The Directives (23 page)

The line of bicycles, wagons, and backpack-laden kids stretched the entire length of the elementary school. Shane stood at the front of the parade formation, like a teacher readying the student body to reenter the building after recess. For a moment, the young man felt a sense of pride as he looked over the rag-tag collection. They were resilient, adaptable… and would survive. He was reminded of the stories an old uncle used to share, sordid tales about the man’s tours in Vietnam.

“The North Vietnamese Regulars moved mountains using only bicycles,” his uncle had said. “They moved heavy artillery pieces up steep hills, and attacked the French at a place called Dien Bien Phu. They moved entire divisions south through the jungle on bicycles. They were a two-wheel army, and we couldn’t stop’em.”

“We may not have much,” Shane whispered to himself. “But sure as shit we have bikes.”

“Everybody is here,” reported one of the older boys.

“Are you sure? Did you count twice?” Shane asked.

The preteen spat on the sidewalk, a rebellious display of discontent over being challenged. “I can count, Shane. Besides, I walked up and down the line twice. There’s 34 of ’em here, just like there should be.”

“Okay,” came the leader’s response. “If you’re sure, then let’s move out.”

Shane assumed the strangers would stay on Indian Ridge, the only high ground for 30 miles in any direction. That’s where Jimmy and the hunting party had found them this morning; that’s probably where they would stay. He had selected a route to the co-op that would keep them mostly hidden from anyone watching from that elevation.

Letting one of the Herbert twins lead the way, Shane stood and watched the procession of children pass.

What a bunch of little rag muffins
, he thought, the moving multitude reminding him of what life had been like just a few, short years before.

He had been enjoying the bachelor life, playing the field while hunting and fishing as he pleased. He worked part-time at the co-op in the winter, all the hours he wanted during the harvests. He could weld a little, lift his share of feedbags, and drive any tractor or combine in the county. It had been a good life.

When the financial collapse of the country occurred, only the lack of cold beer had bothered him at first. Since the bank had closed, making the payment on his house trailer wasn’t an issue. No one had electricity, so there wasn’t a bill to be paid. He had well water, plenty of fish and game at his disposal, and a keg in the shed. The apocalypse? No big deal.

The trailer’s air conditioner didn’t work half the time anyway, so sleeping in the heat didn’t require any adjustment. He had learned to hose down the roof a few hours before sunset, and that seemed to cool the interior enough to doze off.

There was an eight-year-old GMC pickup in the driveway, the body rusted through here and there, but the engine was still strong. The title was in the glove box.

There was plenty of firewood for the smoker and grill out back. He had two good deer rifles, a couple of bird guns under the bed, a .357 magnum pistol in the nightstand drawer. He always bought ammo and cigarettes in bulk, stocking up via his larger-than-normal paychecks from the harvest. The freezer contained zero food, the space entirely consumed with red and white cartons of Marlboros. What more could a man ask?

He’d made one mistake in life, deciding to drive to the Shell Station after running low on ice one evening. He’d had a few beers too many, and evidently it showed. At first, he’d thought the flashing blue lights of the highway patrol officer weren’t meant for him. Pulling to the shoulder to allow the cop to pass by, Shane was a little surprised to see the cruiser pull in behind him.

He’d blown a few points over the legal limit and had been sentenced to 60 days in Huntsville after he’d told the judge he didn’t have enough money to pay any fine. It had changed his life forever.

Still, his lot in Riley, Texas hadn’t been so bad.

Even after the electricity had flickered out, no one living in the small village had been effected much. There was a virtually unlimited supply of food at the co-op, the huge, skyscraper silos full to the brim with corn.

The town had maintained a large tank of gasoline for the water tower’s pump, the provision a result of the destructive tornados that ripped through the Texas Panhandle and neighboring Oklahoma every year. Riley had learned that weeks, even a month or more, could pass before electrical power was restored after the worst of the summer storms tore through.

With water and food available, only the lack of air conditioning bothered the town folk. But what could they do? What little news had made it through made Riley seem like a paradise. Few of the town’s residents were in any hurry to leave.

A little over 60 days had passed before the first refugees from Amarillo had wandered into town. Nearly dead from dehydration and starvation, the kindly folks of Riley had slowly nursed the small group of vagabonds back to health.

Stories of looting, violence, and murder in the closest big city had spread like wildfire through the community. It was every man for himself in Amarillo, according to the newcomers. Complete anarchy. A total breakdown in the rule of law.

Still, as time passed, most of Riley’s residents held out hope that things would get back to normal. The months dragged by, the village holding things together and helping each other out.

All along, the co-op was the town’s savior. The feral hogs normally so prominent in the area, migrated south that first winter. A few months later, the deer population plummeted, the doe-eyed beauties hunted almost to extinction. The closest branch of the Red River had never been much for fishing, the few local farm ponds quickly depleted of their stock.

But the mammoth silos of the town’s reserves remained full of life-giving corn. It was a pure accident of geography that such an out-of-the way place as Riley had been blessed with the facility.

The Texas panhandle is marked with flat, featureless terrain, better suited for raising crops than grazing cattle. Mile upon endless mile of fields dominated the region prior to society’s collapse, the fertile breadbasket reaching into Oklahoma and then Iowa, Nebraska, and beyond.

Due to the settlement’s close proximity to massive farms, an unused spur from an old rail line, and a low average humidity, Riley had been chosen to house what was destined to become one of the largest grain storage depots in the nation.

Ten years ago, the sleepy town had suddenly come alive with construction. A rail car marshalling yard had been built first, the existing spur expanded and improved.

An entire concrete factory sprouted from the prairie, specifically designed to produce material for the half-mile long row of silos that were to tower above the quiet town. Below ground, over a mile of connecting conduits, rail car unloading bins, and transfer conveyers had been poured. Over time, the locals had taken to calling this massive subterranean complex the “catacombs.”

Solar powered circulation units, acoustic cleaners, and state of the art oxygen control systems had been installed. Over two years later, without electrical power or any maintenance, the corn was still as fresh as if it had been harvested yesterday.

The people of Riley became experts on ways to consume the food so prevalent in their own backyards and cheap in their supermarkets. Cornbread, corndogs, corn soup, corn pancakes; the human palate demanded variety, and the culinary artists of Riley had tested every possible recipe for preparing the plant. And to make matters worse, the silos held seed corn. It wasn’t even sweet. Shane shook his head, yet again swearing that when things got back to normal, he’d never eat corn again.

As he watched the child-convoy pass, Shane detected the dread on most of their faces. The underground, concrete-walled world they were about to enter was a dreary, colorless place. It was hot in the day and cold at night. There wasn’t anything to do but sit and watch the time go by. But it was more than that.

The children had hidden there before, finding refuge in the seemingly endless maze as they sought to escape the sickness. Shane didn’t blame them; he shared their anxiety.

When the gasoline tank powering the town’s water pump ran dry, the result had been more than just thirsty residents. Shane had always suspected it had something to do with human waste or the lack of bathing that had caused the sickness. Additionally, the local gardens no longer offered fresh fruit and vegetables, having dried and shriveled to brown, lifeless patches of scorched earth. The corn became more than a staple; it was their lifeline.

Whatever the reason, the adults had started behaving erratically. They simply seemed to act normally one day, and the next they were insane. There wasn’t any other way to describe it.

Reverend Butler had been the first, the town’s people waking up one morning to find the local preacher strolling down Main Street, naked as a jaybird and singing an old Neil Diamond hit “Sweet Caroline.” Growing violent as the concerned citizens tried to help, it was clear to all that the man had snapped. Most speculated it was due to the stress associated with living in a post-collapse world, others believing the man of God had always been a little “touched.”

A few days later, some passersby noticed Mr. Ash had locked himself in the local savings and loan without food or water, never leaving the building again. And then another of the townspeople began to show odd behavior…. After that, the sickness began to spread rapidly.

While different people reacted in diverse ways, one thing was for certain. They all lost touch with reality. Some became delusional, others sitting on the street corner and mumbling as if they were speaking in tongues. Most turned violent sooner or later.

Shootings, stabbings, brawls, and arson ravaged the adult population, sometimes the killings numbering three or four per day. Only the children and young adults seemed immune.

No one knew what was causing the illness, medical care from the town’s two doctors unavailable, as both had been murdered by rampaging patients early in the outbreak. People hunkered down in their homes, standing guard against their unstable neighbors. A few innocents had been shot by mistake.

The teenagers didn’t understand it all, but one thing was for certain. The adults, including their parents, were out of control… had left the reservation… and were to be avoided at all costs. The older adolescents started herding the younger children into the catacombs, the only place that was safe from the marauding grownups.

Shane, along with a few other 20-somethings, hadn’t contracted the disease, or virus, or bug, or whatever it was. After a few months, the children and young adults were the only survivors residing in Riley, Texas.

One little girl stepped out of line, her tiny face gazing up at Shane. “Are the monsters going to come again?”

“No,” he replied, looking down at the still-innocent face. “No, I’m not going to let the monsters come any more.”

“Okay,” she responded and scurried off to retake her place.

“At least I hope not,” Shane whispered.

The monsters. It’s what the older children had told the younger ones to get them to cooperate, to remain quiet and hide. Shane shook his head, a small twinge of guilt over having used the exact same lie – more than once.

In reality, the “monsters” were the raiders, looters and other nomadic desperados who had descended upon Riley over the years. Time and again, the fiends visited their little community. Sometimes small groups of invaders disrupted their world. Occasionally, a sole traveler, wandering from town to town, salvaging whatever he could to survive. Most were shy, avoiding people and remaining in the shadows. Others were bold, placing little value on human life, having no issue with killing anyone or anything to get what they needed. When the adults had still controlled the town, they fought to protect the community. Gun battles with the rovers claimed almost as many as the sickness.

Later, when only Shane and a handful of the other younger men and women remained, their plan had been the same – fight and either kill or chase away the evil-hearted.

One day, after burying a friend who had been ambushed while picking blackberries, Shane suddenly realized he was the only person left who had seen 20 or more years. He was now the default father, mayor, uncle, and priest to over 30 children. It changed his life.

Sure, many of the older teenagers had stepped in as caretaker for their younger siblings after mom and dad were dead. Others of the orphaned kids had simply moved to the next occupied household. The extra mouth to feed wasn’t any big deal with tons of corn nearby. And besides, where else could they go?

The younger boys picked up their parents’ weapons or those left behind by dead bandits. All of the children grew up quickly, the harsh life of a post-apocalyptic world leaving them no choice.

Shane shook his head, dismissing those bad memories. He started jogging, quickly catching up with the front of the line. As they trekked through the streets of Riley, he felt a little like the Pied Piper, leading the children away from their homes and into the unknown.