The Directives (5 page)

Bishop didn’t buy it. Too many of the young man’s responses just didn’t seem to trac
k. Red’s previous mention of a war drifted back into the forefront of his mind. He wondered if his host’s statement about the long time it took for everybody to pull together might not have been a little more violent than what he was being lead to believe. “So what would you guess the town’s population is now?”

Red grimaced. “We lost thousands. We dug graves with a bulldozer… it was the only way.” After a brief pause at the morbid memory, a forced chuckle signaled a change in subject. “It’s still amazing to me how creative people get when they’re desperate. One old fool tried to make fuel out of the fermenting corn. He blew his house to smithereens. He survived, but no one tried it again. Another guy made some pretty good rot-gut whiskey, but with very little sugar available, even the supply of moonshine was limited.”

“What about the Condor plant?”

“When the fuel ran out, we started having trouble with fires. Without a fire department to respond, we lost more than our share of houses and businesses. One of the Condor warehouses burned as well, but I’m not sure what was stored in it – if anything. You’ll have to ask the mayor and his crew about that.”

“What did you do before the collapse?”

Red’s voice became sad. “I molded young minds. Elementary school math teacher.”

The truck entered the outskirts of Brighton. Bishop turned his attention to the passenger window, trying to absorb as much detail about the small berg as possible.

As they drew closer, the open space between structures lessened, the density of civilization increasing as they neared the center of town. The first commercial building was the VFW, its WWII artillery pieces standing guard in front of the building.

As they passed, Bishop began to notice the common hallmarks of a post-apocalyptic habitation. Makeshift rain catches were perched beneath most downspouts, comprised of anything from 50-gallon barrels to old coolers repurposed for the critical task of collecting runoff water.

Stacks of firewood were abundant; trees were not. Clothing dried outside on lines, the billowing colors swaying in the morning breeze. Even at the early hour, windows and doors were open to allow the circulation of air and light. It was summertime in Texas, and heat stroke would soon be claiming its share of victims.

Those same porches were often adorned with a multitude of buckets, baskets, and jugs. Something about the scene sparked a memory from the first days at the ranch with Terri. The two had just bugged out of Houston and badly needed vitamin C to avoid scurvy. The most commonly available source of the antioxidant was pine needle tea.

They had traveled across the desert floor and into the mountains, climbing until they reached the tree line. The needles were abundant and easy to gather, but shipping their significant harvest home created a substantial challenge.

On their next trip, Terri brought along a plastic clothesbasket, which was soon filled to the brim with green, life-giving pinion needles. The two had learned an important lesson. From Bishop’s vantage, the citizens of Brighton had apparently received a similar education. Anything and everything that could assist the human hand in collecting, transporting, and traveling with cargo was evident. A woman strolled to a neighbor’s yard, shopping bags filled to overflowing with what looked like collard greens. Behind her, a child steered a wagon stuffed to the brim with similar edible foliage.

There were other signs as well.

It was barely 20 minutes after sunrise, yet every occupied property was already surrounded by activity. The citizens had adjusted their work schedules around dawn and dusk, adopting the noon siesta to minimize heat exposure. Without air conditioning, the stifling heat and humidity had become a prominent dynamic in their lives.
Another reason to look forward to Christmas
, Bishop mused.

It wasn’t just the temperature that forced people to become early risers. Natural sunlight also played a role in most folks’ daily routines. If Brighton were anything like Meraton, candles were expensive and often in short supply. Oil lanterns and the fuel necessary to light them were more valuable than anything other than firearms and ammunition. The best way to conserve those precious resources was to adjust the workday to respect the rise and fall of the sun.   

After another mile, Red slowed the truck and turned into the city square.

Like most county seats, the center of Brighton was dominated by a large courthouse. Three stories tall and constructed of huge limestone sections, these buildings were originally designed to house the county sheriff, jail, clerks, elected officials, and of course, the courts.

Surrounding the grand old building was the square. Brick storefronts lined the streets on all four sides of the courthouse, their offering everything from small appliances to aspirin. A small café sat next to the bookseller, both of the locally owned outlets dwarfed by the independent furniture store.

To Bishop’s eye, it was the classic small town square, typically a friendly place that normally hummed with neighborly smiles and greetings. But not today. Not in these times.

The stores weren’t open, and Bishop was reasonably sure it had nothing to do with the early hour. Small piles of leaves cluttered the streets here and there. A few sections of sidewalk sprouted significant weed-beds rising from the expansion cracks.

There were only a few cars parked in the town’s business center, all of the windows covered with a layer of dust and grime. Some smart-ass, long ago, had possessed enough energy to write, “Wash me” across the back glass of one late model sedan. Now, the scrawled text was barely legible, almost completely obscured by a new layer of dirt.

The municipal grounds were completely overgrown, thigh-high weeds competing with bushy shrubs that had once been manicured with pride. Bishop noted several bullet holes in the limestone façade, many of the darkened windows void of glass.

Red continued driving, bypassing what Bishop had assumed would be the center of any government still functioning. Two blocks further, the driver parked in front of a smaller, modern brick building.

“Welcome to City Hall,” Red announced.   

It made sense. Scanning the immediate vicinity, Bishop could tell this was the hub of local activity. The small lawn in front of the parking area didn’t need to be mowed; the grass was well worn by indigenous foot traffic. Men and women meandered throughout the scene, a few with children in tow. Two police cars were parked in the small lot; both appeared to be functional.

“Why don’t you stay here for a bit while I go in and explain what’s going on? I know it’s a bit rude, but these are crazy times, and you just never know how people are going to react.”

Bishop understood. “That’s cool. I’ll be right here.”

Red exited the truck, actually looking both ways before he crossed the road. Bishop noted his new acquaintance nodding at a man strolling down the sidewalk, then shouting a warm greeting to another idling by the front door. A moment later, he disappeared inside.

Bishop opened the passenger door and stood next to his ride. He still had his rifle and full load gear, so he decided to stay close t
o the truck in order to avoid attracting any attention. Something wasn’t right in Brighton, Texas, but he couldn’t put his finger on it.

“Stop it,” he whispered, scolding his suspicious nature. “These people have endured the apocalypse. They’re going to act weird. Quit seeing a boogeyman in every shadow. You’re getting as bad as Major Baxter.”

The two armed men stationed on both sides
of the mayor’s office nodded as Red approached. “He’s in a meeting,” the older guard greeted. “Are you sure you want to interrupt?”

“This is important… very important,” Red responded as he reached for the doorknob.

Amy Sue was present and accounted for, at her normal post in the reception area. Her toothy smile automatically flashed before she’d even looked up to see who was coming through the door.

“Hello, Red,” she said. “I thought you were on roadblock duty this morning?”

“I need to see Lewis,” he responded. “It’s urgent.”

“Well, he’s meeting with Mr. Winfrey and the sheriff right now. I’m not sure how long he’ll be tied up.”

“This is more important… believe me Amy Sue… I need to see him
now
.”

Shrugging her shoulders, the secretary pushed her chair back and sashayed around the desk. She knocked lightly on the door leading to the inner sanctum and then pushed it open a few inches.

“Mayor, Red is here, and he insists it’s urgent.”

A gruff voice sounded from inside, “Tell him I’ll be finished up here in a few ….”

Red rushed past the surprised woman and entered the office. “This can’t wait, Lew.”

The mayor’s headquarters was impressive for a town the size of Brighton. A large, darkly stained
, walnut desk monopolized the room, its size and positioning designed to project power and authority. Behind the monument-sized workspace stood three colorful flags; beyond them, the bureau emblems of the United States and Texas bookended a central design embroidered with the city seal.

One wall was covered with framed photographs, most displaying a smiling Lew shaking hands with a myriad of celebrities, national politicians, and professional sports figures. A huge map of the town hung opposite, the streets, landmarks, and city facilities highlighted in a rainbow of colors.

Red noticed none of this however, his attention focused on the two gray-haired men sitting in the leather visitors’ chairs. “I’m glad you’re both here. You’ll want to hear this as well.”

“What’s wrong, Red?” the man behind the big desk asked. “I’ve never known you to come barging in here like this.”

“We’ve got company,” Red began, and then proceeded to inform the gathered men of the morning’s events.

“And he’s waiting outside?” Lew asked.

“Yes. I talked him into coming by himself. The rest of the military is parked by the barricade. If they don’t get word in an hour, the asshole officer in charge is going to come rolling into town.”

“Shit,” the mayor muttered, standing to peer out the window. “Just when things are starting to go well, this crap gets dumped in our laps.”

Mr. Winfrey spoke next, “Are you sure they don’t know anything about the war?”

“I don’t think so,” Red answered honestly. “From the questions Bishop was asking, I don’t think they have a clue about our recent history.

Lew spun around, his focus falling on the sheriff. “What occurred here was perfectly legal, gentlemen. There was a countywide emergency declared, and duly elected officials executed extreme measures to ensure the survival of our citizens. There’s nothing more to it.”

The sheriff grunted, “You keep telling yourself that, Lew. Soon, you might even believe your own tale. I know we did what we had to, but if the truth ever sees the light of day, it’s not going to be pretty.”

The mayor’s face blustered red. The man pointed his finger at the local lawman and tilted his head forward as if preparing to issue a scolding.

Red didn’t give him a chance, “I don’t think this guy, or these Alliance people, give a rat’s ass about what happened here. They want Condor up and producing product. As least that was my impression.”

The room became quiet, all four men occupied by their own thoughts.

Winfrey’s composed voice finally interrupted the silence. “Whatever we decide, I don’t think it wise to leave our guest outside cooling his heels. Red, go escort the man in. We’ll decide what to do before you get back.”

Nodding his agreement, Red quickly left to retrieve Bishop. As soon as he was out the door, Winfrey continued. “Your brother-in-law might become a liability, Lew. We need to keep an eye on him. As far as the Army goes, it sounds like they are coming into town, whether we like it or not. I suggest you welcome them with your best pre-election smile and then stall. That will give us time to assess the situation and determine our next move.”

Lew agreed. “As usual, you’re right. I’m glad you never wanted to be in politics, Winfrey. I probably would never have been elected mayor if you’d thrown your hat into the ring.”

The older man smirked, “Why would I want to engage in such activity? Being the president of the biggest bank in town is more than enough for me, Lew. I have plenty of influence as it is; my ego requires no more. Besides, politics is a messy affair. I’m very content right where I am.”