The Directives Page 27

  Those answers troubled the Texan. For the first time in his life, he began to lose faith in his fellow man. Despite all of the conflict, treachery, cruelty, and exhibitions of pure evil he’d encountered, Bishop had always held hope and faith. Holding onto those values was becoming more and more difficult.

  The dark forces within his soul spoke tantalizing words, tempting phrases that glorified withdrawal. They whispered of the imperfection of men. They pointed to the weakness, guile, and inferiority in others. People weren’t worth helping. It was useless to save others. They would only repeat the same mistakes. Leave all this pain and suffering behind. Take Terri and retreat back to the ranch… it’s the only path to light and salvation.

  “Leave them to their own devices,” the voices said. “Let the animals that surround you work it out,” they tempted. “You know taking your family back to the ranch and isolation is righteous, just, and moral. Impose your will. Make Terri do it. The others deserve whatever fate comes their way.”

  Bishop shook his head, the conscious effort to push those thoughts aside requiring tremendous focus. “I’m losing it,” he whispered to the rain-streaked window. “Becoming a hermit seems like a great career path. I could put sociopath and isolationist on my resume.”

  The door flew open, startling Bishop out of his trance. A soaking wet Grim appeared in the opening, hustling inside to escape the rain. Shaking off like a drenched dog, he said, “Damn that’s getting nasty out there. You okay?”

  “Yeah, I’m fine. Why?” Bishop responded.

  “It looked like I snuck up on you, which is weird. That and the fact that you haven’t made a smartass joke or remark since the ambush, which is even weirder. That big fella knocked you around pretty good… maybe you should take a break?”

  “No, I’m cool. I’ll take a little time off after we get to Galveston. Maybe go to the beach with Terri and Hunter.”

  “I’d find some rot-gut whisky and get stumbling, falling down drunk if I were you. Hell, I’ll help you drink it, and then roll you out of your own puke.”

  Bishop grinned, “What a guy you are, Grim. How can a fella go wrong with friends like you around?”

  The knock interrupted his reading. Corky closed his book and removed the now-necessary reading glasses. Peering up at his cabin door, he instructed, “Come in.”

  His second in command entered, a serious look painted on his face. “Sir, the barometric pressure continues to fall. It just dipped below 29.00.”

  Corky didn’t react immediately. Instead, he looked down at The Old Man and the Sea, and thought of the irony. What an appropriate title, he mused.

  “Have the additional lines been secured?”

  “Yes, Captain. We’ve got several rain-drenched deck rats on our hands, but the secondary moorings have been implemented.”

  “Wind speeds?”

  “We are seeing sustained winds out of the northeast at 65 miles per hour. We’ve had two gusts over 80.”

  “Shit! You know what this means, don’t you?”

  “Yes, sir. We are most likely looking at a Category 1 hurricane.”

  “Or worse,” Corky replied, his mind already thinking about the next steps.

  “Have two men take the heavy fork-lifts from the port. Issue them both radios. I want one of them patrolling the seawall. If it looks like the storm surge is going to breach it, we need to know. I want you to give the other tractor driver that police bullhorn we found. Have him start going through the residential areas and warning people to get to high ground. The taller buildings along The Strand should provide some shelter. Make sure they are unlocked. My gut tells me we’re in for a rough ride.”

  “It’s not much warning, Captain. The people at the east end of the island won’t have much chance of getting to high ground.”

  “It’s all we can do. God help us if this is a big one.”

  Bright, glistening-yellow slickers covered the two shapes as they scrambled off the gangplank and onto the concrete surface of the pier. Half bent and struggling in the face of the wind, it was an exhausting effort negotiating the 150 yards to the tractors.

  Side-by-side, the machines were giants of their kind. Unlike the typical small forklifts that toiled and rumbled through warehouse aisles across the land, these units sported tires higher than a man’s head, four wheel drive, and diesel engines that could power the largest of trucks.

  They had been designed to move, stack, and arrange steel shipping containers after the weighty storage boxes had been unloaded from cargo ships. Consisting of a huge motor, stout hydraulic system, fork, and a cab, they were high off the ground and offered little resistance to the wind. Just about the perfect machines to pilot during a hurricane – if such a thing existed.

  Both drivers climbed for the small cabs, the slick rungs reaching over 12 feet into the air. A short time later, the rumble of two powerful diesel motors sounded across the docks, soon followed by the bright beams of headlights.

  Sounding more like an enormous farm tractor than any forklift, unit #1 rolled out of the pier area, its destination the access road fronting the seawall.

  Not to be left behind, unit #2 quickly followed, heading toward the east end of the island, set on prowling the residential streets and delivering a warning.

  “Goodnight moon,” Terri read to Hunter, the classic children’s book one of his favorites. The absence of her own voice let the ceaseless roar of the storm dominate the coach, just as worry dominated the mother’s thoughts.

  She bent and kissed the top of her son’s head, his spittle-soaked fingers leaving his mouth and reaching to touch an illustration. Pulling the always-present towel from her other knee, Terri wiped the tiny hand before letting him play with the page. Books were hard to come by, and they weren’t making them anymore.

  “Sounds like it’s getting worse out there,” Betty observed as she set down her knitting needles. Terri recognized her friend was nervous. She had marveled how the older woman once created an entire afghan with nothing more than a substantial supply of yarn, a couple of knitting needles and an unhealthy abundance of worry. It seemed the only time Betty occupied her hands with the hobby was when anxiety threatened to control her.

  Terri hefted Hunter and stood, pacing again to the front of the coach and staring out the windshield. Despite the mid-afternoon hour, the warehouse was almost completely dark. Through the murkiness, she couldn’t even identify any of the guards.

  A sense of cabin fever overwhelmed Terri. That, combined with a frustrating sense of inaction prompted her to pass Hunter to Betty. “I want to go check and see how things are going. I’m getting a little stir crazy in here.”

  “Be careful, love,” the older woman replied, knowing it wouldn’t do any good to protest. “Don’t sneak up on the guys. They probably can’t hear very well with the wind, and that tends to make those types extremely jumpy.”

  Smiling down at her friend, Terri nodded. “Wise advise as usual. Don’t worry; I’ll be careful. Back in a few minutes.”

  Pulling on her raincoat and grabbing a flashlight, Terri opened the RV’s door and was momentarily taken aback by the volume of the howling outside.

  “Maybe this isn’t such a good idea,” she said aloud, hardly able to identify her own voice. But the thought of retreating inside the confined spaces of the camper seemed worse.

  With her flashlight’s beam sweeping the area, Terri made for the double door where she knew one of the security men was always stationed. It was Butter.

  “Is everything okay, ma’am?” he shouted over the constant scream of the storm.

  “Yes! Everything’s fine. I just needed some fresh air!” she yelled back.

  She approached the narrow opening Butter was using to keep watch, the outside only slightly more illuminated than the warehouse’s interior.

  The avenue beyond was visible through the sheets of blowing rain, but just barely. There was a mid-sized row of palm trees along the median, their ferns bending to the force of Mother
Nature. Terri could see standing water in the street, every gust of wind creating a small wave that washed over the curb. The sound was like standing next to a railroad as a freight train thundered by.

  A rumble and bang sounded, a sizable sheet of metal blowing past, slamming into one of the palms and then tumbling through the air again. Terri couldn’t tell if the object was part of someone’s roof or a sign of some sort. Other debris followed in its wake, a trash can lid… a child’s toy… what appeared to be shingles. And all the while, the deafening growl of wind and rain provided the background music. Terri shuddered, feeling tiny and insignificant next to the power of the storm.

  Butter met her frightened gaze, the large man showing his own concerns. “It keeps getting worse!” he yelled. “I’m seeing more garbage and projectiles blowing past. I hope it doesn’t last much longer.”

  Terri started to answer, but Butter held up a hand to stop her. Turning away from the noisy opening, he pushed the earpiece tight with his hand, intently listening to a broadcast.

  “No copy,” he shouted into his microphone. “I do not copy!”

  Stepping further away from the door, Butter’s face was covered in a pained grimace, his ear trying to identify the dispatch. There was more conversation, but she couldn’t recognize the words.

  A few moments later, he turned back to Terri, a smile on his face. “That was your husband, Miss Terri. The train is coming over the causeway. They will be on the island in a few minutes.”

  For a moment, relief flowed through Terri’s veins, the sensation quickly replaced with concern as a strong gust tore through the street outside. “Can you tell him to turn around and go back?” she yelled. “I don’t think it’s safe for him to be here!”

  Butter frowned, innocently asking, “Can they turn a train around?”

  From Bishop’s perspective, they were traveling through nothing more than a blustery tropical storm. With the wind pushing at the locomotive’s back, he was unaware of the true severity of the situation ahead.

  All of that began to change as they rolled around the last bend leading to the Galveston Causeway. Bishop could see some distance across the open waters, the island’s high-rise buildings a vague, barely visible outline in the distance.

  Not only did the now-broadside winds begin to shake the train, the bay waters below the bridge were frothy white and angry.

  The open spaces also provided more perspective to the density of the rain, clearly defined sheets blowing with such velocity, the scene looked more like a winter blizzard than any rainstorm the Texan had ever witnessed.

  But it was too late to stop now.

  As they traveled further from shore, Bishop felt the car he was riding shift from side to side. His mind filled with terrifying visions of a huge gust blowing the iron horse off her tracks and into the violent seas below.

  But the Lady Star kept chugging, pulling the frightened passengers and cars of freight into the maelstrom. Crossing that bridge was the most frightening three minutes Bishop could ever remember.

  The presence of wonderfully solid earth beneath the locomotive helped settle his nerves somewhat, but soon he was wondering if they hadn’t jumped from the frying pan into the fire.

  Bishop heard Cory’s voice in his ear, “Captain… Captain, do you read me?” came the static-filled, hollow sounding transmission.

  Keying his microphone, Bishop replied, “I copy… but barely. What’s wrong, Cory?”

  “Sir, we’re going to be late reaching the island. The road we’re on is flooded out, and it’s going to take a while to backtrack.”

  “Stay off the island and find shelter, Cory. Repeat, stay off the island and find shelter. The weather is worse here.”

  But there was no response.

  “Trouble with the kids?” Grim asked, scrutinizing the frown on his friend’s face.

  “They’re blocked by a washout. I told them to stay put and find shelter, but I’m not sure if they heard me. We went out of range before they could acknowledge.”

  As the train rolled through the industrial area, Bishop saw hunks of debris blowing through the air, some of the missiles quite large and potentially damaging.

  More out of habit than need, the engineers sounded Star’s whistle, the signal intended to let the local dock workers know she had arrived.

  “What happens now?” Bishop asked Gomez.

  “There is a turn-around ahead on the line. We’ll go real slow around a tight loop and end up facing back the way we came.”

  Bishop watched as they passed into a more residential area, the lack of electric crossing signals requiring the constant use of the shrill whistle. In the howling wind, the Texan wondered if anyone could hear the warning.

  As they traveled further to the southeast, he began to notice flooding. The streets they crossed were inundated, standing water covering the sidewalks here and there. At one point, he thought he saw a strange-looking tractor passing between two houses, but the image quickly faded, obscured by the downpour.

  “This isn’t good,” Grim announced from his side of the car. “I don’t think that’s rainwater.”

  The statement compelled all three men to turn toward the east, the understatement of Grim’s observation sending a chill through Bishop’s soul. There were people running toward the train, a three-foot high wall of water chasing after them.

  The locomotive’s route blocked their view, none of the men able to see the results of the race, all of them realizing they were going to be passing back the same way after the loop.

  “What was that?” Grim questioned. “Is there a river or dam in that direction that overflowed or gave way?”

  “I think the seawall has been breached,” Bishop replied. “I’ll bet my day’s pay we have just rolled into the middle of a hurricane.”

  Corky was called to the bridge, the first mate’s tone making it clear he should hurry.

  “The barometric pressure just dipped again, sir. We are now officially in a Category 2 storm, and the mercury is still falling.”

  “Shit,” hissed the captain. “I was worried about this. Any word from our patrols?”

  “No, sir, not yet. I’m concerned their radios aren’t powerful enough to penetrate the storm.”

  Corky thought about that for a moment, unsure if the rain-thick air would hinder transmission distances. It gave him an idea.

  Turning to a sophisticated electronic panel, he flipped two switches and then focused on one of the three television-like screens mounted flush in the helm.

  A few moments later, a colorful image of a map appeared, a solid line sweeping in a circle like the second hand of a watch. “Sir, the radar is for surface objects. Without the NOAH feed, it won’t show weather patterns, will it?”

  Grunting, Corky began adjusting the knob, tweaking the control labeled, “Gain.”

  “A wise old Cajun once told me that a ship’s radar was like a guitar, some men could coax it to sing like an orchestra, others could only make noise. When you’re caught in a Biloxi fog on a dark night, and you know there are freighters about that can crush your hull like a twig, you learn to make this little instrument perform like the Philharmonic.”

  He then touched the screen and said, “I’m switching to the 72 nautical mile range with a very low gain. I used to be able to pick out squall lines on the old models. I’m not sure about these new digital units.”

  As he adjusted the control, the display changed drastically. The solid mass of green returns, the radar’s energy beams bouncing back off of the rain, began to fade, eventually turning into a fuzzy image similar to the snow on an old black and white television.

  Now barely manipulating the knobs, Corky arrived at a configuration he felt provided the most accurate picture. The next sweep of the phased array antenna made the experienced seaman inhale sharply.

  “We’re in trouble,” he mumbled, causing his second in command to peek over his shoulder.

  “God help us,” was the whispered reaction.


  Out in the gulf, the radar painted a clear picture of a simple half-circle. There, 60 miles offshore, the gentle, soft-green fuzz of precipitation thickened, becoming a clear, solid shape like a quarter moon. The eye-wall. The center of a well-defined hurricane. The most deadly, ferocious part of the storm, and it was headed directly at them.

  The display in front of the captain provided a cascade of answers to questions he never wanted to ask. He knew the direction of the storm from the wind and rain, now he could judge its girth. It wasn’t a monster – he’d seen bigger. But the eye was tight, compact and moving quickly – a sign of ferocity. His equipment informed him of the storm’s speed – 26 knots. It would slam into the island in two hours.

  “Warn the crews and the tractors,” he ordered.

  “Aye, aye, sir.”

  “And I would broadcast a warning on all frequencies. Maybe the military in Houston will have time to save a few people… move them out of the low-lying areas.”

  “Affirmative, sir.”

  He returned to the window, knowing the radar wasn’t going to change its story. In the pre-collapse days, they would’ve had warning – perhaps days. Now, it was too late. The thick glass protecting their little cocoon of calm was misleading. There wasn’t the equipment available to move people off the island, yet the storm-surge would most likely submerge the entire land mass with several feet of water.

  He didn’t have buses, not that they would be able to leave now. No one had gasoline for private vehicles, and the roads were already flooded.

  The mate reached for the radio, but a voice sounded before he could raise the microphone. “Queen, Queen, this is unit two; the train just arrived.”

  Corky rubbed his eyes, more from stress than fatigue. “This just keeps getting better and better.”

  Small puddles of water began pooling on the coach’s floor, runoff from the raingear of the men hastily summoned for an emergency meeting.

  Terri’s RV was the only place quiet enough for everyone to be heard, the wind’s constant wail making conversation nearly impossible in the warehouse.