the analogy. “I understand. I’m going back to the bar and pick up those cartridges. I’ll see you later, okay?”

After swapping for the game fowl, Betty’s words prompted an idea.
Someone needs to go first and prime the pump
, he thought.
Might as well be me.

Approaching Anita’s booth, Pete asked how many eggs she would trade for two of the quail.

After inspecting the goods, Anita’s voice was firm. “Four.”

Pete protested, his indignation partially genuine. “Four! Why you shyster. Those two birds are worth eight eggs as sure as I’m standing here in West Texas.”

A few minutes later, Pete walked away with six large brown eggs. Storing the remaining bird and two of the eggs in his kitchen, he then retrieved a piece of cardboard and a pencil.

Not long afterward,
Pete opened his table at the edge of the market. A small sign hung from the front, advertising eggs for $1.00 each – cash only, no barter.

As the hours went by, Pete’s sign drew a lot of attention and quickly became the talk of the market. The bartender had to laugh at the constant stream of onlookers gawking at his little homemade billboard. It was the biggest news to hit Meraton since
everything had gone to hell.

Pete had just about given up hope of selling any of his eggs when a man shyly approached and pointed to the sign. “Pete, I’ve been a loyal customer since you opened the bar. I need some eggs, but I’ve got to be honest with you.” The man pointed over his shoulder and continued, “There’s a woman over there, goes by the name of Anita. She’s got eggs that look just as good as yours and is selling them two for a dollar. I’ll make you the same offer.”

Pete couldn’t suppress his grin. The Meraton Market was indeed a place where cash could be used.

West Texas

December 26, 2015

The dirt path leading to Sandy Hill was a washboard of a ride. After crossing several miles of flat desert, the road eventually began a gradual climb before quickly turning into a series of switchbacks. At the top of the mesa, a chain-link fence surrounded the broad, flat summit of the formation. Bishop stopped the truck, both men alternating their gaze between the padlocked gate blocking their progress and the enormous windmills scattered across the flat surface.

Bishop was amazed at the scale of the machines. Each unit was mounted on a tower that was over 20 feet in diameter at the bottom and soared hundreds of feet into the air. Concrete bases, large enough to
support a good-sized home had been poured beneath each of the mills. At the base of each tower was a metal door, no doubt leading to a staircase used to access the machinery at the top.

The huge blades rotated slowly, their appearance reminding Bishop of giant propellers for a mountain-sized airplane.

“I knew they would be big,” commented Nick, “but this is amazing. Have you ever seen anything like this?”

“No. I’ve seen fields of these things while driving across I-10 north of here, but you can’t tell the scale from the interstate.
Up close and personal, they look like the propellers for God’s Cessna.”

Nick looked at his watch, “We need to get moving. Are you
going to push through the gate?”

“Nope. I’ll just pop the lock. I don’t want to ruin my paint job.”

Nick looked at the bullet hole in the back window and the bloodstained back seat, evidence that Bishop’s truck had seen some rough times. “I don’t blame ya one bit,” was his only comment.

Bishop retrieved a crowbar from the bed and began twisting the gate’s chain. The small lock gave up without much grunting or sweat. No foul language was required. A few minutes later, Bishop parked the truck next to a small building at the edge of the complex.

Nick began investigating the grounds, still gawking in awe at the scale of the project. Bishop made for the edge of the mesa; his focus was on a utility tower containing six wrist-sized cables leading off into the distance.

From their
elevation on the hilltop, both men could see the high capacity power lines stretching down the side of the mesa toward the northeast. The thick cables were easy to track, gradually sloping down to sag in the middle before beginning their rise to the next tower. From their perch, Bishop estimated they could see well over ten miles before the atmosphere began blurring the view. He counted 21 of the steel framed supports, each supporting approximately a half mile of cable.

“This is going to take a while,” observed Nick.

“No shit.”

Nick studied the terrain sloping away from the mesa. Sharp ridges and raw rock dominated the view, gradually flattening out to a smooth looking desert floor of a pale yellow color. It didn’t look like a friendly environment.

“Well, there’s good news. We don’t have to worry about rock climbing today. The lines clearly stretch beyond the high ground and out into the flat desert.”

“You don’t sound real happy about that.”

“I’m not. That’s all private ranch land for at least 100 miles. There aren’t any public roads. Most of the ranchers aren’t just exactly embracing strangers these days, and many of them have their own private armies of some pretty rough characters. Trespassers will be prosecuted to the full extent of a large caliber deer rifle.”

“Ahhhhh, good point.”

Bishop looked around, trying to ascertain the next step. The small building next to the truck grabbed his attention. Motioning to the structure with a nod of his head, Bishop suggested, “Let’s take a look inside, maybe there’s something useful in there.”

The door was locked
, but not overly sturdy, and succumbed to one kick from Nick. Bishop mumbled, “We missed our calling—we should’ve been burglars.”

Nick grinned, adding, “How do you know I wasn’t?”

The building appeared to be a control center and office of sorts. The interior was filled with a few desks, dark computer screens, and a room full of electronic gear that neither Bishop nor Nick understood. As the two men moved toward the exit, Nick looked at the wall and asked, “Would that help?”

Bishop followed his gaze and
recognized a large map with several multi-colored lines overlaid on the surface. Stepping closer, it took him a minute to orientate himself to the area depicted and the scale of the drawing. Finally, Bishop turned to Nick with a big smile. “I think you just saved us a lot of time and trouble.”

Tracing with his finger, Bishop pointed to the map. “We’re right here.
These lines look like the high voltage power leads outside. They end here at this blue square that’s labeled ‘Pecos River Control Station.’ I think that’s where your engineer needs to be.”

Nick whistled, looking for the map’s scale. Using his fingers, he estimated the
cables outside ended just over 90 miles away. Pointing to a series of lines and squares in close proximity to the control station, Nick asked, “What’s this place?”

Bishop double-checked before answering, but was sure. “That, good sir, is Fort Stockdale.”

“Well, that’s good news, right? I mean, we don’t have to go trespassing across 50 miles of ranch land, dodging bullets or anything.”

Bishop sighed. “I’m not sure if
that’s good news or not. There have been some rumors . . . a long time ago . . . about Fort Stockdale. A few people claim that some county official took control of the town after the collapse. Some folks say he fancies himself as emperor. It’s all just rumors I heard some months back.”

“Where did you hear this?”

“At Pete’s, when we first arrived in Meraton. There’s probably some people around that know more than what I remember hearing. Maybe some of the Beltron Ranch hands have ventured up that way.”

Bishop reached up and pulled the map free from the wall. Rolling it up, he
winked at Nick and grinned. “A life of crime.”

“We can return it later and pay for the lock.”

“Let’s hope it comes to that, my friend. I would welcome the chance to do so and relieve my conscience. Let’s head back to town. I’m anxious to see if we’ll end up with electricity and cable TV. It’s almost time for the Super Bowl.”

Bishop scanned the town with his optic, occasionally making a note on the small pad of paper lying beside him. A gas station owner in Alpha had provided a detailed street map of Fort Stockdale, about the only thing left on the premises that hadn’t been looted.

While it was good to know the street names and intersections, what really mattered was the buildings and activity surrounding
the substation. There was also a strong curiosity regarding the accuracy of the rumors about the brutality of the people who controlled the West Texas berg.

Lying on the top of a
20-foot high desert knoll, Bishop was trying to find a route into the southwest section of the city. They needed a path that would avoid people - their intent being to sneak in, route the wind farm’s power west, and sneak back out undetected. Behind him and out of sight sat Nick, Diana, and Mr. Chancy on the open tailgate of Bishop’s truck.

The
tales concerning the harsh rulers of Fort Stockdale had been substantiated. One of the first images through the riflescope had been of human skeletons nailed to telephone poles along the main highway into town. Cross members had been added to the utility poles to support the weight of the bleached bones, each of the remains adorned with a hand-painted sign indicating the offense of the deceased. Single word declarations such as “looter,” and “thief” hung above the skulls of the crucified bodies, their public positioning clearly intended to send a message to anyone approaching the town via the main road.

It had required all of Bishop’s concentration to complete his task, his mind forging images of men with torches and pitchforks nailing the pleading victim to raw lumber and hoisting the accused to the delight of gathered onlookers.
I wonder if they had witch trials too
, he thought.

There was also a homemade
sign sitting right in the middle of the highway. The faded lettering was difficult to read at first, but eventually Bishop obtained a focus tight enough to make out the general meaning of the notice—visitors were not welcome in Fort Stockdale. Some lines of text were still quite readable, phrases such as “No water, No food and NOT WELCOME HERE” could be plainly identified from his vantage.

Continuing to study the town, Bishop concluded that Fort Stockdale wasn’t suffering from an overpopulation problem. The homes and businesses within his view appeared to be abandoned and other than two scrawny dogs and one man on a bicycle, he hadn’t seen a single living entity.

Backing slowly off the ridge, Bishop made his way to the truck and the anxious faces of the team. “So, here’s the good news, it’s not like Times Square around the town. I saw one guy riding a bike and two sick-looking dogs. Other than that, there’s no obvious movement.”

Diana said, “So we can just drive in and get this over with? Sounds easy to me.”

Bishop shook his head, “I wouldn’t advise that.” He then went on to recount the crucifixions and signage. “I think if they caught us, we would face a similar fate. The whole place has this macabre feel to it. No children laughing or playing, no engine noise—nothing.”

Nick wanted to take a
peek, and Bishop welcomed the second opinion. The two men scooted up the slope and slowly breached the crest so as not to profile themselves to anyone looking just the right direction from below. After ten minutes of observation through the scope, Nick nodded, and the two men cautiously returned to the truck.

“He’s right,” started Nick. “Even though we can’t see a lot of activity down there, I think it wise to sneak in and out. Doing this right won’t take much more effort anyway.”

“The substation is on the outskirts of town. I could see the high tension wires sloping downward, but the actual building was blocked from my view,” Bishop added.

Mr. Chancy was clearly keyed up. “Oh, this is exciting. At my age, not many adventures come along. Do I need a rifle?”

After reassuring Mr. Chancy that he didn’t need a weapon, the group studied the street map and Bishop’s notes. They quickly determined that Bishop should go in alone and set up an over watch position with his longer-range rifle. After he was in position, he would radio Nick to bring Mr. Chancy up to the substation.

Diana had one final question, “Should we wait and do this at night?”

Bishop nodded, “I thought about that, but I’m the only one with night vision, and the moon’s not full tonight. Besides, fumbling around inside of that building with flashlights would probably draw attention. Let me get in closer and gather some Intel.”

After pulling on his
pack and checking his gear, Bishop saluted and made off along the edge of the rise. He knew it likely that any elevated section of desert would have a low spot where the seasonal rains would run off. If the higher ground covered enough area, dry creek beds would be nearby. His luck was good today, as he quickly found a wash running through the desert floor that was about waist deep and wide enough to drive a car through. The small gully ran directly toward the edge of Fort Stockdale.

Keep
ing bent low and moving quickly, Bishop made his way to the edge of town. When he could finally recognize the rooflines of buildings over the bank of the wash, he slowed his progress and moved with more caution.

Rounding a small bend in the creek, Bishop spied the first bridge spanning one of the town’s streets. He scurried to hide under the structure, taking a moment to catch his breath and adjust his load. His hiding spot was one street over from where the
substation was located and about four blocks west. While he still couldn’t see the building, the thick electrical wires were like a beacon to their target’s location.

The closest building to Bishop’s bridge was a mobile home. The beige and white metal
-skinned house sat in a weed-filled lot along with two abandoned vehicles whose layers of rust indicated they had been parked at the residence for years. The window nearest Bishop was broken out, shreds of screen wire flopping loosely in the slight breeze. The metal skirting that had once surrounded the bottom of the trailer was torn loose here and there, its sharp edges poking out at odd angles. There weren’t any signs of occupation.