The Directives (6 page)

Before Lew could reply, Amy Sue knocked again on the door. “Sir, Red is back with a visitor.”

“Good! Good!” the mayor replied with exaggerated cheer. “Please, show him right in.”

Bishop felt a little out of place. Still wearing a full combat load on his vest, the slung battle rifle, bush hat, and fighting knife somehow seemed inappropriate for what was essentially a diplomatic meeting.

After handshakes and introductions, the mayor indicated Bishop should take a seat, an offer the Texan declined.

“I don’t want to appear impolite or uppity, Mr. Mayor,” Bishop began, “But I left a significant number of very nervous, very well-armed men back at the blockade. I want to return there as soon as possible before anxious thoughts fill their minds.”

“Completely understandable, sir,” Lew answered. “What is it exactly you want from us? Red gave us a quick overview, but that only left a partial understanding of the situation.”

“I’m here to offer you a chance to rejoin society, Mayor,” Bishop answered. “I represent an organized group of communities stretching across the state. We have elected a government, established rule of law in dozens of towns, and we are now striving to kick-start a recovery in Houston, Dallas, Austin, and San Antonio. We need the Condor manufacturing facility up and running as soon as possible. We are willing to offer a considerable amount of assistance to facilitate that event, as well as help you and the local leaders with whatever issues may be troubling your fine city.”

It was Winfrey’s turn to speak. “What type of assistance is available?”

Bishop tried to remember who the older man was, the introductions occurring so quickly.
Ah
, he thought,
the banker. Maybe Terri and he can meet sometime and tell old loan jokes or something.
    

Dismissing the thought, Bishop answered the question. “We have food, fuel and some medical supplies. We can offer help with security, some transportation needs, and initially, small amounts of electricity. But most importantly, we can open up trade between Brighton and the rest of the Alliance. We’ve found trade has done more to advance recovery than any other single effort.”

“But we’re doing fine,” Lew responded. “We could always use medical supplies and fuel, but our people have full stomachs, and the sheriff here has done an excellent job maintaining law and order.”

Bishop was perplexed by the mayor’s statement. He had always imagined that any community would be happy to jump on the Alliance bandwagon. He had contemplated having to convince the town’s leaders that his mission wasn’t hostile, and that democracy was still alive and well in Texas. But to be shunned after giving his sales pitch wasn’t something he’d anticipated.

“Are you saying you don’t want our help?” Bishop frowned.

“No… no I didn’t mean exactly that,” the mayor replied.

Again, the banker interrupted. “You must pardon us, sir. This is all a surprise, hitting us completely out of the blue. Of course, we are interested in what you and your new government have to offer our citizens. While our elected officials have done an excellent job given the extreme circumstances encountered, there is always room for improvement.”

That guy is powerful
, Bishop noted.
He’s the real authority in this room.

The sheriff picked up where Winfrey had left off, “Why don’t we have them pull their trucks into the square, Mr. Mayor? They can occupy the courthouse if they need a roof over their heads or somewhere to work. I’m sure it’s a mess, but it would beat pitching tents.”

Lew seemed to agree. “That’s an excellent idea, Sheriff.” He then turned to Bishop and extended his hand, “I’ll have Red escort you back out to the roadblock. He can then guide you and your convoy back into town. I propose that you set up, at least temporarily, in the courthouse. After you’ve had a chance to settle, we’ll schedule a meeting and get the process rolling. Would that be acceptable?”

Bishop agreed, looking at his watch. “Thank you gentlemen, I look forward to working with you.”

An hour later, the convoy pulled into downtown Brighton. Bishop, riding in the second vehicle behind Baxter’s command Humvee, was surprised at the number of people who turned out to watch the parade.

For the most part, the population looked reasonably healthy. He’d seen much, much worse. Most of the men wore longish beards; few sported short hairstyles. The women looked plain and unadorned, makeup evidently no longer available or in vogue. Still, most of the people appeared reasonably put together, recently bathed and adequately clothed.

Bishop didn’t note a single heavy person among the crowds of onlookers, but that was to be expected. “There’s nothing like an apocalypse to encourage weight loss,” he teased with the driver.

But the locals weren’t starving either. Bishop spotted children scampering about, playing next to their parents, the display of energy unlikely if malnourishment was common. The people looked healthy enough, the vast majority between 20 and 50 years old.

A few of the younger men were armed. Bishop spotted sidearms, hunting rifles and a couple of shotguns. As they ventured closer to the main square, he noticed four men with badges and AR15 rifles standing on one corner. “The sheriff’s deputies,” he guessed.

Despite no sign of starvation or abuse, there was still an odd demeanor about the local population. Bishop kept trying to figure it out as they passed, but couldn’t quite put a finger on it. Something was just a little bit off.

It finally dawned on him as they turned to enter the square. Not one person had smiled or waved at the convoy. Again, the reaction wasn’t what he’d anticipated.

While Bishop hadn’t expected a tickertape parade or the local marching band to greet their arrival, he found it odd that such a display of men and material entering town did not seem to invoke at least a little optimism.
That’s it
, he thought.
It’s almost as if they’re sorry to see us
.

For a moment, Bishop was troubled by the reaction. Why weren’t people at least friendly or curious? Soldiers, in any procession, normally elicited a positive response. Americans were normally proud of the military.

Then Bishop remembered Red’s recounting of the rogue guardsmen who roughed up the town.
Maybe that’s it
, he considered.
Maybe they’re waiting to see if we plan to do the same thing.
  

Red’s escorting pickup parked in front of the courthouse, the remainder of the convoy pulling into spots all around the large building. “Don’t forget to put a quarter in the meter,” Bishop
harassed his chauffeur. “We don’t want to piss off the locals by trying to avoid a ticket.”

The private laughed, “Will do, sir.”

Before Bishop could exit, Baxter was at the door. “What is wrong with these people?” the officer asked. “I felt like I was driving through Kabul with all the hard looks thrown our way.”

“I agree, sir. I felt a hostility as well. I’m writing it off to the town’s previous bad experiences with men in uniform,” Bishop answered.

“Well, I’m not taking any chances with security. Can I count on your men to help with guard duty?”

For once, Bishop had to agree with the aggressive man. “Yes, sir. We can pull our share. Just have the sergeant let me know the duty roster, and I’ll provide the headcount.”

Red produced a ring of keys, eventually finding a match for the makeshift padlock securing the chained doors of the courthouse. Bishop pointed to the nearby bullet holes. “What happened there?”

Red seemed a little embarrassed. “When the food started running out, we had some folks get pretty upset. A few of them decided they needed to take matters into their own hands and tried to take over. Fortunately, they were small in number, and order eventually prevailed.”

Bishop assessed the visible battle damage with a keen eye. “Fortunately.”

With both Bishop and Baxter in tow, they entered the dark, moldy smelling structure. “All of the local government has been moved over to City Hall. You can use this entire building if you want. There’s no water, and obviously no electricity, but it will keep the sun off your head. It was built before there was air conditioning, so if you open the windows, there should be a reasonable breeze. Some fresh air might help with the stuffiness.”

A few minutes later, Red was off, leaving the new arrivals to their own devices. Baxter wasted no time, issuing orders for placement of vehicles, assigning sentries, and designating office space.

Bishop’s sixth sense was on full alert, a combination of the reception they had received and the up-close view of the bullet damage to the building they were now occupying. He paid special attention to Baxter’s deployment of security.

And as much as he hated to admit it, the officer did an excellent job. Like a spider weaving a web, the major layered their security. Starting with the likely avenues of approach and ending with a two-man overwatch position on the courthouse’s top floor, the Texan had to acknowledge Baxter knew what he was doing.

“My compliments on the security arrangements, Major,” Bishop said. “Excellent work.”

Baxter didn’t know how to take the compliment, his expression puzzled as he vacillated between sarcasm and sincerity.

Bishop smiled, “Seriously, I’m not fucking with you. Nice work.”

Acknowledging Bishop with a curt nod, Baxter hustled off, apparently unhappy with the placement of a nearby Humvee. Bishop stood and watched the officer’s exit. Eventually shaking his head, he then set off to make sure his men were doing their part.

As he rounded the corner, a woman holding a small child on her hip came into view. She was across the street, innocently watching the soldiers as they unpacked equipment. Her hair was similar in color and length to Terri’s, the baby not much older than Hunter.

Bishop paused for a moment, the scene making him yearn to hold his own wife and child. The tightening of his chest was unpleasant, and resentment began to build. “Why can’t I manage to stay with my family?” he asked the empty air. “Why does life keep separating us?”

Bishop’s morning was filled with unloading boxes, dusting off old chairs and setting up a basic space to sleep. By 11:30, it was already over 95 degrees outside, the air thick with humidity. 

He had found a cozy first floor office, the stenciled sign indicating it had previously been occupied by the county clerk. It had all the available modern conveniences, including one window that actually opened, rows of filing cabinets full of musty smelling papers, and less than a half inch of dust on every surface. The in-suite commode smelled worse than the old files, but closing the door seemed to block the fouler aspects of the air.

After cleaning the remaining foliage out of his survival net, Bishop located two large screw hooks that he judged would hold his weight. He whispered an apology to the absent clerk, then screwed the large threads into a pair of opposing doorframes and strung the net as a hammock using some paracord from his pack. It was the envy of the establishment, many of the soldiers offering him significant barter for the contraption.

Even Major Baxter commented on his ingenuity. “I’m going to have to get me one of t
hose nets,” the officer had remarked. His almost friendly demeanor quickly dissipated with his no-nonsense order. “Here’s the schedule for guard duty. Please have your civilians show up at their assigned posts at the designated time.”