The Directives

by Joe Nobody

  “The Army, sir, or at least how the public looks at the military. Before the collapse, Americans respected and honored those who served… those who sacrificed for their freedom. That perspective is the causality. It didn’t survive the downfall.”

  Owens frowned, the expression making it clear he couldn’t process what Bishop was trying to tell him.

  The Texan, frustrated by his inability to form the words, tried again. “Civilians looked at the military to protect their freedom… their way of life. But that freedom no longer exists. Liberty died with society. The pursuit of happiness perished with the apocalypse, or more accurately in the months and years that followed the downfall. People can no longer live the way they want to live. Their definition of being free is only a memory, a fading image of something they’d experienced long ago. They are now slaves in their minds – indentured with servitude to hunger.”

  “Okay. I follow you so far, but what does that have to do with my soldiers and the uniform? We didn’t cause the collapse. We’re blameless,” the general shrugged.

  “Few people think the Army is responsible; that’s not the point. What I’m trying to say is that you can’t defend something that no longer exists. In their minds, freedom is an illusion. There’s no nation to defend, no constitution to uphold. When we paraded into Brighton, we represented something that was so far from those people’s reality, we were nothing but a ruse. They had already been deceived enough and wanted no part of a military intervention.”

  Owens disagreed. “While I think I see what you’re saying, is it wise to change our strategy based on a single incident?”

  Bishop looked down, dismayed. “You’ve read the reports, sir. Didn’t it strike you as odd that the locals could gin up the population so easily against us? The agitators were shouting phrases like, ‘Remember Katrina,’ and ‘Remember Waco,’ during the riot. The vast majority of their people took up arms against their own Army. They fought and died in droves. Not because of a few crooked leaders or some big lie – but because we represented something so foreign to their reality it was as if the Chinese military was rolling into their homes.”

  Owens nodded, “Yes, I read the reports. But do you really believe that attitude will be prevalent?”

  “That attitude is completely understandable. We weren’t there when they were suffering the worst of it. No one showed up to help or lend a hand. Now, the average person is suspicious and has no faith in any authority beyond the men and women who survived the hard times beside him. We are foreigners in our own land.”

  The general shook his head, not wanting to accept Bishop’s explanation. “That may have been true in Brighton, but I don’t think it’s reasonable to assume that example as typical. I’m going to recommend my officer’s modifications to the council.”

  Bishop smiled, “Sir, your men and you are brave, noble, and extremely skilled at what you do. But no one has ever tried to rebuild the American society after a collapse. I would prefer to work with you and your planners, but as an equal. If that is unacceptable, then I will make my own presentation to the council, and quite frankly, sir, it will involve using a minimum of military assets for first-approach missions.”

  Terri grunted, a sly grin creasing her lips. “Sounds like you’re fired, General. But then again, you never really wanted the job in the first place – right?”

  “Isn’t that ultimately up to the council?” the confused officer responded, trying to tread carefully.

  “If you want to debate my husband in front of the council, General, that is your right. I’ll even recuse myself from the proceedings. But you will be creating an unnecessary political divide. What’s the harm in listening to Bishop’s ideas? What possible negative consequences can come from his experience and vision?”

  Owens extended his hand to Bishop, “Welcome aboard, son. I look forward to working with you.”

  After the officer had left, Bishop glanced at his wife and said, “Now we know how that man got promoted so quickly. He’s open-minded and fair. Things are looking up.”

  According to the map, the town was called Riley. Bishop had never been there. Just west of the Oklahoma border, a little south of Amarillo, the remote Texas berg was listed as having just over 2,000 residents – pre-collapse. He hoped at least half had survived.

  It would be another hour before dawn, their original plan allotting time for any potential complications along the road. But there hadn’t been any major obstacles, downed bridges, or blocked pavement… a pleasant surprise and positive harbinger for this critical assignment.

  Four men had been chosen for the objective, the debate among the Alliance leadership raging between smaller and larger groups. Bishop had argued passionately for this specific configuration, the disaster at Brighton, Texas still fresh on everyone’s mind. Too many had died there. Bishop still moved with a slight, but perceptible limp in the early hours after rising.

  In a way, the Texan felt like a lab rat. His mission was, in so many ways, the opposite of what the Alliance had attempted at Brighton. Instead of overwhelming force and the quick establishment of authority, they were to leave a small footprint, gather information, and remain inconspicuous to the local population. They were here to scout, gain an understanding of the local situation, and establish contacts if an opportunity presented itself. The Alliance leadership, with a realistic assessment and solid intelligence, could then react with whatever was necessary to integrate the community. It was a slower process that didn’t meet the timetable of desperate people needing help, but fewer would die.

  Cory was selected for his mechanical skills and overall good nature. Bishop knew the man could fight if the need arose. Kevin had grown strong, tall and wide, his skill with a sniper rifle unparalleled among the ranks of Alliance shooters. Nick had taught the boy well, rounding out the natural gifts provided by God - a sharp eye, steady hands and the patience to only squeeze the trigger.

  “Boy?” Bishop whispered, glancing at his best friend’s son. “He could probably kick my ass. I wonder what the hell Nick is feeding that kid. I’ll get Terri to put it on the grocery list for Hunter.”

  He dismounted from the pickup, immediately heaving gear from the bed. Bishop was pleased that every man went about his business quietly and professionally. Still, they were all nervous. The unknown did that to men – even those who had been carrying a rifle to survive the last few years.

  Kevin sauntered over, his pack and rifle resting easily on his shoulders. “I’m too keyed up to rest,” the kid stated honestly. “I want to head off and find a good observation point. This land is pretty flat, and it might take me a while to locate just the right vantage.”

  “Not by yourself, you’re not. You know the rules. No one works alone.”

  Kevin nodded, “Yes, sir. Cory said he doesn’t feel like sitting around either. He’s going to go with me if it’s okay with you.”

  “Okay. That will work. You keep me posted on the radio. I’m hiking into town at first light, and I need to know you have my back. Good luck.”

  With a nod from Cory, the two men hustled off into the darkness. Bishop watched as they snaked their way down a line of short oak that had taken root along an old fence. There was a stand of taller trees in the distance, sitting on top of the rare undulation in this part of the state. It was an area where they hoped to find a good observation point – a vantage that would allow them to bring most of the small town beyond into the optic of Kevin’s long-range rifle.

  Bishop sensed footsteps behind him, pivoting to find Grim returning to the truck. “Are those two off already? Little eager are we?”

  “It’s their first time out like this,” Bishop chuckled. “They’re both so charged up I am surprised it took them this long.”

  Grim laughed, “Yeah… I still remember my first mission. Talk about a ball of raw nerves. It’s only by the grace of God that I didn’t accidentally shoot somebody.”

  Bishop patted his friend on the shoulder and smiled. “Everyth
ing go okay setting up the cat’s eyes and trip wires?”

  “Yes, sir. We’re as secure as a baby in a crib. Unless we both fall completely asleep at the wheel, no one is going to sneak up on us.”

  “Good. I hope we’re not here more than a day or two, but there’s no way to be sure how long this will take.”

  “Why don’t you catch a quick nap? I’m going to start gathering firewood. We both could use a cup of coffee before we stroll into that town.”

  The suggestion made Bishop yawn. “Sounds good.”

  Pacing back to the pickup, Bishop paused for a moment and scanned his surroundings. All around the perimeter were small, twinkling pinpoints of light – the cat’s eyes.

  Illuminated by a series of infrared lights resting on top of the cab, each small dot was actually a tiny reflector, not unlike the safety units found on bicycles. While the unaided human eye couldn’t see the infrared spectrum of light, the material in the cat’s eyes could.

  If intruders wandered between the reflectors and the truck, their presence, speed, and direction would be easily detectable.

  He was confident that Grim’s installation of the trip wires was professionally done as well. The Darkwater contractor had years of military and private experience. So much so, Bishop knew his second in command could take over if something happened to him. Dismissing the thought until a better time, he climbed into the cab and laid back against the headrest.

  He was sure Grim had identified the likely avenues of approach and layered them with alarms. They were using noisemakers only, as it wouldn’t be good to kill or maim one of the locals before they’d even had a chance to introduce themselves. Very undiplomatic, to say the least.

  “Diplomacy?” he whispered to the empty truck. “Is that going to be our best approach? Do I use a soft touch with patience and kind words? How about strength? Should I go in like a bull and let them know up front who’s in charge? Threaten to kick all their asses if they don’t join the Alliance and do as we say? That didn’t work out so well in Brighton, but this isn’t the same place or people.”

  He closed his eyes to rest, the countless meetings and strategy sessions back at Hood flowing through his mind. Everyone had a different opinion, each person anticipating, no dreaming, what the team would encounter.

  Some people dismissed all the planning, claiming any isolated group of people would welcome the Alliance with open arms. They claimed that Brighton was the exception, perhaps the only one of its kind in the entire state. Others pointed to the situations Bishop and the contractors had encountered in Arkansas, situations where violence occurred without a word being spoken.

  Eventually, the debate ascertained the truth. No one really knew what the team would find in the sleepy town of Riley, Texas. It might be like Meraton, or it might be like Brighton. Or it might have its own personality. There was simply no way to know.

  “That’s why I’m here,” Bishop whispered to the empty cab, tapping the dashboard for emphasis. “The council expects me to think on my feet… to make decisions on the fly. There’s no manual for rebuilding a nation after an apocalypse – I’m just going to have to play it by ear.”

  Bishop finally had to admit he was too keyed up to rest. Opening his eyes, he scanned the perimeter, wondering if he should go help Grim with the firewood. He’d watched the contractor stroll off to the north, but couldn’t detect any hint of his companion now.

  In the rearview mirror, something drew his eye. The cat eyes… one of them had just blinked out.

  There it was again. And then another.

  “Oh shit,” Bishop whispered, his hand moving to the pistol holstered on his leg. His rifle was still in the bed, as was the rest of his kit.

  He pushed the button on his radio. “Grim, unless you circled around the south, I’ve got company coming in. At least two, maybe more.”

  “It’s not me, Bishop. I’m 200 meters to your north. Would it be the kids?”

  Before Bishop could respond, Cory’s voice sounded across the airwaves. “We’re 500 yards west of the truck. It’s not us.”

  “Shit,” Bishop said, just as Grim added, “I’m on my way in. Kevin, you and Cory stay put. Even if you hear a protracted gunfight, stand by and wait for instructions.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Bishop could see them now, ghost-like shapes moving along the same route he’d driven the truck an hour ago. They had cut up through some thick scrub, probably bypassing Grim’s booby traps.

  He could make out three distinct shapes, but understood there might be more. He started to reach for the night vision, but realized objects in the mirror were closer than they appeared. And they were coming fast.

  Bishop was pinned, no doubt about it. They were too close for him to jump out and reach cover. Still, if they were hostile, his chances inside the cab weren’t very good either.

  “Is there anyone in the truck?” a voice hissed.

  “How the fuck would I know? You got a flashlight handy?”

  “Hell, no. You know we haven’t had a working battery for over six months. Very fucking funny, dude.”

  “Well then how would you expect me to know if there was somebody in the truck?”

  They’re kids, Bishop realized, judging the young, bickering voices. But cautious kids.

  He watched them fan out as they approached the rear of the pickup, his eyes darting from mirror to mirror, trying to keep track of each one’s position. He remained still, knowing any movement would give away his presence inside the cab.

  A few moments later, they were close enough for him to see their rifles in the low light. Memories of a pre-collapse job in Africa reentered Bishop’s mind. Kids can be extremely dangerous and violent. They haven’t developed a conscience just yet. Desperate kids are even worse.

  The leader finally made it to the bed and glanced inside. “I told you idiots that I heard a truck motor. There’s some sort of equipment in the back,” came the whispered voice. “Looks like a bunch of food and camping equipment.”

  “Food? Jimmy, are you sure?”

  “Shush! If they’re around, they’ll hear you.”

  “Let’s take the food and get the hell out of here,” came the nervous response.

  But the leader wasn’t so sure. He took a few steps forward, raising his rifle and looking hard inside the cab. Bishop’s grip tightened on the pistol.

  The kid finally made out Bishop’s silhouette against the seat. “Who are you?” came the clear, surprisingly loud challenge.

  “My name’s Bishop, and you should put that weapon down.”

  The kid’s head pivoted right and left, looking for any reason why he should follow Bishop’s suggestion. “And why should I do that?”

  “Because there is one of the meanest sons-ah-bitches, you’ve ever seen right behind you. He likes to eat and won’t take kindly to anyone messing with his food supply. That… and the fact that I have a .45 caliber automatic pistol aimed right at your head.”

  The kid chanced another glance right and left, but didn’t see any threats.

  Bishop didn’t give him time to think. “Seriously, son. We mean no harm, but if you keep pointing that pig gun at me, my friend isn’t going to like it much. Lower the weapon, and let’s talk.”

  “I don’t think so,” replied the now-shaky voice. “I think you’re by yourself and are trying to bluff your way out of this. Why don’t you throw down your pistol and get out of the truck? Then we can talk.”

  Bishop’s eye was drawn to a shadow behind Jimmy. If the kid hadn’t been pointing a rifle a Bishop’s head, he might have felt sorry for the young man.

  Another high-pitched voice sounded from the back of the truck. “C’mon, Jimmy… just shoot him, and let’s take his stuff. He’s just another trespassing bum who’ll probably try and steal our food and guns anyway.”

  But Jimmy didn’t answer. His eyes were wide as saucers because Grim’s fighting knife was across the lad’s throat.

  While Bishop couldn’t hear
what Grim whispered in the boy’s ear, he had a pretty good idea. The rifle lowered slowly until it was pointing at the ground. A slight “thud” announced its impact with the turf.

  “Guys. Guys. I… errrr… I think you should come over here,” Jimmy stammered.

  “What’s wrong Ji…,” one of the others started to ask as the youths rounded the truck. Jimmy’s problem was obvious - he had a very nasty-looking new acquaintance.

  “Both of you! Drop your weapons, or I’ll slice off this one’s head and shit down his throat. Go on now. Put ’em down.”

  But they didn’t. Bishop had to hand it to the youths – they had mustard. Again, with weapons pointed at Grim and his captive, they moved to flank their target. Bishop decided to add to their tactical difficulties.

  Opening the truck door, he emerged still holding the pistol, but with both palms up and signaling for calm.

  “My name is Bishop, and I’m a Texas Ranger. We’re here to see if the town of Riley needs help. Parts of the state are in a full-blown recovery.”

  “Bullshit!” the kid responded. “Anybody could say that. Why would the Rangers come here after all this time? You’re a liar.”

  Despite the cockiness of the response, Bishop could tell his little account had partially resonated with the young male’s mind, seeding doubt.

  “Tell you what,” Bishop said. “We’ll turn your friend loose. We’ll even let him keep his weapon. You guys back out of here, and fetch whoever is in charge. Tell them we’ll meet them on the edge of town to talk… and only talk.”

  Even in the dim light, Bishop could spot the kid’s eyes darting back and forth… first Grim, then his hostage, and finally the guy making this unexpected offer.

  “Look, son, I don’t take kindly to being called a liar,” Bishop said, his voice near a whisper. “I let that go. I heard you suggest shooting me and stealing my food. I’ve cut men in half for less than that. I’m making the rare exception here. Take advantage of it, and live another day. I’ve only got so much charity flowing through my veins.”

  “Okay… but… but… you let Jimmy go.”