Bishop's Song by Joe Nobody

shortly afterward. Desperate, hungry people carrying weapons in the glove box were likely to have a short fuse.”
    After flying a few more minutes, Bishop said, “Let’s turn around. I saw a few pickup trucks about two or three miles back that might work out. Can you land on the roadway?”
    Shrugging his shoulders, Hugh said, “Don’t see why not. The wind is calm , and it looks like there is plenty of space. I’ve only got the fuel to land and takeoff once though.”
    Eventually, Bishop spotted a section of road he’d noted on the first pass. “Set it down right there, as close to that truck as you can.”
    Five minutes later, the small craft achieved wheels-down, rolling to a stop next to a late-model pickup that was the same brand as Bishop’s own 4-wheel drive back in Alpha.
    “Keep your eyes open and the plane ready to go. If you see anybody, yell at me. I’m going to try and get that old girl started.” And with that, Bishop opened the plane’s door and jumped out.
    After taking a moment to get the blood circulating through his legs, he moved to the plane’s cargo hold and removed the “looter’s bag,” Cory had packed for him back home. Hefting the heavy duffle, he made for the red truck.
    The first thing Bishop noticed was the driver’s side glass had been busted out, but that didn’t surprise him. Touring the roadways and scavenging anything useful out of abandoned cars had probably been a full time occupation for some of the locals. Bishop was counting on the inventory having been exhausted months ago, hoping the desperados had moved on to greener pastures.
    Hustling over, his first task was to verify there weren’t any human remains inside. While the driver’s seat was beginning to rot from the window being open to the elements, no other issue presented itself on the interior.
    His next priority was the fuel tank. Time and again, he’d seen people spiking gas tanks. A screwdriver or other sharp tool was used to poke a hole in the bottom of the tank in order to drain out any fuel. It was faster and easier than siphoning, but completely destructive, leaving behind a worthless hunk of sheet metal.
    Se tting down his rifle and bag, he rolled under the truck and smiled when he ascertained the tank was unharmed. No sense in spiking an already empty truck , he mused.
    Rolling out from under the vehicle, Bishop pulled over his rifle and began an earnest inspection of the relic. A thick coating of dust and rain-grime covered the surface of what would have otherwise been a nice looking ride.
    One tire was low, but still holding air. He smiled at Cory’s insistence that a small hand-operated air pump be included in his heavy kit. Other than that, he couldn’t find any problem on the exterior.
    Opening the door, he noticed that the dome lights didn’t shine – a dead battery. Again, this had been anticipated, most of the weight in his looter’s bag being a fully charged spare battery. He popped the hood.
    The engine compartment looked untouched. Using a pair of adjustable pliers, he switched to the new battery in a few minutes. Next came the fuel.
    Rushing back to the plane, he pulled a five-gallon can from it’s tether in the small cargo area and then began pouring the gas into the tank. He only used a gallon – just in case he couldn’t accomplish the next step.
    Soon, it was time for the most difficult part of the salvage – hotwiring the ignition.
    Cory had spent almost four hours working with Bishop on the issue. Modern cars had anti-theft computer chips built into their keys, locking steering columns and hardened ignition switches. It wasn’t going to be easy.
    The memory of the mechanic’s words flooded Bishop’s mind. “All the fancy doodads and anti-theft devices must eventually make a connection between the starter motor and the DC circuit. Computer chips, DNA testing or thumbprints, it doesn’t matter. The battery starts the car – period. You need to find that connection and