Holding Their Own: The Toymaker (33 page)

The dawn was just old enough to allow a view of the perimeter of Hack’s compound, and Bishop didn’t like what he saw.

There were at least 50 people there, all of them standing in plain sight, staring at the cabin. “What the hell are they doing?” the Texan asked, not really expecting an answer.

Moving to the back of the home, he spied a nearly identical picture. Dozens of people, all just standing still and staring back at him as if they were waiting for some sort of announcement.

The ruckus woke Terri and Grissom, both thinking something was wrong. After studying the gathered throng for a few moments, the PJ reiterated, “At least they’re not armed. I was half expecting pitchforks and torches.”

“Or a full frontal assault,” Bishop added. “Why just stand there and stare at us?”

An hour passed, more and more people gathering on the perimeter. “There must be 300 people out there,” Terri observed. “Maybe more.”

To the holdouts inside the cabin, it was unsettling.

Bishop paced front to back, his weapon never leaving his hands. “Why don’t they do whatever they’re going to do? Just get it over with.”

Terri had decided to ignore the multitude, feeding a ravished Hunter his breakfast instead of worrying about it. “Maybe this is how they handle hostage negotiations?” she answered. “It seems to be working – at least on you.”

Kevin’s voice sounded from the living room, “Mr. Bishop, something’s happening.”

“Finally,” Bishop growled, flicking the safety off his weapon and moving toward the front of the home.

Peeking around the window frame, the Texan spotted three elderly men walking toward the front porch. They were unarmed, at least as far as Bishop could tell.

They stopped 30 feet short of the stoop, staring up at the cabin, otherwise unmoving.

“An envoy?” Bishop asked Kevin.

“No white flag,” the kid responded.

“You’ve been watching too many cowboy movies,” Bishop grinned.

Terri flashed her husband a nasty look, and then stepped beside her mate, a content Hunter bouncing gently on her hip. “I’ll go see what they want,” she announced with a casual tone.

“You’re acting like it’s the paperboy wanting his money,” Bishop chided, shaking his head. “May I remind you that we’ve killed a bunch of their people in the last few days? I don’t think it’s a good idea for you to invite them in for coffee.”

“Well, then you go see what’s going on. It’s rude to just let them stand out there.”

Bishop’s head pivoted between his wife and the three men on the lawn. Shrugging his shoulders, he nodded and moved to the front door.

Having visions of some yahoo with a deer rifle zeroed in on the cabin’s threshold, Bishop opened the door and jumped back, waiting for a bullet to come flying. None did.

Exposing only a slice of his head and staying back in the shadow of the doorway, Bishop called out, “Good morning.”

Terri flashed her husband a look that said,
“That’s it? That’s the best you got?”

“We would like to talk,” came the response from the yard. “And only talk.”

Bishop was suspicious, shaking his head at Terri. “I don’t like it.”

Rolling her eyes, she pushed past her husband, mother and child strolling out onto the porch. “That would be wonderful,” she told the three men. “We would like to resolve a few things as well.”

Bishop appeared next to his wife, his eyes scanning the horizon, perusing the crowd for the flash of a weapon or any other indication of a threat.

“There is nothing to resolve,” one of the men declared. “We only wish for you to return Grandfather’s body to us. He was important to our people, what you would call a hero for our cause. We would like to bury him with honor.”

Terri was a bit taken aback by the request. Again, with a pleasant smile, she said, “I’d be happy to give you his body, but I don’t think he’d like the burial part. He’s still alive.”

The three men exchanged frowns, finally offering, “You haven’t killed him?”

“No,” Terri replied, now clearly intrigued. “Why would we do that?”

“He guided our actions and attacked you with the poison material. His metal hawks led to the death of several of your men. Valley Green was his idea. Why wouldn’t you kill him?”

Terri was sincere in her reply, “Because that’s not our way. We think this has all been a big misunderstanding. We’re not your enemy. We don’t want any more killing.”

“We are going to have funerals all around the Caldera today,” spoke another. “So many of our people have died. If you’re not our enemy, then how did this happen?”

Much to Bishop’s dismay, Terri stepped off the porch and approached the trio. When she was closer, she responded, “Because mistakes were made on both sides. That’s why I’m here – to talk, not fight. Let’s sit down and have an honest discourse so no one else has to die.”

“You’ve already won,” declared another of the three. “We assume your armies are on the way. We know we can’t stop them without Grandfather. We will not resist.”

It took Terri a minute to grasp their perspective. She shook her head, “No armies are on the way. We have people coming to take us back to our homes, but just a few. We only want to share the water and have fair, open trade with your people. That’s it, nothing else.”

Again, the three elders exchanged unreadable glances among themselves. The apparent leader spoke again, “So many things in this world have changed so quickly. If what you are saying is true, then how did this all happen? Why did so many die?”

Terri hesitated in her answer, so Bishop filled in, “Because people… all people… get things set in their heads and lose faith in other men. They stop believing the world can be a better place. The man you call Grandfather told us last night that he wanted the Nations to have respect and dignity… and to be a proud people once again. He just naturally assumed we wouldn’t let that happen, and that led to all the trouble. In reality, we all want the same thing.”

Terri continued, “I have a favorite saying that applies to all that has happened in the last few days. One of our great leaders once said, ‘Comparison is the thief of joy.’ Too many people looked at life as either win… or lose. They judged their dealings with others like some sort of sports contest that ended in either victory or defeat. We believe that outlook is part of the reason why society collapsed. We have learned our lesson. Now, we want strong neighbors and partners. Both sides can walk away from this better than we were before.”

“She quotes Teddy Roosevelt,” one of the elders commented, surprising Terri with his knowledge. “Maybe we should listen to her.”

But not all of the trio were convinced. “You’ll understand if we’re skeptical of your words. There’s a history of deceit, broken promises, and unfulfilled dreams with our people,” said another.

Bishop nodded, “We aren’t promising you anything. As far as your dreams, well, those are your own. Consider our people a mirror. How you decide to interact with us is how we will respond in kind. It’s really that simple. If you reroute the rivers, we will do the same. If you share the water, we will as well. If you are hostile towards us, then you can expect us to be violent in return. As I’m so fond of saying, it’s your call.”

The three local leaders were exchanging glances when a slight vibration broke the stillness of the morning air. Without warning, a Blackhawk zoomed over the gathering, flying low and fast with a deafening roar. Bishop looked up in time to see a row of eager faces peering down from its open bay. The rifles and helmets made it clear Fort Bliss had gotten his message.

Shocked by the helicopter’s sudden appearance, the three elders were spooked, glancing up and around nervously and then throwing a look at Bishop and Terri as if to say, “You lied again!”

Bishop let his rifle fall against the sling, holding out both hands, palms down in a calming motion. “They’re here just to take out our injured men. They’re not here to invade or fight,” he soothed.

Right when it seemed like the elders might believe Bishop’s explanation, another, more constant whine came from behind the mountain.

All eyes searched for the source, another Blackhawk rising slowly from the tree line, a six-barrel mini-gun sweeping the hundreds of milling Indians surrounding the cabin.

“Oh shit,” Bishop said, seeing the machine gunner covering the crowd with his ultra-deadly weapon. “They think the cabin’s surrounded and under attack.”

Bishop knew that mini-gun could fire over 100 rounds a second, images of a hailstorm of hot lead slicing through the throng of peaceful folks surging through his brain. They would die by the hundreds if that gunner cut loose.

Bishop glanced right and left, looking for anything to signal the distant bird. Hunter’s blanket came into his view, the bright white cloth exactly what the Texan needed.

Terri initially jumped when Bishop grabbed his son’s warmer, roughly unwrapping the bundle containing the wide-eyed boy. Then she got it, instantly helping the Texan with his task.

Bishop stepped forward, placing himself between the menacing copter and the three elders, wildly waving the white blanket in the air.

The Texan exhaled in relief when he saw Grim’s face behind the gunner, tapping the trigger man’s shoulder and pointing toward the Texan and his white flag.

A moment later, the Blackhawk tilted its nose and flew away, hurrying to join its sibling now landing to the north.

“That was close… damn close,” Bishop turned and said to Terri. “From the air, it had to look like we were under attack.”

He then faced the three elders, an apology forming on his lips. But something in their gaze stopped Bishop before he could utter a word.

“You put yourself between us and what was surely instant death,” one of the men said. “You didn’t run or think of your wife and child. Thank you.”

Bishop nodded, slightly embarrassed.

“We can talk,” offered one of the local leaders. “You obviously understand the value of our people and were willing to sacrifice yourself for our brothers and sisters.”

Turning back toward Hunter, Bishop returned his son’s blanket. “Welcome to the team, little hero. Let’s hope that’s the last time you have to bail your old man’s ass out.”

Bishop stood in line, one of a dozen Alpha residents waiting his turn at the Alliance Business Office.

The building, formerly the First National Bank, had been skillfully repaired and showed few signs of the looting or vandalism that had left the former landmark a hollowed-out shell less than a year before.

As Bishop meandered his way through the queue, the roped posts guided him past the windows facing Main Street, his view of the busy thoroughfare partially blocked by one of the remaining signs of the apocalypse.

Glass was one of a long list of items still in short supply throughout the Alliance. During the violence that followed the collapse, millions of windows had been broken, and many buildings still suffered the scars.

In this particular case, some crafty individual had painted a colorful mural on the otherwise uninspiring sheet of plywood. One section was dedicated as a community bulletin board.

Bishop grunted when he noted a picture of Pete’s smiling face atop one of the posters. “Get Your Identification Card Today!” the cheery piece instructed the passing citizen. “ID cards and Driver’s Licenses are available at this location!”

As the line shuffled forward, Bishop came eye to eye with the
Alpha Bulletin
, what amounted to the fledgling first attempt at a newspaper.

Like glass, paper was also in short supply, so the publishers had taken to posting limited copies on several boards all around the town.

Bishop smiled, shaking his head at today’s headlines. Under the caption of “SAINT Team Rescues New Mexico Envoys,” was a picture of Grim and Butter carrying Kevin on a stretcher toward a distant Blackhawk.

As Bishop examined the snapshot accompanying the article, he grinned. Grim must have known someone was snapping a picture, the gruff old warhorse bent low like he was taking fire, his expression indicating the patient was critical, and he was braving numerous machine gun nests to save his friend. It was probably fortunate Butter’s mug was out of the picture, no doubt the big man’s toothy grin would have ruined the dramatic moment.

Bishop started to read the story, wondering if Grim had granted an interview with the local newshounds. Secretly, the Texan hoped the contractor had made some gaffe or foot-in-mouth remark so he could relentlessly tease his friend.

A rumbling through the marble floor paused Bishop’s review of the piece, the two ladies in front of the Texan glancing nervously toward the street through a still-intact pane of glass.

“It’s just one of those pipe trucks heading to New Mexico,” the calmer of the two informed her friend. “I read where the Alliance is shipping almost a million feet of pipe to help the Native Americans irrigate a valley.”

“I heard the same,” replied the second, fussing with her Easter-like hat. “I sure hope the vegetables they grow over there are better than the ones we’re getting from down south.”

“For a minute, I thought it might be another one of those scary wagons hauling all that radioactive material back east. I don’t know why they routed those dangerous things through Alpha,” continued the first, having to fan her face at the mere thought.

“I know. But I saw Sheriff Watts personally escorting them through town, so that made me feel like they must have been safe. That man wouldn’t let any harm come to any of us.”

Bishop barely contained the chuckle, not wanting to let his two line-mates know he was eavesdropping on their conversation. Sheriff Watts had just about had a kitten when the council had ordered him to provide security for the Colbalt-60 being transported back to the U.S. It was the only time anyone had ever seen Watts frightened of anything.

The line inched forward, the conversation about nuclear waste diverting the Texan’s thoughts to New Mexico and his wife.

Terri and Hunter were still there, negotiating the final stages of a trade agreement that would greatly help both sides in the recovery. It would all have been over and done a week ago, but Washington had demanded to become a third party to the negotiations.

In Terri’s shrewd assessment, “Those guys from D.C. could fuck up a two-car parade.”

According to his wife, Hunter was now consistently asking about “Da-da,” and had on one occasion muttered, “Mama.” Bishop had his doubts about the accuracy of her report, knowing Terri was stone cold green over the fact that their son had chosen to address his father first.

And then it was the Texan’s turn in line, a smiling lady behind what had been a teller’s counter back in the old days. “Good morning, sir, how can I help you today?” she greeted.

“I have a voucher,” Bishop responded, handing over a piece of paper Diana had given him just a few minutes before. “I was told I could exchange it for cash at this location.”

Nodding, the lady responded, “That’s correct. Now, let me take a look and see…. Oh, my, this is for a lot of money.”

She turned, motioning over a supervisor, showing the older gent Bishop’s chit.

“Could I see your identification, sir?”

Oh, no, here we go again
, Bishop thought, his blood pressure rising. “I haven’t managed to acquire one the new cards,” he explained. “I do have my old, pre-collapse driver’s license, but it’s seen better days.”

After digging in his wallet, Bishop produced the faded card, the laminated surface showing the wear and tear of it’s owners hard life.

Both workers studied the ID, glancing back and forth between Bishop’s face and the not so clear picture. “I’m sorry, but this license is so damaged, we can’t….”

The rejection was interrupted by Diana’s voice carrying across the lobby, “I thought I might catch you here,” she gushed in a happy tone.

“Miss Brown,” both workers greeted as Diana smiled and cut past the waiting queue and came to Bishop’s side.

“I forgot to give you a card to take to Nick when you visit Bliss. Give him my love,” she said, handing over the envelope.

Bishop nodded, accepting the correspondence. And then, with a touch of embarrassment, said, “Could you help me out here? These nice folks are questioning my ID, and I kind of need some money.”

Diana glanced at the government workers and then at the license they were holding. “Is there an issue?” she asked.

“Is this man the individual who should receive payment from this rather sizable voucher?” the teller asked, handing Bishop’s document to the Alliance’s leader.

Diana, with an absolutely straight face, glanced at the document, and then at Bishop, and said, “No. This man is an imposter. Please call the authorities, immediately.”

Bishop’s mouth dropped open, a protest forming in his throat as Diana handed the tellers back his paper and then pivoted to leave.

“Wa-wa-, wait just a damn minute… Diana!” the Texan pleaded, his voice sounding far whinier than he intended.

Bursting out in laughter, she turned back, having to cover her mouth again when she saw Bishop’s helpless expression. “Oh mercy,” she breathed deeply, trying to stop. “If I only had a picture of your face to show Terri.”

Nodding quickly at the two tellers, Diana added, “I was joking. Yes, he’s one and the same as the name on the voucher. I just signed it personally less than an hour ago. Give the man his money; he earned it.”

The councilwoman gave Bishop a hug and said, “Gotta run. I owed you that one. And tell that big lug of mine I love him, and that he’d better hurry up and heal, because there are other gentlemen showing interest.”

And then, just like always, she was gone, a virtual whirlwind of energy and purpose.

Bishop turned back to the tellers, the nice lady now counting out a significant stack of bills. “I would like to remind you, sir that the bank will be reopening soon. They will be offering secure saving accounts, and may even begin paying interest in a few months.”

Bishop nodded, smiling politely. “Thank you.”

Then, hunching forward and lowering her voice like she was about to divulge a secret, she said, “And I just want you to know, it’s not safe walking around with this much cash. While it’s rare these days, thugs and muggers do still exist in Alliance territory. I’d hate to see some mean hoodlum steal your money, young man.”

It was all the Texan could do to keep from laughing, the irony of someone robbing him - after all he’d just been through. “Thank you for that advice, ma’am. I appreciate your looking out for me. By the way, what all is involved in obtaining a new driver’s license?”

Thirty minutes later, he stepped onto Main Street, the bright sunshine, a just acquired driver’s license, and a pocket full of money brightening Bishop’s face.

Looking up and down the street, he began mentally prioritizing what was sure to be a busy day.

Probably the most difficult item on his list was a surprise for Hunter.

According to the last shortwave conversation with Bishop’s better half, Hack had built his son a solar powered, electric train. Terri reported the boy was fascinated by the small engine going round and round.

Hack, it seemed, had taken a liking to Hunter, probably in no small part due to Terri pressing the U.S. government to grant the inventor full amnesty. “It turns out he’s a brilliant man who simply got caught up in a world gone crazy, not a criminal mastermind or insane megalomaniac,” she had informed Bishop. “Right now, humanity needs every speck of genius we can get our hands on, especially these folks out here.”

Bishop wondered if the man still held a grudge over having his foot shot.
Just another smart guy you’ve pissed off,
he chided himself.
You’ve gotta stop doing that
.

And then there was his wife’s opinion of the tribes. “Do you remember talking about that prepper guy from the gun store?” she had asked. “The locals have a similar point of view, and in a way, it’s refreshing. I think you would actually appreciate how they live their lives. Hell, I might even consider moving here. It’s beautiful, and I love the people.”

But today, on payday, with cool weather and crisp air, the Texan wasn’t going to worry about any of it. The truck needed fuel. He wanted to get something nice for Terri to celebrate when his family returned home in a few days. He needed seeds and perhaps a new windmill pump. He was hungry.

Using his thumbs like he was hiking up a gun belt, Bishop then tipped his hat low, and began sauntering down the sidewalk. “I wonder where a man can get a bacon cheeseburger in this one horse town.”

THE END

A note from Joe:

To all of the loyal readers of the Holding Their Own series, I’m pleased to announce that there will be an 11
th
title, currently scheduled for release mid-summer of 2015. Thank you one and all, and God bless.