The Directives

by Joe Nobody

  “I wonder if I’ll get a merit badge for helping you cross the street.” Bishop mumbled.

  “If you can’t eat it or shoot it, then who gives a shit?” came the hushed reply.

  Before long, they were passing through the outskirts of town, open spaces becoming more common than homes or businesses. Another mile, and Bishop’s new friend shook off his helper and announced, “You’re cute as hell, but I’m spoken for.”

  Bishop snorted at the one-liner and retorted with one of his own. “So can you tell me where we are going yet, or is my blind date still a mystery?”

  “We’re getting close. We have to cut off the road before that next hill. There’s a Brighton roadblock immediately over the rise, and I’d prefer to avoid it if at all possible.”

  The two men angled off into the woods, eating up the distance and circumventing the sentries on the road. After passing by the danger point, Bishop’s guide led them along the edge of what had once been a large field of some now unidentifiable crop. The hike was easier, and they trekked the distance quickly.

  “Our first stop is right up here… about another half mile.”

  The two men approached a farmhouse from the rear, the back porch obscured by waist-high weeds. As they closed in on the abode, Bishop detected several windows were broken out, bullet holes splintering the surrounding frames. The back door was completely missing, black stains of smoke and debris everywhere.

  “Looks like there was a firefight,” Bishop noted. “Quite a serious one at that.”

  “This was the Colbert’s farm,” the actor stated coldly. “Burke Colbert’s great-grandfather traveled to Texas from Germany in the 1800s and settled this land.”

  Bishop strode up the private road, his gaze taking in every detail of the now-empty structure. Someone had poured hundreds of rounds into the home. Not only was there a significant number of entry wounds in the old house’s frame, the driveway and sidewalk were littered with empty shell casings.

  “The Colbert family held out for four hours. Eventually, our illustrious sheriff and his men got tired of wasting ammunition and upped their game with gasoline firebombs. That was the end of it.”

  “Why?” Bishop questioned, trying to keep his voice and thoughts neutral. Experience had taught him that there were always two sides to every story. “What did the Colbert family do? What crimes were they accused of?”

  The stranger shook his head slowly, “I know you don’t have any reason to believe a word I say. That’s why I brought you out here. I’ll answer your questions in a bit, but first, I want you to walk around and look at the front of the house.”

  Bishop obliged, continuing to the front of the farmhouse. When he turned the corner, he inhaled sharply at the scene that confronted him.

  There, nailed to the wall as if they had been crucified on their veranda, hung four skeletons.

  Birds, insects, and the elements had picked the bones clean, only a few shreds of clothing covering the deceased. Bishop turned to his tour guide, his expression a mixture of disgust and sadness. “Why?”

  The stranger didn’t answer immediately. He ambled closer to the first skeleton and pointed to the scrap of faded, red and white checked cloth dangling from the pelvic bone. “This was Martha Colbert. She was my Sunday School teacher back when I was a kid. This fabric is from her kitchen apron. She always wore one around the house.”

  He took another few steps and pointed to the next corpse. “This was Mike Colbert. We graduated from Brighton High School together. He was the captain of the football team and one of my best friends.”

  Motioning Bishop closer, his guide reached up and lifted a belt buckle dangling from the body’s waist. It read, “Texas Division II State Champions – Brighton Tigers.”

  The stranger then lifted his own shirt, an identical award adorning his belt. “We all got one,” were his only words.

  Bishop started to turn away, but his host spoke again. “Before we go, I want you to see one more thing. Look at the skulls. Look at the wounds. Do you know what that means?”

  After a moment of studying each of the four victims, Bishop shook his head in agreement. “Yes, I know what that means. They were executed. Shot in the back of the head. I’ve seen it before… too often, as a matter of fact.”

  “So you asked me what crimes the Colbert family was accused of. A fair question. But does it matter? Even if they had been axe murders on a rampage, did they deserve to be executed and then have their cadavers crucified to a wall?”

  “No,” Bishop responded. “Nobody deserves that. But why? Why would a bunch of deputies and the sheriff do this? What possible motivation could they have for such cruelty?”

  “I’ve got one more thing to show you, and then I’ll answer all of your questions. We have to trudge a few more miles, but I promise… if you want to know the truth, it is worth the effort.”

  Bishop stared hard at the man next to him. “I want to know the truth, but your little mystery game is getting old, my friend. I don’t even know your name.”

  “My name is Evan Condor.”

  “Of Condor Pipe and Valve?”

  “Yes, my father started that business. I was the plant manager before everything went to hell. Dad was grooming me to eventually take over so he could retire.”

  “That plant is the main reason why we came to Brighton.”

  “I know. We have our spies, Bishop. I know what Lew and those other criminals told you. That’s why I sought you out. I’m hoping you and those soldiers can set things straight… bring justice to my hometown.”

  “Did you ever consider just striking up a conversation with me? Why all of this cloak and dagger shit?”

  “Because I didn’t want to get you and your men killed. If Lew and his thugs even get a hint that you know what’s been going on around here, they’ll attack, and even more people will die. Besides, I wanted to judge you for myself. I had to make sure. There is something else I need to show you. Will you come with me?”

  Bishop agreed, his mind trying desperately to process the influx of information.

  The duo continued along the road, the blacktop surface making travel easy. After a few minutes, Bishop had to ask. “Aren’t you worried about someone coming down the road and catching us out in the open?”

  “Naw,” came the immediate response. “You’re in my territory now. We’re as safe here as in a lover’s arms.”

  “You don’t know my wife,” Bishop chuckled.

  “By the way,” Evan said, “I believe the plant can be restarted, regardless of what Lew and the others told you. It’s been a few months since I was there, but with electricity, some repairs, and a decent workforce, we could probably begin manufacturing most of our inventory.”

  “Now that’s the best news I’ve had all day,” Bishop replied.

  They soon came to a lane, twin tracks of worn dirt leading into a thickly wooded area. After they had traveled a few hundred yards off the pavement, Evan looked to his left and waved. Bishop was startled to see an arm appear from behind a strand of short bushes. A sentry, and a well-hidden one at that.

  The path meandered with a myriad of twists and turns, finally delivering the men to a massive, but somewhat dilapidated barn. Part of the roof had caved in, the rest of the shelter looking like it would soon follow. Faded white and red paint covered much of the now-scrap lumber, rotted ends of broken timbers protruding here and there.

  “Welcome to my headquarters,” Evan announced.

  Bishop peered around, wondering what he had missed. There were the remains of a few other outbuildings, not enough of the smaller structures left to identify their original intent.

  In the distance he spotted the exposed foundation of what he guessed had been the farmhouse. Other than that, he couldn’t see anything that even remotely resembled an HQ.

  “No offense, but I’m not impressed,” Bishop said.

  “Good,” Evan replied, and then motioned for Bishop to follow. “Come on, I will show you where
we live.”

  The two men strolled to the rear of the barn, circumventing a pile of old boards that had once been a wall. Evan stopped and pointed at the ground.

  The entrance looked like it belonged to a common root cellar. Two doors, mounted on a concrete frame, were positioned just above ground level. Bishop was still skeptical. He’d visited his fair share of such underground storage units, and they were typically inhospitable - quite small and cramped.

  Evan rapped three times on the steel door and then pulled it open. A bright light flooded up from below. “After you,” he offered.

  Bishop moved to the top step and instantly sensed that this wasn’t the average cellar. He stepped down, entering a huge underground room, almost as large as the barn above. There were overhead lights, ventilation fans, and a stereo playing soft country and western music.

  There were also a couple of dozen people scattered around the facility. Cots, chairs, boxes of clothing and an eclectic collection of mismatched furniture dotted the room.

  “This was built during Prohibition,” Evan explained. “The man who owned this farm was a terrible businessman, always on the verge of losing his land to the bank. It was rumored he had a drinking problem as well. The Great Depression and a lack of booze evidently doubled the gentlemen’s problems, so he turned to a life of crime. According to some local rumors, this was the largest moonshine operation south of the Mason/Dixon. The revenue agents never found it.”

  “Wow,” Bishop said, still amazed by the size of the complex.

  “Later, in the 1950s, a new owner converted it into a bomb shelter. My grandpa was one of the contractors that worked on revamping the place. It supposedly once held enough food and water for the man’s extended family to survive a nuclear attack.”

  “That was all the rage back then,” Bishop commented, “I remember seeing those old films, featuring duck and cover. The government even passed out pamphlets describing how to build a proper shelter.”

  Evan indicated Bishop should follow, the two men passing through one of the many doors leading from the great room. “There are over a dozen storage areas and sleeping quarters. We’ve even got four functioning bathrooms. It took us a bit of work, but we managed to get the well working again. The lighting system is all DC powered. We scavenged some solar panels and hooked them up some months ago. Burning candles didn’t work out so well.”

  The passage led to a small, cinderblock-lined room. With just enough space for a single cot and a chair, Evan began removing his disguise. While he changed, he began spinning the sordid story of Brighton, Texas.

  “For the first week after the terrorist attacks, the electricity came and went several times a day. It was really nothing more than an annoyance at first, pissing folks off because they couldn’t watch the news. Brighton was practically a ghost town in those early days, every mother’s son glued to the television, digesting a steady diet of video feed covering the fires raging in Houston, Atlanta, and eventually Washington, DC.”

  Bishop’s host shook his head at the memory, recalling the fear and uncertainty that gripped the nation.

  “And then the power went out and didn’t come back on. The first day, it wasn’t any big deal. By the end of the third day, people were really starting to get concerned. The town’s two grocery stores were stripped to their bare shelves. Every gas station ran out of supplies. Some people tried to leave town, most heading off to relatives or friends. The vast majority returned a short time later, full of stories about the grid-locked interstates and bandits preying on stranded motorists.”

  Bishop sighed, remembering those first days of confusion and fear. “My wife and I were living in Houston at the time,” he said. “We had no idea what was going on. Without television or radio, no one knew anything.”

  Evan’s gaze focused on an empty piece of air, his voice monotone as he recalled the painful memories. “Our locals, as well as the refugees started camping out at the supermarkets, sleeping in their vehicles, waiting on any delivery truck that might be bringing food. None ever came.”

  Condor stopped his narration for a moment, pulling on a pair of work boots that seemed a better fit than the loafers he’d worn to town. “After a week, people were getting desperate. The camps moved from the grocery stores to the courthouse. People started demanding the county officials do something… anything to get food into town. It was the local county agent who came up with a solution. He went to the farms and ranches surrounding Brighton and spread the word that the folks in town were starving. Most of the ranchers responded, many loading up grain, pigs, cattle and chickens and hauling them to town. A farmer’s market was set up at the high school, and it worked pretty well for a month or two.”

  “What happened?” Bishop asked, considering the similarities with Meraton and its fledgling marketplace.

  “The growers wanted fuel, medicine and other valuable items in exchange for their food. After a while, all the tanks had been siphoned, the local pharmacies cleaned out. Guns, ammunition, clothing and other perishable items were also traded, but gasoline and diesel were the primary currency.”

  Bishop could see what was coming. “And the town wasn’t producing any more of those items. The people were spending, but never replenishing their coffers.”

  “That was exactly what was happening. A sizeable constituency of people complained to the county and city officials. On one hand, the farmers said they couldn’t continue to grow and transport food without fuel. On the other side, the people were starving and didn’t believe their rural neighbors should be so greedy. In a matter of weeks, there was a serious divide, Mayor Lewis and his crew leading the townsfolk, the elected county officials siding with the farmers.”

  Bishop thought back to Red’s early statement about a war. It all made sense now. “So when did the shooting start?” he asked, the question surprising his host.

  “I don’t know really. Dad and I were trying to keep people from looting the plant. Some asshole must have spread a rumor that we had huge tanks of gasoline at the facility. We had people poking and prying around, many of them beyond caring if they damaged private property. When we heard the shooting start that morning, Dad left to try to go make peace. He never came back.”

  As the memory grew in the son’s mind, Bishop watched Evan’s expression change from stoic to melancholy… eventually brewing into a seething fury.

  “He was a patriot. A leader in the community. I begged him not to go, but he kept pacing back and forth listening to the gunfire. He kept telling me that it wasn’t right for Americans to be killing Americans. Eventually, I couldn’t hold him back any longer, and he left.”

  “I’m sorry,” Bishop said. “Did you ever find out what happened to him?”

  “No. Never did. What I do know is that the rural side lost. The battle raged for almost an entire day. I sat at the plant, listening to the gunshots, worrying about dad. When it finally stopped, a passerby told me that Lew and the city-men had won the day, and that all of the county officials were dead. I didn’t find out my father had been killed until that evening when one of our workers brought me his body draped over a horse.”

  Bishop remembered the bullet holes at the courthouse, and it all made sense. Before he could finish his train of thought, Evan’s voice again filled the tiny room.

  “Their next move was actually conceived by Winfrey, the banker. I guess the town’s citizens were full of victory, but still without food. Someone told me that after the celebration began to wear down, Lew and the other leaders were worried that the people were going to turn on them. Winfrey came up with the solution.”

  Bishop frowned, not quite understanding what Evan was implying.

  “Oh, it was all wrapped up in a pretty, legal package. Most of the farms had mortgages and loans at the bank. Winfrey, sensing the entire town was about to slide into the abyss of anarchy, claimed that the farmers hadn’t been making their payments. He whipped up the emotions of the populace, his rhetoric turning their rural neigh
bors and friends into the villains – redirecting their anger in any direction but toward Winfrey and his friend the mayor. It worked. Two nights later, the first vigilantes attacked the Colbert farm, demanding they surrender all of their livestock and grain in order to pay their debt. The Colberts, of course, didn’t agree. You saw the results.”

  “Now I understand,” Bishop whispered. “Now it all makes sense.”

  But Evan wasn’t finished. “For months, they picked off individual farms and ranches. They would haul the looted livestock, feed… even bags of dog food back to town. Everyone would eat until it ran out, and then they would all gang up and go knock off another farm.”

  “Why didn’t the farmers fight back?”

  “At first it was only the operations that owed Winfrey money that suffered attacks. The others tried to reason with Lew and his crew. A few of them brought supplies into town and just donated them… giving away truckloads of food to placate their neighbors. Their charity slowed the “Repos” down, but it was never enough food.”

  “Repos? I’ve heard that word used somewhere before.”

  Evan smiled at his use of the slang. “Repossessions. That’s what we took to calling them. The people in town weren’t evil or criminal – they were just desperate. They needed some prodding. When Lew or the banker saw supplies were getting low and frustrations were high, they would hold a meeting on the square and stir up a bunch of the men into a frenzy. The sheriff would pitch in, using the bank’s debt as justification for a ‘repo posse.’ They made it all sound legal and moral. It was several months before the farmers started banding together and fighting back.”

  Evan finished buttoning his shirt, now fully transformed from elderly citizen to young man. He sat down on the cot and pointed back toward the main room. “I’m going to crash on this cot for a while. I’ve not slept in two days. I brought you here so you could interview those people out there. They are the farmers and ranchers who escaped the raids. Altogether, there are about 200 of us. We’ve fought Winfrey and his henchmen to a draw, but it won’t last. We’re outnumbered and outgunned. I’m hoping those soldiers and you can make all this right. Wander around, talk to those people out there, and satisfy yourself that I’m telling you the truth. When you’re done, find a big guy named Frank. He’ll escort you back to town.”