The Directives

by Joe Nobody

  There were only a few cars parked in the town’s business center, all of the windows covered with a layer of dust and grime. Some smart-ass, long ago, had possessed enough energy to write, “Wash me” across the back glass of one late model sedan. Now, the scrawled text was barely legible, almost completely obscured by a new layer of dirt.

  The municipal grounds were completely overgrown, thigh-high weeds competing with bushy shrubs that had once been manicured with pride. Bishop noted several bullet holes in the limestone façade, many of the darkened windows void of glass.

  Red continued driving, bypassing what Bishop had assumed would be the center of any government still functioning. Two blocks further, the driver parked in front of a smaller, modern brick building.

  “Welcome to City Hall,” Red announced.

  It made sense. Scanning the immediate vicinity, Bishop could tell this was the hub of local activity. The small lawn in front of the parking area didn’t need to be mowed; the grass was well worn by indigenous foot traffic. Men and women meandered throughout the scene, a few with children in tow. Two police cars were parked in the small lot; both appeared to be functional.

  “Why don’t you stay here for a bit while I go in and explain what’s going on? I know it’s a bit rude, but these are crazy times, and you just never know how people are going to react.”

  Bishop understood. “That’s cool. I’ll be right here.”

  Red exited the truck, actually looking both ways before he crossed the road. Bishop noted his new acquaintance nodding at a man strolling down the sidewalk, then shouting a warm greeting to another idling by the front door. A moment later, he disappeared inside.

  Bishop opened the passenger door and stood next to his ride. He still had his rifle and full load gear, so he decided to stay close to the truck in order to avoid attracting any attention. Something wasn’t right in Brighton, Texas, but he couldn’t put his finger on it.

  “Stop it,” he whispered, scolding his suspicious nature. “These people have endured the apocalypse. They’re going to act weird. Quit seeing a boogeyman in every shadow. You’re getting as bad as Major Baxter.”

  The two armed men stationed on both sides of the mayor’s office nodded as Red approached. “He’s in a meeting,” the older guard greeted. “Are you sure you want to interrupt?”

  “This is important… very important,” Red responded as he reached for the doorknob.

  Amy Sue was present and accounted for, at her normal post in the reception area. Her toothy smile automatically flashed before she’d even looked up to see who was coming through the door.

  “Hello, Red,” she said. “I thought you were on roadblock duty this morning?”

  “I need to see Lewis,” he responded. “It’s urgent.”

  “Well, he’s meeting with Mr. Winfrey and the sheriff right now. I’m not sure how long he’ll be tied up.”

  “This is more important… believe me Amy Sue… I need to see him now.”

  Shrugging her shoulders, the secretary pushed her chair back and sashayed around the desk. She knocked lightly on the door leading to the inner sanctum and then pushed it open a few inches.

  “Mayor, Red is here, and he insists it’s urgent.”

  A gruff voice sounded from inside, “Tell him I’ll be finished up here in a few ….”

  Red rushed past the surprised woman and entered the office. “This can’t wait, Lew.”

  The mayor’s headquarters was impressive for a town the size of Brighton. A large, darkly stained, walnut desk monopolized the room, its size and positioning designed to project power and authority. Behind the monument-sized workspace stood three colorful flags; beyond them, the bureau emblems of the United States and Texas bookended a central design embroidered with the city seal.

  One wall was covered with framed photographs, most displaying a smiling Lew shaking hands with a myriad of celebrities, national politicians, and professional sports figures. A huge map of the town hung opposite, the streets, landmarks, and city facilities highlighted in a rainbow of colors.

  Red noticed none of this however, his attention focused on the two gray-haired men sitting in the leather visitors’ chairs. “I’m glad you’re both here. You’ll want to hear this as well.”

  “What’s wrong, Red?” the man behind the big desk asked. “I’ve never known you to come barging in here like this.”

  “We’ve got company,” Red began, and then proceeded to inform the gathered men of the morning’s events.

  “And he’s waiting outside?” Lew asked.

  “Yes. I talked him into coming by himself. The rest of the military is parked by the barricade. If they don’t get word in an hour, the asshole officer in charge is going to come rolling into town.”

  “Shit,” the mayor muttered, standing to peer out the window. “Just when things are starting to go well, this crap gets dumped in our laps.”

  Mr. Winfrey spoke next, “Are you sure they don’t know anything about the war?”

  “I don’t think so,” Red answered honestly. “From the questions Bishop was asking, I don’t think they have a clue about our recent history.

  Lew spun around, his focus falling on the sheriff. “What occurred here was perfectly legal, gentlemen. There was a countywide emergency declared, and duly elected officials executed extreme measures to ensure the survival of our citizens. There’s nothing more to it.”

  The sheriff grunted, “You keep telling yourself that, Lew. Soon, you might even believe your own tale. I know we did what we had to, but if the truth ever sees the light of day, it’s not going to be pretty.”

  The mayor’s face blustered red. The man pointed his finger at the local lawman and tilted his head forward as if preparing to issue a scolding.

  Red didn’t give him a chance, “I don’t think this guy, or these Alliance people, give a rat’s ass about what happened here. They want Condor up and producing product. As least that was my impression.”

  The room became quiet, all four men occupied by their own thoughts.

  Winfrey’s composed voice finally interrupted the silence. “Whatever we decide, I don’t think it wise to leave our guest outside cooling his heels. Red, go escort the man in. We’ll decide what to do before you get back.”

  Nodding his agreement, Red quickly left to retrieve Bishop. As soon as he was out the door, Winfrey continued. “Your brother-in-law might become a liability, Lew. We need to keep an eye on him. As far as the Army goes, it sounds like they are coming into town, whether we like it or not. I suggest you welcome them with your best pre-election smile and then stall. That will give us time to assess the situation and determine our next move.”

  Lew agreed. “As usual, you’re right. I’m glad you never wanted to be in politics, Winfrey. I probably would never have been elected mayor if you’d thrown your hat into the ring.”

  The older man smirked, “Why would I want to engage in such activity? Being the president of the biggest bank in town is more than enough for me, Lew. I have plenty of influence as it is; my ego requires no more. Besides, politics is a messy affair. I’m very content right where I am.”

  Before Lew could reply, Amy Sue knocked again on the door. “Sir, Red is back with a visitor.”

  “Good! Good!” the mayor replied with exaggerated cheer. “Please, show him right in.”

  Bishop felt a little out of place. Still wearing a full combat load on his vest, the slung battle rifle, bush hat, and fighting knife somehow seemed inappropriate for what was essentially a diplomatic meeting.

  After handshakes and introductions, the mayor indicated Bishop should take a seat, an offer the Texan declined.

  “I don’t want to appear impolite or uppity, Mr. Mayor,” Bishop began, “But I left a significant number of very nervous, very well-armed men back at the blockade. I want to return there as soon as possible before anxious thoughts fill their minds.”

  “Completely understandable, sir,” Lew answered. “What is it exactly you want from us?
Red gave us a quick overview, but that only left a partial understanding of the situation.”

  “I’m here to offer you a chance to rejoin society, Mayor,” Bishop answered. “I represent an organized group of communities stretching across the state. We have elected a government, established rule of law in dozens of towns, and we are now striving to kick-start a recovery in Houston, Dallas, Austin, and San Antonio. We need the Condor manufacturing facility up and running as soon as possible. We are willing to offer a considerable amount of assistance to facilitate that event, as well as help you and the local leaders with whatever issues may be troubling your fine city.”

  It was Winfrey’s turn to speak. “What type of assistance is available?”

  Bishop tried to remember who the older man was, the introductions occurring so quickly. Ah, he thought, the banker. Maybe Terri and he can meet sometime and tell old loan jokes or something.

  Dismissing the thought, Bishop answered the question. “We have food, fuel and some medical supplies. We can offer help with security, some transportation needs, and initially, small amounts of electricity. But most importantly, we can open up trade between Brighton and the rest of the Alliance. We’ve found trade has done more to advance recovery than any other single effort.”

  “But we’re doing fine,” Lew responded. “We could always use medical supplies and fuel, but our people have full stomachs, and the sheriff here has done an excellent job maintaining law and order.”

  Bishop was perplexed by the mayor’s statement. He had always imagined that any community would be happy to jump on the Alliance bandwagon. He had contemplated having to convince the town’s leaders that his mission wasn’t hostile, and that democracy was still alive and well in Texas. But to be shunned after giving his sales pitch wasn’t something he’d anticipated.

  “Are you saying you don’t want our help?” Bishop frowned.

  “No… no I didn’t mean exactly that,” the mayor replied.

  Again, the banker interrupted. “You must pardon us, sir. This is all a surprise, hitting us completely out of the blue. Of course, we are interested in what you and your new government have to offer our citizens. While our elected officials have done an excellent job given the extreme circumstances encountered, there is always room for improvement.”

  That guy is powerful, Bishop noted. He’s the real authority in this room.

  The sheriff picked up where Winfrey had left off, “Why don’t we have them pull their trucks into the square, Mr. Mayor? They can occupy the courthouse if they need a roof over their heads or somewhere to work. I’m sure it’s a mess, but it would beat pitching tents.”

  Lew seemed to agree. “That’s an excellent idea, Sheriff.” He then turned to Bishop and extended his hand, “I’ll have Red escort you back out to the roadblock. He can then guide you and your convoy back into town. I propose that you set up, at least temporarily, in the courthouse. After you’ve had a chance to settle, we’ll schedule a meeting and get the process rolling. Would that be acceptable?”

  Bishop agreed, looking at his watch. “Thank you gentlemen, I look forward to working with you.”

  An hour later, the convoy pulled into downtown Brighton. Bishop, riding in the second vehicle behind Baxter’s command Humvee, was surprised at the number of people who turned out to watch the parade.

  For the most part, the population looked reasonably healthy. He’d seen much, much worse. Most of the men wore longish beards; few sported short hairstyles. The women looked plain and unadorned, makeup evidently no longer available or in vogue. Still, most of the people appeared reasonably put together, recently bathed and adequately clothed.

  Bishop didn’t note a single heavy person among the crowds of onlookers, but that was to be expected. “There’s nothing like an apocalypse to encourage weight loss,” he teased with the driver.

  But the locals weren’t starving either. Bishop spotted children scampering about, playing next to their parents, the display of energy unlikely if malnourishment was common. The people looked healthy enough, the vast majority between 20 and 50 years old.

  A few of the younger men were armed. Bishop spotted sidearms, hunting rifles and a couple of shotguns. As they ventured closer to the main square, he noticed four men with badges and AR15 rifles standing on one corner. “The sheriff’s deputies,” he guessed.

  Despite no sign of starvation or abuse, there was still an odd demeanor about the local population. Bishop kept trying to figure it out as they passed, but couldn’t quite put a finger on it. Something was just a little bit off.

  It finally dawned on him as they turned to enter the square. Not one person had smiled or waved at the convoy. Again, the reaction wasn’t what he’d anticipated.

  While Bishop hadn’t expected a tickertape parade or the local marching band to greet their arrival, he found it odd that such a display of men and material entering town did not seem to invoke at least a little optimism. That’s it, he thought. It’s almost as if they’re sorry to see us.

  For a moment, Bishop was troubled by the reaction. Why weren’t people at least friendly or curious? Soldiers, in any procession, normally elicited a positive response. Americans were normally proud of the military.

  Then Bishop remembered Red’s recounting of the rogue guardsmen who roughed up the town. Maybe that’s it, he considered. Maybe they’re waiting to see if we plan to do the same thing.

  Red’s escorting pickup parked in front of the courthouse, the remainder of the convoy pulling into spots all around the large building. “Don’t forget to put a quarter in the meter,” Bishop harassed his chauffeur. “We don’t want to piss off the locals by trying to avoid a ticket.”

  The private laughed, “Will do, sir.”

  Before Bishop could exit, Baxter was at the door. “What is wrong with these people?” the officer asked. “I felt like I was driving through Kabul with all the hard looks thrown our way.”

  “I agree, sir. I felt a hostility as well. I’m writing it off to the town’s previous bad experiences with men in uniform,” Bishop answered.

  “Well, I’m not taking any chances with security. Can I count on your men to help with guard duty?”

  For once, Bishop had to agree with the aggressive man. “Yes, sir. We can pull our share. Just have the sergeant let me know the duty roster, and I’ll provide the headcount.”

  Red produced a ring of keys, eventually finding a match for the makeshift padlock securing the chained doors of the courthouse. Bishop pointed to the nearby bullet holes. “What happened there?”

  Red seemed a little embarrassed. “When the food started running out, we had some folks get pretty upset. A few of them decided they needed to take matters into their own hands and tried to take over. Fortunately, they were small in number, and order eventually prevailed.”

  Bishop assessed the visible battle damage with a keen eye. “Fortunately.”

  With both Bishop and Baxter in tow, they entered the dark, moldy smelling structure. “All of the local government has been moved over to City Hall. You can use this entire building if you want. There’s no water, and obviously no electricity, but it will keep the sun off your head. It was built before there was air conditioning, so if you open the windows, there should be a reasonable breeze. Some fresh air might help with the stuffiness.”

  A few minutes later, Red was off, leaving the new arrivals to their own devices. Baxter wasted no time, issuing orders for placement of vehicles, assigning sentries, and designating office space.

  Bishop’s sixth sense was on full alert, a combination of the reception they had received and the up-close view of the bullet damage to the building they were now occupying. He paid special attention to Baxter’s deployment of security.

  And as much as he hated to admit it, the officer did an excellent job. Like a spider weaving a web, the major layered their security. Starting with the likely avenues of approach and ending with a two-man overwatch position on the courthouse’s top floor, the Texan had to ackno
wledge Baxter knew what he was doing.

  “My compliments on the security arrangements, Major,” Bishop said. “Excellent work.”

  Baxter didn’t know how to take the compliment, his expression puzzled as he vacillated between sarcasm and sincerity.

  Bishop smiled, “Seriously, I’m not fucking with you. Nice work.”

  Acknowledging Bishop with a curt nod, Baxter hustled off, apparently unhappy with the placement of a nearby Humvee. Bishop stood and watched the officer’s exit. Eventually shaking his head, he then set off to make sure his men were doing their part.

  As he rounded the corner, a woman holding a small child on her hip came into view. She was across the street, innocently watching the soldiers as they unpacked equipment. Her hair was similar in color and length to Terri’s, the baby not much older than Hunter.

  Bishop paused for a moment, the scene making him yearn to hold his own wife and child. The tightening of his chest was unpleasant, and resentment began to build. “Why can’t I manage to stay with my family?” he asked the empty air. “Why does life keep separating us?”

  Bishop’s morning was filled with unloading boxes, dusting off old chairs and setting up a basic space to sleep. By 11:30, it was already over 95 degrees outside, the air thick with humidity.

  He had found a cozy first floor office, the stenciled sign indicating it had previously been occupied by the county clerk. It had all the available modern conveniences, including one window that actually opened, rows of filing cabinets full of musty smelling papers, and less than a half inch of dust on every surface. The in-suite commode smelled worse than the old files, but closing the door seemed to block the fouler aspects of the air.

  After cleaning the remaining foliage out of his survival net, Bishop located two large screw hooks that he judged would hold his weight. He whispered an apology to the absent clerk, then screwed the large threads into a pair of opposing doorframes and strung the net as a hammock using some paracord from his pack. It was the envy of the establishment, many of the soldiers offering him significant barter for the contraption.