The Directives (30 page)

In a world where diesel fuel was in short supply, where her more complex and capable cousins could no longer rumble across the rails of Texas, Lady Star was
once again the belle of the ball.

Before the collapse, she had been regulated to semi-retirement, hauling tourists and train buffs on a short, private track among small towns from eastern Texas
to the coast. But all of that changed after the collapse.

The benefactor of loyal enthusiasts, funds from the state’s budget, and adoring riders, Star had been maintained at the highest possible standards. Every week, hundreds o
f Americans journeyed from Boston to San Francisco and everywhere in between to travel in her cars and admire the craftsmanship and engineering so inherent in her creation.

Now, hundreds of people still arrived to ride on the rejuvenated train, but they weren’t tourists. Star had once again accepted a role of prominence, serving as a critical component to the benefit of mankind.       

Grim and Bishop stood at the edge of the gathered throng, both men dressed to fit in with the local population, both admiring the steam-powered locomotive with the rest of the milling humanity.

For the people
of East Texas, a supply of diesel fuel was non-existent. Even with the limited refining capability of the Alliance in 24x7 operation, there simply wasn’t enough of the BTU-laced liquid to go around. The rising needs of military, over-the-road trucking, and agriculture consumed every drop that could be produced.

But like so many of the survivors the Alliance was now encountering, the citizenry of the Great Piney Woods had adapted. While they didn’t have the capability to refine petroleum, what they did possess was an abundance of trees. The region’s handle included the words “great” and “woods” for good reason.

Even more amazing to the two men from the Alliance was the adaptation of the grand old locomotive’s boilers. The Texas Star hadn’t been born as a wood burner. She’d originally been engineered to consume coal, later modified to accept a more efficient and inexpensive diet of fuel oil.

But even that lesser-refined version of fuel was impossible to obtain, so clever men had modified the old girl a third time, her steam now generated by the burning of wood gas.

Bishop stepped closer, taking advantage of a gap in the mob to improve his view. The beauty and polish of the engine was completely offset by the car immediately following the old workhorse.

Looking like a moonshiner’s still that had
gotten out of control, the train’s second car was a flatbed unit, the front half completely covered in a cacophony of steel and bronze kettles, bins, tanks and pipe.

Two of the locomotive
’s firemen worked the mechanical menagerie, twisting valves, checking gauges, and supervising a second crew working at the rear of the car. There, men were stacking several huge bags of what appeared to be wood chips.

“Check that out, Grim,” Bishop said to his friend. “It looks more like a mad scientist’s lab than anything I’ve ever seen on a train.”

Grim nodded, seemingly unable to take his eyes off the spectacle. “Wood gas has been around for a long, long time. I heard the Germans used it when fuel was running low at the end of World War II. Over a million vehicles were powered with gasified wood by the end of the conflict.”

Bishop nodded his understanding, and then said, “As much as I’d love to stand here all day like a little
boy wanting to grow up and be a train engineer, we need to get going.”

“After you, oh great and fearless leader.”

The two men made their way through the crowd, the surrounding multitude reminding Bishop of the market at Meraton.

They passed a child dragging a coop occupied by two unhappy chickens, followed by two men with a side of beef hanging from the pole braced on their shoulders. Women hustled here and bustled there, some toting goods, others with their hands full of youngsters. Most everyone was armed.

While some bartering was in process around the edges of the crowd, most of the people in the vicinity were actually there to board and ride the train.

After winding through the swarm of activity, Bishop spied a man with a red armband, the serious-faced fellow sporting the same colored cloth ringing his hat and an unadorned battle rifle slung across his chest. Making sure his own weapon was pointed down and in a non-threatening position, the Texan approached what was clearly a local policeman or guard.

“I heard a man can find work around here?” Bishop inquired.

“You heard right,” the guy replied. “Keep walking; you’ll see a sign and a line.”

And they did.

Soon, Bishop and Grim
approached a tiny wooden shack; a hand painted poster above the small, booth-like window had one word, “Hiring.” Just as the security man had predicted, there was a line.  

The cue was comprised of a mishmash of folks, mostly men; some of the applicants looking relatively put together, ot
hers appearing to be on the brink of starvation or despair. At the front of the line, on either side of the opening, stood two rather large guards wearing the red bandanas on their arms and hats. Each looked menacing as hell and each wielded an AR15 rifle.

Slowly the line inched forward, Bishop noting some of the job seekers strolling away from the opening with a bounce in their steps, others stomping away, shaking their heads in disgust.

Before long, Bishop and Grim stepped to the window. Inside, they found a rotund, sweating man who didn’t even bother to make eye contact. “Chopping wood pays 22 ounces of food per day, four of that being one variety or the other of meat. We start at 6 a.m., end at 6 p.m. Take it or leave it.”

“We were looking for something in security,” Bishop said.

The man on the other side of the booth finally glanced up, his eyes quickly scanning Bishop and Grim. Both of the Alliance men had “dressed down,” for the mission, exchanging their personal rifles for standard issue military models, and leaving their best optics and kit behind. Nodding toward Grim, he said, “He’s big enough, but I don’t know about you. Military?”

Grim stepped close, eyes darting left and right to make sure no one could overhear. “We left Fort Hood a few weeks ago. Our papers weren’t exactly in order.”

“Deserters, huh? We see our share. Do you have ammunition for those weapons?”

“Yeah, we have enough to take care of business,” Grim replied.

The response was a grunt. “I’m still not sure about the little guy,” he said, scrutinizing Bishop. “Take these two passes and head 150 yards down the tracks. Ask around for Major Misery.”

“Misery?” Grim questioned, accepting the two aces from a deck of playing cards.

“Are you fucking deaf?” came the impatient answer. “You can’t work security if you can’t hear.” Then, casting a dismissive gaze over Grim’s shoulder, the jerk yelled, “Next!”

The Alliance men did as they were told, hiking along the tracks in the direction indicated. “Damn,” commented Bishop, “I’m six foot and 200 pounds. They must grow ’em big around here if that’s too small.”

“You do look a little soft around the edges. You might consider working out a little more to tone up,” Grim teased.

“How about I tone you up the side of your head,
big man
?”

Before Grim could continue
the banter, they reached another pair of red bandanas. “You’re in the wrong fucking place,” the larger of the two sentries barked. “Move your asses out of here.”

Grim he
ld up the two aces and then responded, “We were told to find a Major Misery.”

Unapologetic, the man motioned over his shoulder, “You’ll see a big tent down the tracks. The major is there. Don’t go anywhere else.”

“No way ‘Misery’ is this guy’s real name,” Grim observed as they walked, “but I like it.”

“Really? You don’t think so? Next thing, you’ll be telling me is Grim isn’t what your mama called you,” Bishop chided. “I need to come up with some sort of badass handle like that. All you high-speed, low drag individuals have such cool names, like Reaper, Bull, or Grim. People hear my name and think I’m either a chess piece or a religious executive.”

“Those nicknames are earned, my friend. You need to work a little harder, and perhaps one day someone will hang one on you,” Grim teased.

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Bishop replied, a huge grin on his face. “Does it count for anything that Terri calls me Stud Muffin?”

“Yeah… that’s good… We can call you Captain Muffin. I like it. Fits.”

The tent appeared after another hundred yards or so.
After asking another inhospitable gentleman the whereabouts of the good major, they were shown to a table where a 40ish man with a shaved head sat shuffling papers. “Yes,” he said, without looking up.

“We were told to come talk to you about security positions,” Grim announced, presenting the two playing cards on the table.

Major Misery examined his visitors, his eyes performing a quick evaluation of the two men standing before him. “How long were you in?” he asked.

Grim replied first, “Eighteen and counting.”

Bishop followed with, “Twenty plus.”

“CIBs?” fired the next question, the major wanting to know if either man had earned the coveted Combat Infantry Badge.

“Yes,” they both replied at the same time.

Standing, the man in charge stamped around the table, still sizing up the candidates. Focusing on Bishop, he stated, “We do a lot of crowd control here. That normally takes a little more ass than you’ve been issued. That, and you’re a little long in the tooth. Can you fight?”

“I’ve managed a scrap or two, sir,” Bishop responded without hesitation.

“Would you be willing to prove that?”

Bishop was surprised by the question, not sure how to respond. He finally settled on, “No problem.”

Major Misery grunted, mumbling, “We’ll see about that,” and then turned to the front of the tent. “Somebody get Hoss.”

Returning his gaze to Bishop, he explained, “Most men find my son quite the challenge when it comes to doing it hand-to-hand. If you really want the job, we’ll see how well you hold up.”

A few minutes later, Bishop understood. Hoss was only an inch taller than the Texan, but a good 40 or 50 pounds heavier. The young man evidently spent all of his free time lifting weights. Bulging, broad shoulders led to thick arms, both limbs covered with veins and cords.

“You want me to
fight
him?” Bishop turned and asked the major.

Laughing, Misery responded, “You said you could handle yourself. It’s not too late to change your mind. There’s plenty of work available chopping wood.”

Bishop shook his head, indicating he’d been misunderstood. “No sir, that’s not what I meant. I was more concerned about hurting the little fella.”

A few minutes later, a circle of men irascibly waited in a flat clearing next to the tent. Word had spread quickly amongst the security forces that Hoss was about to consume another victim. There was an impatient excitement in the air, the event
more resembling a boxing match or afterschool fight, than any job interview Bishop had ever attended.

Grim stood with his friend to one side, both men eyeing Hoss as he removed his shirt and then flexed his considerable mass for the crowd.

“Are you sure you want to do this?” Grim asked. “He’s just a tad bit smaller than a T-Rex.”

“The bigger they are…” Bishop stated, unbuttoning his own shirt.

“The bigger they are, the harder they kick your ass,” Grim teased. “Terri is going to be so pissed if I carry you back to Alpha without any teeth.”

Major Misery appeared at their side, “To work with my team, you don’t have to win. I’ll judge your qualifications by how long you last and the skills you display. He’s only killed two men. We were just a little slow in pulling him off on both of those occasions.”

“Any rules?” Bishop asked.

“No. No rules. No holds barred.”

And then it was time.

Major Misery mov
ed to the center of the arena, and simply said, “Go.”

Hoss was clearly an aggressive fellow. Charging from his corner with a growl, he moved quickly toward Bishop with extended arms and the intent to grapple.

But Bishop knew better. He understood it would be over quickly if the bigger man managed to fix a hold on any part of his body. There was no way he could match the strength of the larger foe, but that didn’t concern the Texan.

Waiting until Hoss was almost upon him, Bishop ducked and sidestepped at the last moment, springing away from the outstretched arms of his opponent.

I have to wear him down
, Bishop thought.
These big guys are strong as hell, but it takes a lot of oxygen and energy to move that huge body around. Wear him down.
 

Bishop danced in a circle, moving to his right with the bouncing footwork of a prizefighter. Again, Hoss lunged, but his target wasn’t there.

For over three minutes, Bishop avoided the behemoth, cutting right, ducking left, or simply backing away. Hoss was growing frustrated and began taunting. “Come on, you little chicken shit. Stand and fight, pussy.”