The Directives Page 5

  Even Major Baxter commented on his ingenuity. “I’m going to have to get me one of those nets,” the officer had remarked. His almost friendly demeanor quickly dissipated with his no-nonsense order. “Here’s the schedule for guard duty. Please have your civilians show up at their assigned posts at the designated time.”

  As Bishop scanned the handwritten document, he noticed Baxter wiping the sweat from his brow. “I would recommend you limit physical activity between 1200 and 1800 hours, Major,” Bishop suggested, proud of himself for thinking to use military time. “Without air conditioning, everyone in Texas works early in the day, rests during the hottest hours, and then finishes up around dusk. We can expect the locals to be the most active during these times as well.”

  Baxter nodded his agreement. “Makes sense. But I’ll tell you what doesn’t. I can’t figure out why the local government moved out of this building. I walked by the new city hall, and from a tactical point-of-view, this construction is far, far superior. The battle damage on the exterior indicates there were some episodes of violence locally, yet this facility remains mostly intact. Why abandon the easiest building to secure? Why give up the high ground?”

  Bishop had wondered the same thing, but hadn’t thought it was a critical mystery to solve. “Maybe they figured the violence was over. Maybe the city building was easier to keep cool with generator electricity? I’m with you though, this place sure would be easier to defend and secure.”

  The two men approached the front steps, both secretly hoping there would be more of a breeze outside. There wasn’t. Wading through the weeds, they settled for the shade of an ancient oak. Bishop wondered briefly which had been there first – the courthouse or the tree.

  “What time are we to meet with the city leadership?” Baxter asked.

  “Seven… 1900 hours, sir. It should start cooling off by then.”

  “Roger that,” and then Baxter was off, some unknown task pulling the officer away.

  While the newly arrived soldiers settled in, the mayor called a staff meeting. Like all of their recent gatherings, the event was held in Lew’s crew cab pickup, engine running and air conditioning blowing full blast.

  The truck’s interior had become a popular gathering point since average temperatures had begun to sizzle. The inside of any building was stifling at best, an oven at worst. Before fuel had reached the ultra-critical state, they had succeeded in cooling the mayor’s office with a window air conditioning unit, but now there wasn’t enough gasoline left to run the big generator.

  The only bearable spots in the entire county were Lew’s truck and a couple of the police cars. The truck was far roomier and the obvious choice.

  “I’m down to a quarter tank,” the mayor noted as the attendees settled into their seats. “We need to make this quick. I don’t think that’s enough fuel to last us through the summer.”

  Mr. Winfrey, as usual, spoke first. “I don’t know about you gentlemen, but I haven’t been able to find a single scenario where I’m comfortable with our guests remaining in town. Furthermore, I can’t see any advantage in joining this new government. I can, however, see a lot of disadvantages should we decide to become part of this so-called Alliance.”

  Lew grunted at the banker’s eloquent way of putting things. “Disadvantages? What a nice euphemism, Mr. Winfrey. I think ‘prosecutions’ would have been my term of choice. I do, however, have to agree with your assessment. We don’t want these people here. They won’t understand our past decisions and will no doubt condemn us for the tough choices we had to make. I, for one, have no desire to deal with that.”

  Everyone turned and looked at the sheriff, signaling it was his turn to voice an opinion. “I agree. We don’t want or need them here. That being said, I would like to get my hands on the equipment and supplies they brought with them. With all of that gasoline, we could hold a staff meeting every day and not worry about it. What a windfall.”

  Red spoke up from the back seat. “They’re not just going to hand all that stuff over. We would have to take it from them, and I don’t think that will be so easy.”

  “We’ve had to acquire supplies and critical items before,” the sheriff responded, his tone carrying an edge. “The concept of using violence to achieve our goals isn’t new to anyone in this truck.”

  Shaking his head, Red snorted at the lawman’s comment. “These guys aren’t a bunch of farmers and naysayers. You’re talking about a whole lot of bodies on both sides.”

  “We’ve dealt with bodies before too, Red,” the mayor responded. “Besides, we’re better organized and prepared this time around.”

  Winfrey sighed, the older man making his frustration clear. “Why is it that you men always think of violence first? Let’s just ask them to leave… tell them we’re not interested… tell them the Condor plant is beyond salvaging. While I agree that their equipment and supplies would be nice to have, we were doing just fine before they arrived, and we’ll do equally well after they are gone. Besides, confiscating their provisions would initiate an investigation from their leaders… and that is something we want to avoid.”

  “And if they don’t leave? What happens then?” the sheriff asked.

  The banker rubbed his chin for a moment before responding. “Then we’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.”

  “So we are in agreement then?” the mayor said. “We will simply refuse their offer and ask them to leave us alone?”

  “I’ll go along with that,” the sheriff concurred. “But… I think we should start preparing for the worst case. If they decide not to cooperate, we may need to convince them to move on.”

  “Then it is settled,” Winfrey replied.

  “In conclusion, gentlemen, I’m afraid we must decline your most generous offer. The Condor plant is beyond repair. Most of the workforce hasn’t survived the collapse, and it would be deceitful for us to represent otherwise. While our people would welcome the goods and services you have proposed, we have nothing to trade… no value to offer in return.”

  Bishop was stunned, barely managing to keep his chin from physically dropping. He glanced across the conference table at Major Baxter and found the same unbelieving expression on the officer’s face.

  “But… but, sir,” Bishop stammered, “We are offering so much more than electricity, medical supplies, and other essentials. Surely you must understand that Brighton, as a community, would benefit from the trade, inclusion, and security that come with being part of society as a whole.”

  Again, Bishop noticed all of the local eyes riveted on the banker. “Yes, young man, we understand that. But our people have suffered badly at the hands of strangers. Even if a factor of trust were to be established, the demise of civilization has taught us some very hard lessons. Now, more than ever, we know that you don’t get anything of value unless you have something of equal worth to exchange. Our community is poor, barely feeding its own. We have nothing to offer in trade for what you propose to deliver. I wish it wasn’t so, but the fact remains. Maybe not today, but at some point that inequality would breed trouble.”

  Before Bishop could form a counterpoint, the sheriff cleared his throat. “In addition,” the lawman began, “we would like to politely request that you and your men leave town. The presence of so many heavily armed strangers is making our citizens nervous. It is a distraction that we don’t need. All of your food and equipment might also be a temptation for some of our more desperate residents, and I’m all about prevention. If someone makes an attempt to loot your convoy, it would be an incident all of us would regret.”

  Baxter’s reaction was predictable, “While I respect your concerns, sir, I assure you we’ve taken appropriate security measures.”

  “I’m not worried about someone actually getting away with raiding your possessions, Major. I’m worried about burying one of our own, and then the follow-on reaction from the community. We have order in our town, but just barely. The last thing any of us need is an encounter that turns vio
lent.”

  Baxter realized his error and simply nodded at the lawman.

  “I need some time to consult with my superiors,” Bishop said, not being able to come up with anything else. “I will communicate our intentions tomorrow morning.”

  And with that, the meeting adjourned.

  As Bishop and Baxter trekked from City Hall back to the courthouse, neither man could believe what had just occurred.

  “I just can’t accept their reaction,” Bishop said.

  “I never anticipated this,” Baxter agreed. “Of all the scenarios we mapped out, outright rejection was never one of them. Unbelievable.”

  “I suppose it isn’t so outlandish. Out in West Texas, we’ve had more than a few individuals who wanted nothing to do with any size, shape, or type of government. I guess Washington’s failure put a bad taste in a lot of people’s mouths. There is a small part of me that feels the same way,” Bishop mused.

  “But look at these people. Yeah, they’re eating, but that’s about it. I haven’t seen so many lifeless eyes since I watched a zombie movie. What about hope? What about improving the quality of life?”

  Bishop nodded his agreement, but didn’t respond.

  As the two men mounted the courthouse steps, Bishop paused, the thought of returning to the stuffy, damp-smelling building unpalatable. “I’m going to take a walk and try to clear my head.”

  Baxter started to protest, but then changed his mind. “Let me assign someone to go with you. No one should be wandering around alone.”

  The Texan waved off the concern. “I’ve got my weapon. I’m not going far. I need solitude.”

  The major shrugged his shoulders and turned back to enter the building. “Up to you,” he mumbled as he passed through the threshold.

  Bishop waited until the officer was out of earshot and shook his head. “Really, Major, your heartfelt concern for my well-being is touching. Really, it is. There’s no need to waste so much energy trying to talk me out of going by myself. I’ll be okay,” he whispered sarcastically.

  Shaking it off, Bishop turned and scanned the area. Sighing loudly, he randomly selected a direction and began walking.

  The blocks passed quickly, his mind cycling over the next move. The Alliance’s engineers had identified secondary supplies for the needed components, but they weren’t easily accessible. One was in Oklahoma, the other in Illinois. “Might as well be in China,” Bishop mumbled.

  During the planning sessions, several contingencies had been tabled, most assuming that the Condor facility had been damaged or would require significant resources to reinitiate production. None of those scenarios had involved outright rejection by the local authorities.

  Bishop had also been prepared for Brighton to be in a state of complete anarchy, with zero organization and few remaining survivors. Before the meeting with the mayor and his council, that had been the worst case anyone had considered. Now, he had an even more complex problem. He could take the Condor facility by force, probably bring in enough reinforcements from Hood to hold the ground against anything the locals could throw against it. But that still didn’t solve the problem of the workers, foremen, and specialists required to produce product. If Lew and the other local leaders wanted to play hardball, they could make the effort extremely difficult and fraught with risk. And besides, annexing territory by conquering the native population was not the Alliance plan.

  Bishop paused for a moment to cross a street and get his bearings. An old man, shuffling along the sidewalk with a cane, drew his attention.

  The old gent was an unusual sight, not only in Brighton, but anywhere else Bishop had traveled. Without medical professionals, prescriptions, and community support, the elderly hadn’t fared well.

  Bishop watched as the man progressed slowly, his feeble stride determined, yet unstable. “You have grit,” Bishop whispered. “I’ll give you that, old timer.”

  The subject of Bishop’s attention turned, intent on crossing the street. The Texan watched as the man struggled with the curb and then proceeded to amble over the pavement. Deciding to be a Good Samaritan, Bishop waited and then offered a helping hand.

  “Thank you, son,” the soft voice responded. “It’s not often someone offers to help an old soul these days.”

  “You’re welcome, sir,” Bishop responded as he made sure his new friend negotiated the curb successfully. The task accomplished, the Texan turned away and began to consider his route back to the courthouse.

  He started to step across the street when something hard poked him in the back. The sensation was immediately accompanied by a rather young-sounding voice. “My cane is chambered in a .308 Winchester, and my finger is on the trigger. It shoots pretty well. At pointblank range, it will blow a nice hole through your fancy body armor. Turn around slowly, and walk with me.”

  A river of emotions flooded Bishop’s head. He was pissed at himself for having fallen for the old man’s disguise and letting his guard down. He was also scared.

  As he turned, he observed the feeble outline of the old body transform and grow. Right before his eyes, the stooped, semi-crippled frame rose to its full height and spread its girth. Bishop found himself beside a healthy, good-sized fellow. The cane-gun wasn’t shaking anymore. The gunman’s breathing and eyes were steady and confident.

  “What do you want?” Bishop asked.

  “Not here,” came the reply as the mugger’s head pivoted to check the area. “Pop that magazine out of your rifle, and clear the chamber,” he ordered.

  Bishop hesitated for a moment, not wanting to comply. A sharp poke from the gun-cane made him reconsider.

  “Now your sidearm,” the voice commanded. “Hand it over to me.”

  Again, Bishop did as instructed.

  “Walk with me… pretend you’re trying to help me down the street,” said the voice.

  Bishop nodded, and then found himself hooking arms with a surprisingly muscular limb while the muzzle of his own pistol poked firmly against his ribs.

  Staying in character, the abductor hunched over and hid his face as the duo shuffled along the sidewalk. “You’re such a nice young man,” the guy whispered. “Helping an old fella along. More young people should be so polite and accommodating.”

  At least he has a sense of humor, Bishop thought. If he didn’t have a gun stuck in my ribs, I might actually like this guy.

  A half block later, the voice hissed, “In here,” and pulled Bishop inside an abandoned store. The captive could see the rusty chain securing the front entrance had recently been cut.

  As soon as they entered the darkened building, the escort stepped away and rose to his full height. Squaring his shoulders and stretching his spine, Bishop was looking at a man probably in his mid-30s. The guy was clearly in good physical condition, far from feeble.

  “Sorry to do that to you, but you never know how someone is going to react. There are eyes and ears all over this town, and it wouldn’t go well if the mayor and his boys were to catch me.”

  Bishop, assuming he was being robbed for his kit and gear, didn’t know what to say. He managed to come up with a single word. “So?”

  “So, I need to talk to you. I figure you’re the head honcho of that outfit that rolled into town this morning. I’ve seen you meet twice with Winfrey and his gang of cutthroats, and thought you might want to know the truth about Brighton, Texas.”

  Again, articulation escaped the Texan. “So, talk.”

  “Not here,” came the response. “Besides, you wouldn’t believe what I’ve got to tell you anyway. I need to show you… to prove our version of the events, and to do that, I’m going to ask you to come with me voluntarily.”

  Fighting back a rising fury and cursing his own stupidity for getting bushwhacked, Bishop wasn’t in a verbose or particularly diplomatic mood. “Go with you where?”

  “I don’t want to say, just in case we’re captured en route,” replied the stranger. “I will guarantee you won’t be harmed. I also promise you’ll b
e free to return to your people in a few hours.”

  Bishop tilted his head, obviously pondering the request. “What if I say no?”

  The hostage-taker smiled and then lowered Bishop’s pistol. Flipping the weapon around and then offering it grip-first to his captive, he responded, “Then you’re free to go.”

  Still thinking it through, Bishop was curious. “Is there really a .308 cartridge in your cane?”

  The stranger smiled, holding up the crutch and working a small mechanism in the handle. Sure enough, a shiny brass cartridge fell into the man’s hand.

  “Damn,” Bishop whispered. “I almost decided to test you on that. I thought you were a common street mugger trying to bluff.”

  “That, my friend, would have been a mistake on your part,” the guy responded with a grin. “If the sheriff’s men had caught us fighting in the street, I would probably be dead by now. You would most likely be joining me in hell shortly afterwards. Lew’s boys don’t believe in leaving any witnesses.”

  So far, the village of Brighton had offered nothing but anomalies, inconsistencies and glitches. Maybe the little trip his abductor proposed was really the path to enlightenment. “Okay, my curiosity is getting the better of me, overwhelming my commonsense,” Bishop said. “I’ll go.”

  To Bishop’s surprise, the stranger pointed at Bishop’s rifle and then tossed over the magazine he’d removed just a few minutes before. “I’d reload that weapon if I were you. You never know when someone might try to rob us… or worse.”

  As the two men exited the building, the stranger resumed his off-Broadway role, bending slightly at the waist and hobbling along. Bishop, trying to play his part, hooked arms and pretended to be assisting the old gentlemen.

  As the two passed by the occasional pedestrian, Bishop received more than the normal number of smiles and nods, the citizens of Brighton obviously pleased to see the young helping the old.