The Directives Page 30

  Instead of leaping to the controls, like Bishop wanted, the engineer pointed toward the back of the train. Bishop had to stick his head out to see, a slight bend in the tracks revealing a group of men behind them piling blocks and timbers across their retreat. They were hemmed in.

  “They are going to overrun us in about two minutes,” Grim announced, firing his rifle at a staccato pace. “We need help.”

  Bishop pondered where Gomez was, wondering what excuse the man had for avoiding the fight this time. He knew Butter and a couple of Terri’s security team had been recovered from the Humvee, but didn’t think they’d be in any condition to do much fighting.

  He was wrong. Multiple rifles sounded from the back of the train, Gomez and others evidently alerted by the stop.

  More rounds tore into the car, hunks of the structure smarting exposed skin. Bishop made a decision, “We’re going to abandon the train,” he called to Grim. “It’s you and me they want. I don’t think they’ll kill the refugees. If we make for those woods over there, they’ll be sure to follow us. We can lose them in there.”

  “What about Terri and the baby?” Grim called back.

  “Shit!” he yelled, disgusted with his lack of thinking, “Never mind. I will not leave them here, and there is no way she can make that trip with Hunter in the condition she’s in. Shit!”

  Three men rose up from the barricade, their timing corresponding to a blistering barrage of fire from their friends. They began charging toward the locomotive, a dozen rifles throwing everything they had at the train’s defenders.

  Bishop, hugging the platform for dear life, almost didn’t spot the maneuver. Despite the dozens of bullets snapping just inches over his head, he managed to aim his carbine and send several rounds directly into the rushing team’s midst. Two of them went down, the third retreating to the barricade.

  “That was close,” Bishop screamed over Grim’s barking weapon. “Another one of those, and we’re toast.”

  Before his partner could respond, the daylight seemed to vanish, like someone had drawn the hotel blackout curtains. Bishop felt the wind, could see the surrounding vegetation bending in the breeze. The storm had caught up.

  Like a steamroller, the weather moved across the landscape. In a matter of moments, the calm air was filled with howling gusts. Less than a minute later, the sky opened up with a deluge, horizontal sheets of nearly solid water plowing through the atmosphere.

  The air began to scream, a thousand howling wolves voicing their rage. In a minute, the gusts topped 100 mph, three minutes later they were approaching 160… and then 200.

  Bishop and Grim were somewhat sheltered from the assault, the passenger car at their back serving to block direct exposure. Still, both men had to wrap their arms and legs around the railing, praying the old iron bolts wouldn’t give way.

  Through squinting, barely open eyes, Bishop saw the storm pick up one of the attackers and toss him at least 20 feet through the air before being slammed back to the earth. The Texan watched as the stunned fellow was rolled, pushed, scooted, and scraped across the field and into the tree line beyond.

  The air became thick with missiles. Blended with the stinging drops of precipitation was an airborne litter of tree limbs, baseball-sized rocks, sheets of metal, and chunks of buildings. Bishop saw a highway sign larger than a king size bed blow past, the sheet of steel burying itself in the soaked earth for a few moments before being whisked away.

  Rocketing projectiles thumped and rattled against the cars, some hitting the sides, other large masses rumbling across the roofs of the battered boxcars.

  Lady Star and her cars shuddered and moaned under the assault, the Alliance men sensing the movement of their anchorage as the passenger car underneath them rocked and swayed. Between passing bands of rain, Bishop thought of Terri, looking back along the line of cars, watching as a boxcar was pushed up on one set of wheels before returning to the tracks.

  At times, the Texan couldn’t hear, see, or feel anything but the burning in his muscles as he held on with all he had left.

  And then the wall had passed.

  The winds began to diminish, the noise and blowing clutter less volatile and dangerous. It was still a life-threatening, powerful storm, but nothing like the violence of the eye’s wall.

  Bishop relaxed his cramped grip on the rail, managing to lift his head to test the wind. While it was still blowing so hard that walking upright was out of the question, a death grip was no longer required to avoid becoming a human cannon ball. “I don’t think we’re in Kansas anymore,” was all he could think to say.

  The rain continued to pelt the Alliance men, sending cold rivers of liquid running across their already soaked bodies. Bishop lifted his head again, looking toward the barricade to ensure none of the assaulters were secretly advancing on them.

  He couldn’t see a soul.

  Determined to remain diligent, Grim and Bishop huddled under the small awning, their ponchos pulled tight, weapons across their laps.

  Neither man had the energy or will to speak, only the occasional moment of eye contact shared between them. It was a shivering, wet, miserable stint of guard duty.

  Bishop lost track of the time, unsure of how much had lapsed before Grim finally spoke. “Looks like it’s died down enough for us to check out that barricade.”

  “Ya think?” Bishop responded, not sure his legs would function.

  “I bet they hightailed it out of here when the storm hit.”

  “Could be. Could be they’ll be back.”

  Grim shrugged, “Best to check it out now while there’s still a little light left. I don’t know how much longer I can stay awake.”

  The two men rose, stiff from exertion and cold. They climbed down from the ravaged front of the passenger car, hardly an inch of the tortured surface void of battle damage.

  Bishop knew he should have his weapon up and ready, but his arms were too tired. Some corner of his brain registered that his spacing sucked, but fixing it would require trudging through the mud. Not an option, he thought, barely managing to put one foot in front of the other. I’ll just stay up here… nice and dry next to the rails and gravel.

  They finally arrived at a low embankment, a drainage ditch being used by the majority of Major Misery’s men as cover. It was completely void of hostile, or formally hostile humans.

  The other side of the barricade proved the same; even the bodies of the two men Bishop had put down were nowhere to be found.

  They continued their tour, separating to search a debris cluttered field and wood line beyond. Bishop found the first body, the red bandana around the corpse’s arm, indicating he was one of the attackers. The man was lying in the mud, his neck at an unnatural angle.

  Grim uncovered the next victim, Major Misery himself. A pickup truck, looking like it had been in a major freeway accident, held the man’s body. The roof was smashed almost flat, as if the vehicle had been rolled over dozens of times. Misery was hanging halfway out the passenger side door, his body practically severed in half.

  Finally reaching the woods, it soon became clear to both men that no threat remained. They found the majority of Misery’s raiders here, deposited by the wind, often in an extremely violent manner. One man was a good 12 feet up in a tree, a wrist-sized branch protruding from his chest.

  Some of the dead looked as if they’d simply laid down and given up. Bishop turned one man over with his boot, the victim’s arms flopping oddly, as if every bone had been pulverized. The Texan shuddered.

  Others were warped in grotesque, peculiar positions. Bishop had seen enough.

  “Let’s head back,” he radioed the nearby Grim, too tired to walk the short distance.

  “Roger that,” came the response. “The storm did more damage than our blasters.”

  Bishop hadn’t taken two steps when his radio sounded with a new voice. “Captain? Captain Bishop, is that you?”

  “Kevin? Yes, it’s me. Where are you?”

 
; “We’re under an overpass. I don’t know exactly where. We pulled the truck under here to ride out the storm. It was the only place we could find,” broadcast the excited young man.

  Bishop grinned, one less worry on his mind. “Is the truck’s heater working?”

  “Yes, sir, but we’ve got better than that. There were some old trash barrels filled with wood. It was dry enough to light. We just finished a hot meal.”

  “Do you have any hot coffee?”

  Cory’s voice sounded the response, “Why of course we do, sir. Can you describe where you are?”

  The wagons pulling the three caskets were neither designed, nor designated for a funeral procession, but no one noticed or cared. All eyes were on the flag-draped boxes, each covered with a bouquet of flowers from the Manor’s gardens.

  Main Street was packed, hundreds of solemn onlookers four deep in many places. For the first time since its inception, Meraton’s market was closed, as was Pete’s, and every other business in town.

  Lining both sides of the pavement, slightly in front of the subdued crowd, were uniformed men. Each stood statue straight at parade rest, a sign of respect for the deceased. Some were Army officers, resplendent in their dress uniforms, attending from Fort Bliss and Fort Hood. Others were members of Nick’s militia, two of their own among the fallen. Sheriff Watt’s deputies, impeccably outfitted, were also in attendance.

  A single horse pulled the first small wagon, its saddle empty, Pete grasping the reigns. Terri, in a plain black dress, a veil covering her face, plodded numbly alongside. Her left hand rested on Betty’s casket. Bishop walked beside his wife, steadying her gait with one arm about her waist and newborn Hunter snuggled in the crook of his opposite arm. They were soon joined by Diana, District Attorney Gibson and a medley of mourners, drawing from the Alliance leadership, local business leaders, the women’s church league, and the local garden club. It seemed everyone knew and loved the spunky hotel manager.

  “Teeeeen hut!” a voice ordered, all in uniform snapping a smart, crisp salute as Betty’s body passed.

  Next sauntered Mr. Beltran, leading the riderless horse that pulled Slim’s remains. Butter trudged next to the pine box, his hand resting gently on his lifelong friend’s casket. The big man’s shoulders were slumped, his eyes red with grief. The open expression of anguish was heartbreaking.

  The final victim was a man most hadn’t known well, Charles Henry Garcia. Recently relocated to the Alliance, his service, both to the United States Armed Forces and the Alliance Militia, was known to have been exemplary. He had been one of the elite men assigned to Terri’s security detail, the trip back east his first, and last operation with the team.

  Nick led Mr. Garcia’s horse, a grieving widow and two children each steadying a hand on the family man’s casket.

  The three wagons stopped in front of the Manor, the sound of sniffling and soft tears rising from the gathering. With her head on Bishop’s shoulder, Terri sobbed, “It feels like I’ve buried two mothers in one lifetime. Betty was so good to me… she treated me like one of her own children. I loved her, Bishop.”

  “She was a good woman. We were blessed to have known her for as long as we did,” Bishop replied.

  Three soldiers marched forward, followed by their commanding officer. The sun reflected off the ranking military leader’s saber as his voice rang out, “Ready!”

  In unison, the three riflemen stepped forward with their left heels, rifles briskly brought to their shoulders.

  “Aim!”

  “Fire!”

  Three times, they executed the sequence, one volley for each of the fallen. After the final report had echoed off the distant Glass Mountains, another order sounded.

  “Present. Arms!”

  Three synchronized rifles followed the two-count command, the underside of the weapon facing the honored, fully extended in presentation. Pete moved closer to Terri and Bishop in an attempt to better control the now stirring mare, unaccustomed to the noise. Another soldier appeared, a highly polished trumpet in his gloved hand. The lonely, desolate sound of “Taps” soon drifted over the saddened community.

  As if on cue, a single tear slipped down the Meraton mayor’s cheek with the first trumpeted note, his darkened mood an obvious indicator of the depth of his suffering and grief. Around town, it was an unmentioned, but commonly known fact that Betty held Pete’s eye. Something, it seemed, was always getting in the way of the two making a go at a relationship. And now it was too late.

  “I am going to miss her so much,” Pete whispered, barely holding it together. When Terri embraced him in a hug, the dam burst, uncontrollable sobs racking his frame. Within moments, both of them succumbed to the torrent of emotion, weeping openly, leaning on each other for support.

  When the horn fell silent, the officer’s voice boomed again. “Order. Arms!”

  “Port. Arms!”

  “Right face!”

  “Forward, march!”

  As the three riflemen stepped away, the officer bent and began collecting the spent shell casings. It was dishonorable to leave them on the ground. One by one, he approached each of the coffins, offering a sample of the brass to the closest friends and family of the deceased.

  Bishop accepted two, one for Hunter, the other for his wife. One day, when he was old enough, the father would share the story and keepsake with his son. Good people had died honorably, in service to others – an important lesson for any young person.

  Staring at the empty cartridges in his hand, the meaning of the tradition crystalized in Bishop’s troubled mind. In death, the body was an empty shell, the soul having moved on to a better place. Watching his wife with Pete, he couldn’t help but wonder if Terri wasn’t ready to move on to a better, safer place. Not in death, but in life.

  He was worried how Terri would deal with the tragedy in Galveston. Not only had she lost two people she held dearly, the fact that Hunter had almost perished was casting doubt, forcing his wife to reevaluate her priorities. Since the incident, she had mentioned turning over her position on the council to someone else and moving back to the ranch. Even this morning, she’d casually asked who he would have supported to take over as chairperson if she’d hadn’t survived the storm.

  He watched her stroll over to Mr. Beltran and Butter, virtually repeating the same scene that had just occurred with Pete.

  “My wonderful, optimistic, passionate, Terri,” Bishop whispered. “The apocalypse made you realize you were so very, very much more. It enabled you… forced you - kicking and screaming - to realize your potential. And now? Now has that been taken back?”

  He resolved to support her, no matter how the events that unfolded during the hurricane affected his wife. If she wanted to retire, resign her position with the Alliance, he’d support that move 100%. More than once, he’d had the same thoughts and desires. He loved Terri, believed she was a great mother and the best lifelong companion any man could ask for. He respected the sacrifices she made every day and her heartfelt desire to help her fellow human beings. She was a true leader, exactly what the Alliance needed.

  But there was only so much any one individual could endure. Was his wife at her limit?

  “I’ll leave it up to you,” he decided. “You’ll know what’s best. And no matter what it is, I’ve got your back.”

  Epilogue

  The Gathering

  by D.A.L.H.

  Mesmerized by what the future might bring,

  Immobilized by the fear of how it might present itself.

  Gathering together to wait and watch.

  Unable to change its ominous approach.

  Unable to look away.

  Able to pray.

  Gray and purple above.

  Rotating, shifting, unpredictable.

  Gray and blue below.

  Crashing, boiling, certain.

  They gathered together,

  Great in number,

  Each soul standing alone.

  The storm gathered
together,

  Great in its solidarity

  But weak against the faith of each staring from the shore.

  Two weeks after the hurricane…

  Corky leaned against the shovel’s handle, taking a short break to wipe the perspiration from his brow. As he refolded the handkerchief, one of his men approached, a portable radio in his hand.

  “Sir, a lookout is reporting that several vehicles are crossing the causeway. He indicates there are at least a dozen.”

  “Military?”

  “No, sir, an assortment of civilian trucks, buses, and semis.”

  The leader of the island community scrutinized the mounting tangle of rubble and grunted. “We’re not quite ready for company just yet; the place is still a mess.”

  Passing the long-handled tool to another, Corky looked around, wondering if they would ever be ready. Piles of debris, sand, and mud still clogged many of the streets. While the odor of rotting flesh had helped them locate most of the victims, the occasional cadaver was still being unearthed.

  Corky shook his head, admiring the gang of volunteers working to clear whatever street he was standing on. For a moment, he was embarrassed over having forgotten the name, but the feeling soon passed. There were still dozens and dozens of areas that needed to be searched, cleared, and cleaned up if possible.

  Most of the people working around him were missing family members, friends, or neighbors. He’d lost count of how many of the dead they had buried, no idea how many were listed as missing.

  There had been a few bright spots. A few survivors had been found alive, buried in wreckage or trapped wherever they’d hunkered down. A few, but not nearly enough.

  At least 50% of the homes were damaged to the extent that occupation was no longer an option. That was a secondary consideration, given the substantial drop in Galveston’s current population.

  Still, they kept at it. Block by block, street by street, they worked. There wasn’t much fuel for the heavy equipment left on the island. What little gas and diesel they did have needed to be reserved for the boats. Without the shrimpers, oyster boats and offshore fishermen, he’d be burying the victims of starvation alongside the storm’s fatalities.