The Directives (14 page)

The rising sun offended Bishop’s eyes, but physical exhaustion discouraged much activity. Adjusting his hat instead, he decided to pull another mouthful of tepid water from the Camelbak tube draped over his shoulder.

The reflection of his own movements drew his eye to a storefront glass window. There he scrutinized the image of a bloody, ragged man sitting with his back against a mailbox. Bishop managed a smirk at the poor fellow’s state. Filthy streaks of black and grey covered his face, the dirt-darkened skin competing with the raccoon-like circles under the emotionless eyes.

Every inch of the gent’s clothing was covered in mud, dirt… and
blood. There were multiple holes and rips in his shirt, one sleeve barely attached by a few dangling threads.
What a pitiful wretch you are
, Bishop whispered to the reflection.
You look like day-old shit warmed over
.

Unable to tolerate his appearance any longer, Bishop decided to study his surroundings instead, curious what the new light of day would reveal. It didn’t take long to conclude that Brighton and her people hadn’t faired any better than the wretched soul reflected back to him.

The majestic courthouse, once the center and pride of the community, looked like a disaster zone. It had started in there, the fight eventually boiling over into the streets. Still smoldering Humvees and pickup trucks lined the pavement and lawn. Soot-blackened patches of bare earth dotted the once-green grounds. And then there were the bodies.

The dead were scattered everywhere. Empty, hollow faces returned the Texan’s gaze. Corpses were lying in grotesque, unnatural positions, their limbs at odd angles, twisted in impossible configurations. There was a man draped over a car’s hood, both of his arms nowhere to be seen. Another rested against a nearby light pole, the top half of his torso a good six feet from an orphaned pair of legs.

The worst were those who had burned. One charcoal-black form was reaching for the sky, as if last night’s stars would pull him from the flesh-consuming flames. Another appeared as though he had simply laid down to take a nap while being roasted alive.

Shaking his head, Bishop decided to look toward the heavens, hoping the glance would at least provide some salvation from the carnage and destruction that surrounded him.

But that wasn’t the case.

He found himself enveloped by the remnants of battle. Columns of smoke rose into the morning blue. Already the vultures were circling, the scavengers preparing for a banquet of human flesh. There was no respite for his tortured soul. There was no vista that offered relief. Bishop decided to simply close his eyes.

It didn’t help.

The darkness of his lids was illuminated with mental pictures from his short-term memory. Dying men, screaming wounded, the vibrating dance of a man being riddled with bullets.

He saw Jonesy fall, replaying the moment when a fist-sized hole of gristle and bone appeared in the man’s chest. He recalled the look of fear and helplessness as his friend slid down the wall, a smeared trail of blood and tissue left behind. Bishop could still hear his final plea. “Tell my wife and kids I love them.”

There were so many dead. So many images. Frank’s head nearly severed from his body, a point-blank blast of a shotgun to blame. A man dragging himself across the street, leaving a trail of intestines and gore behind.

Bishop shook his head, self-preservation demanding the parade of memories be halted - or his remaining sanity would disappear forever.
Maybe lucidity isn’t all it’s cracked up to be
, he pondered.
Maybe going crazy is the way out
. 

Unable to bear the thought of sitting and torturing himself any longer, Bishop made the difficult decision to stand. He had to go somewhere – didn’t he?

Using his rifle as a brace, he managed to achieve a knee, every cell of his body protesting the move.

And then he was on his feet, staring at his weapon.

“Are you loaded?” he questioned the carbine. He didn’t wait for an answer. He didn’t care.

The first step was a pure, scathing hell of pain. The next was worse. But he kept on putting one foot in front of the other, something drawing him back to the courthouse.

After half a block, his joints loosened, blood flowing to aching muscles and tendons. He’d never been so tired, so uncaring, so… disinterested.

Had they won? He didn’t care. Had any of his men made it out alive? He didn’t know and was too exhausted to check.

A sudden bout of introspection forced his legs to stop moving.
Why are you so indifferent? Why so apathetic? Have you finally lost it? Have you finally snapped?

The questions were troubling, any answer or admission seemingly beyond his mental reach.
Move your legs, Mr. Shell-shocked. Keep moving those boots
.  

His eyes were drawn to two men stumbling toward him on the sidewalk. They were armed, their weapons barely supported by weak, lethargic hands. Something in the back of Bishop’s exhausted brain told him he should be concerned. There was no way of telling if the approaching men were friend or foe. He didn’t care, and it soon became obvious that the strangers didn’t either.

They passed each other without making eye contact, the soulless shuffle and passing of empty men, hollow shells who were beyond fighting... beyond loyalty to either side.

A woman appeared, sleepless red eyes darting up and down the street. “My husband,” she said in a voice near panic. “Have you seen my husband?”

Bishop couldn’t answer. Words were simply outside his grasp.

He continued his trek, his wounded left leg only slightly more painful than its unharmed mate. And then he found himself in front of the courthouse, staring blankly at steps littered with men.

For a moment, Bishop thought they were all dead. Some were soldiers, small parts of their uniforms still recognizable through the mud and gore. Others were strangers, lying here, sitting there, with closed eyes and drooping heads. A few faces belonged to his Alliance neighbors, their bodies strewn among the battle scene. As he watched, a couple of them moved… the scratching, stretching, and yawning sure signs of life.

Bishop shuffled over, the sound of actual, living humans seemingly out of place in the dreamlike aftermath of the longest night he could remember. He forced his legs to move again, following the sound of voices, hushed conversations, and rushed words that seemed to be coming from the other side of the building.

One of the medics was still at it, pressing a canteen of water to the parched lips of an injured man. Two women were there as well, both trying their best to comfort and mend. Bishop spied the slumbering young specialist who had bandaged his leg hours before, an audible snore rising from the lad’s exhausted frame.

Bloody clothing, piles of used, red bandages and a carpet of trash dotted the area. One of the women tore off a section of her skirt, using the fabric to triage a man’s bleeding arm.

Bishop remembered his blow-out bag, fumbling to unhook the still-full medical kit from his vest.

“Hey,” he called to the Army medic as he tossed the pouch. “This might help.”

Bishop tried to count the wounded, but gave up after reaching the number thirty. The line of men lying on the ground stretched around the corner, and he just didn’t have the energy to further scrutinize the situation.

He stumbled back to the steps and began climbing, the movement hampered by the dried blood and cardboard-like bandages wrapped around his thigh. He passed men he’d never seen before; some of them most likely had been shooting at him a few hours ago. He didn’t care, and neither did they. After gingerly negotiating the ascent, he entered the courthouse only to be greeted with more carnage.

Bodies, limbs, and pools of now-purplish blood were everywhere. The musty interior boasted a new odor – a bouquet thick with copper, feces, and urine overwhelming the once stale air.

The Texan ambled forward, stepping over the dead, careful not to slip in the small rivers of blood and piss that crisscrossed the floor.
If I fall, I won’t be able to get back up
, he mused.
They’ll think I’m one of the dead and bury me. Maybe that wouldn’t be so bad.

His journey took him to the rotunda. The worst of it had happened here.

Bursts of the night’s battle flashed through his mind like a bad slideshow. At one point, in this room, it had degraded into hand-to-hand combat. Bishop shuddered, looking down at the fighting knife strapped across his chest. A thick crust of a red, scab-like substance covered the handle and guard. The butt of his rifle was worse, bits of flesh and human hair matted in every crevice of the stock.

He had to stop before entering, but the pause wasn’t due to any remorse, respect for the dead, or flood of memories. Bishop hesitated because he couldn’t see an open path through the mass of dead men covering the travertine tile.

Here, the bodies were clustered and entangled, evidence of the vicious, close-in fighting. Both sides had wanted to hold this room. After a while, that desire hadn’t been tactical or strategic. There wasn’t any good reason or special value associated with this tiny hunk of Brighton, Texas real estate - it had simply become personal.

Mankind can be so stupid
, Bishop thought as he tentatively stepped into the worst of the killing zone. After watching friends die… after hearing the screams of agony, victory, and death for so long, men lose all sense of self-preservation and continuity of thought. The battle that raged over the rotunda had devolved into nothing more than a competition… a game… a contest of wills worthy of human sacrifice. And sacrifice they had.

Bishop stepped around two bodies on the floor, the dead men locked in an embrace of violence - a dance of death. One man’s hand still wrapped around the knife sticking in the chest of his foe. The stab victim’s fist clenched a pistol, its muzzle still aimed at the knife wielder’s heart. They had died together, both men’s faces still painted with their final act of fury and rage.
For what?
Bishop thought.

The West Texan grimaced. He knew the answer to the question. He had been a player in the same contest just a few hours ago. Now, in the light of day, he regretted it, understood the madness of it all. What made it worse was the realization that the punishment for being a participant would last the rest of his life. Maybe longer.

Two women appeared, both straining under the burden of the stretcher they carried.
A moaning teenager being carried to the medics
. They were followed by an elderly man, his bloodstained frock and dangling stethoscope indicating he was a physician.
Plenty of work for you today
, Bishop thought.

The Alliance negotiator finally made it to the clerk’s office, only slightly surprised to find the space undisturbed. Closing the door behind him, Bishop leaned his rifle against the wall and began unbuckling his load rig. The Camelbak came off next, soon followed by the body armor. The equipment reeked of his own sweat and stress.

A small, fleeting relief crept in, the lightening of his body’s load providing a momentary sense of weightlessness and newfound freedom.

I should clean my weapon
, he thought, pulling off his shirt. The material was matted, stiff, and crinkly with old perspiration and… and other things once human. The still-cool air felt good against his skin.

I should go find that doctor and have him look at my leg and ribs
, he considered.
But
the doc has better things to do right now.

Bishop eyed the net-hammock, still hanging right where he’d set it up. A moment later, he perched on the homemade bed, suspended by the soft mesh, gently swaying back and forth like a child in his mother’s arms.

I should take off my boots,
he pondered, but leaned back and closed his eyes instead.