The Independents (27 page)

“Mr. Bishop, there you are! We were on our way to see Grandpa
,
and I wondered if you would like to go with us?”

“I just left your grandpa
,
Sam, and he
’s
sleeping now. He’s fine, just needing lots of rest.”

Sam seemed a little disappointed, but recovered quickly. “What are you going to do now? Can we go to the market? We were watching all of the people through the w
indow,
and it looks interesting. Can we go?”

Bishop thought a distraction might help clear his
head, so he agreed to accompany the pair
through the market. He turned to
David
.
“I have a rifle I might want to trade today
. Would you mind carrying it
? I want to keep this one with me
,
and carrying two would suck.”

David nodded
, and the three headed
to the
shot up Hummer in the parking area.
Bishop pulled the second MP5 he had taken off of th
e dead Colombians out of the back
, check
ed
to see if it were
loaded
, and passed
it to the tall, thin teenager.

David immediately racked t
he bolt to see if the weapon were
loaded, which surprised Bishop just a little.
After scrutinizing the weapon carefully, David remarked
, “H&K MP5
. P
robably made in their Rio plant from the markings. You can tell those guys were from the city. The
9 mm
this thing shoots is about worthless at any distance. Dad told me the SAS use these on rescue missions
,
but have had
trouble taking down their opponents with a single
shot.”

Bishop’s
raised
eye
brows marked his surprise.
“So
,
you know weapons?”

“My d
ad is Air Force Para
r
escue.
He and I used to go shooting a lot. I only like the long distanc
e stuff and won a couple trophies
in the NRA junior leagues. Sam shoots pretty
well
too, but doesn’t like the noise.”

Bishop whistled, “Para
r
escue? Your d
ad must be one
hell of a
soldier
,
David. Those guys are one of the most elit
e units in the entire
m
ilitary. I
’ve
heard about their qualification school.”

Sam chimed in. “I hate shooting, but my dad and g
randpa made me go. David teased me about how I hold a pistol
, and the ear
phones mess up my hair.
My daddy joined so he could save wounded pilots. I bet if he was here, he could
help
Grandpa.
”

Sam’s comment brought Bishop back to his conversation with
the Colonel
fo
r a moment. He didn’t want to
mentally go
there just yet, so he told David to sling the MP5 over his back and handed him the remaining two magazines to carry.

As the threesome trekked
to Main Street, it was like entering a different world o
f
sights,
sounds,
and smells. Word had spread quickly to the surrounding ranches and homes about the
Meraton
market. It was free enterprise in its rawest form because U.S. currency no longer held any value. Everything was barter and trade, which made negotiating interesting, to say the least.

People came to the market using all modes of transportation. There were
beat up
old farm trucks,
ATVs,
two motorcycles
, hand-
pulled carts and
even a moped. By far the most popular however, were
horses. Bishop pointed out how someone had taken rope and scrap lumber to make rails for tying up horses.
Every streetlight
and
highway sign had b
een repurposed,
and dozens of horses were now hitched around the town. Someone had put
sweet grass
in wicker baskets
, and the buckets
in front of every makeshift hitching post
were filled with water
.

As they entered the market, the smells arising from th
e street were another clear indication
that commerce was underway.
Small adobe ovens baked fresh bread on the spot. A local rancher butchered
beef right out of the back of his pickup truc
k.
An assortment of homemade candles was
lit
, their sweet scent competing with all the other odors
of the outdoor bazaar.

Anyone
was welcome to
come
in
to
Meraton
and part
icipate in the market. Each morning, the full-time merchants
along Main Street sat out
their display
tables of all sorts and sizes. It was first come, first serve
,
and the best spots were occupied
right away. Some people
simply
walked around with their goods, holding up homemade signs. Bishop saw one man with an old shotgun on his shoulder. Sticki
ng out of the barrel was a hand-
le
ttered sign that read
, “Will trade for a healthy
hen
.”

Sam tugged on Bishop’s arm.
“Mr. Bishop, why is everyone carrying a gun? Are
n’t
there policemen?”

Bishop paused to explain.
“There
are
no policemen here
,
Sam. If there is trouble, some of the town’s men will come, but there are no regular la
wmen. All of these folks carry
gun
s
because there are some bad people in every crowd
,
and everyone knows they have to be ready to take care of themselves.”

David decided to help.
“Sam, it’s like those cowboy
movies D
ad likes to watch. We
’re
out in the Wild W
est now.”

Sam pondered this for a minute
,
and then looked at Bishop
’s rifle slung across his chest.
“Mr. Bishop, if there’s trouble, I’ll come looking for you.”

Bishop patted her on the head, “Sam, if there’s trouble, you won’t have to look for me. I’ll be right beside you.”
He meant it.

The teens adjusted quickly to the activity
around them
,
and Bishop let the
m drift further and
further from
his side. He was glad they seemed to want to sta
y together
, though he never let them out of his sight.

As they slowly made their way up the street, Bishop couldn’t help but
notice
how
much
things had changed in just a few short months. The word “finite” kept creep
ing into his mind. After
T
erri
and he
had settled in
the
camper, th
ey realized that the
supplies and equipment
they brought from Houston
were now “finite.”
It seemed like every activity,
chore or task depleted their limited resources. As was his habit
, Bishop
was cleaning
a
weapon one day after returning from a hunting trip. He picked up the small container of gun oil and realized it would be empty one of these days
,
and he had no idea where to get more or how to make a substitute. T
erri had been washing their bed
sheets
when
a corner had caught on a rock
and torn. They no longer could run to the mall and buy new linens. Factories were not
even making new sheets
anymore.

Almost every single item touched,
used,
or c
onsumed had now become finite.
As the
group
meandered through the market, Bishop
found his eye was drawn more and more to items that were homemade or renewable
rather than those that had bee
n manufactured
in some far off production line before the collapse
. He stoppe
d in front of one table that held
a few small stacks of cloth. Two ladies
,
s
itting behind their “counter,”
were
explaining to another woman how they had woven the cloth. One of the
women
had an old spinning wheel in
the corner of her house, an heir
loom from her grandmother. The antique decoration was now being pressed into service once again.

It wasn’t difficult to imagine that knowledge would soon be as valuable as goods. It had always been that way he supposed, but what was going to be in demand now was old
ways
rather than new. Six months ago, a new car had more value than an old one. Now, a horse and wagon would be worth more than a brand new Mercedes
.
The latest softw
are was in demand before, now Bishop
and Terri would
be glad to
trade
just to find a workable recipe for soap. They wouldn’t even consider the latest model laptop with a
gazillion
mega-
whatever
s
– it was worthless to them now
.

As it always had, the market cheered him up in so many small ways. Since he had been here last, he could see that more and more of the goods being offered had actually been ma
de after the collapse. His realization
seemed to push that word “finite” toward the back of his mind a little.

They browsed
about halfway through the
vendors
when Bishop noticed a large crowd of people surrounding a table in front of Pe
te’s. Bishop checked on David and Sam
, who were busy petting a lamb tied up to the back bumper of a farm truck, and wandered over to see what was so interesting
.

Before he could even see through the crowd surrounding the table, he heard Terri’s voice. She was manning the table and clearly enjoying it. As he came around behind her, he could see an old igloo cooler and several small bottles were on the table. Some of the bottles had pieces of tape on them
, hand
written labels
lettered with
either “Rye” or “Gin.”
The cooler was clearly identified as “Ale.”

Terri looked up
suddenly
to
see her husband by her side, “Hey babe, do you want a sample too?”

Bishop sized up the crowd before asking
,
“Terri, what the hell are you doing?”

Terri didn’t answer him right away. She was busy keeping track of the customers gathered around her tabl
e. There were four men negotiating
with her all at once and another five or six who were trying to get a sample
.
Terri was chatting, observing,
joking,
and serv
ing little bits of the liquids into cups that were being sampled by the interested parties.

When there was a short pause in the action, she
smiled at Bishop.
“Pete wanted the rifle you gave me, but he didn’t have anything
to trade
but booze. He
’s
been making moonshine and brewing his own ale. We agreed that I would trade him the rifle for so much white light
e
ning
,
and then I could trade
that
for what we really needed. I decided that it would
sell better
if folks could taste test
.”

Terri stood on her
tiptoes
and whispered in Bishop’s ear.
“These guys get a couple of samples in them
,
and they don’t negotiate so well.” She immediately returned to a fri
endly argument about the exchange rate for gin and relative value of
one man’s stack of
used
dishtowels
.