The Directives

by Joe Nobody

  His eyes were drawn to two men stumbling toward him on the sidewalk. They were armed, their weapons barely supported by weak, lethargic hands. Something in the back of Bishop’s exhausted brain told him he should be concerned. There was no way of telling if the approaching men were friend or foe. He didn’t care, and it soon became obvious that the strangers didn’t either.

  They passed each other without making eye contact, the soulless shuffle and passing of empty men, hollow shells who were beyond fighting... beyond loyalty to either side.

  A woman appeared, sleepless red eyes darting up and down the street. “My husband,” she said in a voice near panic. “Have you seen my husband?”

  Bishop couldn’t answer. Words were simply outside his grasp.

  He continued his trek, his wounded left leg only slightly more painful than its unharmed mate. And then he found himself in front of the courthouse, staring blankly at steps littered with men.

  For a moment, Bishop thought they were all dead. Some were soldiers, small parts of their uniforms still recognizable through the mud and gore. Others were strangers, lying here, sitting there, with closed eyes and drooping heads. A few faces belonged to his Alliance neighbors, their bodies strewn among the battle scene. As he watched, a couple of them moved… the scratching, stretching, and yawning sure signs of life.

  Bishop shuffled over, the sound of actual, living humans seemingly out of place in the dreamlike aftermath of the longest night he could remember. He forced his legs to move again, following the sound of voices, hushed conversations, and rushed words that seemed to be coming from the other side of the building.

  One of the medics was still at it, pressing a canteen of water to the parched lips of an injured man. Two women were there as well, both trying their best to comfort and mend. Bishop spied the slumbering young specialist who had bandaged his leg hours before, an audible snore rising from the lad’s exhausted frame.

  Bloody clothing, piles of used, red bandages and a carpet of trash dotted the area. One of the women tore off a section of her skirt, using the fabric to triage a man’s bleeding arm.

  Bishop remembered his blow-out bag, fumbling to unhook the still-full medical kit from his vest.

  “Hey,” he called to the Army medic as he tossed the pouch. “This might help.”

  Bishop tried to count the wounded, but gave up after reaching the number thirty. The line of men lying on the ground stretched around the corner, and he just didn’t have the energy to further scrutinize the situation.

  He stumbled back to the steps and began climbing, the movement hampered by the dried blood and cardboard-like bandages wrapped around his thigh. He passed men he’d never seen before; some of them most likely had been shooting at him a few hours ago. He didn’t care, and neither did they. After gingerly negotiating the ascent, he entered the courthouse only to be greeted with more carnage.

  Bodies, limbs, and pools of now-purplish blood were everywhere. The musty interior boasted a new odor – a bouquet thick with copper, feces, and urine overwhelming the once stale air.

  The Texan ambled forward, stepping over the dead, careful not to slip in the small rivers of blood and piss that crisscrossed the floor. If I fall, I won’t be able to get back up, he mused. They’ll think I’m one of the dead and bury me. Maybe that wouldn’t be so bad.

  His journey took him to the rotunda. The worst of it had happened here.

  Bursts of the night’s battle flashed through his mind like a bad slideshow. At one point, in this room, it had degraded into hand-to-hand combat. Bishop shuddered, looking down at the fighting knife strapped across his chest. A thick crust of a red, scab-like substance covered the handle and guard. The butt of his rifle was worse, bits of flesh and human hair matted in every crevice of the stock.

  He had to stop before entering, but the pause wasn’t due to any remorse, respect for the dead, or flood of memories. Bishop hesitated because he couldn’t see an open path through the mass of dead men covering the travertine tile.

  Here, the bodies were clustered and entangled, evidence of the vicious, close-in fighting. Both sides had wanted to hold this room. After a while, that desire hadn’t been tactical or strategic. There wasn’t any good reason or special value associated with this tiny hunk of Brighton, Texas real estate - it had simply become personal.

  Mankind can be so stupid, Bishop thought as he tentatively stepped into the worst of the killing zone. After watching friends die… after hearing the screams of agony, victory, and death for so long, men lose all sense of self-preservation and continuity of thought. The battle that raged over the rotunda had devolved into nothing more than a competition… a game… a contest of wills worthy of human sacrifice. And sacrifice they had.

  Bishop stepped around two bodies on the floor, the dead men locked in an embrace of violence - a dance of death. One man’s hand still wrapped around the knife sticking in the chest of his foe. The stab victim’s fist clenched a pistol, its muzzle still aimed at the knife wielder’s heart. They had died together, both men’s faces still painted with their final act of fury and rage. For what? Bishop thought.

  The West Texan grimaced. He knew the answer to the question. He had been a player in the same contest just a few hours ago. Now, in the light of day, he regretted it, understood the madness of it all. What made it worse was the realization that the punishment for being a participant would last the rest of his life. Maybe longer.

  Two women appeared, both straining under the burden of the stretcher they carried. A moaning teenager being carried to the medics. They were followed by an elderly man, his bloodstained frock and dangling stethoscope indicating he was a physician. Plenty of work for you today, Bishop thought.

  The Alliance negotiator finally made it to the clerk’s office, only slightly surprised to find the space undisturbed. Closing the door behind him, Bishop leaned his rifle against the wall and began unbuckling his load rig. The Camelbak came off next, soon followed by the body armor. The equipment reeked of his own sweat and stress.

  A small, fleeting relief crept in, the lightening of his body’s load providing a momentary sense of weightlessness and newfound freedom.

  I should clean my weapon, he thought, pulling off his shirt. The material was matted, stiff, and crinkly with old perspiration and… and other things once human. The still-cool air felt good against his skin.

  I should go find that doctor and have him look at my leg and ribs, he considered. But the doc has better things to do right now.

  Bishop eyed the net-hammock, still hanging right where he’d set it up. A moment later, he perched on the homemade bed, suspended by the soft mesh, gently swaying back and forth like a child in his mother’s arms.

  I should take off my boots, he pondered, but leaned back and closed his eyes instead.

  “Bishop? Hey, Bishop? You still with us?”

  It took a moment for the Texan to blink away the crust of sleep and grime, the blurry image of a man standing over him finally coming clear. For a moment, he was still leaning against the mailbox, but then it came back quickly.

  “Hi Evan. Nice to see you made it.”

  “Same back at ya. We’ve been looking all over for you.”

  The word “we” prompted Bishop to glance over Evan’s shoulder, the sergeant’s filthy face managing a slight smile. “Damn… it’s like a high school reunion,” Bishop mumbled.

  Like an angel from heaven, the NCO held out what could only be a steaming cup of coffee. “I thought you might appreciate this, sir.”

  Bishop smiled, “Why, Sergeant, if I wasn’t already a married man…”

  Bishop swung a leg over the edge of the hammock, the move causing him to inhale sharply from the pain. With the help of his two visitors, he managed to stand.

  “You’ve been hit,” Evan observed, noting the blood-soaked leg. “You better get that looked at.”

  Glancing out the window, Bishop tried to judge how long he’d been sleeping. “What time is it?”

&nbs
p; “Zero nine thirty,” the sergeant replied.

  “I’ve been out for three hours. Seems like days,” Bishop noted, reaching for the cup of joe.

  “It’s all over now,” Evan said. “We won… if you can call it that. Mayor Lewis has disappeared, along with one of the sheriff’s patrol cars. We captured that bloodsucker Winfrey, though. So, as things stand right now, we have managed to detain two of the most selfish opportunists – the banker and the sheriff.”

  It was all too much, too fast for Bishop. He sipped the coffee, the strong, bitter brew helping clear the cobwebs as it slid down his throat.

  “How many did we lose?” Bishop finally inquired, looking directly at the sergeant.

  The NCO stared down at the floor tile, his hoarse voice filled with remorse. “There are still eleven of my men alive, four critically injured. Twelve of your guys made it through, six needing better care than what we can provide here.”

  “Twelve? That’s it?”

  “Yes, sir. The major is still alive, but barely. He needs surgery, as do several of the others. We are trying to salvage enough transportation to move them back to Hood. A couple of the local doctors are doing their best to stabilize the critical ones… trying to get them to a place where they can be moved.”

  “Very good, Sergeant. It sounds like you’ve got it all under control.”

  “We’ll give you a few minutes to get your shit together,” Evan said, as the two visitors moved toward the door. “I’d get that leg looked at as soon as possible.”

  Bishop thanked both of them for the wakeup call and, more importantly, the coffee. “Let me find a clean shirt and get my shit in a single, neat bag. I’ll be out in a bit.”

  He spent the next 30 minutes washing his face and body, pouring the bottled water from his pack to accomplish the task. “You don’t want to frighten the women and children,” he whispered, digging a clean shirt, socks, and pants out of his bag.

  He scrubbed as much of the blood and gore off his equipment as possible. Next came his weapon, the carbine receiving a quick field strip and lube.

  When he finally emerged, Bishop was far from a new man, but projected a much better appearance than the haggard soul who had entered the clerk’s office a few hours before. Frowning at the thought of a trip through the courthouse again, he was surprised to discover he wasn’t the only thing in Brighton that had cleaned up a little.

  Dozens of volunteers were busy outside his temporary room, removing the dead and searching for additional wounded. While the effort wasn’t completely finished, he found the rotunda passable and not nearly as heartbreaking.

  He emerged on the front steps, the view of the courthouse lawn completely changed from before. People were moving around, seeming to have some purpose or goal. The only thing that separated the scene from a typical day in any Texas community were the charred piles of burned out vehicles and the rows of bodies laid out on the grass.

  Many of the dead had been covered with sheets. Men with clipboards walked among the deceased, taking notes and occasionally bending to search a body for identification. There were scores of dead, with more being delivered to the makeshift morgue every minute.

  Someone had set up a couple of tent-like awnings to keep the sun off the wounded. Dozens of the town’s citizens hustled here and there, assisting what appeared to be a mixture of doctors, EMTs and other healthcare professionals tending to those who were still alive.

  Evan was in the middle of it all, the man’s energy and determination enviable. Bishop watched as two more wounded were delivered on stretchers. A table had been set up nearby, three of the surviving soldiers giving blood.

  Bishop’s eye was drawn to activity near one of the large trees that dotted the courthouse lawn. Two men were there, each lobbing a rope over a low branch. The Texan inhaled sharply when he noticed one end was tied in a hangman’s noose.

  He didn’t feel any pain as he bounded down the steps, determination in his stride as he approached the rope-throwers.

  “What are you doing?” Bishop challenged.

  One of the men turned, looking Bishop up and down as if he were stupid for asking such a question. “We’re getting ready to have a hanging,” he replied. “We’re going to string up the banker and the sheriff.”

  “I don’t think so,” Bishop replied, tightening the grip on his carbine.

  The two hangmen exchanged glances, troubled expressions on their faces. “Look mister… we’re just following Evan’s orders.”

  Before Bishop could respond, Evan was standing beside the Texan. “Is there a problem, Bishop?”

  “Yes. Yes there is. Could I have a word with you? In private.”

  The two men strolled a few feet away, Evan clearly not understanding why Bishop was upset.

  “Stop this, Evan. Stop it right now. This isn’t right,” Bishop said.

  “I don’t understand. You of all people know damn good and well what those two men did. They deserve to die.”

  Sighing, Bishop shook his head. “Yes, they probably do, but not this way, and not today. There needs to be a trial, an impartial judge and jury. If you hang them before that, justice won’t be served. You’ll be no better than they are.”

  “How can you say that? You saw what they did. They tried to kill you and all of the soldiers, too. How can you defend them?”

  Bishop put his hand on Evan’s shoulder, his face full of compassion. “I’m not defending them. I’m defending the system. Rule of law doesn’t mean replacing one leader with another. It means restoring a system that has worked for over 200 years. Have a trial. Give them the same shake you would want if the situation were reversed. Then hang them from the highest tree in town if they are found guilty. I’ll even help hoist the rope if it’s done in a fair, just way.”

  Watching Evan’s face closely, Bishop knew this was a critical moment for both the town of Brighton and the Alliance. How the man reacted would be an important indicator of his future leadership.

  “You’re right,” Evan finally admitted. “I’m sorry… I just have loathed and hated for so long. I’ve buried so many friends and neighbors.”

  Bishop smiled, relieved his new friend still possessed reason and humanity. At that moment, the Texan was sure Evan was going to be a great leader for the people of Brighton.

  Without hesitation, Evan moved back to the two hangmen and ordered the ropes be taken down. It was a small, but positive event that helped offset the pain, suffering and misery Bishop knew would dominate so many lives in the coming days.

  It was a ragtag lineup if Bishop had ever seen one.

  Only four of the military vehicles were salvageable, three of the civilian pickups. He surveyed the remnants of what, only three days before, had once been an impressive display of strength and authority.

  No longer. Even the units judged capable of making the trip back to Fort Hood looked more like candidates for a junkyard than any semblance of a military force. Bullet holes, dented fenders, missing window glass and numerous scorch marks were testimony to their experience in Brighton. The men didn’t look much better.

  The pickups were filled to capacity with wounded, some in critical need of surgery and treatment unavailable locally. Other casualties could ride in the cabs, their arms in slings, heads in bandages and legs supported by crutches.

  The sergeant appeared at Bishop’s side, “We’re ready, sir. We managed to salvage enough gasoline and diesel to make the trip back. One of the pickups is questionable, but I’ve got a rope along. We may end up towing her into Hood.”

  Bishop nodded, ‘Thank you, sergeant. Get the men loaded up.”

  The Texan then turned to Evan and extended his hand. “In a few days, the Alliance will send in more people. I have the list you created and will get some experts hustling to gather what you need. It may take us a bit, but we’ll be back.”

  The local nodded and smiled as he shook Bishop’s hand. “I’ll do what I can to get the plant ready. We’ll repair the generator you’re le
aving. There should be enough fuel to prepare the facility. We’ll be ready when your people return.”

  Bishop started to turn, and then paused, one last thing on his mind. “Evan, you may already know this, but I’ve got to say it anyway. Your first priority now is to heal… to bridge the divide that still exists here in Brighton. If you are fair, compassionate and equal handed, then it can be done. If you allow vengeance, retribution, or hatred to control this town, you’ll never recover. That’s the end of my little speech. Good luck.”

  And with that, Bishop limped down the stairs, making a beeline for the lead unit of the convoy without as much as a glance back.

  They rolled out of Brighton in silence, the sergeant behind the wheel, Bishop gazing out of the passenger window.

  “Where do you think we went wrong, sir?” the NCO eventually asked. “Don’t you believe there was something we could have done better? I feel like there should be some payoff for all of the men we lost… that they shouldn’t have paid the ultimate price for nothing. There has to be something salvageable out of this whole mess.”

  “We should get some of the parts necessary to restart the nuclear power plant. I suppose we should feel some sense of accomplishment over that.”

  Shaking his head in disagreement, the soldier expanded his thought. “No offense, sir, but I don’t remember fighting for the factory in Brighton. I don’t recall anyone trying to stop us from reaching it, or saying it was off limits. My point is we went in without any intelligence, local knowledge, or concept of what was happening on the ground. That’s why we lost so many good men, sir. That’s why those citizens back there will be burying their fathers, husbands, and brothers for weeks.”