Holding Their Own: The Toymaker (30 page)

Bishop’s rifle butt was his answer, the stroke knocking the sentry halfway across the tiny room.

In the corner, the Texan saw a man rise off a folding cot and knew instantly it was the Colonel’s son.

“Unlock his chains,” Bishop ordered, shoving the Apache toward the prisoner.

The PJ didn’t make a sound as his shackles were removed, standing quickly and making eye contact with Bishop. The Texan said, “I’m an old friend of your father’s from HBR. You okay?”

Sergeant Grissom nodded, “I can walk… and fight a little if need be.”

“Good,” the Texan noted before redirecting his gaze to Apache Jack. “Where’s the boy?”

“In there,” came the response as the Native nodded toward another door.

“Well, let him out,” Bishop ordered, growing impatient with the fellow’s negative attitude.

Again, the local produced a key ring and opened the door. “He can’t walk,” he explained, stepping aside so Bishop could see Kevin lying inside.

The lad looked up, unsure of who Bishop was given his disguise. “Kevin, it’s me, Bishop.”

“Mr. Bishop?” the kid replied, obviously puzzled.

“Yup. Terri’s with me at the house. We’ve come to get you out.”

“How’s my dad?” was the first question. “I saw him go down.”

“He’s fine. Grim got him back to the hospital at Bliss just in time. He’ll be okay.”

Kevin swung his leg off the cot, a heavy white cast covering the limb from mid-thigh to mid-calf. “I can hop, sir,” the brave young man bragged.

Grissom stepped up, “I can carry him on my good shoulder… if we’re aren’t going too far.”

A few minutes later, the foursome was again out in the storm, the Apache followed by Bishop and the former prisoners.

The gaggle of guards had returned to the dryness of the awning, obviously curious about all of the strange activity. One of the more observant sentries chanced the rain, wading through the muck to intercept his boss. “What’s going on?” he challenged, staring hard at the previously confined captives.

Apache Jack, despite having Bishop’s weapon at his back, shouted a string of words the Texan couldn’t understand, and then took off running.

Absolute bedlam erupted.

“Go! Go for the house,” Bishop shouted over his shoulder, bringing his carbine into play.

The group of loitering security men finally got it, two of them trying to bring their weapons around. But they were slow.

With a steady arch of brass ejecting from his weapon, Bishop poured lead into their ranks, splinters and chunks of the workshop flying in all directions. One of the sentries dropped instantly, the others scrambling, crawling, and running for cover. The Texan silently cursed his lack of practice with the iron sights.

The PJ did his best, groaning and sliding with the weight of Kevin’s body and the rain-slick forest floor, but he was sluggish and clumsy.

To cover their escape, Bishop stayed at the PJ’s back, throwing three rounds left, five right, and then spraying the center with an extended stream of suppressive pills.

The security men reacted quickly, an ever increasing amount of incoming fire chasing Bishop and his friends back toward the house.

Lead whizzed past the Texan’s head, some of the rounds throwing up mud and grit, others zipping through the heavy air like angry insects hell-bent on revenge. Bishop felt naked without his armor. When his foot finally reached the porch’s bottom step, the blizzard of bullets suddenly stopped.

They don’t want to hit the Great White Wizard
, Bishop thought.
That’s handy to know.

The Texan backed into the cabin, finding the PJ already struggling to load one of the weapons Bishop had captured at the campground. Kevin, having been dumped on the couch, was trying to reach his sniper rifle lying nearby on the floor. His wife had her pistol up against Grandfather’s temple, Hunter still cradled in the nook of her free arm.

“I take it that didn’t go as planned,” she panted, charged-up from the eruption of gunfire and sudden rush of wet, hard-breathing men bursting into the room.

“You might say that,” he responded, watching from the corner of the window to make sure the guards outside kept their distance.

With Grissom now covering Hack, Terri went to check on Kevin. “Miss Terri, you don’t know how glad I am to see you guys,” the kid greeted. “Can you hand me that rifle, please?”

“Get him some ammo, too,” Bishop directed from his perch at the window. “We may need his help.”

Once Kevin was again armed and dangerous, Bishop helped the kid hobble to the window, using the logs from the stove’s wood basket to build the sharpshooter a nice little fighting nest. “Yell if they look like they’re organizing for a rush,” Bishop ordered.

“Yes, sir… and thank you, sir. I feel a lot better with my rifle back in my hands.”

Bishop then recommended Grissom take the rear of the house, handing the PJ three spare magazines he’d taken off of the dead at the campground. “You got it,” the sergeant replied. “How long do we have to hold out?”

“Well… I’m not sure,” the Texan replied. “That kind of depends.”

Grissom started to ask for clarification, but then just shrugged. “I’ve got the back side of this hacienda. You take care of business out here,” and then made for the rear of the cabin.

“What is it you people want?” Hack asked, genuine fear finally sinking in. “Take what you want and leave me alone.”

Terri exchanged looks with her husband, and then smiled at the toymaker.

“Let’s go have a seat and talk like regular people,” she said.

Bishop, now soaked and cold, decided he’d make coffee while his wife delivered her spiel. Digging through his pack for the makings, he gauged the amount of surplus water in his wife’s clothes and asked, “Want a cup of joe while you’re talking?”

“Coffee?” Hack perked at the word. “You have coffee?”

“Yes, we do,” Terri responded. “Would you like a cup?”

With his hands surrounding the cup of steaming brew, Hack sat at the kitchen table, studying the young lady and sleeping child across from him. “However this all turns out, I want to thank you for this,” he said, nodding towards the coffee. “I thought I’d never enjoy the pleasure again.”

“We actually came here to offer you similar goods and services, and much, much, more,” Terri began. “We are not your enemy.”

“Who is ‘we?’ Are you from the Alliance or the U.S. government?”

“Both,” Terri answered honestly. “But I can only make an agreement in the Alliance’s name. The president in Washington must approve any negotiations for the U.S. side. I wouldn’t worry about that too much, however. My husband and he are on excellent terms.”

Hack shook his head, her words seeming so strange and out of place. “You’ll pardon me, but I’m having a little trouble taking you seriously. The two of you look like common vagabonds to me, not a diplomatic envoy.”

Kevin, listening from his perch at the front window, called back to the kitchen, “Believe her, sir. That’s Miss Terri. She’s the real deal.”

With a slight blush, Terri grinned at the lad’s statement, and then proceeded to answer in her own words, “We were in disguise for several reasons, not the least of which was we couldn’t figure out any other way to approach you or your people. It seemed the previous two attempts had resulted in violence and death. We thought this was a better alternative.”

Hack looked around at a house full of armed, diligent men holding him at gunpoint. “So taking me hostage was the preferred method?”

Terri snorted, peering over her cup with a sly grin. “This wasn’t our intent. Actually, my husband is an engineer, and we hoped to be offered employment on your irrigation project. That, as the plan went, would allow us to meet whoever was running the show, and then we would approach peacefully.”

“So you were going to resort to espionage and subterfuge, instead of an outright assault?”

“No, we were going to approach from a position of trust. We weren’t spying on you. There’s no need. We’re well aware of exactly what you’re doing.”

Hack used a sip of coffee as an excuse to gather his thoughts. After savoring the hot liquid, he responded, “Okay, I’ll stop being contentious. Please continue.”

“I’ll be blunt and to the point, so we have a chance to make significant progress before your friends outside get stupid and try to storm the house. The Alliance will not allow its water supply to be cut off. We are willing to share, trade, barter, and enter into a formal treaty if necessary, but we won’t allow our primary agricultural regions to be denied water.”

As Terri expected, Hack’s spine stiffened at the stark threat she had tabled. “I don’t see they have much choice,” he stated with an edge. “I’m sure, if you are who you claim to be, that you’re aware of our recent acquisition of nuclear materials. We have a delivery mechanism and the will to use it if attacked.”

“So you won’t rethink your new irrigation system?”

“Why should we?” Hack said firmly. “Look, these people… the tribes, have been shit on and abused for over 400 years. Now, the tide is about to turn. With our agriculture output and rule of law, we can start all over again and eventually return the Indian Nations back to the prominence they deserve. Go find your own water – or attack if need be. But let me warn you, we will lay waste to vast stretches of Texas and the Mid-west. We have the materials and know-how to do so.”

“Oh, no one is going to attack you. That option was taken off our table long ago, and Washington could care less what you do with the water. No, we pose no military threat whatsoever.”

Again, Hack was confused by Terri’s seemingly contradictory positions. “I don’t get it. You make bold statements about ‘won’t allow,’ yet you claim to be nonviolent.”

“Simple,” Terri grinned. “Even as we speak, Alliance engineers are in Colorado, just north of your territory.” She then turned toward the living room and raised her voice, “Bishop? Do you still have that map?”

“Yup,” he replied, joining them in the kitchen after changing into regular clothes.

The Texan unfolded a map and pointed with his finger. “This area is the San Luis Valley in southern Colorado. After approximately three months of earth moving with our heavy equipment, we can reroute the Rio Grande through northern Oklahoma and into the Texas Panhandle. According to the studies I’ve seen, this project would actually increase our agricultural output by over 40%.”

Hack snatched the map, pulling it closer to study. After a bit, he glared at Terri with fire in his eyes. “You can’t do that. You would starve out what little food we manage to grow now. This entire region depends on that river.”

“Why not?” Terri shrugged innocently. “You didn’t seem to care if we starved. Good for the goose, good for the gander I always say.”

The expression on Hack’s face was cold and angry, but Terri sensed he was beginning to see the light. “What do you want?” he finally asked.

“We’re willing to share the water, much like the pre-collapse arrangements that existed between the states. We also want to be your trading partner. Like that coffee in your cup, we have a lot to offer.”

“Such as?”

Terri rolled her eyes, “Such as? It’s Texas, for Pete’s sake. We have fields of pipe and valves and all sorts of fluid handling equipment lying around. Our experts believe you can build a much more efficient irrigation system with plumbing as opposed to flooding. We refine gas and diesel. We have seafood, and are starting to produce medicines. The list could go on and on.”

Glancing down at the map and then at Bishop’s rifle, Hack said, “It doesn’t seem like you’re giving me much choice.”

Terri shook her head, “No, we’re giving you every choice. Believe me when I say that our ruling council had significant dissenting voices that opposed even opening a dialog with you. Many of them wanted to simply initiate the Colorado project, and let you wither in the sun.

“And why didn’t you?”

“Because life is difficult enough these days. That’s not what the Alliance is about. We all need each other more than ever before. So when the choice comes down to either establishing a strong trading partner or starving tens of thousands of people, our value system guides us to the high road. Hasn’t there already been enough suffering and death?”

Hack looked sad, mumbled, “I see.”

“What do you have to lose?” Bishop asked, not understanding the man’s reaction. “Our estimates say that you were going to have enough irrigated land to grow ten times the amount of crops necessary to feed the local population. If we work together, you can still have an excess for export and trade, plus a strong ally to boot. I don’t see the downside to this solution.”

“Prominence,” Hack replied. “Prestige, respect, security… a future for those people out there. They are good people. They deserve a land of plenty and the independence that excess capacity would provide them for generations. Now it appears that they are going to be denied yet again.”

The discussion continued, Hack asking questions, Terri providing answers. The entire back and forth repartee annoyed Bishop, Hack seeming to want to know every possible detail of the Alliance’s offer.

Terri had just uttered “We can work out those details later,” for the nth time when Bishop decided it was time to stretch his legs, and get out of the kitchen before he said something to undermine his wife’s efforts.

“Mister Bishop,” came Kevin’s voice from the window. “Do you have a minute?”

Bishop left the kitchen, moving quickly to join Kevin. Peering around the window’s edge, the Texan couldn’t see why the kid had sounded the alarm.

“What’s up, Kevin? Looks nice and quiet to me.”

“Sir, I know it’s not my place, but that’s the problem. My dad once told me if things are going well, I’m probably walking into an ambush. I haven’t seen anyone move out there for 45 minutes.”

Scratching his stubble-coated chin, Bishop had to admit the kid had a point.

“Keep frosty,” Bishop finally replied. “I’m going to go check around back.”

Sergeant Grissom reported the same unnerving lack of movement. “I thought they were all out front,” he said. “This can’t be good.”

It then dawned on the Texan that Hack was stalling.

Strolling back to the in-process meeting, Bishop remembered the stolen nuclear materials. “He’s stalling. They’re up to something,” he growled.

He grabbed Hack’s chair, spinning the shocked man around and coming nose to nose. “Where are your Indian friends, sir? I know you’re stalling… what are they up to?”

Whether from fear or pride, Hack didn’t respond, and it pissed Bishop off. He could see the loathing in the man’s eyes, almost a celebration of having deceived them for so long.

Without hesitation, the Texan turned to his flabbergasted wife and barked, “Hand me your pistol.”

“What?” Terri started, “What are you doing, Bishop?”

“Hand me the fucking gun,” he snapped, reaching for her belt and the holstered weapon.

Terri knew from the look in her husband’s eyes that something was terribly wrong. Before she could even reach for her sidearm, he had yanked it from the leather.

Bishop flicked off the safety and pointed the barrel at Hack’s foot. “You better start talking, right now, or I’ll use 9mm lead to chew off parts of your body until you’re singing like a bird. Now, out with it… what are your friends up to?”

Hack’s mouth twisted into an evil grin, “You’re too late, asshole. It’s already done.”

“What’s already done?”

Hack hesitated, his mouth firmly sealed, the twinkle of skullduggery glinting behind his eyes.

Bishop fired.

In the enclosed space, the roar of the handgun made everyone jump. The deafening report was immediately followed by a howl of pain coming from deep inside the toymaker’s chest.

“What’s already done?” Bishop screamed, moving the pistol to the other foot.

Hack was trying to cry, breathe, moan, and protest all at once. “Fuck you!” he yelled between gasps of breath. “It’s over! I warned them! I told them to stay away!”

Bishop fired again, watching as Hack’s body seized, bouncing up and down in the chair, the man’s eyes rolling into the back of his head. No one noticed that the Texan had intentionally missed the inventor’s other foot by more than an inch.

“This gun holds 17 rounds,” Bishop screamed, fury and rage thick in his throat. “I’ve got 15 left. Now start talking before I move on to more painful parts of your worthless carcass.”

When the pistol moved between Hack’s legs, the man found words. “They’re launching the balloons, you fool. There’s no stopping them. They’re automatic.”

Bishop paused, trying to figure out what Hack was saying. His mind went back to a cautionary phrase he’d heard his father use long ago, “… when they send up the balloons.”

It was slang from a period when the old Soviet Union and the United States threatened each other with thousands of intercontinental ballistic missiles. “Sending up the balloon,” meant launching those weapons - and the end of the world.

Turning to Terri, he said, “He’s been stalling you while his friends are doing something with that stolen radioactive shit.”

Back to Hack, “What are they doing? Where are they?”

Nearly hysterical with pain, Hack was sobbing so badly he could hardly speak.

Bishop didn’t know the capability of the stolen materials. He had no clue as to their capability, range, or potential. What he did know was the fear he’d seen in Nick’s eyes and the grim expression on General Owens’ face when the topic had been broached.

His mind filled with visions of more bodies, more graves, and droves of sick and dying people. He pictured vast swaths of unusable land, dying crops, and suffering livestock.

Those grave thoughts were soon replaced with the Colonel’s face, twisted in anger over the Alliance’s meddling in the affair. Tanks, gunships, and artillery would soon follow, the United States provoked to the point of war. More dying. More suffering. More bodies.

And all because of one man. All because of the individual sitting right there, defiant and proud of the horrors he’d just unleashed on mankind.

Bishop grabbed a handful of white hair and with strength born of pure adrenalin and wrath lifted Hack from his perch.

He didn’t hear Terri’s protests, couldn’t register Hack’s screams of pain and torment.

Hack still managed to kick both of his feet despite one suffering a bullet wound. He howled in misery as the Texan dragged him into the front room and toward the wood burning stove.

With his free hand, Bishop opened the iron door and gazed for a moment into the licking flames and glowing embers.

He released Hack’s hair, allowing the injured man to fall with a thump to the floor. And then Bishop had the man’s arm in an iron grip, pulling it toward the stove’s inferno.

Somehow the Texan’s intent registered in Hack’s mind. Whether it was the heat on his skin, or the look of pure hatred in Bishop’s eyes, the toymaker realized what was about to happen.

“Wait! Wait! No!” Hack pleaded in a shrill voice. “Oh, God! No!”

Bishop didn’t heed the request, his eyes reflecting the red and yellow blaze inside the iron belly. “This is a preview of hell,” he grumbled as Hack’s now-closed fist was poised at the threshold. “I’m going to burn both of your arms down to stubs.”