The Directives Read online

  Bishop nodded, and the two men shook hands. “One last question before I go. What are the town’s people eating - now that you have stopped the Repos?”

  Evan snorted and stared down at the floor. “Lew has work gangs… some are composed of actual criminals… prisoners from the jail. But quite a few of their ‘slaves’ are men captured during the raids. The mayor and his lapdog, the sheriff, run a sort of debtor’s prison. They use those poor souls to farm the properties that were taken over by the bank – the ones closet to town. They are basically using forced labor under the guise of a homegrown justice system.”

  The group I saw in the thermal optic when we first arrived, Bishop thought. Another piece of the puzzle.

  Bishop didn’t need a lot more convincing. Evan’s story made sense and was supported by observations he’d already noted. It also resolved several unanswered questions that had been so troubling.

  After talking to a few of the refugees, the Texan found Frank, and the two men set off for town.

  “We need to hurry. It will be dark soon, and they start working the fields just before dusk,” the escort explained.

  Bishop returned to the courthouse with just enough light left to identify Major Baxter standing on the front steps, talking with the sheriff. “Where the hell have you been?” the officer snapped.

  “I helped an old man back to his house,” Bishop answered honestly. “He invited me in for some tea, and time just got away from me.”

  “Old man?” the sheriff inquired, his tone thick with doubt. “I’m not aware of very many old timers around town. Where does he live?”

  “I’m not sure,” Bishop answered. “I got a little lost on the way back. His house was out in the countryside, just beyond the edge of town.”

  “We’ve had people out looking for you,” Baxter stated. “Don’t wander off again.”

  “Yes, sir,” Bishop responded, acting as if he were worthy of the scolding. “I’m exhausted, gentlemen. If you’ll excuse me, I’m going to hit the rack before it’s my turn at sentry duty.”

  Bishop started to pass between the two men when the sheriff reached out and grabbed him by the arm. “I wasn’t finished with my questions,” the lawman hissed.

  After learning the truth about Brighton, Bishop was already disgusted just by being in proximity to the man. Something about the hand squeezing his arm ignited a firestorm of wrath inside the Texan. In a blur of motion, he found the lawman’s thumb, bending it backwards until the grip on his bicep was released. A simple twist, side step and push sent the sheriff to his knees, his arm helplessly pinned high against his back.

  Bishop’s pistol was pressing hard against the man’s ear. “Don’t you ever lay a fucking hand on me again, you piece of shit. I know your kind. Say your prayers, little law-bitch.”

  A slight whimper sounded from the sheriff’s throat when Bishop cocked the hammer of his pistol.

  Baxter was momentarily stunned by the speed and violence of the action. “Bishop. Bishop, stop! What are you doing?”

  But the Texan’s only response was to pull his victim’s arm higher, a loud pop signaling he’d dislocated the sheriff’s shoulder. The man howled in pain, the outburst followed by a low whine of misery.

  “Are you finished praying yet? I don’t hear you asking for forgiveness, Sheriff.”

  “Bishop!” Baxter shouted again. “Stop this! Are you fucking crazy?”

  Baxter bent lower, getting his face in close to Bishop’s, in hopes of driving his message through. What he saw in the Texan’s eyes made the soldier recoil.

  The major would never forget those coal-black pools, the dark stare of an emotionless predator about to terminate his prey. There wasn’t rage… or anger… or any sentiment at all. It was as if Bishop was a machine, a cold, mechanical killing device without humanity or conscience. In all the wars and campaigns of his military career, he’d never seen anything like it.

  “Bishop. Stop. Please,” Baxter tried again, his voice now a hushed plea.

  Something changed in Bishop’s posture. Like someone snapping out of a trance, his head briefly tilted, and then he exhaled audibly.

  Bishop lessened the pressure on the lawman’s limb, sending a signal that he was about to free his captive. Baxter recognized movement, realizing too late that the sheriff was reaching for his sidearm.

  Before Baxter could say anything, the Texan’s boot whizzed through the air, a vicious kick landing square against the sobbing lawman’s head. The blow sent the crippled man reeling down the courthouse steps where he landed with a thud. His pistol bounced a bit further, clambering another few feet on the concrete.

  Baxter stood with his mouth open, temporarily flabbergasted. Before he could recover, Bishop made eye contact with two soldiers who had been observing the encounter. “Get him over to the medic,” the Texan ordered. “And then I want him arrested and detained. If anyone from Brighton comes around looking for him, we have no idea of his whereabouts. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, sir,” both of them snapped as they hustled to help the disabled lawman.

  Bishop watched as the two privates reached for the sheriff, and then turned to address Baxter. “Major, I need to have a word with you, in private. Right. Fucking. Now.”

  Baxter started to protest, but then thought better of it. Had the Texan gone insane? Somehow, the major sensed that wasn’t the case. Curiosity replaced the fear he’d experienced while looking into the predator’s eyes. “This had better be good,” he mumbled as he followed Bishop inside.

  On a rooftop two blocks away from the courthouse, a stunned deputy jerked his face away from the binoculars. “Holy shit! Did you just see that?” whispered the observer. “He just kicked the sheriff’s ass.”

  “Yes, I saw it,” responded the other, pulling his eyes away from his own optic. “You’d better hightail it downstairs and let the mayor know. Something’s going on.”

  “You’re right. Do you think he’s still at City Hall?”

  “Now how the fuck would I know where he is? Go find him.”

  Standing quickly, the recently deputized young man made for the service hatch on the roof. Five minutes later, he was dashing toward City Hall.

  Bursting into the reception area, he discovered Amy Sue tidying her desk, preparing to head home. “Where’s Lew?” the excited man barked. “One of the newcomers just kicked the sheriff’s ass right on the courthouse steps. I think they’re holding him prisoner.”

  Lew was also ending his day. Recognizing the frantic deputy at his office threshold, the mayor was immediately concerned. “Slow down, damn it. Just slow down, and tell me exactly what you saw.”

  Within minutes, the deputy blurted out what he had witnessed from the rooftop. The mayor was clearly disturbed about the development. With a sigh of apprehension, he instructed, “Bring Mr. Winfrey to join me here immediately. On the way back, share with him what you observed.”

  As soon as the deputy had rushed out, Lew approached Amy Sue’s desk. “Send out the word. Gather the men,” he ordered. “Gather them all. I’m afraid we’re going to have a long night.”

  It took Bishop 45 minutes to recount his journey and what he’d learned. When he had finished, Major Baxter shook his head in disbelief. “I knew something was wrong here. It just felt off. Are you 100% certain?”

  “Yes,” Bishop responded. “I’m as sure about this as I can be of anything in this crazy world. What I didn’t see with my own eyes, I had multiple witness accounts. We’re dealing with a bunch of evil sons-ah-bitches. A group of murdering, out of control bastards.”

  “Well, at least I understand why you lost your temper with the sheriff. What you just told me about the inhumane treatment of these ranchers is about the best justification I’ve ever heard.”

  Bishop frowned, “I didn’t lose my temper, Major. I wasn’t mad at all. The sheriff’s still breathing isn’t he?”

  For a moment, Baxter wondered if all of the stories he’d heard about the Texan were actual
ly true. After the mini-drama he’d just watched, the tall tales were suddenly more believable. Clearing those thoughts from his head, he looked up and asked, “What’s the next move?”

  “Evan thought the plant could produce product with a few weeks of work, some spare parts, and electricity. Depending on how many of his key employees were still alive, he thought it was doable.”

  “And the mayor and his crew?”

  Bishop rubbed his chin, the dilemma obvious. “We’re not invaders, Major. On one hand, we’re nothing to these people. We have no authority or right to stick our noses in. It would be easy enough to arrest the mayor and his lackeys… take them out of circulation. But then what? What if the people side with their leadership? We can’t kill the entire town.”

  “And on the other hand?”

  Bishop chose his words carefully, “On the other hand, I feel a moral authority. There’s right and wrong. We’re Americans, and that sets a precedent for freedom and liberty. What Lew and the banker are doing is wrong.”

  Baxter processed those words for a few moments before responding. “Seems straightforward enough. We have to take down the local leadership. Like you said, it’s doable.”

  Bishop stood and began pacing the room, something still troubling the Texan. “Before we go acting all high and mighty, are we sure? You don’t know how many times I’ve thought things were black and white, only to find several shades of grey in reality. Surviving in a post-apocalyptic world seems to blur the distinction between good and evil even more.”

  “I don’t understand. It all seems pretty cut and dried to me. I just asked if you were sure, and you said ‘Yes.’ Are you changing your mind?”

  Bishop stopped and grinned at his poor choice of words. “Sorry to confuse you, sir. I’m absolutely sure of what Lew and his henchmen have done. What I’m not so certain about is the true depth of the mayor’s crimes. He did feed his people. You could argue that he utilized the available resources to provide greatest benefit to the most needy. Is that really so bad? Would you or I have done anything differently?”

  “So what are you saying, Bishop?”

  “It would be easy for me and a couple of your best shooters to walk over to City Hall, spray down the security and then give Lew and his boys an injection of high velocity lead. A simple enough solution to the problem. But that would make us judge, jury, and executioner. Would we really be any better than the men we are eliminating? From what I’ve heard and seen, we would be acting in the exact same manner, killing off the few so we can help the many. It just doesn’t sit right with me.”

  Baxter was impressed. He’d originally thought Bishop nothing more than a hyped-up country boy. The man’s depth was raising the major’s level of respect.

  “I’ve got it!” Bishop declared. “Instead of killing them outright, we’ll arrest them and hold a trial. A jury of their peers. We’ll even let them have representation like the constitution allows.”

  The major brightened at the concept, relief replacing the ill feelings he was having over the thoughts of ordering his men to kill non-combatant civilians. He then had an even better idea. “A military tribunal! We can have officers from the Judge Advocate General’s office come up from Hood. They will get a fair shake, and then we’ll march them all in front of a firing squad.”

  Bishop liked the idea. “We’ve got a plan then, Major. Let’s start working out the details of tomorrow morning’s take down.”

  But before Baxter could react, the sergeant came busting through the door. “Major! You’d better get out here. Something’s going on. Something big.”

  “I’ve got movement,” one of the Army sentries reported, his voice barely carrying over the rush of scrambling men. Peering again through his night vision, the specialist focused on the gable of a nearby building. “I’ve got two men with rifles taking up a position on top.”

  “I’ve got the same over here,” shouted another. “No! Make that several men on the rooftops. They’re all over the place!”

  Bishop looked at Baxter and said, “Welcome to the Alamo, Major. I think Lew and Mr. Winfrey don’t appreciate our detaining their friend the sheriff.”

  “Alamo, my ass,” the officer spat. “I’ve got enough firepower to hold this building and go out there and lay waste.”

  Bishop grunted, nodding toward the north. “Don’t be so sure, Major. I think we’ve got a lot of company coming.”

  Baxter followed Bishop’s gaze to the spot where a yellow and red light illuminated the darkened street. A few moments later, several hundred people came rolling around the corner, dozens of torches filling the night with a menacing glow surrounded by black swirls of smoke.

  Still, the officer wasn’t impressed. Keying his radio’s microphone, he directed, “Bring the Humvee with the 50 caliber up to the front steps of the courthouse. Do not… I repeat… do not fire on any civilians unless I specifically order it.”

  Bishop nodded his agreement with the tactic. One of their military vehicles was equipped with an M2 machine gun mounted in a roof turret. The belt-fed weapon was capable of enormous firepower, able to spray deadly streams of lead at 600 rounds per minute.

  They heard the Humvee’s motor start as the crowd drew closer. Bishop moved to a corner, watching the soldiers execute the major’s order. He inhaled sharply as a flickering light arched through the air, the projectile landing on the Humvee’s hood and exploding in a ball of red flame. Another Molotov cocktail soon followed, and then a third.

  The men in the Humvee would have been fine if they had just driven through the flames. From inside the military transport, the two young soldiers were overwhelmed by the wall of fire surrounding their ride. The driver, an inexperienced private, panicked and slammed on the brakes. Thinking he was going to be baked alive, the terror-stricken young man opened the armored door and tried to climb out.

  Rivulets of burning gasoline leaked in via the open door, the heat and smoke adding an additional element of bedlam to the interior. Both the driver and passenger tried to escape, their clothing catching fire in the surrounding pools of burning fuel. They were completely engulfed before they made it five steps away from the now-doomed vehicle.

  Bishop, outraged at the attack, raised his rifle and snap-fired several shots at the window where the gas bombs had been launched.

  Twinkles of light began flashing from every rooftop surrounding the courthouse. Bishop dove prone as dozens of bullets cracked over his head, solid thuds and thwacks wounding the limestone façade behind him. Rolling to his right, he fired again at a vague outline of a rooftop shooter.

  Without thought, he rolled left just as the ground erupted in geysers of dirt and grass.

  Scrambling for the cover of the building, Bishop zigzagged as dozens of rounds chased him across the front of the courthouse steps. Stinging limestone shrapnel whizzed through the air, biting his skin and pelting his body. He dove the last few feet, hitting the marble floor hard and tumbling onto the landing.

  An orchestra of return fire thundered through the courthouse halls. Soldiers and the men from West Texas responded to the attack with a deadly volley of their own. Shouts, orders, and battle cries bounced off the walls, Major Baxter’s orders booming over the din, directing his men get their asses into the fight.

  After catching his breath, Bishop found an open spot near the major. “The Humvee with the Ma Duce (M2) has been destroyed, sir. Both men inside are dead.”

  “Shit! Our radio was in that vehicle. We don’t have any way to call for help.” Baxter said. “Now what am I supposed to do with that mob?”

  Bishop followed the officer’s gaze toward the approaching throng of civilians. There were at least three hundred of them, their surreal, collective anger illuminated by the flaming torches brandished high in the air. Bishop raised his rifle to study the crowd, quickly identifying at least two women at the front.

  “Damn… there are families in that group,” he informed the major. “I hate this shit.”

  Duc
king as a bullet snapped through the open window, Baxter looked helpless. “What the hell do I do with this? Order my men to fire on civilians?”

  Bishop shook his head, even more disgusted with the local leadership than he had been before. “Order your men to fire above their heads, sir. See if that disperses them.”

  Baxter took the suggestion, turning to order the nearby soldiers to carefully fire over the advancing mass.

  Again, a volley of fire roared from the courthouse, dozens of rounds flying a few feet above the horde. The oncoming wall of people hesitated for a moment, but then continued in its resolve to overrun the building.

  “Shit,” Bishop said. “Fire at their feet, sir. A few rounds may bounce up and hit some legs, but that beats the alternative.”

  The major issued the order, a barrage of lead punishing the earth just in front of the approaching throng. Bishop spied a couple of people go down, and again the front of the crowd paused. The advance only halted for a minute, however, the throng ignoring the obvious warnings and continuing to march forward.

  The Texan did not want to shoot civilians. He already suffered enough nightmares for any two men, and firing on misguided people wasn’t in his playbook. He was beginning to understand why the farmers had lost the first battle that had taken place on this very spot.

  The ammunition stored in the burning Humvee picked that moment to start cooking off, a booming chorus of pops and bangs causing the oncoming wall of humanity to hesitate. When the stricken vehicle’s fuel tank exploded in a ball of fire, the irate citizens of Brighton actually backed away.

  Bishop heard an unusual sound, for a moment thinking Baxter had his radio turned up so loud he was hearing the officer’s earpiece. But that wasn’t where the mechanical-sounding voice was coming from. Using his rifle optic, he quickly scanned the mob and identified the source. A young man wielding a bullhorn was cajoling the horde to storm the courthouse.