The Directives (40 page)

They had so much then and didn’t even know it. There were always cold cuts in the fridge, at least a pound of bacon ready for the pan. Fresh fruit, eggs, chips and salsa… little things that they took for granted at the time. Now, even a cup of coffee was considered an extravagance to most.

The rainfall increased its annoying intensity, now stinging Bishop’s face as Lady Star sliced through the blow. Ducking inside the car, Bishop tried his best to do his job and keep watch through the streams and rivulets that ran down the glass. The rhythm of the rails tempted him to close his eyes, but he didn’t dare reduce the intensity of his vigil. Gomez was probably right about Major Misery.

As usual, he had to agree with Terri’s desire not to visit their home. Returning to the old neighborhood would indeed conjure up a head full of bad memories.

But it wasn’t the potential despair over a lost abode or looted china that bothered Bishop. What he feared had nothing to do with possessions or physical things. No, what troubled the Texan the most was losing the battle that raged inside him. He feared that visiting their first home would add fuel to a flame that he barely managed to contain.

The more he fought, witnessed, and suffered in this new world, the angrier he became at the loss of the old one. Every man he’d been forced to kill added to the fury. Every orphaned child, starving wretch and street lined with empty homes caused the ire to build.

He was constantly suppressing the urge to lash out at something, to make someone pay for all of the pain and suffering. His internal ferocity was barely contained, and if it triumphed in this conflict, his morality would disappear forever.

At first, he’d been completely occupied with simple survival. Staying alive had consumed all of his energy and time.

But as things stabilized, there was more mental bandwidth available to analyze, observe, and remember. Without the need to spend every waking moment of every day focused on providing nourishment, Bishop began second-guessing their lot, searching for answers.

Those answers troubled the Texan. For the first time in his life, he began to lose faith in his fellow man. Despite all of the conflict, treachery, cruelty, and exhibitions of pure evil he’d encountered, Bishop had always
held hope and faith. Holding onto those values was becoming more and more difficult.

The dark forces within his soul spoke tantalizing words, tempting phrases that glorified withdrawal. They whispered of the imperfection of men. They pointed to the weakness, guile, and inferiority in others. People weren’t worth helping. It was useless to save others. They would only repeat the same mistakes. Leave all this pain and suffering behind. Take Terri and retreat back to the ranch… it’s the only path to light and salvation.

“Leave them to their own devices,” the voices said. “Let the animals that surround you work it out,” they tempted. “You know taking your family back to the ranch and isolation is righteous, just, and moral. Impose your will. Make Terri do it. The others deserve whatever fate comes their way.”

Bishop shook his head, the conscious effort to push those thoughts
aside requiring tremendous focus. “I’m losing it,” he whispered to the rain-streaked window. “Becoming a hermit seems like a great career path. I could put sociopath and isolationist on my resume.”

The door flew
open, startling Bishop out of his trance. A soaking wet Grim appeared in the opening, hustling inside to escape the rain. Shaking off like a drenched dog, he said, “Damn that’s getting nasty out there. You okay?”

“Yeah, I’m fine. Why?”
Bishop responded.

“It looked like I snuck up on you, which is weird. That and the fact that you haven’t made a smartass joke or remark since the ambush, which is even weirder. That big fella knocked you around pretty good… maybe you should take a break?”

“No, I’m cool. I’ll take a little time off after we get to Galveston. Maybe go to the beach with Terri and Hunter.”

“I’d find
some rot-gut whisky and get stumbling, falling down drunk if I were you. Hell, I’ll help you drink it, and then roll you out of your own puke.”

Bishop grinned, “What a guy you are, Grim. How can a fella go wrong with friends like you around?”

The knock interrupted his reading. Corky closed his book and removed the now-necessary reading glasses. Peering up at his cabin door, he instructed, “Come in.”

His second in command entered, a serious look painted on his face. “Sir, the barometric pressure continues to fall. It just dipped below 29.00.”

Corky didn’t react immediately. Instead, he looked down at
The Old Man and the Sea
, and thought of the irony.
What an appropriate title
, he mused.

“Have the additional lines been secured?”

“Yes, Captain. We’ve got several rain-drenched deck rats on our hands, but the secondary moorings have been implemented.”

“Wind speeds?”

“We are seeing sustained winds out of the northeast at 65 miles per hour. We’ve had two gusts over 80.”

“Shit! You know what th
is means, don’t you?”

“Yes, sir. W
e are most likely looking at a Category 1 hurricane.”

“Or worse,” Corky replied, his mind already thinking about the next
steps.

“
Have two men take the heavy fork-lifts from the port. Issue them both radios. I want one of them patrolling the seawall. If it looks like the storm surge is going to breach it, we need to know. I want you to give the other tractor driver that police bullhorn we found. Have him start going through the residential areas and warning people to get to high ground. The taller buildings along The Strand should provide some shelter. Make sure they are unlocked. My gut tells me we’re in for a rough ride.”

“It’s not much warning, Captain. The people at the east end of the island won’t have much chance of getting to high ground.”

“It’s all we can do. God help us if this is a big one.”

Bright, glistening-yellow slickers covered the two shapes as they scrambled off the gangplank and onto the concrete surface of the pier. Half bent and struggling in the face of the wind, it was an exhausting effort negotiating the 150 yards to the tractors.

Side-by-side, the machines were giants of their kind. Unlike the typical small forklifts that toiled and rumbled through warehouse aisles across the land, these units sported tires higher than a man’s head, four wheel drive, and diesel engines that could power the largest of trucks.

They had been designed to move, stack, and arrange steel shipping containers after the weighty storage boxes had been unloaded from cargo ships. Consisting of a huge motor, stout hydraulic system, fork, and a cab, they were high off the ground and offered little resistance to the wind. Just about the perfect machines to pilot during a hurricane – if such a thing existed.

Both drivers climbed for the small cabs, the slick rungs reaching over 12 feet into the air. A short time later, the rumble of two powerful diesel motors sounded across the docks, soon followed by the bright beams of headlights.

Sounding more like an enormous farm tractor than any forklift, unit #1 rolled out of the pier area, its destination the access road fronting the seawall.

Not to be left behind, unit #2 quickly followed, heading toward the east end of the island, set on prowling the residential streets and delivering a warning.   

“Goodnight moon,” Terri read to Hunter, the classic children’s
book one of his favorites. The absence of her own voice let the ceaseless roar of the storm dominate the coach, just as worry dominated the mother’s thoughts.

She bent and kissed the top of her son’s head, his spittle-soaked fingers leaving his mouth and reaching to touch an illustration. Pulling the always-present towel from her other knee, Terri wiped the tiny hand
before letting him play with the page. Books were hard to come by, and they weren’t making them anymore.

“Sounds like it’s getting worse out there,” Betty observed as she set down her knitting needles. Terri recognized her friend was nervous. She had marveled how the older woman once created an entire afghan with nothing more than a substantial supply of yarn, a couple of knitting needles and an unhealthy abundance of worry. It seemed the only time Betty occupied her hands with the hobby was when anxiety threatened to control her.

Terri hefted Hunter and stood, pacing again to the front of the coach and staring out the windshield. Despite the mid-afternoon hour, the warehouse was almost completely dark. Through the murkiness, she couldn’t even identify any of the guards.

A sense of ca
bin fever overwhelmed Terri. That, combined with a frustrating sense of inaction prompted her to pass Hunter to Betty. “I want to go check and see how things are going. I’m getting a little stir crazy in here.”

“Be careful, love,” the older woman replied, knowing it wouldn’t do any good to protest. “Don’t sneak up on the guys. They probably can’t hear very well with the wind, and that tends to make those types extremely jumpy.”

Smiling down at her friend, Terri nodded. “Wise advise as usual. Don’t worry; I’ll be careful. Back in a few minutes.”

Pulling on her raincoat and grabbing a flashlight, Terri opened the RV’s door and was momentarily taken aback by the volume of the howling outside.

“Maybe this isn’t such a good idea,” she said aloud, hardly able to identify her own voice. But the thought of retreating inside the confined spaces of the camper seemed worse.

With her flashlight’s beam sweeping the area, Terri made for the double door where she knew one of the security men was always stationed. It was Butter.

“Is everything okay, ma’am?” he shouted over the constant scream of the storm.

“Yes! Everything’s fine. I just needed some fresh air!” she yelled back.

She approached the narrow opening Butter was using to keep watch, the outside only slightly more illuminated than the warehouse’s interior.

The avenue beyond was visible through the sheets of blowing rain, but just barely. There was a mid-sized row of palm trees along the median, their ferns bending to the force of Mother Nature. Terri could see standing water in the street, every gust of wind creating a small wave that washed over the curb. The sound was like standing next to a railroad as a freight train thundered by.

A rumble and bang sounded, a sizable sheet of metal blowing past, slamming into one of the palms and then tumbling through the air again. Terri couldn’t tell if the object was part of someone’s roof or a sign of some sort. Other debris followed in its wake, a trash can lid… a child’s toy… what appeared to be shingles. And all the while, the deafening growl of wind and rain provided the background music. Terri shuddered, feeling tiny and insignificant next to the power of the storm.