The Independents by Joe Nobody Page A

using a high-powered rifle scope. He had found the mystery aircraft and was now spying on it from his perch some 200 feet above and 600 yards to the west of its position . The sun was past its zenith and behind him, but the day was still hot for this time of year. The brim of his hat was soaked , and h e had to use his shirtsleeve to keep the sweat from running into his eyes.
    It looked as though his initial assumption had been correct - the pilot had attempted to land on the highway. It hadn’t taken any great knowledge or mystic powers to reach that conclusion - there was n’t another paved surface for over 50 miles in any direction. Bishop remembered the sputtering sound that had come from the plane’s engine and guessed it had be en without power during descent . While it was difficult to be sure from this distance, it appeared as though the plane had skidded off of the highway and into a small ditch along the side of the road. One wing was sticking up in the air , and the other was broken off, lying some 50 feet away. From this vantage, the plane looked like a plastic toy that had angered a small child and been thrown to the ground in frustration.
    He had been watching the crash site for about ten minutes before he detected any movement. The low spot where the plane rested , combined with the protruding wing obscured most of his view. He did see someone moving down there , and suddenly realized there might be more than one survivor. I didn’t even think about that. How many people can a small plane like that hold? Two, four, six? Shit … there might be six injured people down there.
    After about 20 minutes, the realization set i n that he had to get closer or find a better angle to observe the wreckage . Bisho p was torn between the safety and survival of his family versus the feeling that he should some how help those people on the road . I should just walk away. They are no threat to Terri and me . Just set a few more tripwires between here and there in case they wander toward the camper. I should leave them to their fate.
    After scanning all around, he couldn’t see a better spot. The terrain just wasn’t going to cooperate. He had decided to pull back and head home, when he heard the second unusual noise of the day. It was another engine.
    Highway 98 ran practically straight nort h and south through the barren w est Texas landscape. Starting at the small town of Alpha to the north and ending at Big Bend National Park to the south, it transverses one of the most isolated, uninhabited areas of North America. Even before civilizat ion collapsed, the roadway was lightly used. Th ere were no gas stations, crossroads, or e ven utility poles for mile after dusty mile. It was one of the few state highways in the United States that had no posted speed limit. Drivers were welcome to motor along as fast as they felt comfortable . Besides, there wasn’t any place for a police officer to set a speed trap anyway. About the only sign of civilization along the route was the Border Patrol I nspection Station just north of Big Bend. The men assigned to this remote outpost were often caught napping by the occasional ranch truck passing through. The running joke was that these agents were the best card players in all of Homeland Security given the amount of practice time they logged.
    It took Bishop about 10 seconds to find the source of the new noise. Coming out of the heat wave s rising from the blacktop, stil l two miles to the south, a Hummer raced toward the crashed plane. It wasn’t a military vehicle, but a shiny , black civilian model with lots of chrome glistening in the remaining sunlight . What the hell?
    Not only was it odd to see any car after the collapse, it was very strange to see a clean one. Bishop thought about his truck, safely covered in camouflage nets back at the trailer, and how dirty it was. Who would waste water in these times to wash a car?
    The pristine black Hummer stopped right in the middle of the