by Joe Nobody
Holding Their Own VIII: The Directives
By
Joe Nobody
Copyright © 2014
Kemah Bay Marketing, LLC
All rights reserved.
Edited by:
E. T. Ivester
D. Allen
www.joenobodybooks.com
This is a work of fiction. Characters and events are products of the author’s imagination, and no relationship to any living person is implied. The locations, facilities, and geographical references are set in a fictional environment.
Other Books by Joe Nobody:
Holding Your Ground: Preparing for Defense if it All Falls Apart
The TEOTWAWKI Tuxedo: Formal Survival Attire
Without Rule of Law: Advanced Skills to Help You Survive
Holding Their Own: A Story of Survival
Holding Their Own II: The Independents
Holding Their Own III: Pedestals of Ash
Holding Their Own IV: The Ascent
Holding Their Own V: The Alpha Chronicles
Holding Their Own VI: Bishop’s Song
Holding Their Own VII: Phoenix Star
The Home Schooled Shootist: Training to Fight with a Carbine
Apocalypse Drift
The Little River Otter
The Olympus Device: Book One
The Olympus Device: Book Two
Prologue
“I’m not a soldier or a warrior anymore,” the grizzled sergeant whispered. “I’m a zombie herder.”
With a practiced eye, he scanned the lines of humanity shuffling forward, waiting their turns for what the locals called, “manna,” or food from heaven.
In reality, heaven was a pair of semi-trailers parked on a highway overpass. The manna was pre-packaged rations, occasionally MREs, most times bulk bags of rice, corn, or beans. God was the US Army, dropping the meager quantities from the bridge to those waiting in line below.
A ring of security surrounded the trucks, courtesy of the sergeant’s rifle company. The foot patrols were augmented by two escorting Humvees, each mounted with a heavy machine gun. Their primary mission was to deny any civilians the opportunity of approaching the ultra-valuable commodities inside those trailers.
The people of Houston rarely chanced the urge to rush the trucks these days. The combination of “Shoot to kill” orders, and the isolated high ground provided by the overpass, had all but eliminated the riots.
Two hundred meters ahead, perched over the lanes below, he could observe bustling activity as the trucks were unloaded, slight packages of food being released into desperate, outstretched hands below. The unloaders were distributing their cargo in a rush, experience having taught them to “Get in and get out,” as quickly as possible. Besides, there were only two semis today, and that could mean trouble.
Returning his gaze to the cued citizens of the Bayou City, he scanned for signs of discord, agitation, or outright disobedience. He’d seen it before - more than once. It took only one troublemaker… one person raising a voice of protest or complaint to spark the fire of insurrection. That meant shooting, cleaning up the bodies, and tons of paperwork. He hated paperwork.
His eyes worked the crowd, noting a young man fidgeting on the balls of his feet, a nervous up and down bounce that bore closer scrutiny. There was a stooped, middle-aged woman mumbling to herself as she crept forward in the line. She too earned a spot on the sergeant’s short list of potential troublemakers.
But, for the most part, his gaze revealed nothing more than the typical assembly; a wretched, filthy, thin, coughing, mass… unfortunately representative of the zone’s surviving civilian population. Zombies lurching forward on unstable legs, eager to be fed.
He turned to the eastbound lane, the exit route where his men herded the benefactors after they had received their manna from government-heaven.
Here was where the majority of his men were posted, a virtual skirmish line of soldiers scrutinizing with keen diligence as the newly food-endowed citizens scurried away with their bounty. Trouble could start here too, but it would be of a different nature.
Young girls lounged around, rows of their scantily clad, brightly clothed bodies propped against the wide assortment of abandoned cars and trucks. The rusting hulks were leftovers, relics from a time when a desperate population collectively attempted to flee the city and wound up idling on gridlocked freeways until they ran out of gas.
On manna-day, the prostitutes came out in droves, hoping to invoke the world’s oldest profession in exchange for food, ration tickets, or other valuables. It was payday, and the girls were working the passersby, hoping to score a generous John or Joan.
Technically, prostitution was against the law, but so were many things that the NCO let pass. Hell, the majority of his men and he had sampled the local wares. Over two years away from home could make a man overlook certain regulations. Over two years of enforcing martial law, of being the grocer, doctor, policeman, social services provider, and fireman to the civilian population could encourage a man to ignore those rules and regulations.
It had all taken a toll. The sergeant’s unit was beyond being merely demoralized, racked by desertions, and the constant victim of mounting insubordination. If his troopers wanted to blow off a little steam by spending 10 minutes with a pretty girl, that was just fine with him. “An MRE will set you free,” was the motto amongst the troops.
Mingled with the hookers were the scavengers and peddlers, hawking their merchandise for barter to those passing through. The eastbound lane had become a spontaneous marketplace, free enterprise springing up within minutes of the manna’s arrival.
He noticed a group of men gathered nearby, the unauthorized meeting drawing the attention of his corporal and two privates. Sighing at the potential sign of trouble, he moved to check it out. “Damn, I really hate paperwork,” he mumbled, increasing his pace.
Unauthorized assemblies of five or more people were against regulations, and for good reason. Insurrection had broken out in more than one of Houston’s 56 districts, and the sergeant wasn’t about to let anything get started in his. Rebellion led to more casualties, cremations, and double shifts, not to mention the myriad of forms and depositions the zone’s commanders would heap upon his person.
Twenty feet away, he exhaled with relief. His lieutenant was among the group, standing next to a man everyone called Uncle Nate, the civilian representative of District 17. The presence of his commanding officer meant this gathering was authorized. If trouble broke out, the paperwork would be stacked on the LT’s desk, not his.
The sergeant could see them all huddled together, each man reading a sheet of paper. It was an unusual sight. Lieutenant James peered up at the sergeant’s approach, a curt nod the only acknowledgement of his arrival. Without a word, James passed his subordinate a document, the single page of typeset print clearly of the Army’s making.
“The Alliance of West Texas to Assume Command of the Houston Control Zone,” was the title. It took only a few minutes for the sergeant to finish reading the article.
“What’s this mean, sir?” he questioned the officer.
“It means there’s a new sheriff coming to town. It means the US government is pulling out, and this homegrown organization is taking over.”
Rumors of the Alliance and the progress in West Texas had made the rounds, but no one really knew what to make of the stories. Now, out of the blue, was this.
“We are going to hold division-wide assemblies in the next few days,” the lieutenant stated. “Each man is to be given the choice of staying with the 7th, or transferring to a unit still under the control of Washington and the Pentagon. Staying means swearing an oath to this new government.”
Uncle Nate stepped closer, the civilian
’s expression unreadable. “I like their list of directives,” he began, pointing at his copy. “I sure hope they can do better implementing them than what we’ve seen so far out of DC.”
The sergeant gazed down, focusing in on the five items listed. They read:
Energy
Agriculture
Security
Transportation
Communications
Uncle Nate continued, “Says here that, and I quote, ‘All of the Alliance’s resources are to be aligned in order to achieve these directives.’ Do you think they’ve got more food out in the western part of the state than we have here?”
Both of the military men shrugged. “Only time will tell,” the officer offered, “At this point, you know as much as I do.”
Uncle Nate decided he wasn’t going to receive any additional input, and wandered off, seeking more talkative company. Once they were out of earshot, the sergeant engaged his leader for a more detailed response. “Seriously, sir, what does this mean?”
“As usual, we’re the last to know here in lovely suburban Houston. General Zackery is supposed to be holding briefings tomorrow, so I should be filled in shortly afterwards. What I do know is that everyone back at Hood was given this choice a few days ago. Most of the division is staying put… probably no better place to go. But others are leaving. I guess they’ve had enough fun in Texas.”
“How many are transferring, sir? Has anyone said?”
“No specific numbers have been cited, but the scuttlebutt is that not many are heading out. Captain Henning just arrived from Hood, and he told me that there were only a few farewell celebrations in progress. He said he drove through the on-base housing and only noticed a handful of moving vans.”
“What about you, sir?”
“I’m staying, Sergeant. I’ve been hearing about this group out of West Texas for months now. According to a friend of mine from Fort Bliss, there are electric lights in many of the towns out there. He claims that food, minerals, and manufactured goods are moving by the truckload. He believes this new civilian leadership has its shit together.”
The sergeant was skeptical. For two years, command had been promising to turn the electricity back on within 90 days. It had never occurred. Examining the thin, sunken-faced wretches passing by, he reasoned that hollow promises made for hollow people. What made the Alliance leadership so sure they could pull off what had perplexed and baffled the best minds in the country since the collapse?
“I’ll believe it when I see it,” the NCO commented. “I hope those poor bastards from out west realize what they’re getting themselves into.”
The First Directive - Energy
Like ghostly apparitions from a teen horror flick, the blurry, white images appeared oddly distorted against the background of stark blacks and grays. “Contact,” Bishop whispered into his microphone as he adjusted the infrared optic’s focus. A slight twist of the control fine-tuned the clarity.
“I’ve got eight… no, make that nine individuals at 250 meters,” he transmitted.
Without removing his eye from the device, his finger found a button and pushed. The image changed drastically, the ghoulish, spirit-like outlines now becoming red and angry. A blinking line of text appeared at the bottom of the display informing him that red now equaled “hot.”
A party of demons strolling through purgatory, he mused.
“I’m looking at a work group of some sort,” Bishop broadcast. “There are eight people carrying shovels, hoes and rakes, and one guy with a rifle. I can’t tell if he’s protection for the detail… or its jailer.”
“Does it matter?” Major Baxter’s cynical, but hushed voice sounded in his ear.
Prick, Bishop thought. That guy’s sphincter is so tight, you couldn’t drive in a straight pin with a sledgehammer.
Bishop continued to ponder the officer’s harsh comment for a moment. Regardless of the role of the passing guard/jailer, his presence signaled organization at some level. Little more could be learned from his inclusion in the group.
“I suppose not,” he replied. “They’re heading away from me, so I’m continuing to the objective. See you at the roadblock.”
A few minutes later, Bishop scrambled down a small, roadside knoll, keeping low and quiet as he stalked through waist-high weeds and brush. Again, pausing to orient himself to the surroundings, he mentally reviewed the next phase of their plan – the barricade.
Bishop’s head and body were shrouded in a net, the nylon mesh laced with grass, weeds, small branches, and other local foliage. It was heavy, hot and scratchy, but a necessary precaution. Even in the low light of pre-dawn, despite their overwhelming numbers, surprise was always the strongest ally.
Slowly, ever so cautiously, he inched closer to the target. Gone were the days when vigilant mowing teams cropped the grass and errant shrubs from the road’s shoulder. These days, the resulting thicket provided good concealment, almost to the edge of the pavement. The undergrowth was integral to the plan, providing means for a takedown without gunplay. Their orders had been clear and firm – don’t let them breathe, think, or react. Complete, overwhelming domination would keep fingers away from triggers.
A campfire smoldered ahead, its dying embers and low flicker providing an excellent reference point. Bishop slowed his pace even further; small, deliberate steps interspaced with gaps of time. No matter how well his camouflage imitated the local shrubbery, movement attracted the human eye.
Up ahead was the roadblock, now a common fixture in post-apocalyptic towns and cities everywhere.
Communities had learned the hard way - people were the problem. In the early days of the nationwide collapse, transients began roaming the countryside. Some were simply desperate, needing food, water, or shelter to survive. Others harbored more nefarious intentions.
As post-collapse time dragged on, the population became increasingly desperate. Society’s remnants began to realize that help wasn’t on the way; that things weren’t going to bounce back to normal. Yesterday was no more, its hasty return doubtful.
Many began assessing their available assets and commodities. Everyone from soldiers to priests, principals to city managers struggled with the same dilemma - how to feed and care for their people.
Those who didn’t ignored history at their own peril. Throughout the ages, hungry people were unruly people. Underfed populations were notorious for overthrowing kings, governments and local leaders. Empty stomachs led to unrest and revolt. It was a biological reality that many mayors, city councils, and town managers didn’t initially grasp.
An education on such matters was soon delivered, however, often via the muzzle of a rifle or flaming embers of a torch.
The vast majority found that food, medical supplies, and fuel were already in short supply. When it dawned on local leaders that they couldn’t feed their own families or neighbors, normally compelling, charitable impulses of benevolence evaporated. Additional mouths meant less food for their own. They reacted swiftly, taking drastic steps to shoo away the refugees and vagabonds traveling the countryside.
Over time, many learned that a roadblock was an extremely effective tool. The “anti-Welcome Wagon,” it projected a message… a billboard of sorts that advertised, “Look elsewhere for your new address. Keep moving. Looters will be shot.” The barricade Bishop was approaching, complete with its armed, tough-looking men, accomplished just that purpose.
A tow truck parked sideways in the road, its girth no doubt intended to intimidate anyone entertaining a plot to barge through. Two pickup trucks bookended the larger, heavier vehicle, their positioning rendering it impossible to drive around the barrier. Sandbagged fighting positions, a large tent, campfire, and several 50-gallon barrels rounded out the configuration.
It was obvious this obstruction had been in use for some time. As he scanned the target with the thermal optic, Bishop noted the stacks of firewood, BBQ grill and lawn chairs. Someone had even hauled out a porta-potty so the guards wouldn’t
have to dig cat holes.
It was also clear that the garrison manning the facility was bored. Only one of the three sentries appeared to be awake, his level of alertness questionable.
Bishop studied the sentry closely. A full beard, long, unkempt hair and some sort of soiled baseball cap indicated the fellow wasn’t part of a well-disciplined unit. Outfitted with an AR15 or similar weapon, but no load-rig, body armor or sidearm, he didn’t seem to appreciate the seriousness of his role.
This may be easier than we thought, Bishop judged, keeping a close eye on the guard as he crept ever closer.
The watchman was sitting in a dilapidated lawn chair, shreds and threads of the nylon webbing dangling beneath the seat. Apparently, there was some interesting memory or vision in the blaze, the man’s eyes seemingly mesmerized by the flames. Bishop couldn’t be sure, but he thought he noticed the gentleman’s head nod forward as if he were dozing off. Sleeping bag-covered lumps and the distant rumbling of one guy’s snoring pinpointed the other members of the garrison.
Baxter’s voice sounded through the earpiece. “Scouts, report your positions.”
Bishop didn’t immediately respond. He was designated as number three and would wait his turn.
One click sounded across the frequency, closely followed by two more depressions of the sender’s microphone. Scout one, two minutes from being in position.
The process was repeated by number two, who responded that he was within one minute of the objective.
Show off, Bishop thought as he pressed a sequence indicating he was still three minutes from being ready. I’m going to be the last one present and accounted for. Baxter will love that shit.
He was so close now; any mistake would give him away. Each footfall took time, Bishop allowing his weight to shift forward at a snail’s pace. Even the crack of the smallest branch or twig could alert the sentries.
Two clicks and then nothing. Scout number two was in position.
