The Directives Page 16

  With water and food available, only the lack of air conditioning bothered the town folk. But what could they do? What little news had made it through made Riley seem like a paradise. Few of the town’s residents were in any hurry to leave.

  A little over 60 days had passed before the first refugees from Amarillo had wandered into town. Nearly dead from dehydration and starvation, the kindly folks of Riley had slowly nursed the small group of vagabonds back to health.

  Stories of looting, violence, and murder in the closest big city had spread like wildfire through the community. It was every man for himself in Amarillo, according to the newcomers. Complete anarchy. A total breakdown in the rule of law.

  Still, as time passed, most of Riley’s residents held out hope that things would get back to normal. The months dragged by, the village holding things together and helping each other out.

  All along, the co-op was the town’s savior. The feral hogs normally so prominent in the area, migrated south that first winter. A few months later, the deer population plummeted, the doe-eyed beauties hunted almost to extinction. The closest branch of the Red River had never been much for fishing, the few local farm ponds quickly depleted of their stock.

  But the mammoth silos of the town’s reserves remained full of life-giving corn. It was a pure accident of geography that such an out-of-the way place as Riley had been blessed with the facility.

  The Texas panhandle is marked with flat, featureless terrain, better suited for raising crops than grazing cattle. Mile upon endless mile of fields dominated the region prior to society’s collapse, the fertile breadbasket reaching into Oklahoma and then Iowa, Nebraska, and beyond.

  Due to the settlement’s close proximity to massive farms, an unused spur from an old rail line, and a low average humidity, Riley had been chosen to house what was destined to become one of the largest grain storage depots in the nation.

  Ten years ago, the sleepy town had suddenly come alive with construction. A rail car marshalling yard had been built first, the existing spur expanded and improved.

  An entire concrete factory sprouted from the prairie, specifically designed to produce material for the half-mile long row of silos that were to tower above the quiet town. Below ground, over a mile of connecting conduits, rail car unloading bins, and transfer conveyers had been poured. Over time, the locals had taken to calling this massive subterranean complex the “catacombs.”

  Solar powered circulation units, acoustic cleaners, and state of the art oxygen control systems had been installed. Over two years later, without electrical power or any maintenance, the corn was still as fresh as if it had been harvested yesterday.

  The people of Riley became experts on ways to consume the food so prevalent in their own backyards and cheap in their supermarkets. Cornbread, corndogs, corn soup, corn pancakes; the human palate demanded variety, and the culinary artists of Riley had tested every possible recipe for preparing the plant. And to make matters worse, the silos held seed corn. It wasn’t even sweet. Shane shook his head, yet again swearing that when things got back to normal, he’d never eat corn again.

  As he watched the child-convoy pass, Shane detected the dread on most of their faces. The underground, concrete-walled world they were about to enter was a dreary, colorless place. It was hot in the day and cold at night. There wasn’t anything to do but sit and watch the time go by. But it was more than that.

  The children had hidden there before, finding refuge in the seemingly endless maze as they sought to escape the sickness. Shane didn’t blame them; he shared their anxiety.

  When the gasoline tank powering the town’s water pump ran dry, the result had been more than just thirsty residents. Shane had always suspected it had something to do with human waste or the lack of bathing that had caused the sickness. Additionally, the local gardens no longer offered fresh fruit and vegetables, having dried and shriveled to brown, lifeless patches of scorched earth. The corn became more than a staple; it was their lifeline.

  Whatever the reason, the adults had started behaving erratically. They simply seemed to act normally one day, and the next they were insane. There wasn’t any other way to describe it.

  Reverend Butler had been the first, the town’s people waking up one morning to find the local preacher strolling down Main Street, naked as a jaybird and singing an old Neil Diamond hit “Sweet Caroline.” Growing violent as the concerned citizens tried to help, it was clear to all that the man had snapped. Most speculated it was due to the stress associated with living in a post-collapse world, others believing the man of God had always been a little “touched.”

  A few days later, some passersby noticed Mr. Ash had locked himself in the local savings and loan without food or water, never leaving the building again. And then another of the townspeople began to show odd behavior…. After that, the sickness began to spread rapidly.

  While different people reacted in diverse ways, one thing was for certain. They all lost touch with reality. Some became delusional, others sitting on the street corner and mumbling as if they were speaking in tongues. Most turned violent sooner or later.

  Shootings, stabbings, brawls, and arson ravaged the adult population, sometimes the killings numbering three or four per day. Only the children and young adults seemed immune.

  No one knew what was causing the illness, medical care from the town’s two doctors unavailable, as both had been murdered by rampaging patients early in the outbreak. People hunkered down in their homes, standing guard against their unstable neighbors. A few innocents had been shot by mistake.

  The teenagers didn’t understand it all, but one thing was for certain. The adults, including their parents, were out of control… had left the reservation… and were to be avoided at all costs. The older adolescents started herding the younger children into the catacombs, the only place that was safe from the marauding grownups.

  Shane, along with a few other 20-somethings, hadn’t contracted the disease, or virus, or bug, or whatever it was. After a few months, the children and young adults were the only survivors residing in Riley, Texas.

  One little girl stepped out of line, her tiny face gazing up at Shane. “Are the monsters going to come again?”

  “No,” he replied, looking down at the still-innocent face. “No, I’m not going to let the monsters come any more.”

  “Okay,” she responded and scurried off to retake her place.

  “At least I hope not,” Shane whispered.

  The monsters. It’s what the older children had told the younger ones to get them to cooperate, to remain quiet and hide. Shane shook his head, a small twinge of guilt over having used the exact same lie – more than once.

  In reality, the “monsters” were the raiders, looters and other nomadic desperados who had descended upon Riley over the years. Time and again, the fiends visited their little community. Sometimes small groups of invaders disrupted their world. Occasionally, a sole traveler, wandering from town to town, salvaging whatever he could to survive. Most were shy, avoiding people and remaining in the shadows. Others were bold, placing little value on human life, having no issue with killing anyone or anything to get what they needed. When the adults had still controlled the town, they fought to protect the community. Gun battles with the rovers claimed almost as many as the sickness.

  Later, when only Shane and a handful of the other younger men and women remained, their plan had been the same – fight and either kill or chase away the evil-hearted.

  One day, after burying a friend who had been ambushed while picking blackberries, Shane suddenly realized he was the only person left who had seen 20 or more years. He was now the default father, mayor, uncle, and priest to over 30 children. It changed his life.

  Sure, many of the older teenagers had stepped in as caretaker for their younger siblings after mom and dad were dead. Others of the orphaned kids had simply moved to the next occupied household. The extra mouth to feed wasn’t any big deal with tons of corn nearby. And beside
s, where else could they go?

  The younger boys picked up their parents’ weapons or those left behind by dead bandits. All of the children grew up quickly, the harsh life of a post-apocalyptic world leaving them no choice.

  Shane shook his head, dismissing those bad memories. He started jogging, quickly catching up with the front of the line. As they trekked through the streets of Riley, he felt a little like the Pied Piper, leading the children away from their homes and into the unknown.

  Bishop moved to the edge of the wood line, staying low on the off chance that he was being watched. He had borrowed Kevin’s sniper rifle while the team’s best shot had taken his turn in the rack. Grim was also catching some sleep, the contractor snoring away in Bishop’s net-hammock.

  He’d told Cory to hang back and observe the camp, violating his own rules about operating alone. Still, he wasn’t going far, and the sleeping men were far more vulnerable.

  It was another hour before sunset, and Bishop wanted to take a detailed look at the town before they moved in after dark. The scope on Kevin’s rifle offered the most powerful magnification available.

  Bishop steadied the rifle on a tree limb, turning the focus knob until the details of Riley cleared. The first things that drew his eye were the grain silos.

  Dwarfing the rest of the structures in the area, the complex of buildings, tracks, roads, and towering structures was amazing. If the grain elevators were as full of seed corn as their source claimed, the Alliance could begin replanting thousands and thousands of acres, while at the same time making a significant dent in the imminent food shortages.

  There was no way to tell if the silos were actually full from Bishop’s vantage. He would have to wait until Cory inspected the storage areas. Still, it was exciting to be a part of something that could change so many lives for the better – perhaps even save the Alliance.

  Satisfied with his review of the night’s objective, Bishop lowered the rifle and sat back to relax for a few moments. The sun was just touching the western horizon, low enough that a man could view it without hurting his eyes. It was going to be a clear night, his watch indicating a quarter moon.

  Those conditions would offset the advantage of their electronically enhanced night vision, but not enough to delay the trip to town.

  Bishop took a moment to marvel at the beauty of the remote Texas countryside. The birds, chirping and singing, obviously didn’t care about the apocalypse. He spied a rabbit emerging from its burrow, the long-eared jack preparing for a nocturnal graze.

  “We’re the only species that gives a shit,” Bishop whispered. “We built it up, let it fall down, and now we’re struggling with the consequences. Every other life form on this ball of rock could care less. Maybe we should be more like them.”

  It wasn’t the first time the Texan’s mind had traveled in that direction. Was mankind’s reorganization really the best move? Was society, rule of law, and all of its trimmings really the best strategy?

  There was a streak of Darwinism in Bishop. A line of thinking that conjectured that the human race had asked for much of what happened because it had bypassed survival of the fittest, circumvented nature’s rule that only the strongest survive. Yes, the species had prolonged life, made the less successful more comfortable, and propagated the population to billions and billions of individuals. But had the collapse really been unavoidable? Had the downfall been set in motion by the habits of men? Habits that violated the rules followed by every other creature on the planet.

  Bishop traveled back in time, to Houston, when everything started falling apart. He wished he knew then what was so obvious now. Terri and he had gotten lucky, and in so many ways. They always overstocked their pantry in case of hurricanes. They had secured a bug-out location. They had managed to scavenge fuel from Bishop’s employer when it was no longer available to the general public.

  Without that set of parameters, his wife and he would have ended up no better than the starving masses that now depended on the Army for their every need. And the military was running on empty.

  And then there was Meraton, Texas… a small, less affluent community that had naturally developed and grown as a self-reliant entity - out of necessity. Part of that mindset sprouted naturally from the adjacent, sprawling ranches whose owners had learned 150 years ago that they could ultimately depend on no one but themselves. For them, the fall of society hadn’t really meant that much.

  Often, he’d pondered what the situation would be like if the population of Houston had been as self-reliant as the residents of Meraton. It the state’s largest cities had been dotted with gardens, backup water supplies, and fruit trees, would so many lives have been lost?

  If the government, education system, and society had embraced a more autonomous lifestyle, would the nation have survived intact? Instead of social safety nets provided by Big Brother, the American people might have embraced an attitude from yesteryear, a motto simply stating, “I am responsible for my own survival.” Would the collapse have killed so many?

  Even if the world hadn’t slid over the edge, would the hurricanes, tornados, floods, earthquakes, and other natural disasters have been so devastating to the American economy and her people?

  Bishop grunted, an interesting thought popping into his mind. “Are we repeating the same mistake?” he whispered to the birds. If the council’s plan to utilize the grain stored in the giant silos below worked, wouldn’t the Alliance be substituting one system of dependency with another? Would bailing out all those people east of the Alliance render null and void the severe reality of how fragile society had become?

  Bishop remembered his grandparents, survivors of the first Great Depression. He recalled how they had never trusted the government, neighbors or anyone else to put bread on the table. They had learned the hard way, experienced true hunger, and changed their lives to make sure it never happened again.

  But that lesson’s value had faded over the years. A vast majority of Americans pursued wealth, big screen televisions, and a lifestyle of convenience instead of being able to sustain their families independently. What is worse, they mocked the unassuming souls who supported the tenets of a self-reliant lifestyle.

  Bishop shook his head, the line of thought triggering a pounding in his temples. He’d seen more than his share of starving people, and it wasn’t pretty. Was it humane to deny people food, medical care, and security just because they had been shortsighted? Was it fair to let human beings die of starvation just because their priorities and focus hadn’t been aligned with reality?

  There were more than a few people in the Alliance who would have answered those questions with a resounding, “Yes!” Survival of fittest, they would argue, would strengthen the gene pool and eventually make the entire race stronger.

  Sighing, Bishop knew he wasn’t going to resolve these deep, contradicting philosophies that had probably plagued every leader since the beginning of time.

  “Your lot is not to answer,” he mumbled, “but to risk your life trying to do.”

  He hoped those folks in H-town and the Big D would appreciate the sacrifices made in Brighton, Alpha, Midland Station, and a hundred other towns across the country. He hoped one day the men who fought to save this nation would be remembered, and that people would be humbled from the sacrifice, maybe even learn their lessons.

  “I’m going to bail you out one more time,” he chuckled, heading back for the camp. “After this, you’re truly on your own.”

  Shane made sure the last of the kids was settled in. He’d directed the older boys back to town to retrieve blankets, additional water, and a few ancillary items he realized they would need or that would make their hideout more comfortable for an extended stay. As soon as it was dark, they could start the fires and warm the meager amount of food they’d carried in with them.

  As he roamed the underground labyrinth of storage rooms, dump chutes and passageways, he couldn’t help but note what a pitiful lot this cluster of survivors was. It made h
im angry.

  Hadn’t they already suffered enough? Hadn’t watching their parents die of insanity, hostile raiders or other acts of horrible demise been payment enough?

  Yet again, they were being pushed out of the only homes they knew, huddled together in a dark place hoping to avoid discovery. At that moment, Shane couldn’t understand the world or any God that watched over it. He just couldn’t.

  Shaking off the melancholy funk being conjured up by his emotions, he decided to tour their new home one last time. Candles had already been lit here and there, the older children trying to conserve what was becoming an increasingly rare commodity.

  Some of the older kids were reading books to the very young, using the colorful drawings to lighten the mood or settle adolescent fears. Shane was always amazed when he saw such acts of maturity and caring. When he had been ten years old, the thought of tending to a kid half his age would have been unthinkable - far beyond his grasp or capability. Now, the older children routinely shared responsibility for the less capable.

  Turning to enter a long, low concrete corridor, he almost bumped into a pair of older boys carrying their rifles. “Hey, Shane,” they greeted, moving to one side so he could pass.

  “You guys doing okay?”

  “Yeah. It’s our turn to stand watch in a little bit. We thought we’d give Chad and Ricky a break so they could grab a bite,” one of them replied.

  “Good luck then. I’ll be up that way in a bit.”

  As Shane watched them go, pride welled in his chest. He thought the older boy was 11 or 12, the younger probably laying claim to a mere nine years on this earth. They were reporting for a job, carrying firearms, and showing compassion for their friends. How many pre-teen boys would do that?

  “I sure as shit wasn’t that mature,” he said. “The only thing I was ever on time for was Saturday morning cartoons. I don’t think I ever did a chore without my old man having to remind me. Sometimes he’d have to get pissed before I’d go do it. They’re good kids – they deserve better than this.”