The Directives (46 page)

The final victim was a man most hadn’t known well, Charles Henry Garcia. Recently relocated to the Alliance, his service, both to the United States Armed Forces and the Alliance Militia, was known to have been exemplary. He had been one of the elite men assigned to Terri’s sec
urity detail, the trip back east his first, and last operation with the team.

Nick led Mr. Garcia’s horse, a grieving
widow and two children each steadying a hand on the family man’s casket.

The three wagons sto
pped in front of the Manor, the sound of sniffling and soft tears rising from the gathering. With her head on Bishop’s shoulder, Terri sobbed, “It feels like I’ve buried two mothers in one lifetime. Betty was so good to me… she treated me like one of her own children. I loved her, Bishop.”

“She was a good woman. We were
blessed to have known her for as long as we did,” Bishop replied.

Three soldiers marched forward, followed by their commanding of
ficer. The sun reflected off the ranking military leader’s saber as his voice rang out, “Ready!”

In unison, the three riflemen step
ped forward with their left heels, rifles briskly brought to their shoulders.

“Aim!”

“Fire!”

Three times, they executed the sequence, one volley for each of the
fallen. After the final report had echoed off the distant Glass Mountains, another order sounded.

“Present. A
rms!”

Three synchronized rifles followed the two-count command, the underside of the weapon facing the honored, fully extended in presentation.
Pete moved closer to Terri and Bishop in an attempt to better control the now stirring mare, unaccustomed to the noise. Another soldier appeared, a highly polished trumpet in his gloved hand. The lonely, desolate sound of “Taps” soon drifted over the saddened community.

As if on cue,
a single tear slipped down the Meraton mayor’s cheek with the first trumpeted note, his darkened mood an obvious indicator of the depth of his suffering and grief. Around town, it was an unmentioned, but commonly known fact that Betty held Pete’s eye. Something, it seemed, was always getting in the way of the two making a go at a relationship. And now it was too late.

“I am going to miss her so much,” Pete whispered, barely holding it together. When Terri embraced him in a hug, the dam burst, uncontrollable sobs racking his frame.
Within moments, both of them succumbed to the torrent of emotion, weeping openly, leaning on each other for support.

When the horn fell silent, the officer’s voice boomed again. “Order. Arms!”

“Port. Arms!”

“Right face!”

“Forward, march!”

As the three riflemen stepped away, the officer bent and began colle
cting the spent shell casings. It was dishonorable to leave them on the ground. One by one, he approached each of the coffins, offering a sample of the brass to the closest friends and family of the deceased.

Bishop
accepted two, one for Hunter, the other for his wife. One day, when he was old enough, the father would share the story and keepsake with his son. Good people had died honorably, in service to others – an important lesson for any young person.

Staring
at the empty cartridges in his hand, the meaning of the tradition crystalized in Bishop’s troubled mind. In death, the body was an empty shell, the soul having moved on to a better place. Watching his wife with Pete, he couldn’t help but wonder if Terri wasn’t ready to move on to a better, safer place. Not in death, but in life.

He was worried how Terri
would deal with the tragedy in Galveston. Not only had she lost two people she held dearly, the fact that Hunter had almost perished was casting doubt, forcing his wife to reevaluate her priorities. Since the incident, she had mentioned turning over her position on the council to someone else and moving back to the ranch. Even this morning, she’d casually asked who he would have supported to take over as chairperson if she’d hadn’t survived the storm.

He watched her stroll over to
Mr. Beltran and Butter, virtually repeating the same scene that had just occurred with Pete.

“My wonderful, optimistic, passionate,
Terri,” Bishop whispered. “The apocalypse made you realize you were so very, very much more. It enabled you… forced you - kicking and screaming - to realize your potential. And now? Now has that been taken back?”

He resolved to support her, no matter how the events that
unfolded during the hurricane affected his wife. If she wanted to retire, resign her position with the Alliance, he’d support that move 100%. More than once, he’d had the same thoughts and desires. He loved Terri, believed she was a great mother and the best lifelong companion any man could ask for. He respected the sacrifices she made every day and her heartfelt desire to help her fellow human beings. She was a true leader, exactly what the Alliance needed.

But there was only so much any one individual could endure. Was his wife at her limit?

“I’ll leave it up to you,” he decided. “You’ll know what’s best. And no matter what it is, I’ve got your back.”  

The Gathering
by D.A.L.H.
 
Mesmerized by what the future might bring,
Immobilized by the fear of how it might present itself.
Gathering together to wait and watch.
Unable to change its ominous approach.
Unable to look away.
 
Able to pray.
 
Gray and purple above.
Rotating, shifting, unpredictable.
 
Gray and blue below.
Crashing, boiling, certain.
 
They gathered together,
Great in number,
Each soul standing alone.
 
The storm gathered together,
Great in its solidarity
But weak against the faith of each staring from the shore.

Two weeks after the hurricane…

Corky leaned against the shovel’s handle, taking a short break to wipe the perspiration from his brow. As he refolded the handkerchief, one of his men approached, a portable radio in his hand.

“Sir, a lookout is reporting that several vehicles are crossing the causeway. He indicates there are at least a dozen.”

“Military?”

“No, sir, an assortment of civilian trucks, buses, and semis.”

The leader of the island community scrutinized the mounting tangle of rubble and grunted. “We’re not quite ready for company just yet; the place is still a mess.”

Passing the long-handled tool to another, Corky looked around, wondering if they would ever be ready. Piles of debris, sand, and mud still clogged many of the streets. While the odor of rotting flesh had helped them locate most of the victims, the occasional cadaver was still being unearthed.

Corky shook his head, admiring the gang of volunteers working to clear whatever street he was standing on. For a moment, he was embarrassed over having forgotten the name, but the feeling soon passed. There were s
till dozens and dozens of areas that needed to be searched, cleared, and cleaned up if possible.

Most of the people working around him were missing family members, friends, or neighbors. He’d lost count of how many
of the dead they had buried, no idea how many were listed as missing.

There had been a few bright spots. A few survivors had been found alive, buried in wreckage or trapped wherever they’d hunkered down. A few, but not nearly enough.

At least 50% of the homes were damaged to the extent that occupation was no longer an option. That was a secondary consideration, given the substantial drop in Galveston’s current population.

Still, they kept at it. Block by block, street by street, they worked. There wasn’t much fuel for the heavy equipment left on the island. What little gas and diesel they did have needed to be reserved for the boats. Without the shrimpers, oyster boats and offshore fishermen, he’d be burying the vic
tims of starvation alongside the storm’s fatalities.

More than once since the hurricane, Corky had considered powering up the
Morgan City Queen
and sailing off into the sunrise. There
had
to be some place better to tie up -
had
to be a new home out there that wasn’t full of the misery, stench, and desperation that now held Galveston in their collective grips.

But he didn’t.

He couldn’t bring himself to abandon the people that had come to depend on him… on his men… on the bulk supplies carried in the hulls of his barges.

Even some of those had been causalities of the storm. Two of their precious boats had blown loose in the
tempest and sunk, irreplaceable tanks of propane in one, thousands of pounds of wheat flour in the other.

The rumble of engine no
ise brought the Cajun out of his melancholy contemplation. Shielding his eyes from the sun, he spied the line of trucks approaching from the north. It was quite the collection. A fleeting thought flashed through his mind –
What if they have ill intent? What if they are invaders?

“I’ll let them have the place without a fight,” he mused. “Mayb
e they can do better than we have.”

A block away, two pickup trucks rolled to a stop, armed men piling out of the back of each.

“Oh, shit,” Corky worried. “I was only joking. I didn’t
really
think anybody would invade.”

The next vehicle was a large, deluxe motor coach, the kind Corky had seen carrying famous country and western stars across the
nation while on tour.

It too rolled to a stop, the bus-like door hissing open a few moments later.

Several people stepped down from the RV, one of the distant faces vaguely familiar. Corky smiled, remembering Terri from the day of the maelstrom, almost having forgotten her visit. She was traveling with an entourage.

Corky stepped forward to welcome the new arrivals. Terri noti
ced the captain, immediately moving to meet him halfway, raising her arm to wave a friendly greeting.

“Hello,” Cork
y said, extending his dirty palm after wiping it on his pants leg. “I wasn’t expecting honored guests. I’m afraid I’ve been a little busy lately,” he added, sweeping the surrounding area with his arm.

Terri laughed, her smile clear and bright. “We thought you might need some help. That, and we have a few hundred of your
citizens that have been clamoring to return home.”

She pointed, just as one of the
buses began unloading a stream of people. “They escaped on the train with us, right as the worst of the hurricane hit. It took us a while to gather up the resources to bring them back to the island.”

Corky watched as more and more people disembarked from the transports, several of them looking around at the surreal landscape with stunned expressions on their faces.

One of the nearby workers dropped his shovel, tentatively approaching the growing crowd of returning residents. “Kim? Kim, is that you? Oh, thank God… I thought we’d lost you,” the man said, running the last few steps to embrace a smiling woman.

Terri and her host stood and watched the joyful reunion for a minute, both of them relishing in the uplifting event. “That’s what it’s all about,” Corky observed. “That’s what keeps me climbing out of bed these days.”

“Well, maybe I can add a little more cheer to your mornings,” Terri said. “We’ve brought fuel, as many blankets and medical supplies as I could gather, and a few pieces of heavy equipment. We figured you could use some bulldozers to help with the cleanup.”

Emotion welled up inside the Cajun, his eyes turning wet with joy. “I didn’t think we’d get any help. No way. I had just about given up ho
pe of anyone even realizing our plight.”

Terri hooked arms with the overjoyed man, the two strolling back toward the still-arriving Alliance caravan.

“We’ll have the Texas Star running in another week. The plan is to open additional lines and stations following that. With your seafood production, you should be able to trade for most of what you need. We are screening over 10,000 volunteers from Houston who want to relocate… move down here to help rebuild the island. Welcome to the Alliance of Texas.”

“Membership has its rewards,” Corky managed to tease.

“Come on, let me introduce you to my husband and son,” Terri beamed. “One of them is cute, the other quite charming. I’ll let you decide which is which.”