The Directives (2 page)

Slowly, ever so cautiously, he inched closer to the target. Gone were the days when vigilant mowing teams cropped the grass and errant shrubs from the road’s shoulder. These days, the resulting thicket provided good concealment, almost to the edge of the pavement. The undergrowth was integral to the p
lan, providing means for a takedown without gunplay. Their orders had been clear and firm – don’t let them breathe, think, or react. Complete, overwhelming domination would keep fingers away from triggers.

A campfire smoldered ahead, its dying embers and low flicker providing an excellent reference point. Bishop slowed his pace even further; small, deliberate steps interspaced with gaps of time. No matter how well his camouflage imitated the local shrubbery, movement attracted the human eye. 

Up ahead was the roadblock, now a common fixture in post-apocalyptic towns and cities everywhere.

Communities had learned the hard way - people were the problem. In the early days of the nationwide collapse, transients began roaming the countryside. Some were simply desperate, needing food, water, or shelter to survive. Others harbored more nefarious intentions.

As post-collapse time dragged on, the population became increasingly desperate. Society’s remnants began to realize that help wasn’t on the way; that things weren’t going to bounce back to normal. Yesterday was no more, its hasty return doubtful.

Many began assessing their available assets and
commodities. Everyone from soldiers to priests, principals to city managers struggled with the same dilemma - how to feed and care for their people.

Those who didn’t ignored history at their own peril.
Throughout the ages, hungry people were unruly people. Underfed populations were notorious for overthrowing kings, governments and local leaders. Empty stomachs led to unrest and revolt. It was a biological reality that many mayors, city councils, and town managers didn’t initially grasp.

An education on such matters was soon delivered, however,
often via the muzzle of a rifle or flaming embers of a torch.

The vast majority found that food, medical supplies, and fuel were already in short supply. When it dawned on local leaders that they couldn’t feed their own families or neighbors, normally compelling
, charitable impulses of benevolence evaporated. Additional mouths meant less food for their own. They reacted swiftly, taking drastic steps to shoo away the refugees and vagabonds traveling the countryside.

Over time, many learned that a roadblock was an extremely effective tool. The “anti-Welcome Wagon,” it projected a message… a billboard of sorts that advertised, “Look elsewhere for your new address. Keep moving. Looters will be shot.” The barricade Bishop was approaching, complete with its armed, tough-looking men, accomplished just that purpose.

A tow truck parked sideways in the road, its girth no doubt intended to intimidate anyone entertaining a plot to barge through. Two pickup trucks bookended the larger, heavier vehicle, their positioning rendering it impossible to drive around the barrier. Sandbagged fighting positions, a large tent, campfire, and several 50-gallon barrels rounded out the configuration.

It was obvious this obstruction had been in use for some time. As he scanned the target with the thermal optic, Bishop noted the stacks of firewood, BBQ grill and lawn chairs. Someone had even hauled out a porta-potty so the guards wouldn’t have to dig cat holes.

It was also clear that the garrison manning the facility was bored. Only one of the three sentries appeared to be awake, his level of alertness questionable.

Bishop studied the sentry closely. A full beard, long, unkempt hair and some sort of soiled baseball cap indicated the fellow wasn’t part of a well-disciplined unit. Outfitted with an AR15 or similar weapon, but no load-rig, body armor or sidearm, he didn’t seem to appreciate the seriousness of his role.

This may be easier than we thought
, Bishop judged, keeping a close eye on the guard as he crept ever closer.

The watchman was sitting in a dilapidated lawn chair, shreds and threads of the nylon webbing dangling beneath the seat. Apparently, there was some interesting
memory or vision in the blaze, the man’s eyes seemingly mesmerized by the flames. Bishop couldn’t be sure, but he thought he noticed the gentleman’s head nod forward as if he were dozing off. Sleeping bag-covered lumps and the distant rumbling of one guy’s snoring pinpointed the other members of the garrison. 

Baxter’s voice sounded through the earpiece. “Scouts, report your positions.”

Bishop didn’t immediately respond. He was designated as number three and would wait his turn.

One click sounded across the frequency, closely followed by two more depressions of the sender’s microphone. Scout one, two minutes from being in position.

The process was repeated by number two, who responded that he was within one minute of the objective.

Show off
, Bishop thought as he pressed a sequence indicating he was still three minutes from being ready.
I’m going to be the last one present and accounted for. Baxter will love that shit.

He was so close now; any mistake would give him away. Each footfall took time, Bishop allowing his weight
to shift forward at a snail’s pace. Even the crack of the smallest branch or twig could alert the sentries.

Two clicks and then nothing. Scout number two
was in position.

Mr. Sleepy-guard jerked his head up, and for a moment, Bishop thought the guy had heard something. Ready to pounce if the sentry made any move to wake his comrades, Bishop relaxed when the watchman rubbed his eyes and shook his head.
He dozed off
, Bishop realized.
He’s trying to stay awake and finish his shift. I’ve been there a hundred times.

One click, and then nothing. Scout number one was ready.

Finally, Bishop arrived – less than 20 feet away from the nearest truck. So close, he could hear the crackle of the fire. So close, he could smell the porta-potty. He took a knee and raised his weapon.

Three clicks.

Major Baxter didn’t respond at first, his eyes scanning the long row of trucks and men parked alongside the road. There were 21 vehicles in all, each packed to the brim with food, medical supplies, a gasoline generator, and fuel. The Army had even contributed a mobile water filtration system. It was an impressive collection, assembled specifically for the town of Brighton, Texas.

“Make ready to approach the objective, Sergeant Riggs,” the officer ordered.

“Yes, sir,” responded the NCO, pivoting quickly to rush and execute the order.

For a brief moment, Baxter felt the nag of fear cross his gut. This mission was important, the first of its kind. If it went well, it would become a textbook example for others. If it didn’t, the blame would follow him throughout the rest of his military career.

Not that his boyhood dreams of lifelong service to his country were going that well anyway. The United States had dissipated. His unit, division, and base now pledged to an unknown, unproven entity that called itself the Alliance.

He understood the logic of the decision. Food rationing at Fort Hood was depleting morale. Medical supplies were running low. Communications were practically nonexistent. The battalions that did venture out from the central Texas base returned with reports that made even the bravest soldier shiver. Houston and Dallas had hundreds of thousands of dead, and the number was increasing every day.

The great, proud nation, the most powerful country on earth, was starving to death. The leadership was tearing itself apart. The most potent military ever assembled was divided, reunited, and then divided again. It was more than troubling – it was debilitating.

Morale had already registered an all-time low. When the average trooper realized there wasn’t enough food to feed his children living at the base, tempers began to rise. Desertions, already an issue, threatened to become epidemic.

And now, this “Alliance.”
How long would this last?
Baxter pondered, watching his men hustle to their vehicles.
Was this really the answer?

To make matters worse, his superiors had insisted… no, forced these civilians down his throat. Twenty of them had arrived at Hood, their pickup trucks filled with food and supplies from West Texas. All of that would have been understandable were it not for their leader - a clown named Bishop.

Undisciplined, brimming with ill-timed humor, and brandishing an unacceptable level of familiarity, Bishop had tried to be casual and friendly. The memory of those first few days made Baxter snort in disgust. Why would such a man think an officer in the United States Army would accept him as a comrade, let alone listen to his bumpkin-like strategic advice?

Sure, Baxter had heard a few stories about the man’s antics. These tales, the major was convinced, were obvious exaggerations of secondhand information and most likely self-promoted lore.

The sound of truck engines pulled Baxter out of his analysis, the sergeant’s voice booming up and down the line as he ordered the mulling men. “Mount up, ladies! Teatime is over. We’ve got work to do.”

By the time they were ready to depart on the mission, Baxter had filed his second request to leave Bishop behind or have the West Texan replaced. It was then that he finally discerned the true cause for his being burdened with such a clod.

Bishop’s wife was important, a key figure in the civilian leadership. The man was politically connected, and that explained it all.

Baxter’s thoughts were interrupted by the sergeant’s return. “The convoy is ready, sir.”  

The major nodded and motioned toward the lead Humvee. As he stepped up to enter the passenger side, he scanned back along the long line of waiting transports.

The sight reinvigorated his determination and confidence.

At significant cost and enormous sacrifice, the convoy had been pledged to this mission. Such a gathering of goods was worth its weight in gold, so desperate was the need for the supplies and materials now under his command. Division had determined that here and now, in Brighton, Texas was where the precious cargo would be distributed. They had chosen him to lead the mission. They were committed. It was his duty. He would succeed despite the handicap imposed by his superiors.

Bishop waited alongside the roadway, his ears straining to hear what he knew would be the next phase – the approaching engines of the convoy.

During the wait, doubt grew in his mind.
I’m still not convinced this is the right way to accomplish this initiative. I wish I had raised more of a stink.

Back at Hood, the military commanders had been unquestionably confident with their plan. “Arrive with overwhelming force and assert our authority,” they had proposed. “Leave no room for doubt among the civilian population. Be clear in defining the objective and our intent. The local people will welcome order and control and will respect the show of force demonstrating our capability to implement it.”

But Bishop’s experience didn’t exactly mesh with that line of thinking. He’d toured more post-collapse villages and metropolitan areas than anyone else at the table, and his gut told him the Army’s ideas were risky. In the end, the council had voted to accept the military’s recommendations. Despite his reservations, Bishop had to support what the Alliance’s ruling body ordered. It was the rule of law, part of living in an orderly society.